THREADS OF SUSPICION

The dungeons were colder than usual, dampness clinging to the stone as though the walls themselves were whispering secrets. Professor Snape stalked through the corridors, black robes trailing behind like smoke. His patience was wearing thin.

Whispers about the "Heir of Slytherin" had begun to swirl again through the student body. Snape didn't believe in coincidences, especially not when it involved his house and children turning up petrified in hallways.

He didn't care for gossip—but he cared for order. And someone was disturbing it.

Snape rounded a corner and nearly collided with Harry Potter.

"Mr. Potter," he drawled. "Do remind me why you're lurking in the lower corridors at this hour."

Harry flinched. He hadn't heard Snape approach. "I—I was on my way back from the library."

"After curfew?" Snape raised an eyebrow. "Forgive me if I'm not inclined to believe your sense of academic dedication has suddenly blossomed."

"I wasn't doing anything wrong," Harry said defensively.

"No?" Snape stepped closer. "Then perhaps you'd care to explain why every time something disastrous happens at this school, you and your friends are not far behind?"

Harry hesitated. "I'm not trying to cause trouble."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "Then try harder."

He swept past Harry, robes billowing like thunderclouds. But before disappearing around the bend, he spoke again.

"If you truly want to help," he said without turning back, "keep your nose out of places it doesn't belong."

---

The next morning, Harry relayed the encounter to Ron and Hermione over breakfast.

"He's on edge," Hermione said, stirring her tea. "I think all the professors are. This is the second attack. People are scared."

"I still think he knows something," Harry muttered.

Ron glanced over at the staff table. "He always knows something. He's Snape."

Harry's eyes followed his. Snape sat in his usual chair, speaking in hushed tones to Professor McGonagall. His face was unreadable, but his eyes scanned the hall like he was calculating every possible outcome.

"I think he's trying to protect the school," Hermione said quietly.

Ron scoffed. "Snape? Protect anyone who's not in Slytherin?"

But Harry wasn't so sure anymore.

---

Later that week, Snape stood alone in his private storeroom, examining his dwindling supplies of Mandrake Restorative Draught ingredients. He didn't trust Professor Lockhart to brew pumpkin juice, much less coordinate a cure for petrification.

There were too many loose threads. And too many students in danger.

Footsteps behind him caused him to draw his wand in a fluid motion—only to find Draco Malfoy entering without knocking.

Snape's eyes narrowed. "You are fortunate I didn't hex you into the next corridor."

"Sorry, sir," Draco said, closing the door softly. "I just… needed to talk."

Snape observed him. The boy looked rattled. Pale, even for a Malfoy.

"Speak," he said curtly.

Draco hesitated. "There's… something in the walls."

Snape's head tilted. "Explain."

"I've been hearing it. A voice—hissing. In the pipes. It doesn't speak English. And it only happens when I'm alone."

Snape's brow furrowed. He stepped forward slowly.

"You're certain of this?"

Draco nodded. "I didn't want to say anything. I thought maybe I was going mad. But then Creevey got attacked. And it was right after I heard it again."

Snape's expression hardened.

"Not a word of this to anyone," he said. "Especially not your housemates."

"But—"

"No," Snape said, tone sharp. "If what you're saying is true, you are already in more danger than you realize."

---

That evening, Snape visited the Headmaster.

"I believe the Chamber is open again," he said without ceremony.

Dumbledore looked up, fingers steepled. "And you believe Potter is responsible?"

Snape's jaw tightened. "No."

Dumbledore arched a brow. "That is… surprising."

Snape's voice dropped. "But I also don't believe he's safe. Nor are the other children. Something is hunting them."

Dumbledore nodded slowly. "Then we must do what we can to find it—before it finds another."

---

Back in the Slytherin common room, Draco sat near the fireplace, still shaken. The voice had gone silent again, but the weight of it remained like a presence behind his eyes.

He looked over at the window, where moonlight spilled in through the green-tinged glass.

He thought of Harry.

Of the way Snape had listened to him. Really listened.

Maybe, just maybe, they weren't as alone in this as they feared.