Breakfast had barely resumed its rhythm when the temperature dropped again.
Harry felt it before he heard the voice.
“Well,” Professor Snape drawled, robes billowing as he approached the Gryffindor table, “this is an unexpected development.”
The hall quieted in that special way it always did around Snape—forks slowing, conversations dying mid-sentence. His black eyes fixed immediately on Harry, then slid to Grayfia with open disdain.
“Potter,” Snape sneered. “Back at Hogwarts for less than a day, and already you’ve acquired an unauthorized adult companion. Tell me—does this year’s attention-seeking require props?”
Harry’s jaw tightened. “Professor, I—”
Snape cut him off with a sharp gesture. “Silence. I am not finished.”
His gaze snapped back to Grayfia. “And you. Wandless, unregistered, and loitering in a student dormitory. Explain yourself before I involve the Ministry.”
The tension at the table spiked.
Ron looked like he might explode. Hermione’s fingers tightened around her goblet.
Grayfia did not move.
She met Snape’s stare with calm composure, her expression neutral, posture flawless. Harry could feel it—the restraint, deliberate and practiced.
Before she could speak—
“Severus.”
Professor McGonagall’s voice cut through the hall like a blade wrapped in velvet.
She stood a few paces away, hands folded neatly, eyes sharp behind her spectacles. The room collectively exhaled.
“Perhaps,” McGonagall continued politely, “you might tell us what exactly is going on before you begin assigning guilt.”
Snape’s lip curled. “Minerva, this woman is clearly—”
“An explanation,” McGonagall said evenly, “would suffice.”
All eyes turned to Grayfia.
Grayfia inclined her head respectfully toward McGonagall.
“Professor,” she said calmly, “the situation is regrettable but straightforward.”
She turned slightly, ensuring her voice carried without raising it.
“Mr. Potter came into contact with an old family heirloom,” Grayfia explained. “One whose activation criteria were… poorly documented. He triggered it unknowingly.”
Snape’s eyes narrowed. “And that summoned you?”
“Yes,” Grayfia replied. “My role is that of an attendant and stabilizing presence. By the heirloom’s design, the duration is indefinite.”
A murmur rippled through the hall.
McGonagall’s brow furrowed. “Indefinite?”
“Until such time as my role is fulfilled,” Grayfia said. “Or the contract is otherwise resolved.”
Snape scoffed. “Convenient.”
Grayfia met his gaze again—cool, measured.
“Professor Snape,” she said, “your skepticism is understandable. However, insinuating deception without evidence is inefficient.”
Snape bristled. “Do not lecture me—”
“Severus,” McGonagall said sharply. “Enough.”
She turned to Harry. “Mr. Potter. Is this accurate?”
Harry swallowed. “Yes, Professor. I didn’t mean to activate anything. I didn’t even know what it was.”
McGonagall studied him for a long moment, searching for deceit—and finding only confusion and exhaustion.
“I see,” she said at last.
She straightened. “This matter is far beyond corridor discipline or breakfast theatrics.”
Her gaze shifted briefly to Grayfia, then back to Harry.
“I believe,” McGonagall said calmly, “that we should all speak with Professor Dumbledore.”
The name settled over the group like a weight.
Snape’s eyes flickered—calculating, displeased—but he nodded curtly.
Grayfia inclined her head once more. “That would be appropriate.”
Harry felt his stomach drop.
A private meeting.With Dumbledore.
The System, which had been conspicuously silent, finally chimed—quiet and serious.
[Advisory:][High-level narrative convergence imminent.][Proceed with caution.]
Harry pushed back from the table, heart pounding, as McGonagall gestured for them to follow.
Whatever this heirloom explanation had done, it had bought him time.
Now he just had to survive the conversation.