Once Upon A Time...

Chapter One

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter

Hermione Granger hated doing rounds. Although she appreciated the need for teachers to be present in the halls of Hogwarts late at night – her own adventures with Harry and Ron were good proof of that – she'd much rather have been in her quarters, working on her lesson plans (Headmistress McGonagall hadn't updated her lessons in twenty years!) or composing a letter to Draco.

Hermione flushed slightly at the thought of Draco. Her former enemy had more than proven himself in the final years of the war, first by feeding information to Dumbledore's Army that kept them barely ahead of Voldemort's forces, and then by saving Ron's life in a pitched battle, losing his own leg in the process. As if that hadn't been enough, Draco had allowed Harry to question him under Veritaserum, and to siphon his memories for study…literally anything to help with the war. It had been a seemingly insignificant memory of Draco's that had eventually led Harry straight to the last Horcrux, enabling him to finally confront Voldemort and end the war once and for all.

Near the end of the war, Harry and Ron had gotten over their homophobia and admitted their feelings for each other – finally, Hermione thought. Her own feelings for Ron had dwindled, and she was thrilled and a bit relieved when Harry and Ron found each other. Although she had to admit that the idea of Harry and Ron together was…very exciting.

Since the middle of the war, Hermione and Draco had exchanged letters every week or so, and she'd grown to appreciate his sharp intellect and acerbic sense of humor. Recently, Draco's letters had been growing more…personal, and Hermione had found herself thinking of Draco as someone who might potentially be more than a friend. She'd been trying to drop hints in her own letters, and Draco's replies had indicated that not only was he aware of how her thoughts were trending, his own thoughts were heading the same direction.

As she walked silently through the dark halls, Hermione had to admit she felt more like herself then she had in a very long time. She and all her friends had been forced to grow up very fast once Dumbledore had died; the war had killed off the last of their childhoods, often figuratively and sometimes literally. Both Seamus and Dean had fallen to Death Eater curses, as had half the D.A. members. Charlie Weasley was Imperius-ed into the grasp of one of his own dragons. Angelina Johnson's throat had been crushed by Wormtail's silver hand before Fred and George Weasley had combined to end his sorry life at last. And Lavender…poor Lavender Brown, whose funeral Hermione had attended just a few months before classes finally resumed at Hogwarts, because she just wouldn't believe her dearest friend Parvati Patil could possibly want to hurt her…

But the silence of the old castle drew Hermione's thoughts back to previous trips late at night, most of them thrilling, several not really as dangerous as they'd thought, pretty much all of them against house rules. Strange to think of all the times she'd feared losing Gryffindor points, and now she feared her students would…it had been a real shock, being asked to be head of Gryffindor House. But it did make sense, in several ways; the Headmistress no longer could for fear of favoritism, and of all the teachers Hermione was the only one who'd been in Gryffindor herself. Not to mention, of course, that having one of the three heroes of the Wizarding World as head of house certainly made the awestruck students less inclined to disobey. Never mind that she was barely older than they were…why, even the youngest of them…

Hermione's steps faltered slightly. Could that really be true? Were the first-year students actually twelve years younger than her? Had it really been more than half Hermione's life since that first magical evening, when she'd piled into the tiny boat with Harry, Ron and Neville, and gotten her first glimpse of the place she'd learn to see as her only home?

To have my childhood back, Hermione thought sadly as her pace resumed. I could have chosen a different path, but chose the more adventurous one. The first time I ever chose that way…it led me to a sort of pain I never even knew existed – but it also led me to myself. If I'd gone to Eton like mum and dad had planned, I'm sure I'd have suffered less, but I wouldn't be me either.

Not to mention, she added to herself with a slightly superior smirk, that Mr. Harry-Savior-of-the-Wizarding-World-Chosen-One-Boy-who-Lived-Quidditch-God-Potter wouldn't have survived his first year without me – literally or figuratively!

Now that Hermione had gotten the opportunity to truly explore the castle – not to mention that Harry had gifted her with the Marauder's Map when he'd found out she was to teach there – she'd learned the paths until she could walk them without even thinking of it, and allowed herself to wander. It still amused her every time she found students out of bounds for a private liaison, in a place they were sure no one knew about.

Of course, the fact that it'd been almost four years since Hermione had had any of the same kind of fun meant she'd had some very inappropriate thoughts when she'd caught two students earlier that night, literally with their pants down. Well, I'm not that much older than the Seventh Years, she'd told herself, and then decided it was definitely time to suggest a get-together in her next letter to Draco.

Since her mind had been wandering as much as her feet, Hermione didn't even focus on her surroundings until a rather loud bang, almost like an explosion, sounded from a room to her left. Within half a second her wand was in her hand and she'd already said the beginning of a Shield Charm – six years of being on the front lines of a war had given her spectacular reflexes. The Charm died on her lips as she saw that no one was attacking her. Quickly getting her bearings, she recognized that she was in the dungeons. A closer look, and Hermione realized that the room in question was Professor Snape's quarters.

Snape – after so many years he still remained an enigma. Like Draco, Snape had proven his loyalties during the war, sabotaging Death Eater missions from within and eventually being the one to take down Lucius Malfoy and Bellatrix Lestrange both. His betrayal of Voldemort had been so total that when Harry finally confronted Voldemort, he'd arrived just in time to keep Snape from being driven mad by the Cruciatus Curse. Even so it had taken some doing to convince the Ministry not to lock Snape in Azkaban forever – Harry's refusal to let go of old hurts hadn't helped, but eventually even he petitioned the Ministry to clear Snape's name. Snape settled back into tormenting Hogwarts students (Slytherins excluded, of course) as though he'd never left. He never spoke a word of the war again, and no one pressed him to.

