The grey heir

The last name was called. The final student was Sorted. And for a brief, weightless moment, the Great Hall of Hogwarts seemed to hold its breath.

Harry Potter sat at the Slytherin table, the name still ringing through the hall. His entrance had been silent, his Sorting loud. Now, he sat beside Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. The whispers were already circling like birds above carrion.

At the High Table, Professor Dumbledore rose.

"Welcome to another year at Hogwarts," he said with a voice as warm as a hearth fire, yet edged with something colder beneath. "To those newly arrived, may your minds be open and your hearts brave. And to those returning—may you find wisdom in both books and choices."

He glanced around the room, pausing just slightly too long on the Slytherin table. His eyes did not glitter—they evaluated.

"A few notices: First-years, the Forbidden Forest is off-limits to all students. Mr. Filch has reminded me that magic in corridors is prohibited between classes."

His voice lowered slightly. "And the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is strictly forbidden to anyone not wishing to die a most painful death."

The room shifted uneasily. A few nervous laughs. Most took it as a joke. Harry did not.

"Let the feast—begin."

The golden plates filled with food. Conversation broke out in bursts.

Harry helped himself without a word. He could feel the weight of eyes on him from nearly every table. He took a bite of roast chicken, deliberately ignoring them.

Across the hall, Dumbledore watched. Not openly, not obviously. But his gaze flicked to Harry often.

And then, just as the noise swelled and attention moved elsewhere, the Headmaster reached gently with his mind.

Legilimency—soft as breath, drifting across the surface of the boy's consciousness.

"That floating candle almost dripped wax on the pudding..."

"Hope they let us try out broomsticks soon..."

"Slytherin's not so bad... robes are weird though."

"Wonder if they've got magical creatures."

"Maybe I'll get to see a real dragon."

The thoughts were meandering, unguarded, laced with honest wonder. There was a flicker of nervousness about fitting in, a vague curiosity about teachers, and a momentary hunger for the pumpkin pasties someone passed down the table.

Dumbledore quietly withdrew.

That night, in a quiet corridor near the staff quarters, Dumbledore stood with Severus Snape.

"You noticed him," he said simply.

Snape nodded. "He walks like someone twice his age. Speaks little. Watches too much."

"He gives away nothing," Dumbledore said quietly. "But his surface thoughts were innocent. A child's wonder at magic. Still, keep an eye on him. Just watch him. Don't engage." If he is what I think he might be… confrontation will only drive him deeper."

Snape's expression tightened, but he nodded.

"And Severus," Dumbledore added, "report anything unusual. We can't afford assumptions."

Later still, long after the fires in the Great Hall had died down, Dumbledore sat alone in his office. He placed the Sorting Hat on his desk.

"Why did you place him in Slytherin?" he asked.

The tear near the Hat's brim split open slowly. "Because he was most suited for that house."

Dumbledore narrowed his eyes. "Elaborate."

The Hat's voice turned firm. "He possesses the cunning, the ambition, and above all—the control. He weighed every option and chose what would serve him best."

"You mean he asked you?"

"No," the Hat replied, "he didn't need to. His mind was already made. I place students where they belong, Headmaster—not where they're expected."

Dumbledore leaned back slowly in his chair. The stars outside his window were dimmed by clouds.

"Then we must watch," he murmured.

The Hat said nothing. Its brim fell closed.

And Hogwarts slept on, unaware of the storm quietly forming within its walls.

To be continued...