Morning light filtered softly through the curtains when I woke.
For a moment, I lay still, listening. The distant hum of the city. The faint rustle of leaves outside the window. The house felt settled, as if it had been waiting for me to return. I rose slowly and made my way to the bathroom.
Warm water poured over me as I stepped under the shower.
Steam filled the space, blurring the edges of the world, and my thoughts drifted with it. Somewhere between the sound of water and the steady rhythm of my breathing, memories surfaced.
I realized something then.
I did not remember everything.
Not in detail, at least.
It had been more than sixty years since I last read the Harry Potter books. Three lives ago. The sharp clarity of plot points had dulled with time. Faces and events no longer lined up perfectly in my mind. Lockhart had only come back to me because I had seen him with my own eyes.
Still, the foundation remained.
Voldemort.
Horcruxes.
A twisted form of immortality.
I knew the essentials. A diary. A ring. A locket. A cup hidden in Bellatrix's vault. A snake bound to him. Something concealed within Hogwarts itself, in the Room of Requirement. And the last one, the cruellest of all, Harry Potter himself.
Harry would remain untouched.
The others would not.
By the time the thought settled, I was already stepping out of the shower. I dried off, changed into fresh clothes, and felt the lingering warmth seep into my muscles. The fog in my head cleared just as a knock echoed softly at my door.
"Hello, Mr. Arjun," came a familiar voice from the other side. "You are back, I see. I noticed you late last night, but you looked half asleep, so I did not disturb you. Breakfast is ready, by the way."
I smiled faintly.
"Yes, Uncle Smith," I replied. "Give me two minutes. I am coming."
Downstairs, the dining room felt alive in its quiet way. Sunlight streamed across the table, catching the steam rising from a cup of tea. Uncle Smith stood near the counter, already setting things in place.
"I was going to make breakfast," he said casually, "but the children from the neighborhood came by earlier. They had made Poha this morning and insisted on sharing. So, I accepted. It would have been rude not to."
He paused, then added, almost proudly, "Masala chai, however, is freshly prepared."
"That is the important part," I said as I took a seat.
We began eating in comfortable silence. The poha was warm, lightly spiced, carrying the familiarity of home. The chai followed, strong and fragrant, its heat spreading through my chest.
"Morning tea really does decide the tone of the day," I said. "If this is good, the rest usually follows."
Uncle Smith nodded in agreement. "Wisdom earned through experience."
I glanced at him. "How is your training coming along?"
He straightened slightly. "Better than before. I can feel the magic more clearly now. It circulates instead of pooling awkwardly. My core feels… steadier. Stronger. I can handle basic spells and the body strengthening magic without strain."
"That is good," I said. "Consistency matters more than intensity."
He nodded again, pleased.
As I reached for another bite, something caught my eye. I looked down at our plates, then back up at him.
"Why," I asked calmly, "does it look like you have taken a larger portion than me?"
For a split second, his expression froze.
Then he turned his head slightly, eyes shifting toward the window. "Ah. Did I mention today's weather looks promising? Clear skies. Good day for travel."
I raised an eyebrow. "Uncle Smith."
"Yes," he said quickly. "Speaking of travel, what are your plans today? The interview went well, I presume?"
I let out a quiet breath that was almost a laugh. "It did. I was appointed Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts."
He finally looked back at me, eyes warm with something close to pride. "Then Hogwarts is fortunate."
"I will be leaving shortly," I said. "I will stay in contact. And if anything, urgent arises, you know how to reach me."
"Of course," he replied. "The house will remain as you left it."
After breakfast, I packed what little I needed. Most of my belongings already rested safely in my item box. A few clothes. Several books. I placed them into an old leather bag that had seen more journeys than it let on.
At the doorway, I paused.
Uncle Smith stood there, hands folded neatly, expression calm.
"I will return from time to time," I said.
"I know," he replied simply.
With that, I stepped out, the door closing softly behind me as I set off toward Hogwarts.
Teleportation shimmered away with a soft distortion of air.
The world settled into focus, and Hogwarts stood before me.
The castle rose against the sky like a memory that refused to fade. Ancient stone bathed in morning light, tall towers reaching upward, the lake stretching wide below. Magic lingered in the air, quiet but unmistakable, as if the land itself hummed with familiarity. Even from this distance, I could feel it beneath my skin, a steady pulse that welcomed rather than warned.
For a moment, I simply looked.
Years had passed since I last stood here, not as a visitor or wanderer, but as a student. The gates ahead seemed unchanged. The scent of wet earth and trees, the distant sound of water moving against rock, even the texture of the breeze felt the same.
