Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed! As promised, here is the next chapter, and everything will be more or less explained in time—I hope you all like this next part! And I know songfics are not allowed (so this obviously isn't one) but I was listening to Something Corporate while writing portions of this story and thought their song Break Myself was very applicable, so I've just inserted two lines before the chapter.

Thanks also to SwayPippin, ca803, .Smart.Ass.Punk., and StarArrow for taking the time to review! I hope you all enjoy this long chapter!

Chapter One

…About One Year Later…

I'm willing to break myself

To shake this hell from everything I touch

Break Myself, Something Corporate

Headmistress Minerva McGonagall sat at her desk in her office, wondering if she'd just made a mistake.

She didn't know what had possessed her to offer Draco Malfoy the Potions post. It was true that she was in dire need of professors—everyone had agreed it would be best to shut the school down for a year after the War considering it had taken the brunt of the damage from the Final Battle, and Minerva was determined to open it again this September. However, it had only been about three months after she'd found Draco tortured to the brink of death in Lucius Malfoy's dungeons that he'd discharged himself from St. Mungos, insisting he was fine, although Minerva highly doubted he'd recovered. She doubted if any of the Order of the Phoenix would ever recover fully, yet she worried about Draco the most.

At least the members of the Order had each other to go to, to confide in. She didn't think Draco had anyone.

Oh, Severus, if only you had survived the war, she thought, the sadness clutching at her heart again. You were the only one the boy ever completely trusted.

It had been Severus whom Draco had gone to first. Minerva remembered that night well. She had actually been in Severus' office, offering her company and friendship after a Death Eater raid, when Draco had stumbled in, soaking wet, eyes glinting with wild hopelessness, barely aware she was in the room.

"I can't!" There was a pleading note to his crazed voice, as though he were about to fall over a cliff and was hanging on desperately to the edge, "I can't do this anymore!"

She'd hardly needed to ask what he was talking about. Even though Minerva had never spared much affection for the Slytherin, Severus confided in her about the lad endlessly, so much so that even she felt a little sorry for him.

That had been sometime during Draco's sixth year, and the snowball had rolled quickly down the hill from there. The mission of supporting and arming the boy to return to Voldemort's inner circle as a spy was dealt with the utmost secrecy—practically everyone at Hogwarts was aware of Draco's supposed allegiances, and Lucius Malfoy hovered over his son like a hawk, even away from school—and as a result, Minerva, Severus, and Albus were the only three to know of his turning. After the war, issues of the Daily Prophet came tumbling out filled with fact and fiction alike. Alongside a plethora of articles describing how Harry Potter finally killed Voldemort—the story was slightly different in each one—there was a section of the newsletter dedicated to each Order member who had fought in the war. Since Minerva was the only one of the original three left who knew the full story behind Draco's activities, she had taken it upon herself to clear the nasty rumors flying around about the Slytherin and had come forth with the truth, backed with solid proof.

After that, the boy had become a hesitant hero in his own right, but he'd already sequestered himself out of sight from the wizarding community. He had been invited to the Awards Ceremony to be presented his Order of Merlin, First Class, but he had failed to show, much to the disappointment of the media and what remained of the Order. Even Harry, Ron, and Hermione had felt a little bad about all the disparaging remarks and poisonous death threats made against Malfoy, and Minerva knew they were especially keen to shake hands with the spy and brush the past away as neatly as they could. Yet she couldn't help the doubt that niggled at the back of her mind like an itch she couldn't reach that maybe she'd made a mistake trying to ease Malfoy back into the wizarding world where he'd undeniably be confronted with his horrific past head on.

A rather brilliant idea then slammed into her like a rude pedestrian, and it seemed so obvious to her now that she couldn't believe she hadn't thought of it right away. Lips curling ever so slightly in what she called her scheming smirk, Minerva straightened another piece of parchment on her desk, dipped her quill into the ink bottle beside her, and began to write another letter, almost certain its recipient would bring a positive response.

Albus beamed down at her from his portrait. "Really Minerva, you have become quite manipulative in your old age." He sounded quite pleased, as though he had been the one to have something to do with it.

"I have only had the best to learn from, Albus," Minerva returned, unable to help a smile.

"My, my, but this is going to be an interesting year," Albus declared gleefully, and his eyes twinkled even while he was trapped inside the portrait. "Do not forget to keep me updated!"

"I would not dream of it, Albus," Minerva answered, giving her old friend a very fond look.

It was going to be a very interesting year indeed.

With complete disregard to the world around him, Draco Malfoy was currently sitting in his flat on his way to drunken oblivion.

