Voldemort's eyes flickered through the Defence Against the Dark Arts classroom. This would have been his classroom had Dumbledore hired him all those years ago. Perhaps he wouldn't have ended up the way he had if he had also shouldered the responsibility for all the students who had walked through these halls since then. They all learnt Defence Against the Dark Arts without exception.
It could have been his. It had been so close too. Dippet had retired only a month before he had returned to apply for the position, and Voldemort was certain that he would have received the position had Dippet still been headmaster.
As it were, he hadn't been, and they were here. Hogwarts left with a cursed position, and him a bodiless shade whose only choice was possession for survival.
Things could have been different, but they weren't, and there was no use pondering over the past.
The sound of footsteps outside the door caused Quirrel to begin wrapping his head up again, and Voldemort's view of the classroom disappeared with every wrap, just like his dream of being a Defence Professor had disappeared with every word that Dumbledore had spoken.
Written for the September Back to School Challenge: (location) classroom