The sky over Privet Drive was the dull gray of an overwatered garden. Harry Potter sat silently on the windowsill of his tiny bedroom, tracing foggy patterns on the glass. Hedwig rustled impatiently in her cage behind him, clearly irritated from being locked up for weeks.
But Harry wasn't just thinking about how miserable his summer had been. He was thinking about Snape.
It had been over a month since they returned from Hogwarts, and yet he still remembered Snape dragging him out of the Forbidden Forest—cloak billowing, wand drawn. Harry had been nearly unconscious. And Snape had… held him.
Not like a teacher dragging a rule-breaking student, but like someone who'd been afraid.
It made no sense.
And now, here he was, stuck with the Dursleys, no word from Ron or Hermione, and no explanation for the strange, silent bond that seemed to bloom between him and the most hated professor at school.
---
Downstairs, a crash echoed from the kitchen.
"BOY!" Uncle Vernon bellowed. "Don't even think about coming down!"
Harry didn't move. Not even when Dudley stomped past his door shouting about pudding.
That night, as he lay in bed trying to ignore the distant hum of laughter from the dinner party below, a noise startled him. A rustling. Then—
Clink.
Something was at the window.
Harry leapt to his feet and pulled the curtains back just in time to see a familiar red-haired boy struggling with an enchanted flying car.
"Ron?" he whispered.
Ron grinned and waved. "Come on then!"
---
Back at the Burrow, after escaping the Dursleys and receiving a warm scolding from Molly Weasley, Harry finally felt like he could breathe again.
He shared glances with Ron, snickered with the twins, and watched Ginny scurry past every time he entered a room.
But even here, something nagged at him. He couldn't shake the way Snape had looked that night in the forest—haunted, wary… almost regretful.
---
Hogwarts Express
The train ride was uneventful—until it wasn't.
Harry sat in a compartment with Ron and Hermione, trying to laugh at Ron's rat failing to perform a basic charm, when the lights flickered. A sudden chill blew through the corridor.
Harry frowned. "Did you feel that?"
Hermione nodded slowly. "Odd… the weather was clear a second ago."
Just then, the compartment door slid open and none other than Draco Malfoy stood there, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.
He didn't sneer.
"Potter," he said curtly. "You alright?"
The trio stared.
"Yeah?" Harry replied slowly. "Why?"
Draco hesitated. His gaze flicked to the window, where the darkness pressed oddly close.
"Nothing," he said, then turned on his heel and disappeared down the corridor.
Ron blinked. "What in Merlin's name was that?"
Hermione looked troubled. "He was worried."
"Malfoy? Worried about Harry? Are we sure he didn't hit his head over summer?"
Harry didn't answer. He was staring at the window, where his reflection looked back at him, pale and uncertain.
---
Arrival at Hogwarts
The Sorting Feast was as dazzling as ever, and Dumbledore's voice rang clear and warm.
But something had changed.
Snape's eyes locked onto Harry the moment he entered the Great Hall. Not with hostility. With focus. As if checking that he was in one piece.
Harry felt the weight of that gaze more than the chatter around him.
And across the room, Draco kept glancing over too—quick looks, like he wasn't sure whether to speak or stay silent.
Later, as the students filed toward their dormitories, Harry slowed near the staff table.
Snape stood, robes falling like shadows, speaking quietly to McGonagall.
Then, he looked up—right at Harry.
Their eyes met for a second too long.
Snape gave the faintest of nods.
Harry's stomach turned with something he couldn't name.
---
Late That Night
The castle groaned with old age and memory. Harry lay in bed staring at the ceiling of the Gryffindor dormitory. The excitement of returning had faded, leaving behind only a gnawing sense of something coming.
He hadn't told anyone about the whisper.
It had happened as he passed a hallway near the dungeons.
"Let me rip you… let me tear you… let me kill…"
Harry had frozen. Looked around. No one was there.
He told himself it was nothing. Imagination. A leftover echo of summer nightmares.
But now, as the shadows crept across the ceiling beams, he wasn't so sure.
And somewhere far below, in the depths of the dungeons, Snape sat in his office, candlelight flickering over parchment. He had heard it too.
The whisper.
And it chilled him to the bone.