Note: Beta-read by the wonderful your_resident_fujoshi over at AO3!
The first night, Harry barely slept. It took ages to relax, and then he tossed and turned, restless and uncomfortable. He had vivid dreams about the Battle of Hogwarts in his rare moments of sleep. He woke too early, feeling drained and out of sorts, and started to feel panicked when he realized where – and more specifically, when – he was. He could not be bothered to shower, and went through his first day as an twenty-eight-year-old first year with his head in a fog.
Harry was immune to the whispers and double-takes this time around. After all, he had dealt with six years of it already, plus the years of being The Boy Who Lived to Defeat Voldemort, and then a subsequently infamous Auror and Ministry official. The hissing whispers of children were nothing compared to his post-graduation life in the press. But he felt horribly alone. Ron seemed afraid to approach him, and he was nowhere near to showing up in Hermione's mind. He debated whether he should even attempt to forge friendships with either of his childhood friends, and had yet to settle it.
He was doomed to relive his life, it seemed, and Harry wondered who, if anyone, he would tell of his predicament. Any of his future school chums were without question off the table. They were so young! He still toyed with the idea of telling Snape, seeing if the man could offer any help, since part of him still refused to believe he was well and truly stuck. But now that he knew what was to happen, if he was stuck, could he make a difference? Would he come out the other side better than the first time around? Warnings of changing time echoed around his mind. Perhaps he would make things worse.
Classes were easy, since he remembered a good portion of some of the information, and the rest was so basic it was a breeze to absorb. How had classes seemed so difficult at age eleven? No matter how foreign the information seemed, it was still incredibly simple. Even finishing his homework right after dinner felt like a vacation, and he operated automatically, his thoughts preoccupied with his situation rather than his History of Magic homework.
Sleep was difficult to get. The nightmares he suffered as an adult had followed him back into childhood. Bumping into a third year Cedric Diggory in the corridor one day had been terrible, and he had not gotten even a shadow of sleep that night. The dark circles under his eyes were so pronounced the next day, he used a glamour.
Transfiguration and Charms had him in the spotlight right away, as the lessons were child's play. He couldn't not perform perfectly. He noticed infuriated, hurt looks from some of the high-achievers like Draco, but he kept getting singled out by the teachers as a wonderful example. It wasn't fair to the other students, so he scaled it back to the point where he mostly did nothing, or intentionally mispronounced spells. The teachers usually gave him a knowing look, though, and he consistently felt shamed into performing.
The first midnight astronomy class felt natural, since he often worked late, and an hour spent in the autumn chill staring at a beautifully black sky was intensely relaxing. Professor Sinistra's voice was soothing and unusually quiet, forcing the class to remain silent for the hour, and Harry cherished the time in the dark and quiet where he was not struggling to sleep.
But by Thursday evening, he was stumbling. After class, Professor Sinistra had escorted him to the hospital wing, and Madam Pomfrey had given him a dose of Dreamless Sleep. He slept through the night. He finally felt refreshed the next day, though the dark circles under his eyes still needed to be covered up.
And when the first Potions class came along on Friday, Harry truly felt like a fish out of water. He was one of the Slytherin favourites now; Snape asked the same questions that he had asked Harry in his original Gryffindor first year and again this time over tea sandwiches; it seemed they were a routine for the very first class. But now he focused on Neville Longbottom, who stammered and fingered helplessly at his Potions textbook, which he obviously hadn't cracked open. Hermione, still the same, frantically waved her arm in the air, desperate to prove her intelligence, but Snape – again – ignored her. Harry almost felt guilty. He felt like he should be protecting Neville, somehow, from Snape's harsh jeers, and from Draco's smothered giggles. But if not Neville, then who? At a time when he had few allies and fewer friends, Harry felt it wasn't the time to challenge Snape or his housemates. Not yet.
Snape put them into pairs and set them to making up a simple potion to cure boils, but this time Harry was stuck with Draco. The young blonde boy looked at Harry with disgust, but didn't say a word other than what he needed to communicate about the potion. He was a fair hand at brewing – no doubt tutored by his godfather – so Harry did not find it necessary to expand their conversation. Snape swept around the room criticizing everyone except Draco, and by default, himself. It was totally unnerving, and he shivered every time the Potions master passed by. Further down the row, Harry noticed Neville and Seamus' cauldron sizzling, and handed the stirring rod to Draco.
'Handle it,' Harry told Draco shortly, who started to make a sound of protest, but Harry was already moving to Neville and Seamus – arguing, panicked, over who was going to fix the mistake. Harry pushed them aside, his heart pounding in his ears, and grabbed some nearby lavender to reverse the addition of the porcupine quills. He put out the flame beneath the cauldron, and as the potion returned to the colour it should have been, Harry instructed Seamus to re-add the porcupine quills, which he did, looking at Harry oddly.
'Well, well, Potter, doing your classmates' work for them?'
Harry turned to the glowering figure behind him, quite unsure where this was headed. He was a Slytherin, yes, but he was also Harry Potter.
'Neville had added the porcupine quills before removing the heat source,' Harry said shortly. 'They were arguing instead of stemming the reaction. Sir.' His palms were sweating, and he could feel a tremor running through his whole body.
