ECHOES THROUGH THE HALL

The castle had started whispering again.

Harry lay awake in the Gryffindor dormitory, the faint snoring of Seamus and Neville barely registering in his ears. The voice… that terrible voice… had returned. He had heard it in the corridor earlier that day, icy and dry like the rustle of snake scales across stone.

"Rip… tear… kill…"

No one else had heard it.

He clenched his fists beneath the covers. His scar hadn't burned, but he couldn't shake the dread that came with that voice. It hadn't been a dream—not this time either.

And now, Mrs. Norris was petrified. Frozen, stiff, wide-eyed.

The writing on the wall still echoed in his mind:

"THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS HAS BEEN OPENED. ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE."

Beside him, Ron stirred and murmured something in his sleep. Harry stared up at the canopy of his bed, wide awake.

Something was happening. Again. And this time, it felt closer. More personal.

---

The Next Morning – Great Hall

The atmosphere was tense. Students clustered in hushed groups, pointing, speculating. The news of Mrs. Norris had spread fast, and the whispers of "Heir of Slytherin" were back in circulation.

Harry trudged to the Gryffindor table. Ron and Hermione were already waiting.

"Did you sleep?" Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. "Not really."

"Any more… voices?" she asked hesitantly.

He nodded. "Last night. Same as before."

Ron looked around cautiously. "Do you think someone's controlling a creature? Like last year with Quirrell?"

"Maybe," Harry murmured. "But this feels different. It's not Voldemort. I don't think so."

Hermione bit her lip. "We need to do research. About the Chamber. About who might have opened it before."

"And maybe try asking around," Ron added. "See if anyone else heard that voice."

Harry nodded slowly but glanced at the Slytherin table.

Draco was laughing with Crabbe and Goyle—but it didn't reach his eyes.

When his gaze flicked to Harry's, it lingered for a breath too long.

---

Later – Potions Class

The usual gloom of the dungeons pressed in around them, but today Snape seemed… sharper. More alert. He moved between cauldrons like a shadow, pausing just long enough to glance at students' progress without comment.

Harry felt the weight of Snape's presence behind him more than once. He didn't speak, didn't correct, but Harry could tell the man was watching him more than usual.

When Draco raised his hand to answer a question, Snape acknowledged him with a faint nod, but didn't show the usual favoritism. In fact, the tension in the room stretched taut—like everyone was waiting for something to snap.

After class, as students shuffled out, Snape stopped Harry with a hand on his shoulder.

"Stay."

Harry swallowed and nodded. Hermione gave him a concerned look, but left with Ron.

Snape waited until the room cleared.

"You heard it again," he said quietly.

Harry's heart jumped. "You knew?"

"I suspected. You were pale in class. Distracted. You've been that way since Halloween."

Harry didn't deny it. "It was the same voice."

Snape looked at him, unreadable. "Did it say anything new?"

Harry repeated the words.

Snape's expression darkened.

"You must not follow it," he said sharply. "Promise me that, Potter."

"I wasn't planning to."

"You're not just a boy anymore," Snape said softly. "You're a symbol. That voice—whatever it is—it wants more than a body."

Harry blinked. "What do you mean?"

Snape looked away, lips tightening. "If you hear it again, you come to me. Immediately."

Harry nodded. "Alright."

As he turned to leave, he hesitated. "Professor?"

Snape raised an eyebrow.

"You believe me?"

Snape's gaze met his. "Yes."

And for a moment, Harry felt steadier.

---

That Night – Slytherin Dorms

Draco sat at the edge of his bed, his wand light glowing dimly as he stared at a letter from home.

Another lecture. Another command. Another reminder of the Malfoy legacy.

He tossed the letter aside and flopped back onto the bed, sighing.

His mind drifted—stubbornly, unwelcome—to Potter.

He should be angry at the way people were looking at him again—like he might be the Heir of Slytherin. But the whispers didn't sting as much this time.

What stung was the distance.

He and Potter hadn't spoken since the forest. Since that night with Ron.

Something between them had shifted.

And Draco didn't know how to fix it. Or if he should.