I began walking, letting the gravel path shift under my shoes and the castle grow closer with every step. The atmosphere wrapped around me in a way the Muggle world never quite managed. Here, magic was not hidden. It breathed openly.
As I approached the main grounds, I spotted the first familiar figure.
Hagrid.
He was hauling two massive burlap sacks over one shoulder as if they weighed nothing more than grain. Taller than any man should rightfully be, beard wild, eyes kind, and clothes as stubborn as ever. Seeing him pulled something loose inside me, a small tug of nostalgia, the kind that belongs to stories read long before living them.
I approached with an easy smile. "Good morning, Hagrid."
He paused, blinked once, then broke into a wide grin. "Arjun! Thought that was you. Blimey, been ages."
"It has," I agreed.
"Dumbledore told me you were comin' back. Said you'd be takin' the Defence post." His tone softened. "I feel sorry for what happened with your family. Terrible thing, that."
I nodded, accepting the sentiment without letting it linger. "I appreciate it."
He shifted the sacks slightly, one of them rustling with the sound of dry grain. "Anyway, I'm takin' this lot to the kitchens. Rations for the week. Got to make sure the elves don't run out."
"Do you need a hand with that?" I asked. The offer was polite, not insistent.
Hagrid chuckled, a low rumble in his chest. "Nah, this is nothing. Easier than feedin' the thestrals, I tell you. 'Sides, I've been doin' this since before you were in second year."
I let the smile linger. "Then I'll leave you to it. I will stop by your hut later."
"I'd like that," he said. "Been a while since I had proper company."
We parted ways there, with him striding off toward the back entrances and me continuing toward the staff wing.
The closer I came, the more Hogwarts seemed to open around me, with enchanted windows glimmering faintly and staircases whispering somewhere deep inside the castle. The gates to the staff quarters clicked softly when I used the key McGonagall had given me yesterday.
Inside, the air was fresh.
Someone had cleaned recently. The fireplace had been swept, the floors gleamed faintly, and the blankets smelled of lavender and clean linen. I set my leather bag down and let out a quiet breath I had been holding without noticing.
Home, in a peculiar way.
I placed my clothes neatly into the wardrobe, stacking shirts and robes with casual familiarity. Books went into the small shelf beside the study table, each spine settling into place with a soft sound. The room felt whole as I moved through it, like it remembered its purpose and was simply waiting to be lived in again.
I had just reached for another book when a knock sounded at the door.
The door clicked open after a brief murmur of magic, and before I could take a single step inside the room, someone was already waiting.
Professor Snape stood just beyond the threshold.
His expression was neutral in the way only he could manage: neither welcoming nor hostile, more akin to someone observing a new ingredient that might prove either useful or volatile. His black robes settled around him without a crease, his presence sharp and contained, as if the air itself adjusted to accommodate him.
"I see you arrived," he said first, voice smooth and low.
"Good morning, Professor Snape," I replied, matching his tone without imitating it. "I was just going to settle in before meeting the rest of the staff and reporting to Professor Dumbledore."
"That would have been unnecessary," Snape said, with a faint lift of his brow. "Both Professor Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall are currently at the Ministry. Unpleasant bureaucracy. Your arrival timing is… efficient."
I smiled slightly. "Then I suppose I should be grateful."
From within his cloak, Snape withdrew a neatly rolled parchment. "Your schedule for the week. Professor McGonagall asked me to deliver it in her absence."
His movements were precise, economical, as though even small gestures adhered to some internal standard of discipline. I accepted the parchment with a nod.
Snape turned as though finished, but paused after two steps. "Regarding something you mentioned during the interview." His eyes narrowed, not in threat but in interest. "You spoke of unconventional forms of magic. New methods. Alternative alchemy. Potions in particular."
His voice did not change, yet something beneath the surface sharpened.
Snape was not merely curious. He was intrigued.
Of course he would be. Potions for him were not an academic subject, but a language. A puzzle. A challenge. And unlike most, he craved knowledge quietly, without spectacle.
"I am interested to hear more," he continued. "If you are inclined to share, that is."
For a moment, I simply studied him. There was no flattery in his request, no forced politeness. Only a Slytherin's understanding that opportunity should be seized when it appeared.
"I thought you might ask," I said.
His eyes flicked up, just slightly.
I crossed the room to the bookshelf, pulled out a blue hardbound notebook, its spine worn from years of travel. I held it out to him.
"This contains what I learned abroad. Over 300 variant potions. Different regions, different philosophies. Some of the ingredients are unavailable here, at least through legal means. Others require substitutes. If you wish, I can arrange for contacts to supply the rarer materials."
Snape took the notebook carefully, as if it were fragile. He opened it, letting pages whisper past his fingers. Foreign scripts, diagrams, effects, brewing sequences in layered notation.
