The Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom smelled faintly of chalk dust and herbs gone stale. The windows were narrow and let in thin, uncertain light, and the desks were arranged crookedly, as though even the furniture couldn't decide how long it meant to stay.
Harry sat near the middle, Ron beside him, Hermione to his right, already flipping through The Dark Forces: A Guide to Self-Protection as if she meant to memorize it before class began. Neville sat at the edge, looking like he'd wandered into the wrong place entirely.
Harry tried not to fidget. His palms were damp. He'd been through worse—far worse—but the strangeness of seeing this man again, alive and trembling, tugged something deep in his stomach. He had dreamed of Quirrell's voice once: the way it had deepened when it stopped being his own.
The door creaked.
Professor Quirrell stumbled in, clutching a stack of scrolls and nearly dropping them on the floor. "G-good morning, class," he said, breathless. The stammer was just as Harry remembered—high, uncertain, too much air between the words.
The first time Harry had heard it, he'd thought it was comical. Now, it just made him tense.
He wasn't thinking like a scholar, not yet. He was reacting the way anyone might when brushing close to something they once watched destroy everything.
As Quirrell talked—rambled, really—about his "y-year abroad" and the importance of vigilance, Harry's heartbeat drummed in his ears. He tried to listen, tried to see him as just another teacher, but every few sentences there was a slip in the man's voice. It wasn't a change of pitch; it was a change of texture, as if the words had been strained through two different throats.
When Quirrell passed close by, the smell of garlic and something older—stone and rot—caught in Harry's throat.
His scar prickled.
He rubbed at it quickly, hoping no one noticed. Hermione was still taking notes, oblivious. Ron had drawn a small dragon on the corner of his parchment.
"—and of course, y-you must n-never underestimate a vampire's a-aversion to—"
Harry didn't hear the rest. The itch beneath his scar spread into a faint pulse, once, twice, almost like a heartbeat that wasn't his. A whisper brushed against the edge of his awareness—not words, not yet, just intent. Cold and curious.
He froze.
For a second, the classroom felt very far away.
Then the voice came, faint and dry as parchment:
You again.
His breath caught. The sound wasn't in his ears; it was inside, like a draft through the corridors of his mind. He didn't understand how he could have heard it, not really, but the recognition sank into him like ice water.
He forced his gaze up. Quirrell was at the front of the room again, scribbling on the board with his back turned. The stammer was back, clumsy and frantic, but Harry knew what he'd felt.
He pressed a hand against his scar until the pulsing slowed. His throat was dry. The fear was real now—hot, heavy, and impossible to push down with logic.
"Harry?" Hermione whispered, glancing at him. "Are you alright?"
He nodded quickly. "Just—headache."
Her expression softened. "You should go to Madam Pomfrey—"
"I'm fine," he said, maybe too sharply. He added, "Just tired."
She frowned but said nothing.
The rest of the lesson passed in fragments. Harry caught pieces of words—dark creatures, defensive hexes, sunlight—but his mind kept circling the same thought: It's here. He's here. Even like this.
When the bell rang, Ron was already on his feet. "That was mental," he said as they shuffled into the corridor. "He's terrified of his own shadow. Did you see his hands? He nearly dropped his wand twice."
Harry forced a laugh, but his smile didn't reach his eyes.
Hermione was still thoughtful. "I think he's nervous because he's new," she said. "He's kind, though. We shouldn't make fun."
Harry didn't answer.
He waited until the others were talking about lunch before glancing back through the half-open classroom door.
Quirrell stood very still at the front, one hand pressed against his turban. His lips were moving soundlessly. For a moment, Harry thought the man might be praying. Then the air shimmered, faint and wrong—like heat over stone—and the whisper slid through the corridor again.
I see you, Potter.
Harry's pulse thudded once, hard.
He didn't answer this time. He didn't dare. But as he turned away, one thought cut through the fear like a blade:
If you can see me, then I can learn to see you.
It wasn't a plan. It wasn't calm or analytical. It was just instinct—defiance forged into determination.
He didn't yet know how to study the darkness.
