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 boy 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."
The word hung between them, charged with meaning. Penelope's lips parted, but no words came out. That was all the invitation Roland needed.
His mouth claimed hers, and any remaining pretense of professionalism dissolved. Her hands, once so neatly folded, were now tangled in his robes, pulling him closer. The compartment suddenly felt impossibly small, filled with the sound of ragged breathing and the soft sigh of robes being undone.
Roland's fingers worked deftly at the buttons of her blouse, exposing the pale skin of her throat and chest. His lips followed, trailing kisses that made her arch against him. Her prefect badge gleamed in the slanted sunlight, a testament to her responsibility, now juxtaposed with her abandon.
With practiced ease, Roland positioned her on the seat, hiking up her skirt and divesting her of her underwear. Her eyes were wide with a mixture of shock and desire as he freed himself, his erection pressing against her entrance.
"Please," she whispered, and that was all the encouragement he needed.
He entered her in one smooth motion, and Penelope gasped, her body tensing before relaxing into the intrusion. Roland began to move, slowly at first, then with increasing intensity. The rhythmic slap of skin against skin filled the compartment, mingling with Penelope's soft cries of pleasure.
*My first day sure is remarkable already,* Roland thought with amusement as he drove into the willing student beneath him. *Guts deep inside a Prefect.*
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