A Life at Hogwarts
Chapter 1
Roland Greengrass entered the world on a crisp autumn evening, in the shadowed halls of Greengrass Manor, nestled deep in the Wiltshire countryside. The wizarding world was still reeling from the aftermath of Grindelwald's defeat, but for the Greengrass family—pure-bloods with a lineage as old as the hills and twice as unyielding—the birth of another son was met with quiet approval rather than fanfare. His parents, Aldrich and Elara Greengrass, already had an elder daughter, and Roland's arrival was seen as a fortuitous balance to the family tree. No prophecies hung over his cradle, no seers whispered of destinies entwined with dark lords or chosen ones. He was simply... there.
The Greengrasses were not the sort to court attention. They navigated the pure-blood society with the grace of serpents—alliances forged in drawing rooms, not battlefields. Slytherin through and through, they valued cunning over bravado, preservation over power. It was a philosophy that suited Roland well, even before he understood why.
His first accidental magic came at age seven, during a family gathering where tempers flared over some trivial slight involving the Malfoys. A crystal goblet shattered in his father's hand, spraying shards that halted mid-air before they could draw blood. The adults exchanged knowing glances, and Roland felt a strange warmth uncoil in his chest. But it wasn't just magic that awakened that day. Fragments of another life flickered in his mind—stories read in a dimly lit room, pages filled with spells, wands, and a boy with a lightning scar. He dismissed them as childish imaginings, the product of an overactive mind fed on too many fairy tales from the Muggle world his mother sometimes referenced in hushed tones.
By the time his Hogwarts letter arrived, those fragments had coalesced into something sharper. As the Sorting Hat deliberated—muttering about ambition tempered by caution—it slipped over his eyes, and in that darkness, the memories flooded back. Not dreams, but recollections of a life before this one: a world without magic, where the tales of Harry Potter were mere fiction, bound in books and spun into films. He knew the arcs—the rise of Voldemort, the Marauders' pranks, the tragedy of the Potters, the boy who lived. It was all laid out like a script, predictable in its chaos.
The Hat's voice echoed in his head: Slytherin will suit you well, young Greengrass. You see the board, but choose not to play the game. And so he was sorted, sliding onto the bench amid polite applause from his housemates. From that moment, Roland resolved to stay in the shadows. The plot, as he thought of it, would unfold without him. There were heroes and villains enough to carry the weight of the world; he had no desire to join their ranks. The Greengrass name afforded him invisibility—respected but not feared, connected but not entangled. He would observe, survive, and little more.
Hogwarts was a revelation, yet Roland navigated it with deliberate restraint. He excelled in potions and charms, not through brilliance but through quiet diligence, earning grades that placed him comfortably in the middle of his class—noticeable enough to avoid suspicion, unremarkable enough to evade envy. The castle's secrets whispered to him from his borrowed memories: hidden passages, the Room of Requirement, the dangers lurking in the Forbidden Forest. He used them sparingly, only to carve out moments of solitude or to evade the occasional bully from his own house.
Strengthening himself became a private ritual, born not from ambition but necessity. He knew the trials ahead—the Wizarding War, the purges, the betrayals. In the dueling club, he practiced defensive spells until they flowed like second nature: Protego, Expelliarmus, simple wards against the dark arts. He ran the grounds at dawn, building endurance without the flash of Quidditch tryouts. His body grew lean and capable, a tool for self-preservation rather than conquest. "Enough to defend myself," he often reminded himself in the mirror, "and no more." The world would burn and rebuild itself; he intended to emerge unscathed.
