A/N: Hello, readers. I know it's been awhile, and here I start off my new writing by introducing a character I came up with. XD Oh dear. I'm so sorry. But it's midnight, and this is the best I can do at the moment. I will tell you that this will focus on the War with Voldemort, and not merely on John, and his time at Hogwarts. So, don't worry. He's (hopefully) not another Marty Stu.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or any cast of Harry Potter. I do own John Smit-Masters, though, despite his protests. 3

Complete Summary: Years after the war with Voldemort, Harry is teaching at Hogwarts. Along with, surprise surprise, Draco Malfoy. The war has left more scars than just physical ones. Yet, both still hold a grudge against the other for multiple reasons. What happens with an American student transfers to Hogwarts, and starts to curiously question these two men of their experiences? Old wounds will reopen, pains will be relived, and maybe some understandings will come to light. Then again, that's simply heresay.

Chapter One

Crisp snow blanketed the grounds around the castle of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. In little isolated heaps, the snow piled onto the stone fortress, huddling together as if frightened; while inside candles warmed the interior of Hogwarts. The majority of those who lived in this school for part the better part of a year were congregating in the Great Hall, taking their seats at their designated tables. There they sat, in their little groups, as their conversations all muddled together in the huge room. Above, a faux cloudless sky twinkled on the enchanted cieling, innocently eavesdropping on the students below.

Sitting at the table lining the front of the Great Hall were the proffessors of the school. Some sat stiff, staring at the students, while the more amiable chatted with one another. Every now and then, students would glance up at the table, spotting some famous faces among those authority figures. These faces were only made famous from the fact that they had fought in the second greatest, and most recent, wizarding war the world of magic had known, though.

The current students at Hogwarts hadn't seen the war unfold at the beginning, but had seen the end and heard about the full tale from their older family members. Yet, they all could recite it, just as muggle students could recite the famous tragedies of either World War, or the massacre of Pearl Harbor.

Most well-known, though, was Harry Potter, chatting animatedly with his old friend, Hagrid. Time had changed both men. Hagrid's black, raggedy hair was speckled with grey hair, and, hidden by his massive beard, the small edges of scars from the war scattered across his face. He sat more hunched, as well, and moved a bit more slowly from arthritis. Harry, his black hair still as messy as ever, had his share of scars as well. Of course, the most well-known scar, the lightning bolt on his forhead, was faded compared to newer ones that marred his face. The most noticable injury was half of Harry's left ear was missing, a rumored battle scar left either from the Dark Lord's pet, Nagini, or from Petter Pettigrew.

It was ironic, thought some students, that the "Boy"-Who-Lived would take a job at Hogwarts that would constantly remind him of the horrors that caused those scars. That job, of course, being the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor. Then again, who better to teach such a class?

Another well-known survivor of the war, who still had speculative whispers uttered behind his back, was none other than Draco Malfoy. He sat silently at the table, glaring at the students with his one good eye. The other eye was clouded and blind thanks to a spell that side-swiped Draco. It was a misfire of some curse that should have killed him, yet somehow only blinded him. He didn't have as many scars as his rival did, but Professor Malfoy had his share of bad memories.

As an ironic twist, the headmistress had asked Draco Malfoy to be the Potions master, and head of Slytherin at Hogwarts. No one was quite sure why, since he had been the one to figure out a way to get the Deatheaters into Hogwarts at one point and time. Yet, Headmistress McGonagall obviously decided the young man was in need of a second chance.

McGonagall realized she had unintentionally set up a more vicious rivalry for the houses of Gryffindor and Slytherin, after realizing that once rival students were now rival Head of Houses. She assumed, though, that after the war both boys had grown out of their immaturity and could set their differences aside. However, she was soon proved wrong when both Malfoy and Potter snapped quips at each other during the first Quidditch game of their first year of teaching.