That was how he spent most nights. He'd long ago decided he preferred this reckless lifestyle to sleeping—sleeping was far more painful, and didn't have the nice numb feeling that came after hours of alcohol. The dark bags under his eyes only confirmed this, but since he rarely went outside anyway, there was no one to comment on them, although at some point, Draco knew he'd have to get some kind of a job.

But right now, he was going to finish drinking thank you very much. The lingering tremor in his hands always got increasingly bothersome the more far gone he was, and it was getting harder to hold the bottle steady. Some of the alcohol spilled over his front, and he swore. He knew he should be grateful that there hadn't been more lasting damage, but how could he completely forget about his ordeal when he shook constantly like some bloody invalid? Giving an inarticulate noise, he threw the bottle across the kitchen in a fit of rage and was almost satisfied as he saw it smash against the wall, the remaining liquid splashing onto the floor.

You're a pathetic mess, boy, Lucius raged inside his head, completely pathetic!

"I am not!" Draco argued, as though he were carrying on a conversation with a person right in front of him.

Well then, if you think you're so smart, take a look at yourself. You make me sick—you're hardly fit to be a Malfoy. Draco swore he could almost hear the sneer in Lucius' voice.

Not bothering to clean up the lingering mess from the broken bottle, he pushed himself up from his chair and had to grip the table to prevent himself from falling flat on his face. Even dead, the man continued to insulted him. It was like Lucius was still alive, and had chosen Draco's head to be his new permanent residence. I don't look that bad, Draco wondered, although his heart wasn't really in his vanity. Needing something else to focus on besides his other dark thoughts—he was starting to run low on alcohol—he decided to go check himself out. Forcing himself through sheer will to go down the hall to the bathroom, he released another round of curses as all he could do was stagger pathetically. Swaying dangerously, he struggled with the doorknob for a few moments and almost gave a sob of relief—but Malfoy's don't cry—when he opened the door. He practically collapsed against the sink, and groaning from the effort, struggled to lift his head so he was staring directly into the mirror and found himself looking at a stranger. Draco couldn't help his ragged gasp of disbelief.

He barely recognized himself.

His hair was totally disheveled, the blond so filthy it was practically brown. It was so long it was falling into his eyes and down to his shoulders. No longer a piercing gray, his eyes had dulled completely, and were now listless, lifeless. Empty. His body was so starved for sleep that there were thick dark bags beneath his sockets, which had sunk even further into his flesh. Well, what remained of his flesh. He would go days without eating, and what he did eat came right back up. The only thing he could keep down was alcohol, but now even the thought of liquor made him want to vomit.

Had he really deteriorated this much without being aware of it? What had happened to his sense of Slytherin self-preservation? It had died with Voldemort.

His hands shook traitorously, and he gripped the edge of the sink even harder, so hard his knuckles were practically transparent. Voldemort hadn't expected him to survive, but he had, hadn't he? Yet what good was that when he was like this—if Voldemort saw him now, the crazy psycho would be happy. He would have wanted Draco to do this to himself. I knew you were weak all along boy, his father scolded in his head.

"Fuck you, Voldemort!" Draco screamed, voice raw with agony and pain. "Maybe I want to die, huh? I don't care if that's what you would've wanted—maybe I'm choosing not to live, and it has nothing to do with you!"

Only silence answered his agonized shout, but it was broken by a sudden, violent pecking noise at the closed window in his cramped kitchen. Draco jumped, almost collapsing to the cold tiled floor.

Pecking? That could only be from…

Urging himself not to fall down, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other and painstakingly made it back to the kitchen. The sight that greeted him at the window was enough to make him completely forget about his current drunken state, and the haze lifted somewhat from his mind.

It was an owl.

After he'd discharged himself from Poppy's care, put the Manor up for sale and bought a small flat in downtown London, Draco had cut himself off entirely from the wizarding world. He had no desire to see any of them—he might have wanted to keep in touch with Snape, but the former spy had died in the war, making one final stand to sacrifice himself for Potter so the boy could finish off Voldemort. Despite what Draco had done for the Light, despite that he'd practically lost his life for it, he doubted that he'd be welcomed very warmly. After all, he was a Slytherin, and by the time his school years were up, every other house had practically hated him. However, he had been invited to the Award Ceremony, but he'd refused to come. He supposed the invitation had been McGonagall's doing—she had been the one to find him, after all, and had been the one to clear his name. Even so, very few people chose to acknowledge this, despite the proof, and he knew without reading it that the Daily Prophet had circulated with rumors about him after the War.