What drew whispers, however, were his indulgences. Roland discovered early that the rigid structures of wizarding society left ample room for... exploration. In the dim alcoves of the Slytherin common room, or during Hogsmeade weekends, he found willing companions among his peers—fellow students from all houses, drawn to his quiet charm and knowing smile. A Ravenclaw prefect with a penchant for late-night library rendezvous; a Hufflepuff girl who shared stolen butterbeers and more in the greenhouses; even a Gryffindor whose bravado masked deeper curiosities. Rumors swirled, as they do in boarding schools: hushed tales of trysts in empty classrooms, of charms cast for privacy and pleasure. And then there were the bolder whispers—about a certain Transfiguration professor whose office hours extended unusually late, or the Herbology instructor whose greenhouse detentions for Roland seemed suspiciously frequent. He neither confirmed nor denied them, letting the gossip add a layer of mystique without consequence. In a world teetering toward war, such dalliances were his rebellion—fleeting joys snatched from the jaws of impending darkness.
The Marauders arrived two years after him, —James Potter, Sirius Black, Remus Lupin, Peter Pettigrew. Roland watched from afar as their antics lit up the castle, their laughter a counterpoint to the growing shadows outside. He crossed paths with them occasionally: a shared class where James's pranks disrupted lessons, or a hallway encounter where Sirius's flirtatious grin met Roland's amused nod. But he kept his distance, knowing their fates all too well. Lily Evans, with her fiery hair and sharper wit, caught his eye more than once, but he never interfered. The plot would resolve itself.
Graduation thrust him into a wizarding world on the brink. The Greengrasses remained neutral, their manor warded against both sides. Roland took a modest position at the Ministry—in the Department of Magical Games and Sports, far from the intrigue of the Aurors or the Wizengamot. He traveled when he could, sampling the delights of wizarding Europe: Parisian cafes where Veela danced, Italian villas with enchanted gardens. His dalliances continued, discreet affairs with diplomats and scholars, always with an eye toward enjoyment without entanglement.
The war came as he knew it would. Voldemort's rise, the disappearances, the battles. Roland strengthened his family's wards, offered anonymous tips to old school friends on the light side—subtle nudges that saved lives without drawing attention. He avoided the Death Eaters' recruiters, pleading family obligations. And when the fateful night arrived in 1981—the attack on the Potters—he did nothing. He sat in his study, a glass of firewhisky in hand, waiting for the news of tragedy.
But the news that came was... different. Voldemort fell, yes. Harry Potter survived, marked as the Boy Who Lived. But Lily Potter lived too. Whispers spoke of a deflected curse, a mother's love amplified by some unknown force. James had perished, shielding them, but Lily emerged from the ruins, cradling her son, her eyes haunted but alive. Roland puzzled over it in private. Had his mere presence—a butterfly's wing in the timeline—altered the fabric? Or was it coincidence, a quirk of fate? He shrugged it off. The plot had resolved, albeit with a twist. The world moved on.
The years blurred. Roland dabbled in academia, publishing obscure papers on magical history under pseudonyms—nothing groundbreaking, just enough to build a quiet reputation. He continued his pursuits of pleasure, now with the maturity of experience: liaisons in Diagon Alley taverns, weekends in Muggle London where anonymity reigned. The Greengrass name opened doors, but he never stepped fully through them.
In 1991, as Harry Potter prepared for his first year at Hogwarts, an unexpected owl arrived from Albus Dumbledore. Professor Cuthbert Binns, the ghostly History of Magic instructor, had finally "retired"—fading into the ether after centuries of droning lectures. The position was open, and Dumbledore, ever the meddler, saw potential in Roland's unassuming expertise. "Your perspective on our world's cycles could invigorate the subject," the letter read, with that twinkling undertone only Dumbledore could convey in ink.
Roland accepted, intrigued despite himself. He didn't have the teaching experience for a professor, but his pure-blood credentials and scholarly dabblings smoothed the way. As he packed his trunks for the castle, memories of his own school days resurfaced—along with the knowledge of what was to come: the Philosopher's Stone, Quirrell's secret, the boy's first trials. He would teach, observe, and intervene only if his own skin demanded it. The dalliances? Well, Hogwarts had always been full of temptations. But for now, he would let the story unfold.
