Unwanted Fate
He stalked the halls of Hogwarts, his dark cloak billowing out behind him. The cries of the punished reached him, even in these distant reaches of the castle. It was most disconcerting to hear such things, but he kept his feelings below the surface yet again, as he must always. His life was in shambles, and he was unable to do much beyond brood and hope for a better tomorrow.
The school had begun the year with roughly half of its usual number of students, and a good number had either disappeared since or fled as part of the resistance within the school walls. There was a portion of wall near the roped off section of swamp that read "The DA – Still Recruiting!"
He smiled a little, casting a dozen different permanency charms on the fresh paint, knowing that no teacher had yet had the opportunity to do so. It was the least he could do to look the other way when there was no one to see him. If anyone were there to see, though, he would have had to scour that wall with a scowl on his face. Such was the life of a secret double agent.
He had been left to this horrible position by the two foremost manipulators of his time. One had manipulated him out of all possible alliances and all possibility of doing true good in the school. The other had manipulated him into this position, made him see and do things that were reprehensible. He was caught in the middle, the middle of a war that he could not actively declare his true allegiance in.
There were more cries of pain and terror from up above, echoing horribly in the cramped dungeon corridors. He cringed, knowing that there was nothing he could do about the torture sessions. Were he to make the slightest move against those his cover would be blown, and the school would only become worse. He was one of three with the authority to pronounce punishments, and his were the only ones that did not involve sessions of the Cruciatus Curse. It was unfortunate that he did not dole out more punishments.
He could hardly stand it. None dared to come up to his office, and the password he had set made it impossible for anyone to guess their way in. The office was secure, as was the sword. The sword was needed. It was necessary, in some way, for the task at hand. He did not know how; he did not understand, but he went along with his predecessor's wishes. The portrait's hunches and ideas were, despite his being a wall fixture, usually quite correct.
His former colleagues, now considered his employees, shunned him. They probably plotted against him, and they let all manner of rule breaking occur. It was a silent dare to him to punish, to cause harm to a student, or to fire a professor. They would then feel justified in retaliation, and he would likely lie dead. Of course, he never made a move to respond to their provocations, as he secretly agreed with them.
No, he had no one. Those he considered allies hated him and thought him an enemy. He knew that there was nothing to be done to prevent that. Those he was to protect, the students, were in open revolt, aided by his allies. They made the job of protection that much more difficult, endangering themselves and giving him no recourse but to see their punishment. Those who considered him an ally were despicable, depraved beings that should have been locked up years before, stripped of their sanity by the Dementors. And yet, while he hated them deeply, he had to pretend that he agreed with them, that he was like them.
More cries of pain rang out as he ascended the stairs, emerging from the dungeons as he made his way toward his office. There was nothing amiss, aside from the constant cries that came from upstairs, where students served detention enduring torture that he could do nothing about. There was something more than shouts and screams of pain. It seemed, as impossible as it might be, that there were whispers coming from just beyond the stone gargoyle that guarded the office beyond.
He knew those three voices that whispered beyond the stone. Two girls and a boy were in a heated discussion regarding how best to check the office for its inhabitant. They were the ones who organised the resistance within the school. They were the ones who were freeing students from detentions and hiding them away. They were the ones who marked the walls with their graffiti, including the one that he had made permanent earlier that night.
They were his allies, and they didn't even know it, because to them he was the face of the enemy. He was the voice of the enemy, proclaiming the very worst of what had turned the school into an academy for the Dark Arts. He yearned to help them, and he considered leaving the general area to allow them to carry out their task without being caught. But he remembered the sword, and somehow he knew that leaving would allow them to thieve the sword before he could take it to the one who needed it.
So he stood where he was, watching the gargoyle, waiting for the three students to return. They would receive detention in the forest, and never would they say he condemned them to torture. They would, if charitable, consider him merciful. More likely, though, they would think him stupid for letting them practically get away with whatever it was they were planning.
Many minutes passed, and then finally the gargoyle moved aside. Three students, a girl with blonde hair and a dirty, blood smeared face; a boy with brown hair and a series of scars running across his right cheek; and their leader, a small girl with red hair and a deep gash across her forehead, emerged from the office. The girl with the red hair delicately carried a great sword with a ruby-encrusted hilt.
"Accio sword," he said, catching the blade deftly in his free hand. "Return yourselves to my office. We will discuss the matter of your punishment there."
He hated being the bad guy, but it was his job.