The grey heir

The day after Halloween dawned with a thick mist hanging low over the Hogwarts grounds. In the castle, the atmosphere was anything but calm.

Whispers buzzed in the corridors like restless bees. Rumors about the troll incident had grown legs and wings overnight. Some claimed it had been a full-grown mountain troll rampaging through the halls, others that the Defense Professor had heroically driven it away. No two stories matched.

Oddly enough, none of the rumors featured Harry Potter.

While Ron basked in attention and spun tales of his imagined courage, Harry kept quiet. He neither confirmed nor denied anything. Daphne noticed, of course. She always did.

"You're good at going unnoticed," she said over breakfast, sipping pumpkin juice. "It's a skill."

Harry gave her a small smile. "It keeps things simple."

In the Slytherin common room later that day, the atmosphere was much cooler. Tracey had questions. "Quirrell looked like he was sweating out his soul yesterday. You saw that, didn't you?"

"Of course," Daphne murmured. "But Harry's right. It's not our business."

Blaise, lounging by the fireplace, gave a half-smirk. "You think he's just jumpy? That man flinches at shadows. Something's off with him."

Harry didn't comment. He just flipped through his Transfiguration notes, memorizing theory with an ease that made Tracey blink.

Potions class brought no reprieve. Professor Snape was in rare form—snapping at Gryffindors, deducting points before they entered the room, and glaring at Harry like he had personally brewed disaster.

Draco made a snide remark about Gryffindors not knowing which end of a cauldron to stir, earning some snickers.

Snape's eyes narrowed. No points were taken, but the message was clear: don't get comfortable.

That evening, Dumbledore sat in his high-backed chair at the staff table, his gaze calmly sweeping the hall. When his eyes landed on Harry, they lingered just a second too long.

"He's controlled," he said later to McGonagall, standing just outside the staff room. "Too controlled for an eleven-year-old."

"You think it's from the Dursleys?" Minerva asked, worry in her tone.

"Partly. Perhaps exposure to... darker forces at a young age. The scar might have left more than a mark."

He looked thoughtful, stroking his beard. "I need a clearer sense of him. I'll have Severus bring him to my office tomorrow."

That night, sleep did not come easily to Harry.

He dreamed—not of trolls or ghosts, but of darkened vaults and doors sealed with ancient blood. Whispers called his name through cold stone. In the depths of the dream, he saw golden light glinting and a voice that spoke in old magic, one he hadn't heard in this life.

He awoke, breathing hard. Iskaris was curled on the bedpost, silent and awake.

The snake lowered his head slightly. "You dreamed deeply."

Harry nodded and looked to the window. It was still night.

The next morning, as they headed to breakfast, Daphne shot him a look. "You look tired."

"Just a strange dream," he murmured, brushing it off.

Neither of them noticed the slight glow from beneath his sleeve—the faint shimmer of a ring that had once belonged to Death's favorite mortal.