As the Hogwarts Express whistled in the distance, Roland Greengrass stepped onto Platform 9¾, his polished black shoes clicking against the cobblestones. The air crackled with the excited chatter of students and the screech of owls, a symphony of beginning he'd observed from afar but never truly joined. Today, however, was different. He was no longer a student content to watch from the shadows; he was now part of the faculty, though his role remained one of observation.
Boarding the train, Roland found an empty compartment, settling into the plush velvet seat with the practiced ease of someone who understood the importance of claiming one's space early. The train began to move, and he watched the blurred landscape of London melt away, already anticipating the familiar journey north.
It wasn't long before the compartment door slid open. Standing there was a Ravenclaw prefect, her blue and silver tie perfectly knotted, a badge gleaming on her chest. Penelope Clearwater, though Roland didn't know her name yet. Her eyes widened slightly as they took in his adult robes, his calm demeanor, and most importantly, his lack of student-age features.
"Professor?" she asked, her voice a mixture of curiosity and hope. "Are you... are you the new History of Magic teacher?"
Roland offered a slow, deliberate smile. "I am. Roland Greengrass. And you would be?"
"Penelope Clearwater, Prefect," she replied, her posture straightening even more. "It's an honor, sir. We've all heard... well, Professor Binns was..."
"Tedious?" Roland supplied with a knowing look. "I'm aware. Change is coming, Miss Clearwater."
Something in his voice, that low, confident timbre, made her flush. Her eyes darted around the corridor before she stepped inside, closing the compartment door behind her. "I just wanted to welcome you properly, Professor. If there's anything you need..."
Her professionalism was at war with something else—a girlish excitement, a hint of fascination. Roland had seen this look before, many times. He patted the seat beside him. "Come. Sit. Tell me about the current state of historical education at Hogwarts."
Penelope sat, her hands folded primly in her lap, but her eyes kept straying to his. As they spoke of curriculum and student apathy toward history, Roland subtly shifted closer. His hand "accidentally" brushed against hers, and he didn't pull away. He watched her breath hitch, the color rising in her cheeks.
"You're passionate about learning," he observed, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "That's rare. And admirable."
"Thank you, Professor," she breathed, her eyes locked on his.
His fingers traced the line of her jaw, and she didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned into it. "Prefects carry heavy responsibilities," he murmured, his face now inches from hers. "Sometimes, they need... release."
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"Get yourself presentable, Miss Clearwater," he said, his tone once again professional. "We'll be arriving soon."
Penelope nodded, her hands trembling slightly as she straightened her clothing. Her prefect badge was slightly askew, but she seemed not to notice. As she opened the compartment door to leave, she turned back to him.
"Professor... thank you."
Roland just smiled. "The pleasure was all mine, Prefect."
As she disappeared into the corridor, Roland settled back into his seat, the familiar landscape of Scotland now visible outside the window. The train was beginning to slow, and in the distance, he could see the towering silhouette of Hogwarts.
The game, he thought with satisfaction, was already proving more entertaining than he'd anticipated.
The Hogwarts Express glided to a halt with a gentle hiss, and Roland gathered his composure, adjusting his robes as students began to pour into the corridor. He stepped onto the platform, the crisp Scottish air filling his lungs as he caught his first sight of the castle in years. It stood as magnificent and imposing as he remembered, its turrets piercing the twilight sky like ancient spears.
"First years, this way!" Hagrid's booming voice cut through the chatter, and Roland watched as the small, nervous-looking children were herded toward the boats. He followed the older students up the path to the carriages, his eyes scanning the grounds with the familiarity of a memory and the novelty of a new perspective.
The Great Hall was a breathtaking spectacle, as always. The enchanted ceiling mirrored the star-strewn sky outside, and thousands of candles floated in mid-air, casting a warm, flickering
glow over the four long house tables. Roland was directed to the high table, where he took his seat between a stern-looking witch he recognized as Sybill Trelawney and a portly man with a magnificent mustache—Horace Slughorn.
