Alastor merely grunted at that assertion. "I suppose you're not bad," he said with a smirk, "for a girl." Not bad was, of course, the highest compliment Alastor paid most people. He just had to add the for a girl to get her goat because, really, where was the fun in lettering her think she was better than he was without arguing at least a little?
"Better not get used to being on your knees, then," Alastor retorted, letting her have her way with his feet for the moment, as she'd insisted on helping with his boots. "What reaction? The surprise that you'd have everything covered to my preferred levels of precautions? War's been over for four years, 'til three months ago, at least. Most people in nineteen eighty-five have begun to label such things as 'paranoia'. From what I've gathered, I earned quite a reputation for such things before Voldemort finally took me out."
Not that Alastor cared what people thought of him. He'd taken a look at his own records when he came back -- service records, not history books. Other than how he died, he hadn't wanted to know anything more about his own history than what was needed to fight this new war. The list of those who had been put into Azkaban, or had friends/family/valued underlings put into Azkaban, because of him was impressive. Certain precautions against retaliation, especially after being forced to retire, seemed very reasonable to him. History could call him paranoid all it liked. Didn't mean they weren't out to get him at some point.