His eyes lingered longer than I expected.
"You expect collaboration," he said.
"I expect we will make something worthwhile together," I corrected.
Snape's mouth shifted. Not fully into a smile, but into something resembling it. "You will be needed," he said. "Your handwriting is atrocious. Deciphering this would require a divination degree."
A quiet laugh escaped me, brief and unforced. "Fair enough."
He closed the notebook and tucked it under his arm. "Thank you," he said, the words clipped yet sincere. It was not gratitude for the sake of manners. It was for knowledge.
Without waiting for further ceremony, he turned toward the door. His robes trailed behind him with the kind of finality only he could make elegant.
When the room fell silent again, I found myself standing alone with the parchment still in hand.
I sat on the edge of the bed and unrolled it.
The schedule was straightforward: introductory duties, sorting night arrangements, two-night patrols, staff workshops, and a note about coordination with other professors. Nothing overwhelming. In the margins, McGonagall had left a brief remark in her sharp, unmistakable handwriting.
Good luck. Work honestly.
I felt a small warmth at that. Strict though she was, McGonagall never pretended to be anything she was not. It made her easier to respect.
My thoughts drifted back to Snape.
He was exactly as I remembered him from another lifetime. Reserved. Brilliant. Socially graceless in a way that had nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with discomfort. A lonely man more than a cruel one. Rude only because he did not know how to soften the edges of his words.
A fundamentally kind person buried under scars and expectations.
I rolled the parchment, set it aside, stretched once, and stood.
With Dumbledore and McGonagall away, there was no need to wait. I set out to introduce myself to the remaining staff.
Flitwick was delighted. He nearly bounced in place when I answered his question about duelling traditions in other countries. Sprout was warm and direct, helping with greenhouse samples before I could protest. Madam Pomfrey was the most efficient; she took one look at me, handed me bandages, and enlisted my help with four small tasks before allowing me to leave.
By the time I returned to my room, I summoned lunch with the table bell McGonagall had shown me. The elf arrived promptly, and the meal was unassuming but satisfying.
The month that followed passed quietly.
I worked through my schedule, learned the campus routes again, visited Hogsmeade twice with the department staff, and drafted lesson plans that balanced fundamentals with creativity. McGonagall reviewed them with precision, correcting only what she deemed necessary. Even she seemed intrigued by my core developing method to use magic, listening more intently than most people ever did.
Hogwarts, in its own strange way, had accepted me.
1 September, 1992.
London was humid, crowded, and full of life. I had purchased a few last-minute supplies, including some items Hagrid had casually insisted would be useful. My plan had been simple. I would take the train. I liked trains. The steady motion, the crowd, the echo of wheels against tracks. It reminded me that the world still moved even when magic tried to stand outside it.
But simplicity often lost to timing.
I found myself running, weaving through people, and reached the platform pillars just as the clock ticked dangerously forward.
I braced to slip through.
Instead, I collided with solid stone.
Pain lanced through my shoulder, and for a moment I simply sat on the ground, watching a thin crack shimmer across the pillar as the residual magic from my attempt faded. Of course. A memory stirred sluggishly into place.
Second year.
It was Harry's 2nd year.
Of course. The barrier was sealed.
I had rushed straight into the pillar only to collide with solid stone. Right… I had forgotten about this part of the story.
The elf. There had been an elf involved. What was his name again…
I searched for it through the haze of half-remembered scenes and seventy years of distance. The image of big green eyes and frantic warnings in a bedroom flashed briefly. Then the name slid into place like a puzzle piece.
Dobby.
That explained everything.
I exhaled slowly, more amused than annoyed. And then another realization followed, sharper and far more relevant than remembering a house elf.
Which meant those two…
I lifted my head. Two boys were hurrying toward me through the crowd, dodging a family with suitcases and a man pushing a luggage cart. Both looked exactly as I remembered them from movies, but also different in a way the real world always makes people different.
The first, tall and red-haired, stood out instantly. Ron Weasley – all long limbs, knitted jumper, and worry written plainly across his face. Even in a crowd, that red head was impossible to miss. Beside him was the boy the world would one day call legend. Harry Potter. Messy black hair, thin frame, glasses slightly askew, and that unmistakable scar hidden by his fringe. Seeing him in person felt oddly surreal.
Seeing them in motion felt strange. Like remembering a book scene and suddenly watching it breathe. For a moment, I simply observed them and I found myself smiling, just slightly.
Ron reached me first, concern evident. Harry slowed only a step behind him, watching me not with fear, but with a quiet curiosity that already hinted at the kind of person he would eventually become.