Dumbledore's welcome speech was as rambling and whimsical as Roland recalled, though the headmaster's twinkling eyes seemed to linger on him a moment longer than necessary. Then the sorting began, the worn Sorting Hat singing its new song before being placed on each first-year's head in turn. Roland watched with detached interest, knowing already where most of them would end up. The Weasley boy, Ron, was a predictable Gryffindor, as was Hermione Granger, though the Hat had considered Ravenclaw for her. And then, Harry Potter, the boy who had somehow changed the script by keeping his mother alive. The Hat's deliberation was longer than expected, but ultimately declared "GRYFFINDOR!" to thunderous applause.
As the feast appeared, Roland made his rounds, introducing himself to his colleagues. Minerva McGonagall, with her square spectacles and tight bun, greeted him with a reserved nod. "Professor Greengrass. Dumbledore speaks highly of your... unique perspective on magical history."
"I aim to make the past more engaging than my predecessor, Professor," Roland replied with a charming smile. "Perhaps we could discuss curriculum integration sometime? I have some ideas about connecting historical events to practical transfiguration."
McGonagall's lips thinned, but she gave a slight incline of her head. "My office hours are Thursday. Do stop by."
His smile widening fractionally. He continued down the table, exchanging pleasantries with Flitwick, Sprout, and a surprisingly quiet Quirrell, who kept twitching and stammering about vampires.
But it was when he reached the end of the table that his interest was truly piqued. Professor Aurora Sinistra, the Astronomy instructor, was a vision of dark beauty. Her skin was the color of rich mahogany, her eyes deep and luminous like the night sky she studied. Her hair was a cascade of tight black curls, framing a face with high cheekbones and full, expressive lips. She offered him a smile that was both professional and genuinely warm.
"Roland Greengrass, the new History of Magic professor," he said, taking her hand and bringing it to his lips in a gesture that was just formal enough to pass as old-fashioned pure-blood courtesy. "A pleasure to meet you, Professor Sinistra. I've always found astronomy to be history's most beautiful sibling."
Aurora's eyebrows rose slightly, a flicker of amusement in her dark eyes. "History's beautiful sibling? That's a new one. Most find us rather... dry."
"Only those who fail to see the poetry in cosmic cycles," Roland countered, releasing her hand but maintaining eye contact. "I would be delighted to see your telescopes sometime. Perhaps you could show me the constellations that correspond to notable magical events?"
"I'd be happy to," Aurora replied, her smile widening. "Though I warn you, I talk about stars far more than most people find interesting."
"I find nothing about you uninteresting, Professor," Roland said, his voice dropping slightly. "Perhaps after the feast? Before the students return to their dormitories?"
Aurora hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Very well. The Astronomy Tower is quiet this time of night."
As the feast concluded and Dumbledore dismissed the students, Roland made his excuses to the other professors, citing a need to familiarize himself with his new classroom. But instead, he climbed the winding stairs to the Astronomy Tower, where Aurora was already waiting, her silhouette framed against the large windows that offered a panoramic view of the night sky.
"The view is spectacular," Roland said, stepping beside her.
"It always is," Aurora replied, turning to face him. "Now, about those constellations..."
Roland closed the distance between them, his hand coming to rest on her waist. "I confess, the stars weren't my primary motivation for this meeting."
Aurora's breath hitched, but she didn't pull away. "No?"
"No," Roland murmured, his other hand cupping her cheek. "I find myself far more interested in the astronomer than the astronomy."
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"Thank you for the... astronomical lesson, Professor," he said with a wicked grin.
Aurora laughed, shaking her head. "Anytime, Roland. Anytime at all."
As Roland descended the tower stairs, he felt a profound sense of satisfaction. His first day at Hogwarts had been far more eventful than he'd anticipated, and he had a feeling it was only the beginning. The game was indeed proving most entertaining.
The following morning found Roland in the dusty, forgotten confines of the History of Magic classroom. The room smelled of old parchment and neglect, the shelves lined with textbooks that hadn't been cracked open in decades by anyone other than the most diligent (or desperate) of students. Professor Binns's departure had left behind a legacy of monotony, and Roland intended to burn it to the ground.
