CHAPTER 8

Time at Hogwarts seemed to pass differently, as if the days piled up on top of each other without Harry having a chance to notice. It had already been a week since his return, and he still wasn't used to the constant absence of Ron and Hermione by his side. Stranger than that, however, was the fact that he was spending more and more time in the company of the Slytherins.

The routine was overwhelming. He woke up early, attended classes, tried to talk to his friends during breaks, and whenever he found a free moment, he buried himself in books about Healing Magic. Or at least he tried. The professors, as always, had already started piling on assignments, and Harry simply couldn't keep up. At least he was getting used to it and wasn't letting things pile up like in previous years.

That morning, he dropped into a chair in the Great Hall, feeling the weight of exhaustion on his shoulders. The sky beyond the enchanted windows was heavy with dark clouds, and a fine drizzle blurred the landscape, making the atmosphere even more melancholic. The cold, damp weather made his entire body beg for a few more hours of sleep, but he forced himself to start breakfast, moving his utensils without haste.

Slow. That was exactly the pace he wanted for the day.

It would be his first Potions class since returning, and the mere thought of facing Snape made his stomach turn. Even though he had tried to dedicate himself more to his studies, there was no way of knowing if the effort would actually make a difference when the exams arrived. The only relief in that situation was that, so far, he hadn't had to run into the professor.

Harry shuddered at the thought of him.

Snape. He hated that man with every fiber of his being—and for good reason. After everything he had done over the past two years, Harry felt justified in despising him. However, there was one uncomfortable detail in all of this: he knew that Potions was crucial for anyone who wanted to pursue a path in Healing Magic. More than once, while delving into books, he had come across recipes for powerful elixirs that could save lives, restore bodies, heal almost impossible wounds. But the explanations he read there were infinitely clearer than the ones Snape provided in class.

Harry knew he would never be a genius in Potions, but part of the problem was that Snape simply didn't teach. His instructions were vague, harsh, and seemed designed to lead to failure. Not to mention the blatant favoritism and unfair persecution.

A soft thud pulled him from his thoughts.

"Good morning," Neville mumbled as he dropped into the seat beside him—where Ron used to sit. His voice still carried the weight of sleep.

"Morning," Harry replied, forcing a smile.

The shift in his friendship dynamics with Ron and Neville was something that still surprised him. Ron had been furious since their argument on the first day and refused to speak to him beyond what was necessary. At first, Harry had been annoyed by such childishness, but over time, the feeling morphed into something closer to frustration. It was as if, to Ron, their friendship had never really mattered.

Neville, on the other hand, was different. Still carrying his usual insecurity, he had surprised Harry more and more with his ability to listen. He didn't talk much, but when he did, his insights were unexpectedly thoughtful.

But what unsettled him the most was his relationship with the Slytherins.

Tracy was the most unpredictable of the group. Sharp and sarcastic, she had a peculiar talent for turning any casual remark from Harry into a biting joke. Blaise, always quiet, made up for his lack of words with deep, enigmatic conversations, filled with analogies that made Harry roll his eyes—or reflect for hours.

And then there was Daphne.

Since their conversation by the lake, they had been meeting almost every day. They sat close in classes, and whenever possible, exchanged quick words in the hallways. During meals, the house separation kept them apart, but that didn't seem to be a problem.

Harry couldn't quite define her. Intelligent, perceptive, beautiful. She had sharp wit and a quiet confidence, as if nothing in the world could truly shake her. He had never imagined he would become close to someone like her.

At first, he expected hostility from the other Gryffindors, so he was surprised to realize that no one seemed to care. Except for Ron, of course. There were comments here and there—the twins, especially, loved to tease—but they were more jokes than anything serious. House rivalry seemed to matter more in Quidditch than anywhere else.

Draco Malfoy, on the other hand, hadn't taken it well.

From the first day, he had been trying to antagonize the Slytherins who spoke with Harry, but without much success. What intrigued Harry the most was the internal dynamic of Slytherin. Unlike what he had imagined, they seemed loyal to each other in a complex, almost strategic way, and took the qualities of their house very seriously.

