Well, this is my first attempt in a long time to write fanfiction, and my first story in the OUAT fandom. It starts in Season 1, and will most likely be one chapter per episode (this first chapter being the exception). I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it. Reviews are welcomed!

(And I own nothing, except my OC)

A House in the Woods

Pilot (Part 1)

Mom and I were eating breakfast at the kitchen table when Henry raced in.

"Morning Hannah. Morning mom," he said. He grabbed a cereal bar from the cabinet and hesitated before ultimately taking an apple from the bowl on the counter.

"Bye Hannah. Bye mom," he said, running out of the kitchen. I heard the front door slam as he left the house.

"Why is he in such a hurry to get to school?" mom asked me.

"No idea. Maybe they're making volcanoes in science class today," I suggested.

"Maybe. So, what did you want to do for your birthday this weekend?" I was turning sixteen that weekend and hadn't bought into all the hype about the milestone.

"Can we have salmon for dinner and red velvet cupcakes for dessert?"

"Of course. Don't you want to have some friends over?"

"You and Henry are enough for me," I grinned, taking my plate over to the sink. I rinsed it off and placed it in the dishwasher.

"Ok, darling. I'm off to work now. Could you take care of my plate for me?" she said, before handing me her plate and gathering her work-related papers from the table.

"Don't forget your appointment with Dr. Hopper after school today," she said as she left the room. I could hear her heels clacking on the tile all the way to the front door. Once I heard it shut, I cleaned her dish and placed it next to mine. I still had time before I needed to leave for school, so I went into the leaving room. The room was hardly personalized, except for the few framed photographs my mother had placed on the mantel and side tables. There's one, on the side table by the window, of me that, according to my mother, is the first picture she took of me after my adoption was finalized. She says she instantly recognized what she calls my 'panic eyes.' I'd get them when my sleeves got wet in the sink or if she left the room while I was still in my highchair. The picture on the mantel is one of mom's favorites. It's of me holding Henry right after she brought him home. My brown hair is pulled away from my face in the photo and I'm smiling like I've been given the ultimate gift. One of my top front teeth is missing, having been knocked out when I ran into a doorknob. I sit on the couch and play solitaire on my phone till I have to leave for school.

Every morning I ride my bike to school, and that day was no different. Luckily Storybrooke High School has light course work, so my books did not weigh me down. On my way to school I saw Granny yelling at Ruby about staying out too late and Dr. Hopper walking with his dog Pongo over to his offices. It's easier to notice things in small towns, people's habits and routines. Dr. Hopper always has Pongo with him and Marco is always fixing the sign above his shop. Ruby seems to stay out every night.

Once I arrived at school, the day went by pretty quickly. Russian Literature is always exciting, and pre-Calculus always gives me a headache. When the final bell rings at 2:30, I retrieved my bicycle and peddled over to Dr. Hopper's office. I chained my bike to the lamppost outside the building and sat in the waiting room until he called me in.

"And how has your week been, Hannah?" Dr. Hopper asked me from his armchair, notepad and pen ready.

"Fine. Nothing extraordinary. Nothing awful, either. Henry's been going on about our mother being the Evil Queen from Snow White. He says that everyone in town is actually a fairy-tale character, but our mom cast a curse that sent them here and they don't know who they really are," I said, sitting on the brown leather sofa.

"Who does he think you are?" the doctor asked.

"He says I'm not in there." I paused. "Because I'm from this world, whatever that means." I paused again. "Isn't it a conflict of interest, you treating both of us?"

He stopped writing on his notepad and looked up. "No, because I don't share what either one of you say with the other. And I don't let your perceptions of each other inform my treatment. If there ever comes a time when I don't think I can treat both of you because of your relationship, I will let Henry go."

"Why not me?"

"For one, I've been seeing you longer, for most of your life, in fact. And I'm the only practicing psychiatrist in town. I remember how much you struggled when you went off of your medication. Now let's get back to Henry, are you hurt that he hasn't included in this other world?"

"It did, at first. And then I convinced myself that he didn't mean it personally. He's ten after all. It could have been worse, he could have thought I was the Evil Queen."

"And is it still helping? Convincing yourself of this?"

"Yeah. I think so. I just remind myself that if thought I was a part of this, he'd probably bother me, trying to get me to remember something that I can't, because it's not real." I paused. "Now it's just a bit freaky."

"How so?"

"He's getting the way I can about things. Really obsessive. When you talk to him, you can see in his eyes that his mind is a world away. It's hard when you finally see in someone else what others see in you. I'm surprised my mom has put up with me as long as she has," I said. We discussed a few other things, my workload for the week, how to handle the stress that would accompany my three upcoming tests. When we finished, I unchained my bike and headed home.