He spent the morning not just preparing, but transforming. With a flick of his wand, years of grime vanished from the windows, allowing sunlight to stream in and illuminate the motes of dust dancing in the air. He conjured a massive, animated timeline along one wall, where figures of goblins and wizards marched through centuries, their movements jerky but alive. Instead of a dry lecture, he planned to tell stories—of betrayal, ambition, love, and war. The curriculum would cover the same events—the Goblin Rebellions, the Giant Wars, the rise and fall of the Dark Arts—but through the lens of the people who lived them. He would make the past bleed, make it matter. It was still standard, but it was a story, not a list of dates.
His first class was a mix of fourth-year Gryffindors and Slytherins. As the students filed in, their expressions ranged from bored resignation to mild curiosity. Roland's eyes, however, were cataloging. He saw them all, the characters from his borrowed memories. There was Harry Potter, smaller than he'd imagined, with the unmistakable lightning scar and a look of weary determination. Beside him, Ron Weasley was complaining about the time of day, while Hermione Granger was already scanning the room with an analytical gaze that missed nothing.
The Slytherins arrived in a tight-knit group. Draco Malfoy was at the center, his pale face set in a familiar sneer, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle. But it was the girl walking slightly behind them who caught Roland's attention. Daphne Greengrass. His niece. He'd seen her at family gatherings, a quiet, aloof girl who embodied the pure-blood Slytherin ideal of cold indifference. But as she spotted him at the front of the class, her demeanor shattered. Her eyes widened, and a brilliant, uncharacteristic smile lit up her face. She practically bounced to her seat, her usual icy reserve melting away into a visible excitement that made Malfoy shoot her a confused, irritated look.
"Welcome to History of Magic," Roland began, his voice quiet but carrying to every corner of the room. The students settled, surprised by the lack of a droning, spectral monotone. "My name is Professor Greengrass. Forget what you think you know about this class. We will not be memorizing the dates of the goblin rebellions. We will be understanding *why* they rebelled. We will not be listing the treaties signed after the Giant Wars. We will be debating whether they should have been signed at all. History is not a dead thing. It is a living, breathing argument, and you are all now part of it."
He launched into the story of Eargit the Ugly's first rebellion, not as a dry event, but as a tale of betrayal and greed. He had students acting out the roles, casting simple illusionary charms to create the scene. The class was riveted, even the Slytherins. Malfoy's sneer had softened into grudging interest.
Hermione Granger's hand was up before he'd even finished his point. "But Professor, the historical accounts from that period suggest Eargit's motivations were far more complex than simple greed. The goblin treaty of 1492 had clauses that..."
Roland held up a hand, a genuine smile on his face. "An excellent point, Miss...?"
"Granger, sir. Hermione Granger."
"Miss Granger," Roland said, his eyes gleaming with appreciation. "You've stumbled upon the central problem of historical study: the bias of the victors. The official accounts were written by wizards. But what if we had a goblin's perspective?" He looked around the room. "This is what I want. Not just answers, but better questions. Miss Granger, I find myself in need of someone to help me organize some primary source materials in my office. Ancient texts, some of them in languages that might benefit from a fresh eye. Consider yourself my teaching assistant. See me after class."
A wave of envy and awe washed over the students. An assistant role in a first-year class was unheard of. Hermione sat up straighter, her eyes shining with intellectual triumph.
As the class drew to a close, the students filed out, buzzing with a new energy for a subject they had all written off. Daphne Greengrass, however, hung back, waiting until the room was nearly empty before approaching his desk.
"Uncle Roland," she said, her voice filled with a warmth she never showed in public. "That was brilliant! Truly. I've never... I've never actually paid attention in History before."
Roland leaned back in his chair, studying her. "You seem pleased to see me, Daphne. I'm surprised your housemates haven't commented on your uncharacteristic exuberance."
She blushed, a faint pink rising on her cheeks that had nothing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with something far more potent. "They can think what they like. It's just... it's good to have family here. Someone who... understands."