Harry looked up as he noticed the Slytherins arriving. Daphne shot him a discreet smile as she passed—something that had already become a habit.

The Great Hall, once quiet, was filling up as more students came down for breakfast. Among them, Ron and Hermione.

She looked on the verge of tears. Ron, on the other hand, carried an expression of pure irritation.

Harry sighed. He had already tried talking to Ron. If the redhead didn't want to listen, so be it.

The sound of wings filled the hall at the usual mail delivery time. He didn't look up—he never expected anything from home. But then, a weight landed in front of him.

"Hedwig?"

He frowned, taking the letter from her claws. In return, he offered a piece of bacon, stroking her head. The owl hooted softly before taking off again.

Turning the envelope over, Harry smiled as he recognized the handwriting. Edgar.

Slowly, he opened the letter.

"Kid,
I'm really not used to writing this kind of thing. Letters, I mean. Not my style. I prefer talking face-to-face. But I think you understand that.

How was your first week? I admit I was expecting a letter from you, but I know things at school must be busy. I heard there are Dementors at Hogwarts because of Sirius Black.

I'm not your father, much less your guardian, but knowing you for the short time I did, it's pretty likely you'll get some reckless idea and try to play hero. Don't mess with those creatures—they are terrifying.

I just wanted to know if you're okay. Hope you invite me to the next Quidditch match. It's been a while since I've seen a good game.

Edgar."

Harry smiled, but the smile quickly turned into an uncomfortable weight in his chest. He should have written earlier. With everything that had happened—the fight with Ron, the friendship with the Slytherins, the whirlwind of schoolwork—he had simply forgotten.

A sudden exclamation cut through the noise of the Great Hall.

"He was seen!"

Harry looked up. Seamus was holding a copy of the Daily Prophet.

"Sirius Black was seen in Dumfries," he announced.

A chill ran down Harry's spine.

Dumfries was in Scotland. Hogwarts was in Scotland. What if Black was coming after him?

Harry tried to ignore the unease settling in his chest, but Seamus's words echoed in his mind.

"Who?" asked Hermione, frowning.

"Sirius Black was seen in Dumfries. It says here that Muggle authorities spotted him searching a house."

"I thought he was in France… or Germany," Dean commented, taking the newspaper from Seamus to check the news for himself. "Why come north?"

"He couldn't be trying to break into Hogwarts, could he?" Hermione asked, casting a hesitant look at Harry. He remembered telling her and Ron what Mr. Weasley had said.

"There are Dementors around the castle," Ron answered, crossing his arms. "Why would he try something like that?"

"He already escaped once. What's stopping him from doing it again?" Seamus retorted, uneasy.

Harry felt a shiver run down his spine. Amid all the changes in the past few days—the tension with Ron, the unexpected friendship with the Slytherins, the overwhelming workload—he had almost completely forgotten that there was a murderer on the loose.

Harry's stomach churned. It was obvious that Black knew where he was. The whole world knew where he was. What if the criminal tried to break into the castle? What if he was really coming after him?

He tried to push the thoughts away. Hogwarts was the safest place in the world, wasn't it? But then he remembered: Dementors.

If there was one thing he still didn't understand, it was how Black had managed to stay in Azkaban for so long without going completely mad. Just a few seconds in the presence of those creatures were enough to make his skin crawl, to fill his mind with shadows. Fifteen years? That seemed impossible.

Harry clenched his fists, forcing himself to shake off the discomfort. If there was one thing he knew, it was that worrying about Black wouldn't change anything.

The distant sound of the Hogwarts bell brought him back to reality. Classes would start soon.

He gathered his things, shoving the rest of his breakfast into his mouth at a leisurely pace. There was no point in worrying about Black now. What really should be on his mind at that moment was Potions class.

Snape already hated his very existence. The last thing he needed was to give him a reason to start the day in a bad mood.

And somehow, Harry already knew that was inevitable.

A/N:

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