10 Years later,
The ticking of the silver instrument on Dumbledore's desk slowed, then stopped altogether.
Albus Dumbledore folded his hands, the candlelight reflecting softly in his half-moon spectacles. The room was warm, almost deceptively so. Firelight breathed against the stone walls, and the faint scent of lemon drops lingered in the air, mingling with old parchment and magic that had settled into the castle over centuries.
"You have been very… patient," Dumbledore said gently.
Across the circular desk, Minerva McGonagall stood straight-backed, hands clasped in front of her robes, her sharp eyes never leaving my face. To her right, Severus Snape leaned against the shadows near the bookcases, arms crossed, expression unreadable but attention keen. Filius Flitwick sat perched on a high-backed chair, fingers resting together thoughtfully, while Pomona Sprout watched with open curiosity, earth and greenery clinging faintly to her presence.
Four House Heads.
All here.
Ten years ago, such scrutiny might have unsettled me. Now, it felt almost distant.
"You have answered our questions clearly," Dumbledore continued. "And more importantly, consistently. Your intentions do not waver."
Snape's dark eyes narrowed slightly. "Intentions are easy to claim," he said coolly. "Discipline is harder to maintain."
"I agree," I replied. "That is why I do not promise miracles. Only responsibility."
A pause followed. Not tense, but weighted. The kind of silence that measured more than words.
Professor McGonagall spoke next. "You understand that Hogwarts is not a testing ground for radical theories. Children are not experiments."
"I would never treat them as such," I said. "They are students first. Everything else comes after."
Flitwick smiled faintly, nodding to himself. Sprout's shoulders relaxed, just a little.
Dumbledore leaned back in his chair, gaze lifting briefly toward the tall windows where late afternoon light filtered in through enchanted glass. When he looked back at me, there was quiet resolve in his expression.
"Then I believe," he said, "we are in agreement."
The words settled into the room like the final piece of a puzzle.
"I, Dumbledore, hereby appoint you to the position of Professor of Defence Against the Dark Arts, effective immediately."
For a moment, the castle itself seemed to listen.
"I accept," I replied.
Dumbledore smiled, warm and genuine. "Welcome to Hogwarts, Professor."
The corridors felt different when I stepped out of the office.
Not unfamiliar, but aware.
Stone walls stretched high above, torchlight dancing softly as if greeting an old presence. Portraits murmured among themselves, their painted eyes following me with mild curiosity rather than suspicion. Somewhere deep within the castle, magic shifted, subtle and ancient.
Professor McGonagall walked beside me, her footsteps precise against the stone floor.
"Your quarters are in the staff wing," she said. "Close to the Defence classroom. I find proximity encourages punctuality."
"I will keep that in mind," I said.
She inclined her head slightly. "Hogwarts has its rules, Professor. You will receive a written copy, of course, but there are a few expectations best explained plainly."
We turned down a quieter passage, the air cooler here, carrying the faint scent of polished wood.
"You are free to structure your lessons within approved guidelines," she continued. "However, corporal punishment is forbidden. Detention requires approval if it extends beyond standard hours. And personal involvement in student conflicts must be reported, not resolved privately."
"Understood."
She stopped before an arched door and tapped it lightly with her wand. The door opened soundlessly.
"This will be your residence."
The room beyond was simple, but far from bare. A fireplace rested against the far wall, embers glowing softly. Tall windows overlooked the grounds, where the lake reflected the fading sky. A sturdy desk stood near a bookcase already stocked with core Defence texts. The air smelled faintly of old wood and clean linen.
It felt lived in. Ready.
"Meals are served in the Great Hall," McGonagall added. "Though many staff choose to dine privately when schedules demand it. House elves will attend to necessities."
I stepped inside, taking in the space.
"This will do nicely," I said.
Her lips curved into the smallest hint of approval. "Classes begin in one month. You are free to make arrangements as needed until then."
She turned to leave, pausing at the doorway.
"Hogwarts has endured many Defence professors," she said quietly. "I hope you intend to be one who remains."
"So do I," I replied.
When the door closed behind her, the room fell silent.
I moved to the window, looking out at the grounds where students would soon return, unaware of how close their lives were to changing. The castle breathed around me, patient, observant.
By the time I returned to India, night had already settled in.