The sudden flapping against his window reminded him of his current situation, and after hesitating slightly, he unlocked the window and pushed it open. The owl flew in and perched itself on the counter, feathers puffed and looking very put out that it had had to wait that long. Completely baffled, Draco just stared at it, wondering who on earth could be sending him a letter. The last time he checked, he had no friends who'd want to contact him. His curiosity finally getting the better of him, Draco put out a tentative hand and took the letter off its leg with shaking hands. As he turned the envelope over, he nearly gaped at what he saw.

It was the Hogwarts' seal.

What the fuck…

Numbly, he broke the seal and took out the letter with shaking hands, greeted with Headmistress McGonagall's spidery script.

Dear Mister Malfoy,

Due to our extreme shortage of teachers, I am writing to offer you the position of Potions Professor. You are, of course, under no obligation to accept, and may stay for however many years you would like. If you are interested, please let me know by owl so that I can arrange a time for you to come meet with me briefly in person. It is my sincerest hope that this letter finds you well.

Sincerely,

Minerva McGonagall, Headmistress of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry

Draco just stared at the letter for many long minutes while a silent battle raged on inside him. It went something like this:

A professor. You could be a fucking professor.

I don't want to teach!

Well, you're not really doing a whole lot with your life anyway. What have you got to loose that you haven't already lost?

I was going to look for a job.

Were you really?

There was silence, and then: Maybe?

It might be good for you.

But I can't drink at Hogwarts!

The thought was so sudden and unexpected it almost made Draco jump. Had he really been depending on the alcohol that much? He supposed he had. He hadn't been doing that much else, really.

You're pathetic, his father's voice sneered inside him. Nothing but a weakling, a traitor.…a failure…

"GET OUT OF MY HEAD!" the sudden yell startled the owl, who squawked indignantly. Draco ignored it. He was too busy clutching the sides of his head, trying desperately to shake the unwanted voice of his father out. Go away, he pleaded with it.

Goawaygoawaygoaway…

I'm going crazy, Draco realized, his stomach churning unpleasantly. Malfoys simply didn't do insanity—they were always calm and collected. I'm going crazy, and all I have is my bastard dead father's voice to keep me company…

The bloody owl hooted again, and Draco glowered at it.

"Fine," he muttered, "I'll do it. It's not as though I have thousands of other job offers to choose from…"

He turned the letter over, grabbed a quill and bottle of ink that were lying haphazardly on the counter and scratched a simple reply:

Dear Headmistress McGonagall,

I am interested. If it is no trouble, I'd prefer to meet with you straight away so I can start reviewing. It has been awhile since I have even thought of Potions, after all. Let me know when you can meet with me as soon as you can. Thanks.

Sincerely,

Draco Malfoy

Satisfied, he rolled the letter back up and attached it to the owl's leg. The bothersome bird pecked his hand, as if it were expecting something before it left. Scowling, Draco said, "Sorry you pest, I have no food for you, unless you like alcohol."

The owl screeched again, and Draco had the distinct impression it was glaring at him—either it was upset that he had no food or it was reprimanding him for all of his drinking. Maybe it was both.

Then with an almost indignant flap of its wings, the owl was gone, and Draco remained staring after it a long while, wondering if he'd imagined the whole thing.

Hermione Granger was at a crossroads.

Here she was, the brightest witch of her age, heroine of the Final Battle, with job offers piled around her feet like eager puppies, and all she could see ahead of her was a path of confusion and indecision. If Harry and Ron were here, they would tell her she was being absolutely ridiculous—she always worried about everything and ended up doing above and beyond the expected each time, so why should this situation be any different? But Harry was training to be Seeker with England's Quidditch team, and Ron was working with the twins in their joke shop that had now reopened after the War, and Hermione was alone in her empty flat and didn't think she was being ridiculous in the least.

To be honest, while reading each text as thoroughly as possible and getting the highest grade had always been important to Hermione in school, preparing for the inevitable War had been the main impetus that got her through the final years of her education. She hadn't really given much thought as to what was going to come next—had almost excepted the frightening possibility that there might not even be a 'next'—and was almost startled to find out that life had indeed gone on after a rocky, painful start at the closing of the War. Even then, Hermione hadn't really needed to think of a possible career—she, along with most of the survivors, had been given a serious wound and other minor injuries, necessitating weeks in the Hospital Wing to recuperate.

