A/N

Hello, lovelies! This story will not be a pretty one like "Essence of Life" and will likely be even more gritty at points than "Covered." That being said, it's the story of a journey not unlike that of many veterans, and the daunting struggles they face in finding their way back to functioning in the battle after the war.

This tale is written in first person, past tense, told almost entirely from Draco's perspective. Hermione's appearances will be spotty, at best, for the first few chapters, but she'll return with a vengeance down the line. There will be very little interaction with other main Potter characters, but their "off-page" actions will be significant plot-drivers. I hope you'll find this story compelling and worth your time!

Disclaimer: This story is written for my personal enjoyment and that of anyone who may stumble upon it. All canon characters, settings, and circumstances are owned by the venerable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this work, and own only my plot and any original characters who may pop up.

Prologue

I'm the very last bloke that anyone on the planet would call a hero. Truth be told, I've been called a coward more than once, so whatever possessed me to get involved in the situation I'd encountered was well beyond my conscious comprehension. I suppose there could have been some sense of obligation. She had, after all, insisted that Potter not leave me behind to burn in the hell that was the Room of Hidden Things, although that seemed like a lifetime ago. I also was taught that any man who fails to aid a woman in such dire straits is an absolute shit, and I guess that my acknowledgement of the circumstances meant that I couldn't walk away and keep any shred of the minimal self-respect that I still had. Those are the closest explanations that I can offer and, until something more plausible occurs to me, I'll stick with that.

I thought I was fucked up – and by any and every definition, I truly am – but she made me look like a teetotaler. I thought I'd seen her once before, but I was too high at the time to accurately recognize my own mother; I decided that she had to have been a figment of my imagination. After all, what would the great and vaunted Hermione Granger be doing hanging out with stoners and freaks in the back alleys of Liverpool? The second time, though, the supposed hallucination of my former academic rival turned out to be all too real. Since I wasn't quite as wasted as usual, I was capable of both recognizing her and appreciating the clear and imminent danger in which she was embroiled. So I dived in, quite literally, and pulled her away bodily from the two assailants who had pinned her, with aid of a very ugly switchblade at her throat, against the brick wall of a sorry excuse for a pub. Although I didn't often use magic these days, this seemed to be a situation that called for its subtle application, and the charm that I used to temporarily immobilize the two – and I use the term generously – men was sufficient for me to pull the damsel out of her precarious position.

I'm not certain whether it was because she was so completely blitzed or just an ungrateful bitch, but I didn't even get a muttered "thanks" for rescuing her sorry arse. She just tugged her arm out of my grasp and stumbled off into the night. Regardless of her snub, whether it was of me personally or of help in general, I had the feeling that I hadn't seen the last of Hermione Granger.

End Note

So, that's the set-up, folks. What do you think? Is your curiosity piqued?