"I'm back," I called out as I entered the house. I kicked off my shoes and placed them in the shoe rack that my mother insisted upon. Mom came down the stairs.

"Have you seen Henry? He was supposed to be here when I got home."

"No. Did you try calling the school? Maybe there's some after school thing he wanted to go to."

"I was just about to do that. I had been hoping that he was with you," she said, before heading back up the stairs. I went into the dining room to start my homework, not too worried about Henry's whereabouts. Storybrooke was too small for him to not be seen, or turn up eventually. Fifteen minutes later she came down stairs and said that Henry had not shown up for school that morning.

"Can you look for him around town while I call the Sheriff?" she asked.

"No problem. I'll call if I find him."

I rode down the most trafficked streets of Storybrooke first, then the least ones, then I checked his castle. I peddled my bike further from the town, maybe Henry had gone off to the woods, and hopefully I could spot him from the main road. As I approached the town line, I noticed another road, veering off into the forest. I didn't usually travel this far from town and when I had, I clearly never noticed this road. I turned down it, just in case. The road sloped downward, and I closed my eyes and reveled in the increase in speed as I went down the hill. When the road evened out and I opened my eyes, I saw a strange house. It was massive, even larger than mom's mayoral mansion. The first story was made of grey stones and the second and third were grey painted wood with various intersecting planks mounted on them, also grey. It could have been deemed a very modern take on the Tudor style. The house had a curved drive partially covered by an awning that protruded from the house. Distracted by the house, I did not notice a spot in the road in front of me that was missing a chunk of asphalt. I was startled by the dipping of my bike and swerved too late, the bike fell and my forearm hit the gravel at the side of the road just before my face could. I pushed the bike away from my body and sat up. I might as well see if the person living there had seen my brother, since I had conveniently crash-landed in front of it. Standing up, I dusted my palms off on my thighs and wheeled my bike up the front drive and leaned it against the pillars of the awning. I climbed up the front steps and knocked on the front door. About a minute later a man answered the door. He had thick, brown hair and a burgeoning five o'clock shadow. He seemed taken aback, not because there was an almost sixteen year old girl at his door, but because there was anyone at this door.

"Can I help you?" he asked.

"Maybe. I'm looking for my brother. He's about 4'10" and has brown hair. He'd be wearing a black jacket and a red and grey scarf."

"Sorry, I haven't seen anyone fitting that description. It's been awhile since anyone at all came around here."

"I can imagine. I didn't know there were any houses here, let alone people. I thought I knew everyone in Storybrooke, but I've never seen you before," I commented.

"Well, I tend to keep to myself. I'm Jefferson, by the way," he said, holding out his hand. I shook it.

"I'm Hannah Mills," I said. He glanced towards our joined hands. Something caught his attention.

"I think your arm is bleeding, Hannah." I looked down at my arm, it was indeed bleeding.

"Wow, I can't believe I hadn't noticed that."

"Why don't you come inside to clean it up?" he offered. I really must have panic eyes, because I knew I was hesitant about accepting his invitation, but he seemed to know too.

"Or I could bring the first-aid kit out here?" he offered again.

"That would be great," I said. I sat on the bench on his front porch to wait for him. Several minutes later he returned with the kit and sat beside me. He ripped open and handed me an antiseptic wipe. I pressed it to the top of the trail of wounds on arm and hissed, pulling the wipe away immediately.

"Would you mind?" I asked. "Otherwise I'll be here all evening trying to clean these." He took the wipe from my hand and cleaned each of the cuts from the gravel, as I tried to refrain from cursing. As he cleared the blood away, he asked me questions, probably trying to distract me from the pain. From his questioning, I learned that we both preferred tea to coffee, that he had a vast collection of books, and that he was an amateur cartographer. He learned that I almost never left the house without a book, that Russian Literature was my favorite class of my high school career, and that I taught myself to play the piano. I never looked at him as we asked each other questions, my eyes were fixed on my forearm, where his hands busily tended to my wounds. They moved equally methodical and gentle, as if he was experienced at creating or repairing with his hands. He rubbed antibiotic ointment on my cuts and covered them with Band-Aids.

"There. All better," he said as he applied the last Band-Aid.

"Thanks for all your help. I'm sorry to have taken up so much of your time," I apologized as I stood up to leave.

"It was no trouble at all. I'm sorry I wasn't of more help in the search for your brother," he said standing in front of me. I paused there, not really wanting to leave quite yet.

"Well, I better get going. Don't want my mom to think I'm missing too," I said and walked down the stairs to get my bike.

"Hannah," he called out to me. "If you ever want to read something that you're not required to, or if you just want to have some tea, you're always welcome."

"Thanks Jefferson," I said, before peddling home.