Then there had been the weeks of mourning the dead—there was Albus Dumbledore (Hermione's heart still seized up at the thought), Charlie, Bill, and Percy Weasley, Dean Thomas, Lavender Brown, Professors Vector, Sprout, Hagrid, and Snape, Mad-Eye Moody, Colin Creevey, Ernie MacMillan, and countless others—followed by weeks of bittersweet celebration. During that time she along with Harry and Ron had lived at Number 12 Grimmauld Place. But everyone in the Trio had decided they didn't want to reside there permanently, and after promises to keep in touch, had gone their separate ways—Harry with Ginny to a flat on the other side of London (they weren't married yet, but were living together) and Ron with the twins to their joke shop. It wasn't long before Harry received the invitation from England's Quidditch team, and son after he was ensconced in practices and Ginny.

That left Hermione.

She and Ron had tried dating after the War, but after a short period both had agreed that they bickered too much together and were really much better off as friends than lovers. Now she was alone, and while she tried to convince herself the idea didn't bother her that much, she couldn't help but envy Harry and Ginny. Not that they saw much of each other—Ginny was a journalist for the Daily Prophet, and was out interviewing people for stories while Harry was at practice. But still. It was the idea of their general togetherness that mattered. What remained of the Weasley family had been waiting for news of their impending engagement for weeks now.

She was glad for them, she really was. While Harry would always have a lingering sadness and weariness about him—they all did, especially the Weasleys, who had probably suffered the most losses from the War—he was happier now that the threat of Voldemort was off his young shoulders, and Hermione knew Ginny had a lot to do with that.

But still.

She'd had her crushes during school, but her only real boyfriend had been Viktor Krum, and that had been a relationship carried out mainly through owl. They had seen each other once during the summer before fifth year, but a couple months later they had both decided the strain of not seeing each other on a somewhat regular basis was too much and had ended it. It had been for the best really, but she'd never had a relationship since then. She could hardly count Ron.

Sighing morosely, Hermione leaned her head back against the sofa in her living room, the book on her lap forgotten. She had always known she would never be extraordinarily beautiful, and for the longest while she hadn't been bothered by the thought at all. Yet she knew she was by no means ugly, although perhaps a bit above average at best. Still, she was far prettier than most of the girls she saw with boys on their arms, and she couldn't help but wonder what set her apart, what she was doing wrong.

Maybe she scared people away. Ron and Harry were always telling her she was "brilliant but scary," but they were hardly ones to judge. They forgot she even was a girl most of the time, and when Ron finally did start to notice, it really was too late although they did try. She shouldn't blame them, really—Voldemort had been a far bigger concern than worrying about silly things like crushes, but even so, she wouldn't have minded the attention.

Now look who's the one worried about silly things like crushes, when you should be more worried about choosing a job, she chided herself mentally. It was no use crying over spilt milk—that had been one of her mother's favorite Muggle clichés—what was done was done, and she had more important things to do. She certainly wasn't going to find a boyfriend while moping about in her flat.

A sudden urgent tapping drew her from her ruminations, and startled, she twisted around to look and found herself face to face with an owl. It was one she didn't recognize, and she couldn't help but wonder who would be writing to her. She had just seen Harry, Ron and the Weasleys a couple weeks ago, and wasn't due to see them again until next month.

Well, plans could change, she thought to herself as she got up and headed over to the window to let the impatient looking bird in. The owl perched on the windowsill while she took the letter from its leg, and she couldn't stifle a gasp as she saw the seal on the back of the envelope.

"Merlin!" she breathed aloud, "why could I possibly be getting mail from Hogwarts?"

Unless…

Heart starting to beat faster from excitement, Hermione tore the letter open and almost did a dance of joy right there in her living room.

"Yes, a thousand times yes!" she cried to nobody in particular, hugging the letter to her chest, her entire body bursting with ecstasy.

Things were finally starting to go right again.

It was about time.

TO BE CONTINUED

This was one of those necessary exposition chapters. The scene has been set, and do not worry—more of the mysteries of the war will be explained! There are still wayward Death Eaters on the loose (coughBellatrixcough) to provide a bit of excitement later on, but this story is not really about action on the whole. I am positive you will all be able to imagine where this story will be going. I'm sure the whole idea is cliché, but it's the way it's written that counts, after all. So stay tuned! The next chapter is finished for the most part, and all I need to do is edit it. However, I'm not going to post it until I'm at least halfway through Chapter Three, so it should be up in a week or two perhaps. I know I'm due for an update for Harry Potter and the Prince of Slytherin, so I'll try to get to that as soon as I can. A shameless plug for the new one shot I have up called Beautiful Disaster featuring baby Draco, Severus, and Narcissa, and I'd be thrilled if you all would check it out!

In the meantime, please review, review, review! It always thrills me to hear from my readers, even if it's only a couple words. Please don't lurk…let me know you were here! If you made it this far, it'll only take a few seconds more to press that blue button!

See you all next time!