Hogwarts seemed normal — but Harry knew better.
The laughter in the common room, the clatter of plates at breakfast, the drone of homework chatter — it all felt slightly off, like music played half a note too flat.
Magic had rhythm. He'd learned that much over the months.
But lately, that rhythm felt broken.
Sometimes, in the corridors, he could sense it — a faint, distorted hum beneath the stones, the same kind of vibration he'd felt in the Forbidden Forest before the unicorn's death.
He didn't tell Ron or Hermione.
Ron would shrug it off, and Hermione would want proof.
And Harry… didn't have any. Only instinct.
⸻
In Defence Against the Dark Arts, Quirrell's stammer had become worse — forced, almost deliberate.
He avoided eye contact, spoke too softly, and flinched when anyone mentioned Dumbledore.
Harry watched him closely.
The man's aura — that faint shimmer of life that Harry had only recently begun noticing — was different from anyone else's.
Frayed. Splintered. Wrong.
Once, when Quirrell turned his back, Harry caught the faintest trace of dark magic curling from the back of his head like black smoke dissolving into air.
His stomach twisted.
It was Voldemort — still weak, but real.
The same presence that had murdered his parents, that had shared his mind once.
He forced himself to keep his face neutral.
No one else seemed to notice.
Not yet.
⸻
When Dumbledore left Hogwarts that Thursday, Harry's blood ran cold.
"Urgent business at the Ministry," McGonagall had announced briskly, her lips tight. "He'll return within the week."
Harry knew better.
That exact phrasing. The same timing. The same trap.
He waited until the end of Transfiguration class to approach her.
"Professor," he said, keeping his tone calm. "Something's wrong."
McGonagall frowned. "Wrong?"
"It's Professor Quirrell," Harry said carefully. "I think he's planning something — something to do with the third-floor corridor."
Her expression hardened. "Mr. Potter, that corridor is forbidden precisely because it's dangerous. You shouldn't even know what's there."
"I've—" He stopped. How could he explain? "I've just… seen things. He's acting strange."
McGonagall sighed, her voice softening. "Harry, I know you've been under stress. You're imagining patterns where none exist. Leave the professors to handle staff matters."
He wanted to argue. To shout. But her tone left no room.
As he left the classroom, frustration burned low in his chest.
Patterns where none exist.
If only she knew.
⸻
By evening, the hum in the air had turned into a pulse — deep, urgent, like the heartbeat of the castle itself.
Harry couldn't sit still.
He paced the common room, then the corridor, until he found himself outside the Potions classroom.
Snape's door was half open. Candlelight spilled across the stones.
Harry hesitated. Then knocked.
The voice came, soft and sharp. "Enter."
⸻
Snape didn't look up immediately. He was marking essays, quill scratching in deliberate rhythm.
"Potter," he said flatly. "To what do I owe this invasion of my evening?"
Harry swallowed. "It's about Professor Quirrell."
That got his attention.
Snape's quill stopped. Slowly, his eyes rose to meet Harry's.
"What about him?"
Harry forced himself to meet that gaze — dark, assessing, unreadable. "He's… not what he seems. He's planning something. Dumbledore's gone. And whatever he's guarding — it's in danger."
Snape's expression didn't change, but the silence that followed was heavy.
"And how, pray tell," Snape said finally, "would you know any of this?"
"I just… know."
"Not good enough," Snape snapped. "You're a child, Potter. A reckless one, at that. I won't entertain baseless—"
"He was in the forest," Harry interrupted quietly. "The thing that killed the unicorns. He was there. I saw him."
That stopped Snape cold.
Their eyes locked — Snape's searching, Harry's unwavering.
After a long moment, Snape rose from behind his desk and crossed the room, robes whispering against the floor.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter. "If you are lying—"
"I'm not," Harry said.
Snape studied him for a heartbeat longer, then turned away, muttering under his breath.
Finally, he said, "Go back to your dormitory, Potter. Immediately. I will handle this."
Harry hesitated. "If you go alone, he'll kill you."
Snape's lips twitched — almost a smirk. "You overestimate him. And underestimate me."
Harry nodded, but there was something in Snape's tone — not arrogance, but fatigue.
Like he already knew what he was walking into.
As Harry left, Snape's voice stopped him.
"Potter."
He turned.
"For once," Snape said quietly, "try not to play the hero."
Harry didn't answer.
⸻
Hours later, the castle shivered.
Somewhere deep below, the wards pulsed — once, twice — then steadied.
Harry felt it in his bones: the pattern shifting.
Snape was down there already. Facing it.
He clenched his fists. He'd tried to warn them, tried to stop it. But history was moving again, repeating its terrible rhythm.
And this time, he wasn't content to let others bear the cost.
Tomorrow, if the Stone wasn't safe — if Snape didn't return — he'd go himself.
Not because he was reckless.
Because he couldn't live through another failure.
⸻
End of Chapter 32 – The Stone's Shadow