Heir and the Isolated Trio (2)

It was not the sharp, agonizing pain that made him lose his balance, but a constant, dull ache, as if someone had stuffed a wad of cotton inside his skull. The cotton was slowly expanding, squeezing his brain. The surface of his scar felt faintly hot, as though something had just licked it.

That voice had not appeared for several days either.

Ever since Mrs Norris had been petrified, that hissing whisper seemed to have evaporated, vanishing completely. No "kill," no "eat," no guidance of any kind. Yet that silence unsettled Harry more than the voice itself—as if a hunter had suddenly put away every trap and hound, not because he had given up the hunt, but because he had already locked onto his target and only needed to wait quietly for the prey to wander into range.

He knew he was that prey.

But he did not know who the hunter was.

Over the next few days, the atmosphere in the castle grew stranger and stranger.

Filch still watched him with the look one gave a corpse. The Slytherin students still loudly called him "the Heir of Slytherin" in the corridors. The whispers still ebbed away like a tide when he passed, then surged back once he had gone.

But what truly made Harry feel as if the sky had fallen was Wednesday night.

That afternoon, their final class had been Potions. Severus Snape had targeted him as usual, taking twenty points from Gryffindor because he had "stirred in the wrong direction." Malfoy had laughed himself sick in the corner, while Pansy Parkinson let out shrill laughter alongside him, like a flock of hens whose tails had been stepped on.

Harry remained expressionless throughout.

He was used to it.

After class, he, Ron, and Hermione left the dungeons together