The house was silent in the way only familiar places could be. Not empty, not cold. Simply waiting. The soft glow of enchanted lamps lit the corridors as I walked past them, their light steady and unobtrusive, just as it had always been. Somewhere deeper inside the house, I could sense a presence moving quietly, careful not to intrude.
I did not stop.
I went straight to my room.
The moment the door closed behind me, the weight of the day finally caught up. I loosened my collar, moved to the bed, and sat there for a brief second before lying back fully. The mattress sank beneath my weight, firm yet welcoming, and I exhaled slowly as the ceiling came into view.
For the first time since the interview, I allowed myself to rest. Muscles that had learned restraint rather than exhaustion finally relaxed. The softness beneath me felt almost unreal after hours spent standing straight, answering questions, measuring words.
My mind, however, did not follow.
It drifted backward, as it always did when I stopped moving.
I remembered how I had arrived in this world. Not gently, not by choice, but carried across boundaries I had never known existed. I remembered confusion, loss, and the quiet fury that had followed. Dolohov's face surfaced unbidden, sharp and clear, followed by the moment justice had finally been delivered. There had been no satisfaction in it. Only closure.
After that, I had left.
Not to run. Not to hide. But to breathe.
I travelled across this world without urgency, moving through magical settlements and Muggle cities bursting with noise and color. I learned new languages, not just the spoken kind, but the unspoken ones too. The way different cultures treated magic. The way fear and wonder shaped people's choices. The way food carried memory better than words ever could.
There were meals I still remembered clearly. Street food eaten standing under rain-soaked awnings. Slow dinners shared with strangers who became friends for a night and were never seen again. Flavours that stayed with me longer than faces.
I met people. Hundreds of them. Some briefly, some more deeply. I listened more than I spoke. And in listening, I learned.
Magic here was subtle in its convenience, blunt in its dependence. Wands had made spell work accessible, efficient, safe. But they had also made people forget themselves. Ancient texts I found in half-forgotten libraries spoke of a time when magic flowed through the body first, not wood and core. When control mattered more than incantation.
From time to time, my path crossed with familiar names. Dumbledore, most often. Sometimes briefly, sometimes for long evenings of conversation. He never pried. He only asked where I had been, and I answered honestly. Not everything, but enough. He seemed content with that. I told him of what I had seen, of traditions lost and techniques abandoned. He listened without interruption, eyes thoughtful, as if storing pieces of a puzzle he did not yet intend to assemble.
I took on work as I travelled. Small contracts. Quiet jobs. Nothing that drew attention. Enough to justify my presence, enough to ensure no one wondered how a man without roots lived comfortably. On occasion, I sold treasures I had. Not always to goblins. Wealthy collectors and discreet families often paid better, and asked fewer questions.
It kept things balanced.
There was one encounter, though, that stood out more clearly than most.
Lockhart.
At the time, he had been exactly as the stories described. Careless with other people's minds. Far too fond of applause. I had found him in the middle of erasing memories that did not belong to him to erase.
I had stopped him.
The lesson I gave him was not gentle, but it was thorough. Folter, after all, was very effective when used with restraint. Pain was not the point. Clarity was.
I remembered the fear in his eyes when understanding finally replaced arrogance. I also remembered the silence that followed, heavy and honest. I gave him a choice then. Not forgiveness. A chance.
He took it.
The man I left behind was not the same one I had found. He moved to another country. Changed his name. Chose obscurity over attention. From what little I heard later, he lived quietly now. Not brilliant. Not celebrated. But real. Folter truly was effective.
My gaze shifted to the side table where the lamp cast a soft glow.
A month ago, I had learned that the Defense Against the Dark Arts position at Hogwarts was vacant once more. The thought had lingered longer than I expected. I applied without ceremony.
The reply arrived the next day.
Interview details. Formal. Precise. And now, today, it was done.
Professor.
The word still felt strange. I closed my eyes. Ten years. Or close enough to feel like it.
A life lived without urgency. Without ambition. Without purpose pressing at my back. And now Hogwarts. A position I had not sought, but accepted nonetheless.
Tomorrow, I would begin preparing properly. Lesson structures. Boundaries. Expectations. A way to teach children how to defend themselves without teaching them how to become monsters.
But tonight, I let the thoughts fade.
The house remained quiet. Somewhere nearby, a door closed softly, and footsteps retreated. Someone ensuring everything was in order. Someone who had been there long enough to know when silence was required.
I allowed myself a small, tired smile.
Then I slept.