"Understands what, exactly?" he asked, his tone casual but his eyes sharp, missing nothing.
Her gaze darted around the empty classroom, ensuring their privacy before she leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The... balance. The way things are supposed to be. The importance of staying above the... foolishness." Her eyes, the same clear grey as his own, held an unnerving intensity. She wasn't just talking about Slytherin politics; she was talking about him.
Roland nodded slowly. He knew exactly what she meant. The Greengrass way. Survival through observation, strength through discretion. "You're a clever girl, Daphne. Always have been. Keep your eyes open and your mouth shut. You'll do well."
But Daphne wasn't finished. She took another small step closer, the scent of her expensive perfume—jasmine and something darker—filling the space between them. "It's more than that, Uncle Roland," she breathed, her gaze flicking down to his lips for a fraction of a second before meeting his eyes again. "It's... strength. Control. I've watched you at family gatherings. The way you command a room without even trying. The way Father and the others defer to you, even when you say nothing at all."
She paused, her tongue wetting her lower lip nervously. "I want to learn that. Not just... history. Or magic. I want to learn that. From you."
The unspoken request hung in the air, thick and heavy with implication. This was far beyond familial admiration. It was a raw, undisguised attraction, a desire to be molded by him, to be taken under his wing in a way that was profoundly inappropriate. Roland felt a familiar thrill, the same one he'd felt with Penelope and Aurora. This was a different kind of game, a more dangerous one, but the potential rewards were exponentially higher.
"And how do you propose I teach you these... lessons?" he asked, his voice dropping to a low murmur that was a caress in itself. "My time is not my own, Daphne. I am a professor now."
"I know," she said quickly, her eagerness palpable. "But... private sessions? After curfew? In your office. We could call it... tutoring. Advanced Slytherin strategy. No one would question it.
I'm a Greengrass. It's expected that I'd seek guidance from the family's most... successful member."
The way she said "successful" was layered with meaning. It wasn't just about his new position or his neutral stance in the coming conflict. It was about his reputation, the whispers that had followed him through his own school years and beyond. Whispers Daphne had clearly heard and found not scandalous, but aspirational.
Roland let the silence stretch, enjoying the way she squirmed under his unreadable gaze. He could see the pulse beating rapidly in her throat. She was offering herself up on a silver platter, a beautiful, pure-blooded girl from one of the Sacred Twenty-Eight, desperate for his particular brand of instruction. It was an offer too tempting to refuse.
"Very well," he said finally, his tone making it a clear concession, a favor he was graciously granting. "We can begin with some... reading. On the finer points of influence. Friday evening. After dinner. Don't be late."
A radiant, triumphant smile bloomed on Daphne's face, erasing the last traces of her usual icy reserve. "Thank you, Uncle Roland. I won't disappoint you."
"I know you won't," he replied, his eyes holding hers. "You're a Greengrass, after all. We learn quickly what we want."
As she turned and practically floated out of the classroom, Roland watched her go, his mind already racing. He had his niece, a girl desperate for his "tutoring,".
Just then, Hermione approached the desk, a stack of books already clutched to her chest as if afraid they might disappear. "Professor? You wanted to see me?"
"Ah, Miss Granger," Roland said, turning his full attention to the eager witch. "Excellent. I have a crate of confiscated artifacts from the last goblin rebellion in my office. Journals, ledgers, a few cursed items that need careful handling. I need someone to help me catalog them. Can you start tomorrow after dinner?"
Hermione's face was a picture of pure, unadulterated joy. "Yes, Professor! Of course! Thank you!"
As she practically skipped out of the room, Roland watched her go. He had his niece, a direct link to the Slytherin power structure, and the brightest witch of her age, who had direct access to the story's hero. His pieces were moving into place. He wasn't playing the game, as he'd told himself. He was just setting up the board, making sure he had the best view of the inevitable checkmate. And perhaps, along the way, he'd find a few interesting diversions. The thought brought a satisfied smile to his lips as he prepared for his next class.
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