DISCLAIMER: What is the name printed on the spine of the Harry Potter books? Rowling? Is my name Rowling? Enough said. I have used a few quotes from the books, and I didn't put quotation marks around them, because I don't like the way it looks, but they are all set apart and in italics. (You'll be able to tell what is a quote and what isn't.) So there. I don't claim to have written them.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a response to the Severitus Challenge. This is non-compliant with the Deathly Hallows Epilogue, because I really don't like (AND NEVER WILL LIKE) the whole Harry/Ginny concept. Also, in order to comply with the rules of the Severitus challenge, Lupin didn't die in Deathly Hallows. Thanks!
The final bell of the day sounded through the castle, and there was a general sigh of relief from the students and professors at the arrival of the long-awaited weekend. The sixth-year Gryffindors rose from their seats in their Defense Against the Dark Arts class, hurriedly packing up their things and leaving the room. Their professor looked after them agitatedly as he waved his wand at the chalkboard, which began erasing itself.
"Remember, class, practice those non-verbal spells! There might be a quiz on Monday… Class! Ah, bugger…" The weary professor gave up his warnings as a lost cause and let himself slacken onto the leather chair behind his desk, laying his cane on the desk's oaken surface.
The din of bells and chatting students died away to become a dull undertone in the corridors below him. He sighed and let a smile cross his face as he surveyed his classroom. His classroom. He had sat in this room for Defense classes for six years, under six different instructors.
Quirrel. Lockhart. Lupin. Moody (Well, almost Moody, he thought). Umbridge. And Snape…
Don't think about him now, he told himself defiantly. He grabbed his cane from the desktop and stepped to his feet, too quickly. His bad leg connected with the open drawer in his desk, and he yelped in pain. Damn hip! he thought as he fell onto his chair once again. He glared at his leg, innocently stretched out between the seat of his chair and the floor. If it weren't for you…
The defeat of Voldemort had immediately relieved Harry Potter of the title "Undesirable Number One", and (as many had predicted) the Ministry was once again begging him to work for them. Having been slandered, cut down, hunted, and hated by the Ministry, Harry was not well-disposed to joining their ranks.
But if he didn't join the Ministry as an Auror, what would he do with himself?
Only slightly reluctantly, Harry began Auror training at the age of eighteen, finishing late because he had, unlike the other Auror apprentices, only six years of schooling to his name. Upon entering the Auror Office, he quickly made a name for himself as being among the best, to no one's surprise. He rose quickly through the Office until, when he was twenty-eight, he was appointed to be the Head of the Office.
Deciding that the pain in his knee had subsided sufficiently, Professor Potter slowly rose to his feet and steadied himself with his cane. He limped around the side of his desk and began working his way around the classroom, picking up scrap bits of parchment that hadn't found their way to the trash bin. Only when the classroom was tidy enough for his liking did he limp to his office.
Harry deposited a stack of papers to grade into the basket on his office desk. He would grade those this weekend, whenever he found time, but not now. He crossed to the mirror that hung on the other side of the room and let his hair down from the loose ponytail that held it behind his shoulders.
During the year that might have been his seventh year at Hogwarts, he, on the run with Hermione and Ron, had not paid much attention to his appearance. The war was over by the time his eighteenth birthday rolled around, and Harry had cleaned up his appearance somewhat. His hair, however, still hung in shaggy curtains around his face. Mrs. Weasley offered to cut his hair for him, and so Harry took his place on a chair in front of her while she aimed her wand at his unruly hair.
"Just a second," he had said, wrapping his arms about his head as a shield. "Let me just…look at it a minute." He wasn't sure what made him have second thoughts about shearing off his long hair, but he jumped out of the chair and ran to the mirror, where he assessed his appearance. His reflection looked strange; almost as if someone else's reflection was trying to shine from beneath it. His face, with long hair… It reminded him of someone.
"I'm keeping it," he said. "Just even out the ends a bit, Molly."
Molly gave him a pained look and tried to protest, but did as he asked. And so, since his eighteenth birthday, Harry had kept curtains of shoulder-length, black hair.
Harry brushed his hair back from his face, revealing his lightning-bolt scar. He shook his head, looking at it.
"You've gotten me into so much trouble, do you know that?" he asked it. The scar was proof of his identity; with it, no one could possibly mistake that they were talking to Harry Potter himself.
That, in itself, had proved to be a slight problem.
The Auror Office had received a tip-off that a small group of old Death Eaters were hiding out in Edinburgh, planning another uprising of Dark magic. Harry personally assembled a group of his best Aurors to find the little assembly and bring them in.
He hadn't expected the group to be among Voldemort's most depraved disciples. When his team blasted apart the door onto their gathering, they immediately exploded into action, screaming and firing bizarre curses in every direction. Eventually, with minimal injury, his team had gained possession of all wands in the room, and Harry was about to tie the Death Eaters up and call it a job well done.
He just had to brush the hair out of his eyes first…
One of the Death Eaters caught sight of his scar. She raised a trembling hand to point at him and shrieked, "HIM!" Harry raised his wand in defense, and just as quickly the woman drew a silver dagger from within her robes and hurled it in his direction. Harry opened his mouth to cast a Shield Charm –
Bellatrix Lestrange – a silver dagger slicing through the air – Dobby – the stars – the grave – free elf…
The dagger ripped into his hip, and Harry screamed, losing his balance. Someone tied up the Death Eaters and took them back to the Ministry, but Harry needed the hospital, the pain was blinding him…
A stab in the leg, to the St. Mungo's Healers, is usually a relatively simple matter. Harry, however, stayed in bed for a week, his hip bleeding persistently. The wound refused to heal.
The Healers finally identified that a curse had been applied to the dagger to prevent the wounds it inflicted from healing. After another week in the hospital, Harry's hip was no longer bleeding, but the internal damage could not be fixed. He would walk with a troublesomely crippling limp for the rest of his life.
Thus, Harry retired from the Auror Office at the age of thirty.
Professor Harry Potter loosened his tie and turned from his reflection. It was time for a well-deserved cup of coffee; this had been a long day. He hobbled to the door, cast an appraising glance around his office, and left for the staffroom, closing the door quietly behind him.