'Well spotted, Mr. Potter. Point to Slytherin.'
Snape swept away again, and Harry felt his mouth fall open. Seamus scowled at him, and Neville shot him a distrustful look. What in Merlin's name had just happened?
Feeling thoroughly unsettled after the strange Potions lesson, Harry resolved to try seeing Snape after his lessons finished that afternoon. Perhaps he would be willing to tell him more about his mother. Mostly, though, he simply wanted to spend some time with another adult.
Harry noticed Draco loitering in the hall after Charms let out, but he was able to shake the blonde boy by using a complicated path through the library, then going up a floor, and then back down through the secret stair, jumping nimbly over the trick step. He made his way back down into the dungeons, and was relieved to see that his efforts at shaking off his tail were not in vain. Snape was at his desk, organizing whatever work his last class of the day had handed in.
'Hullo, Sir,' Harry called from the doorway, and Snape looked up, darkness flickering across his eyes for a moment. But his expression remained the same, and he gestured Harry inside.
'Come in, Mr. Potter.'
Harry walked in, holding his breath, unsure of how to approach this situation. They were on tentative good terms. It was so strange.
'Sir, I was wondering if, perhaps, you had some free time?' Harry asked, hoping it didn't come across as whingeing. 'You said you were friends with my Mum, and I was hoping...'
Snape had finished tidying his desk, and folded his hands together.
'I did, didn't I?' he muttered, as if irritated he had ever made the offer. Harry took a step back.
'It's all right-'
'Sit down,' Snape said tightly. He relaxed once Harry had pulled up a seat to the desk. 'Tea?' he asked, and Harry nodded. He conjured a tea tray, and Harry sat rigidly, feeling uncomfortable, and afraid of what he had gotten himself into.
'Where did you learn to perform the glamour charm,' Snape said abruptly, picking up a large, brown teapot and pouring tea into two chipped mugs.
'How did you know?' Harry asked, accepting a mug.
'You looked like death warmed over on Wednesday, Potter, and Thursday you suddenly looked right as rain,' he said mildly. 'Madam Pomfrey tells me you've been having nightmares.'
Harry swallowed hard. He hadn't thought about how much the staff might talk amongst themselves about the students.
'Er, yeah. Nothing awful. Just enough to keep me awake. I should be fine now.'
Snape gave him a critical look, but let the matter drop.
'Do you know how to play chess?'
'Not very well,' Harry admitted with a half-smile. Snape did not look impressed.
'Your mother was a skilled chess player,' he said coolly. 'She frequently trounced your father, and even myself occasionally.'
'So does that mean you're a skilled chess player, too?' Harry said cheekily. Snape smirked.
'Care to find out?'
'Knowing I'm going to lose doesn't make this very appealing,' Harry told him, but Snape was already up and fetching a chess board.
Harry noticed a newspaper clipping under the edge of the stack of essays on the side of Snape's desk, a cutting from the Daily Prophet.
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST
Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July...
Right, Harry thought, scanning the article and rubbing his face with his hands. The Philosopher's Stone had been moved to Hogwarts and Quirrell was plotting to steal it for Lord Voldemort. He supposed even if he wasn't truly trapped, he could try and foil the plot as long as he was here. Save his eleven-year-old self some trouble once he made it back to his own time. Snape was back quickly with the chess board, and told quiet stories of some of the games he had played with Lily Evans over the years at Hogwarts. Harry made sure to keep his questions to their first few years at Hogwarts – both to avoid any awkwardness, and to keep up the appearance that his knowledge was limited. As he wandered back to the Slytherin dorms later, Harry wondered briefly to himself how he could potentially work against Quirrell's plot – other than to steal the stone himself, as he had last time. He shook his head; there was so much to think about.
There was something not quite right about Potter. Severus was perturbed when Potter had quelled a dangerous reaction in his very first Potions class, and something about the boy had not sat well with the Potions master ever since. He had finally narrowed it down to the one thing that made the hair rise on the back of his neck every time he watched Potter in his class.
Potter was too adult.
The boy moved with the skilled ease of a seventh year student. No. The skilled ease of someone who brewed beyond the NEWT level. He brewed casually like someone who was around a cauldron at least once a week in their adult life, whether it was at home or at work.
Lily Evans certainly hadn't looked so graceful around a cauldron in her entire first year, let alone the first few classes. Neither did any of the children from old wizarding families, who were likely to be far more familiar with the art of brewing. Even noble young Draco, whom he had prepared by tutoring over the summer, was looking every year his age in Potions class.
But not Potter. He looked mature. Adult. Not only did he handle every tool, every ingredient, like he'd done it a thousand times before, but the boy held himself and moved with a poise that could only come with experience. Life experience. Though he lacked the exquisite finesse of a Potions Master, he was clearly not the Muggle-raised boy-wizard everyone expected.
He did not have particularly amazing strategies for chess, but Severus rarely had such close games with students younger than fifth year; he played with the confidence of an equal. Severus did not intimidate him in the way he did the other children.
Potter also knew and could use a seamless glamour charm that, aside from its sudden employment, would have been completely undetectable. Their conversation had been relatively easy, as though Potter were familiar. First year students were never familiar.
It made Severus suspicious.