Yet, nothing of major consequence had happened between the two, save for vocal spars. It made things interesting, concluded the old woman whenever the two would fight. It also made the two men, who lost so much, feel like they were back in the 'old times', assumed McGonagall, so she let them be. There was no harm in rivalry, as long as it wasn't taken too far.

"Students," Stated the stern voice of McGonagall as she slowly stood up. Once the Great Hall quieted, which was quite quickly, she continued on, "We have a student from America who has come to join us. I know, it is not usual for us to allow transfers, yet it seems that, due to the circumstances, we decided to allow it. So, please, welcome our new sixth year student, Mr. John Smit-Masters, and help him become accostumed to this setting that is so foreign to him."

A rush of whispering had arose as soon as the word 'transfer' came up, and even more hushed conversations took place when a young man trudged into the Great Hall from a side door near the teacher's tables. He didn't have any amazing features to discern him greatly from the others. However, John did more grumpy than anxious to be at a new school.

The teachers eyed the student, either summing up the academic potential of the young wizard or, in Proffesor Malfoy's case, how to torture the young man. In fact, they were surprised themselves at the transfer student. It was few and far between whenever a transfer came to the school, and usually they left quite quickly for whatever reasons.

John could feel his ears burn in red-hot embarrassment as all the eyes in the room were turned to him. He stopped by the Headmistress, who had come around the table to greet the young man. After an exchange of handshakes, John stood idly by McGongall, looking around with an uncertain expression flickering into his eyes. He had been told he had to be sorted into one of the four Hogwarts Houses, yet he wasn't sure exactly how that happened.

"Since Mr. Smit-Masters is new here, he has yet to be sorted." Stated McGongall, her voice cutting through the students' whispers like a ship cutting through the waves. Without bothering to inform John about what else would happen, she fished into the huge sleeve of her robe. Soon, the old woman procurred a battered, pointed black hat, that looked as if it had a face from the hundred year old wrinkles in its face.

Without any ceremonious words, she plopped the hat onto the young man's head, and allowed the Sorting Hat to do its work. After a moment of waiting, John wondered what was supposed to happen. Soon, he felt like a moron, standing there with a hat on his head, waiting for some direction of what to do. The whole Hall was quiet, too, which made John a bit unsure of where he stood in the whole scheme of this antic. When he was about ready to yank the hat off, a voice echoed through his mind, "My, my, we have a yankie now, do we?"

John glanced around, looking for whoever had talked, but the rest of the Hall hadn't budged. It was almost as if they were frozen with supreme concentration. This mere fact made John's ears burn a deeper red, and his stomach churn sickly. However, after looking back and forth, John looked up, and realized it was the hat. There was no other explanation for a voice to sound so close.

Well, this was a new situation, he had to admit. A hat that spoke. He supposed he shouldn't be too amazed, though, since he had seen plenty of strange happenings. Yet, this was, by far, an intriguing, and unexpected, turn of events. Finding his voice, John muttered, "Uh, yeah?"

"Well, John, you have a fairly interesting history." Chuckled the hat in his age crusted voice. John felt the redness of his ears burn across his cheeks as he realized the hat was looking into his mind. It wasn't so much as a realization, but the fact that John was starting to feel as if he was being violated mentally. The hat continued, though, "I'm not here to discourse about your history, though. I;m here to sort you into a house you'll progress greatly in. Now, to get to work."

As the Sorting Hat mumbled to itself, sounding like a pyschiratrist with all the murmuring, John tried to remember what he had been told about the houses. Nothing came to mind, though, and John soon gave up on the venture, assuming he'd figure out the houses when need be. Rigidly, John awaited his sentencing, almost feeling like a felon awaiting his convinction. He vaguely heard a few of the teachers shift, and a distinct cough from a table with students wearing gold-and-red ties.

"Well, I believe it is blatantly obvious where to put you!" Exclaimed the Sorting Hat, grandly. This time, though, his voice echoed through the Hall, gaining the attention of those "starving" students ready to pass out. The Hat waited, puasing dramatically, before decreeing---

End of Chapter One.