SSHG

One year. One full year it had been. Since the final battle between the darkness and the light. One year since the Dark Lord fell. One year since I almost died and was brought back from the brink of death. I do not know who's idea it was to throw that atrocious sham of a party. To gather together all the members who fought for the side of good and pay homage to those who had fallen. I wouldn't even have gone if not for the fact that Minerva threatened to floo everyone into the dungeons for the gathering if I didn't at least show my face for a few minutes.

And of course, I'd shown up at just the right time to hear damn Potter explaining to one of his little friends that he'd spoken to the Minister on my behalf in the aftermath of the war in order to confirm my innocence. Of course I'd known that he had shared the knowledge contained in the memories I'd given him. I'd be rotting in Azkaban if he hadn't. But just exactly what he'd told, I wasn't privy to. And when I'd politely – alright, maybe not quite so politely- asked (demanded) that he tell me, the bloody prat refused me. So when I went to invade his mind for the answers, the stupid Granger girl had gotten in my way. Of course I didn't feel any guilt about attempting to penetrate his mind. The daft boy ought to have perfected the art of Occulemency long ago. If he'd spent more time learning and not dicking about in my own head, maybe he'd have been able to protect himself. But instead of Potter's malleable mind, I had landed in Miss Granger's memories. I shuddered. I would have rather suffered the humiliation of seeing Potter air my secret love for his mother to all and sundry a thousand times than witness what I'd seen in her mind.

I shook my head, attempting to clear it. It wasn't any of my business. Why should I care? She was a grown woman, a war heroine, and could bloody well handle herself. She'd looked young in the memory. Obviously it had been years ago. Surely she'd dealt with the event and all its repercussions. She'd probably read every book that existed on recovery and healing from trauma. So why did I care? Why was my heart still pounding with blood rage? Why was my jaw still clenched tight with fury?

Of course I'd never been able to stomach seeing a child hurt. The reign of the Carrows at Hogwarts had taken all of my considerable control to hide my disgust, even while trying to protect the students as best I could. Of course, I'd seen children killed by the Dark Lord's command. But I'd never seen one so young assaulted sexually. Of all the horrors I'd witnessed in my time as a spy, all the atrocities I'd had to watch and pretend to be indifferent to, I'd been spared seeing the rape of a child. Only to see it in the Great Hall of Hogwarts through the memories of a former student after the war had ended. My stomach roiled once more. Had it happened before, or after she'd come to Hogwarts?

No. I pushed the thought from my mind. I did not care. It was none of my concern. The Golden Trio was no longer in need of my protection, nor was her welfare my responsibility. I'd spent too many years of my life caring about everyone but myself. Protecting others with the knowledge that it would eventually lead to my demise. And now that I'd been given a reprieve, I refused to allow thoughts of Miss Granger and whatever tragedy haunted her to suffuse my mind. I was done chasing after others to save their hides. I was done caring.

So why, as I swept down into the dungeons and into my rooms, could I not get the image of her terror out of my mind?

HH

Over the last year, all the renovations needed had been completed on Hogwarts. The school was officially reopening and accepting students once more. I wanted to retire away from public life. I wanted to go somewhere no one knew me and live out the rest of my days in anonymity. But I refused to hide. And of course, bloody Minerva had stepped down as Deputy Headmistress, and the ministry had insisted on offering me the job of Headmaster.

I'd refused the first dozen times they came to me with the idea. I wanted nothing to do with the school, the ministry, the world. But somehow, over time, the idea had grown on me. I'd spent so much of my life answering to others that the thought of being the one in charge, being master of not only my own destiny, but of an entire castle, appealed to me. I still think I would have ended up in a little cottage somewhere on a desert isle, if not for the blasted stories in the blasted Daily Prophet. The stories saying that I'd withdrawn from society in shame. The stories that under all my harsh exterior I was merely a soft romantic and couldn't deal with the world now that the war was over. I didn't have much left, but I did have my pride.

Pride that had gotten me through twenty years as a spy, pride that had seen me through my time at Hogwarts as a student. Holding my head up and sneering down at anyone who dared malign me in any way. I simply could not allow them to foist this bleeding heart persona upon me. Yes I had spent more than a decade in the service of a madman (two, depending on the day) to protect the son of the woman I'd once loved. But I wasn't a ninny. Nor was I some romantic hero as the world seemed to want to make me into. And my bloody fucking pride had made me accept job.

Now, students would be once more studying in the castle, including the seventh years who would return to finish their NEWTS. All of the teachers, myself included, had offered to privately tutor those who hadn't finished their education because of the war and wished to complete their tests. There hadn't been that many who'd been unable to take their NEWTS that year, and even fewer who decided to return, but among those was Miss Hermione Granger.

Of course she would want to return and take her tests. Potter and that twit Weasley knew that they could get excellent jobs, really any jobs they wanted, based solely on their performance in the war. Miss Granger certainly could have as well. But of course, she had asked to be allowed to finish her education. Never mind that she was already smarter than most of the members of the Ministry. Never mind that the results of her tests were insipid when compared to her real life experience in the face of battle. Never mind that her return would clearly disrupt my careful stance of non-caring. Because as I slammed the door to my quarters behind me, I realized to my horror, that I did care. The little wench had gotten under my skin. I had to know what had happened, and that she'd dealt with the ramifications properly. To know that the bastard had been properly punished. I was hooked.

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