Author's Note: I've been reading fanfic for about 20 years. I've been writing (privately) for a bit less then that. Please, shower me with reviews, feedback and any kind of impressions you have - good, bad, terrible, I don't care.


He glared at the letter on his desk. No – glared wouldn't really do it justice. He looked at it as if it had insulted his parents – and Harry James Potter had a look he'd worked on specifically just for that.

"Dear Mr Potter", it began. How very innocent, wasn't it? Harry looked at it, and thought back to when he was 11, and he received his letter from Hogwarts. Or, well, his letters. He'd never forget the Dursleys trying to keep him away from his magic – or his uncle specifically – and moving the family around just to avoid admitting he was "a freak".

'Look at me now, Uncle Vernon', he thought. Even considering the Minister of Magic, the Wizengamot, and any other high ranking witch or wizard, he was Head Freak. He'd spent a year being Undesirable Number One and now? Well, now the press had been moving fast from that into "The Man Who Lived" territory. The kept publishing articles, and of course, photos of him in his Auror robes – they'd always jump out of frame though. "I couldn't guess why, but I think I'm just adverse to being in the news", Harry kept answering any questions related to that. Always sarcastic, always snarking back at the reporters – especially Skeeter – but never completely impolite.

"Dear Mr Potter", he looked at the letter again. He sipped his Firewhiskey.

"As Hogwarts prepares for its first year after the war, we would like to invite you to take your place as our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher. While aware that you have not expressed any desire to occupy this position, we are certain that you would be a great addition to our staff, and with your knowledge and experience, you would be the best possible choice to round up Hogwarts' amazing team of educators".

The letter went on for a while, and then it was signed with Minerva McGonagall's signature. Harry sighed, and took another sip of his drink. Him? A teacher? He couldn't help but laugh.

He was 20. He'd barely finished Auror Academy – granted, he finished it early with "extra credits". 'I suppose taking out a Dark Lord is useful for anyone's career', he mused. He considered telling Hermione – she'd definitely laugh at him, he knew. "I told you!", her voice was already ringing in his head. After the war ended, both Ron and Hermione had said – no, they insisted – that his only possible choice was to become the new DADA professor.

"Come on, Harry! What better to celebrate your victory than to piss on the curse?", Ron had asked, at one of the after war parties. Both of them were … they were in another world. Sober was a far long concept when this talk took place, and reasonable ideas were beyond laughable at this point. It was just a bunch of … veterans talking around a table. They'd never liked that world – "veteran" always brought back home the point. The point that they were children in a war that hadn't and shouldn't have been theirs. But there they were – veterans. Drinking – no, drunk – around a table.

"C'mon Harry", Dean Thomas slurred his way around the beginning of a sentence, " 'member fifth year?". He stopped there, with a very impressive hiccup. Seamus, though, picked up the slack.

"You were great then – I'd definitely see you pickin' up the slack and teaching my sprogs a thing or two about this". They never could tell if he was drunk or sober, Harry had thought at the time. 'That was either him being honest, or drunk'. Since then, he'd gone through a few grueling years of physical, mental and magical training in the Auror Academy. Just a few more months until he'd be an official member.

But the letter – a letter signed by Minerva Feckin' McGonagall, as he'd once heard her call herself. That'd been a brief moment while they were rebuilding Hogwarts. Right after the final battle, a lot of them had stayed behind, and he was right around the corner when Minerva blew her fuse.

"Ma'am", the man began, "we understand that you want the hall back to –"

It'd been a very long day – it was two days after Harry had killed Riddle, two days after … all the people were killed. Two days after the Battle, as it would become known. Even from a distance, he could see her eye twitch.

"Ma'am?", she repeated, looking the construction wizard right in the eye. "I am Minerva Feckin' McGonagall and we just finished a feckin' war down here boy", her tirade began in earnest. "I won't sit here and tell me what we should do! If it's the last thing I do, these children will have an end of the year feast, or so help me Merlin!".

He still chuckled at the memory – it'd been a few years, and he hadn't heard her finish her rant, but he'd never forget the former Gryffindor Head of House's love for her cubs, or indeed any of the Hogwarts students. Part of him still missed Dumbledore, despite everything, but he just knew she'd be an amazing Headmistress. After all, who better to protect the students than a lioness?

On that though, he took another sip of Firewhiskesy, dipped his quill in ink and began his reply:

Dear Minerva,

I would be honoured to accept the position.