The grey heir

The morning moved as uneventfully as any at Hogwarts. Harry kept to his routine—attentive in classes, cordial with classmates, careful never to attract undue attention. In the grand game he was now quietly playing, restraint was his weapon of choice.

At lunch, the Slytherin table buzzed with its usual undercurrent of ambition and gossip. The aroma of roasted meats and warm bread drifted through the Great Hall, mingling with the murmur of voices and clatter of goblets.

Professor Snape approached with the same air of flowing menace he always carried. He stopped behind Harry.

"Mr. Potter," he said in his usual smooth drawl, "the Headmaster requests your presence in his office after lunch."

Harry looked up calmly. "Yes, Professor."

Snape gave a curt nod and departed, robes billowing behind him like a passing shadow.

The Slytherin table quieted.

"What's that about?" Blaise Zabini asked with an arched brow.

"Maybe it's just the usual Gryffindor favoritism—except you're in the wrong house," muttered Nott with a smirk.

Millicent rolled her eyes. "Please, if Potter did anything actually rule-breaking, we'd have heard about it."

Harry gave them a mild smile and returned to his meal. Across the table, Daphne Greengrass watched him with the same unreadable expression she often wore—cool and composed, but never unseeing.

After lunch, Harry made his way up the spiral staircase behind the stone gargoyle. The office of the Headmaster was much as he expected—cluttered with whirling, ticking things and portraits of former headmasters whispering among themselves. Fawkes dozed quietly on his perch.

"Ah, Mister Potter," Dumbledore greeted warmly. "Come in. Lemon drop?"

"No thank you, sir."

Harry stepped forward with a neutral expression. He was careful not to reveal even a sliver more than intended.

"You've settled in well," Dumbledore said, gesturing to a seat. "The professors speak highly of your attention in class."

"I try to keep up," Harry answered modestly.

Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles, but Harry knew better than to trust the twinkle.

"And how are you finding Hogwarts? As magical as the stories make it seem?"

"It's different from what I imagined," Harry admitted. "More disciplined. Less chaotic."

"Order is the cornerstone of proper magic," Dumbledore said with a chuckle. "Though the world, as you'll find, rarely follows such order."

There was a pause.

Then, a gentle mental touch. Light. Subtle.

Harry allowed the Headmaster to glimpse a few scattered surface thoughts: his interest in magical theory, wondering what dinner would be, and a vague fondness for the Hogwarts library. Nothing more.

Dumbledore leaned back in his chair.

"You're very much your parents' son," he said softly. "Your mother's mind, and your father's poise."

Harry inclined his head, offering nothing.

"If ever you need guidance," the Headmaster added, "you may always come to me. I was… close to your parents."

"Thank you, Headmaster."

Dumbledore gave a gentle nod. "Off you go, then. Enjoy your afternoon."

Harry turned and left without hurry, feeling the weight of the old wizard's gaze linger behind him like incense.

By the time he returned to the dungeons, the low flickering torchlight of the common room had already softened the edges of the day. Several students were sprawled in armchairs or poring over scrolls.

Daphne sat in one of the corner seats near the fireplace, reading.

As Harry approached, she glanced up.

"So… how was the meeting?"

Harry sank into the seat across from her and smiled faintly. "Pleasant. He offered me lemon drops."

Daphne narrowed her eyes slightly. "That's it?"

Harry met her gaze. "That's it."

She studied him a moment longer, then nodded slowly and returned to her book.

The flames crackled softly between them. And just like that, the moment passed.

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To be continued...