Shadows in the corridors
The train ride back to Hogwarts was uneventful, a quiet hum of chatter and excitement filling the compartments as students shared stories of their holidays. Harry sat alone in his corner of the Slytherin carriage, watching the frost-kissed landscape blur past the window.
Draco had dropped by briefly, trying to coax a conversation out of him. Harry, polite but distant, had answered in clipped sentences until Draco gave up, muttering something about how Harry had "the social charm of a flobberworm" before leaving.
By the time the train pulled into Hogsmeade Station, Harry felt a faint twinge of something resembling relief. As much as he disliked the constant attention from teachers and the whispers that followed him in the corridors, there was a strange comfort in Hogwarts’ stone walls.
The Sorting Hat had said he belonged here. That was enough, for now.
The first week back was a blur of classes and stares. Whispers trailed him like shadows, students craning their necks to catch a glimpse of the boy who had braved the traps of the third-floor corridor.
“Did you hear? He fought Quirrell and won.”
“They say he didn’t even flinch when he saw the Cerberus.”
“I heard he knows Dark Arts. That’s why he’s in Slytherin.”
Harry ignored them all, his focus sharp as ever. He excelled in Potions under Snape's watchful eye, outmaneuvered his classmates in Defense Against the Dark Arts, and breezed through Charms and Transfiguration with an efficiency that unnerved even Hermione.
But something had shifted.
.