But he knew that one day he would.
By Friday, the castle smelled faintly of autumn rain, and the dungeons were colder than ever.
The Potions dungeon smelled like damp stone and iron filings. The air pressed close, heavy with the sharp tang of ingredients steeping in jars. It wasn't just cold—it was claustrophobic, like the room itself preferred silence.
Harry trailed behind the rest of the class, fingers brushing the edge of a table as they took their seats. His stomach was doing that slow, low twist it did when something old and unpleasant crept up behind him. He'd thought he could handle this.
After all, he knew what to expect.
He hadn't counted on memory feeling so real.
When Snape swept through the door, the entire room seemed to fold around him. The noise cut off mid-laugh; even the torches seemed to burn quieter. The man hadn't changed.
Black robes. Black eyes. That same expression, equal parts disdain and exhaustion.
Harry's heart thudded once, hard.
He'd seen this man die.
He'd watched his memories spill from his mind like light through glass.
And now, here he was—alive, sharp, and every bit as terrifying as the first time.
Snape's voice was silk over steel. "There will be no foolish wand-waving or silly incantations in this class…"
Harry knew the words before they came, but hearing them again was strange—like rereading a letter from a ghost.
He tried to focus on breathing. One, two. In. Out.
When Snape's black gaze landed on him, the bottom dropped out of Harry's stomach.
"Ah. Our new celebrity."
There was a faint ripple of laughter from the Slytherin side. Ron bristled next to him.
Harry forced his shoulders to stay relaxed. His palms were damp against the desk.
He wanted to say something clever, something that would prove he wasn't that scared boy anymore. But all that came out was, "Yes, sir."
It sounded too soft, too uncertain.
Snape's eyes narrowed. "Tell me, Mr. Potter," he said, drawing out the words like a blade. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Hermione's hand shot up before the question even finished.
Harry's mind blanked.
He knew the answer. He knew it—he could practically hear Hermione's voice in the memory of another classroom, whispering it years ago. But the knowledge wouldn't come.
All he could feel was the weight of Snape's gaze, and the rising panic of someone trapped between two timelines.
"I—don't know, sir."
A slow, dangerous smile. "Fame clearly isn't everything."
A small laugh rippled again. Harry felt heat climb up his neck. For a second, the old instinct rose — to lash back, to say something sharp, to meet cruelty with defiance.
But then he saw the tiredness in Snape's eyes. It wasn't cruelty, not really. It was something colder. Older. A bitterness that had nowhere else to go.
Harry swallowed the retort. "No, sir," he said quietly. "It isn't."
Snape froze for half a heartbeat, as if the answer didn't fit the script. His lips pressed together, and he turned sharply toward the board.
"Five points from Gryffindor," he snapped, almost automatically. "For failing to study what even first-years should know."
The words stung. But the anger didn't.
Not like before.
Harry found himself watching Snape move along the rows, correcting posture, adjusting fires, his robe edges brushing past like whispers. There was precision in him — not malice so much as control. He couldn't remember noticing that before.
He wasn't taking notes — not yet — but he caught himself remembering small things: the way Snape's voice dropped when he mentioned ingredients that could "stopper death." The way his fingers trembled slightly when he handled aconite. The way his gaze flicked, for half a second, toward the empty corner of the room before snapping back to the students.
Fear.
Not of Harry. Of himself.
He filed that away somewhere deep in the mind — not written, not analyzed, but marked, like folding the corner of a page.
When class ended, the relief that swept through the students was almost physical.
Ron groaned, muttering, "Bloody nightmare, that one. Bet he hates you already."
Harry managed a small smile. "Yeah," he said. "Probably."
But as he looked back over his shoulder before leaving, he saw Snape bent over a cauldron, stirring something slow and deliberate, lost in thought.
For a moment, Harry wondered if the man hated him—or the ghost of his father—more.
And then, softly, another thought:
You were braver than I ever knew. Maybe I can be different this time too.
The idea didn't feel scholarly. It felt human. Raw.
It was the first small seed of curiosity that might one day grow into something disciplined.
But for now, it was enough.