The Leaky Cauldron was as lively as ever, filled with the chatter of witches and wizards enjoying their morning tea or butterbeer. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread lingered in the air, mixing with the faint hint of old parchment and potion fumes.
Harry stepped inside, adjusting his cloak slightly as he made his way toward Tom, the barkeep. He wasn't in a hurry—after all, his trip to Diagon Alley was mostly for last-minute supplies. But as he reached the counter, he felt it.
A presence.
Dark. Heavy. Sickly.
His Phoenix Force flared instinctively, not in alarm, but in recognition. Someone in this room carried a taint of malice, a twisted presence that slithered just beneath the surface, hidden but not entirely undetectable.
Harry turned his head slightly, pretending to scan the room casually. His gaze landed on a nervous-looking man sitting alone at a table in the corner, nursing a cup of tea with trembling hands. He was clad in a turban, his eyes darting about as if expecting something—or someone—to leap out at him.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Harry felt the waves of unease rolling off him, but beneath that, there was something else. A deeper presence. Something coiled, watching… waiting.
Voldemort.
A slow smirk tugged at Harry's lips. Oh, this is interesting.
Deciding to amuse himself, he approached the table, pulling out the chair opposite the man and sitting down without invitation.
"Professor Quirrell, I presume?" Harry asked, tilting his head in an innocent manner.
Quirrell jumped slightly, nearly spilling his tea. "O-Oh! Y-Yes! A-And you are…?"
"Harry Potter," he said, watching as Quirrell's eyes flicked instinctively to his forehead before darting away.
Quirrell gave a weak smile. "Ah! A-A pleasure to meet you, M-Mister Potter. Such an honor…"
Harry leaned back in his chair, tapping his fingers lightly on the table. "So, you're going to be teaching Defense Against the Dark Arts at Hogwarts, right?"
Quirrell gave a jerky nod. "Y-Yes, indeed! F-Fascinating subject. Though, d-dangerous, of c-course."
Harry hummed, his eyes gleaming with amusement. "Yeah, I hear the position is cursed. Teachers never last more than a year. Wonder why that is…"
Quirrell stiffened for the briefest moment, and Harry felt it—that flicker of anger, that inhuman whisper of resentment, buried deep beneath the surface.
He smirked. Gotcha.
Harry tapped his chin in mock thought. "Maybe it's because there's some noseless wraith out there who keeps trying and failing to get his body back? That would explain a lot, wouldn't it?"
Quirrell went deathly pale. "I—I b-beg your p-pardon?"
"Oh, nothing," Harry said airily, waving a hand. "Just thinking out loud. I mean, it must be frustrating, right? Spending years trying to cheat death, only to get outplayed by a baby. That's gotta sting."
He took a slow sip of his butterbeer, watching as Quirrell's hands clenched under the table. The tension in the air was almost palpable.
Harry lowered his mug and smiled, his voice dropping slightly. "Don't you think, Professor?"
Quirrell forced a shaky laugh. "W-Well, I s-suppose history can be q-quite… amusing."
Harry leaned forward, resting his chin on his hand. "Oh, absolutely. Some people just don't know when to quit, though. You'd think they'd learn after their plans repeatedly blow up in their face."
Quirrell's fingers twitched.
He knows I know.
And I know that he knows that I know.
Satisfied with the reaction, Harry stood up, stretching slightly. "Well, it was lovely chatting, Professor. I'll see you at Hogwarts."
Quirrell swallowed thickly. "Y-Yes… see you… M-Mister Potter."
Harry turned and walked toward the brick wall leading to Diagon Alley, but he could feel Quirrell's gaze burning into his back. More importantly, he could feel the thing inside him—silent, calculating.
A thrill of satisfaction ran through him.
This year is going to be fun.