Chapter 72: Owl Post Office and Floo Powder

As Professor Sherlock Forester had surmised, there had been an undercurrent of tension and unease coursing through the Hogwarts student body for some time. Now, the salacious rumour of Harry Potter's alleged Parselmouth status became a much-needed outlet for these pent-up emotions.

In the time it took to digest a lunchtime meal, news of the incident from the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom had permeated every nook and cranny of the ancient castle. The students' gaze on Harry shifted, laden with caution and suspicion. Even his housemates in Gryffindor seemed to perceive him differently.

During lunch, Harry's dormmate, Dean Thomas, anxiously approached him. "Look, Harry... I owe you an apology, mate. I'm the one who spilled crumbs all over your bed the other day. I didn't mean anything by it," Dean admitted guiltily, his gaze evading Harry's piercing one.

Harry scowled dismissively, not bothering to meet the other boy's gaze.

Indeed, ever since he'd walked into the Great Hall earlier that day, he'd had a slew of similar experiences. Fellow students swarmed him, begging for forgiveness for perceived slights, fearful of earning the wrath of the rumored Heir of Slytherin.

"Do I really look like I could be the heir?" Harry mused aloud, his frustration evident as he watched Dean retreat, relief on his face. He voiced this to Ron and Hermione, frowning in confusion.

Ron shrugged, finishing off his pumpkin juice before replying, "Well, at least now you know who your real mates are, Harry."

Hermione chimed in, trying to soothe Harry's ruffled feathers. "It's just like Professor Forester said. The students are using you as an outlet. Once the people in the hospital wing wake up, they'll realize they were wrong about you."

Despite the reassurance, Harry continued to mutilate his pork sausage, his frustration finding an outlet in the unfortunate morsel of food. His downtrodden expression didn't lift until a apprehensive Neville approached him.

"I... um, Harry. I need to talk to you," stuttered Neville, looking quite uncomfortable.

Harry interrupted before Neville could continue, his voice a mixture of exasperation and impatience. "Look, Neville, you don't have to apologize, okay? You've done nothing wrong! And I'm not the heir of Slytherin. I've never opened the Chamber of Secrets or released anything from it!"

"No, I was... I didn't mean..." Neville's whispered reply was drowned out as Fred and George approached, excitement lighting up their faces.

"Harry, we heard you've finally been exposed as being the Heir of Slytherin!" George exclaimed, treating the rumor as a source of humor rather than fear.

Hermione frowned at the interruption, saying, "You've frightened Neville away. It seemed like he had something important to say."

Fred just waved her off dismissively, adding, "He just wanted to beg the Heir of Slytherin for mercy, didn't he, George?" A mischievous smirk played on his face.

"Indeed, an honorable title you wear, Harry, it calls for a grand ceremony! We'll even serve as your attendants, oh mighty heir of Slytherin!" the twins chorused enthusiastically.

Seeing the Weasley twins joking around put a spark back in Harry's eyes. At least they didn't see him as a threat, only as a part of their amusing escapades. And if they could counter the fear spreading through the castle by ridiculing those who spread it, Harry felt that he would be able to endure whatever came next.

With a sigh of relief, Harry concluded, "As long as the professors don't believe these stupid rumors, the others don't matter. I'll manage."

....

From the day Harry had been mistakenly identified as the Heir of Slytherin, no further attacks occurred at Hogwarts. It was as if the actual culprit behind the opening of the Chamber of Secrets had conveniently evaporated from the castle grounds, disappearing as suddenly as they had emerged.

Gradually, Harry acclimated to the way people tiptoed around him, wary and cautious. Ron and he even shared a few light-hearted moments imagining how they'd graciously accept everyone's apologies once the truth was revealed.

Harry hadn't seen Neville since that encounter in the Great Hall. That is, until one Saturday in February rolled around. A day where both students and teachers had the day off.

Professor Forester was not to be found in his office buried under a mound of essays nor was he tucked away studying advanced magic in the library. Instead, he had dressed warmly for a trip to Hogsmeade.

In the heart of winter's unyielding grasp the English countryside stood draped in desolation. January, the cruel custodian of the coldest days of winter, had already passed, leaving the land devoid of the glistening white of snow, but rather, adorned in the barren desert of a dry and frigid cold. The air was crisp, a crystal breath that hinted at the lingering chill, and every exhale materialized as a wisp of mist. The dried and frozen remains of leaves clung to the branches, a testament to the life that once flourished, now suspended in a delicate balance between decay and renewal. The sun, though distant and feeble, cast elongated shadows upon the scene, a bittersweet reminder that the promise of warmth still lingered on the horizon.

Yet, amidst this frosty embrace, Sherlock valiantly pressed on, a lone figure battling the elements. His shield against the relentless chill: a cozy hat, a Christmas gift from Professor McGonagall, and the hand-woven sweater sent to him by Mrs. Weasley.

Few people roamed the streets of Hogsmeade, most had taken refuge in the Three Broomsticks or the Hog's Head, sipping on hot butterbeer by roaring fires. But Sherlock's destination lay elsewhere - the Owl Post, the Ministry's only official establishment in the little hamlet.

A lethargic receptionist attended to him, half-heartedly asking where he wished to send his post. Sherlock surprised him by pulling out two galleons from his pocket, asking to use the fireplace instead.

"The fireplace is in backroom over there. Don't use too much Floo powder, a pinch is all you need. There are always people who think two galleons entitle them to use half the powder. If you use too much, I'm the one in trouble…"

After grumbling about the misuse of Floo Powder by customers and pointing absentmindedly towards the back room, the young wizard at the desk retreated to his own bubble. Unfazed, Sherlock navigated his way to the room with the fireplace.

The fire was lit and the room felt cozy, shutting out the frosty air outside. He took a pinch of Floo Powder from a small box above the fireplace, muttered "Andrew Cavill's house", transforming the orange-yellow flames into an emerald green blaze. Sherlock morphed his appearance slightly - a flick of his wand changed his eyebrows and hair, glasses helped refine his features and soon the transformation was complete. He stepped into the fireplace and in a flash of sizzling green sparks, vanished.