Whatever her personal opinions of Snape, Hermione wasn't about to leave a fellow Professor when he might be in need of aid. Gripping her wand tightly, she approached the door, noting that the explosion seemed to have jarred it open slightly. Quickly, she pushed the door open, dropping low in case anyone decided to throw a hex her way.

Snape was behind his work desk, standing against a bookshelf a few feet back from a small tabletop cauldron and watching it warily – understandably, since the cauldron was emitting a thick, rust-colored smoke. His head snapped around when the door swung open, and a slight sneer curled his lips. Hermione flushed involuntarily; Snape still made her feel like a first-year sometimes. Since it was obvious no one was attacking, Hermione stood up slowly, lowering her wand. "Are you all right, Professor?"

"Fine," Snape snarled shortly; his temper was apparently a bit thinner even than usual.

Hermione eyed the cauldron with trepidation. "Is it supposed to do that?" she asked skeptically.

"Are you questioning my skills at potion-making?" Snape asked in a dangerous tone. He turned to the desk behind him. "Shut the door," he growled. Hermione stepped forward and closed the door behind her. Snape turned back, and looked startled she was there. "That was not an invitation to stay!" he snapped.

Hermione's cheeks colored again, this time with anger. "Professor Snape, you may forget that I am no longer a student or your pupil; you may forget that I am, in fact, also a Professor, also a head of house, and a war hero who is, I might add, considerably more decorated than you! But a little more gratefulness would suit you, or barring that at least a modicum of respect, considering I was one of a very short list of people who spoke on your behalf and kept you out of Azkaban! I am here because I, like a fool apparently, continue to believe you are worth aiding!"

Snape stared at Hermione for a long moment before passing a hand over his eyes. He seemed to deflate slightly, and placed a hand on the table to steady himself. "Professor Granger," he muttered, massaging his temple, "if I am being rude it is not my intention. I am nearing the completion of the Libris Inserere potion, and you appeared just after I added the Charm component, which resulted in the completely appropriate smoke. The potion is immensely complicated; I have never even attempted it before-"

"I should think not!" Hermione interrupted, staring at Snape incredulously. "It's only ever been used half a dozen times before!"

Snape raised his head and stared in utter disbelief. "You've heard of this potion?"

"Of course," Hermione said, her eyes fixed again on the cauldron. "It was mentioned in Hogwarts: A History, and it sounded fascinating, so I read up on it…" She looked back at Snape with profound respect. "And it's brewed properly? I knew you were an excellent potions master, but this…"

Snape looked rather pleased, and uncertain how to react to the feeling. "Everything has gone exactly as expected," he said smugly. "I now have to prepare myself for my resulting…journey."

Hermione nodded knowingly. Libris Inserere was world-renowned as a potion for the ultimate intellectual. It transported the maker into the book of their choice, making them live out the main character's experiences as though they were his own. It was seen as the best, most complete way to gain a quintessential understanding of a powerful piece of literature.

It also took a strong mind and remarkable constitution to survive living another life and not be driven insane – two of the six people in history who had previously used the potion had gone mad, which was why no one ever attempted it. But of course, Snape had a great deal of previous experience pretending to be someone he wasn't. "I never took you for someone who appreciated the written word so much," she said softly.

"My interests are my own," Snape said, although not as sharply as he might have. "I've wished to attempt this potion for a long time, but for many years I felt unprepared. And then, of course, there was the second war."

The war…Hermione felt the awkwardness creeping back to her. The war was still too recent, too raw, for the people who'd been in the middle to really grasp that it was over. Harry hadn't been the only one with constant nightmares by the end of it, and Hermione doubted Snape was any different, although she knew he'd never admit it. Desperate to avoid the subject, Hermione picked up the book resting beside the cauldron. "Is this the book for the potion?" she asked needlessly. "You've chosen…" she trailed off as she read the words on the cover. "The Idiot?" Hermione frowned at Snape. "You can't be serious."

Snape's eyes narrowed. "You think poorly of Dostoevsky?"

"Not poorly, it's just…Professor, he's so dry!" Hermione exclaimed, putting the book down. "You're going to have to live this, surely there's a book which would be more appropriate…"

"Ah, you feel I should look for more excitement?" Snape asked with a sneer. "Perhaps a romance novel would be more appropriate?"

"Of course not," Hermione replied, trying not to laugh at the idea of Snape as the rugged, masculine hero in a typical romance. "But since you have to live out the hero's role…do you really want to use this miraculous potion for the chance to be Prince Myshkin?"

Snape hesitated. "That…had occurred to me," he admitted reluctantly. "However, of the novels I'm familiar with it seemed the most worthy."

"Well, there must be something," Hermione stated, turning to Snape's bookshelf. "What about The Hobbit?"

"Thank you, no," Snape's voice commented dryly. "I'm not inclined to challenge dragons while barely taller than Filius." Hermione rolled her eyes and continued to peruse Snape's books. "Professor, I would ask you not to critique my collection."

"What do you care?" Hermione muttered. "Two thirds of these books are Potions texts…" Ignoring Snape's request, she ran her finger along the spines of the books, pausing every now and then as she found something surprising. A Brief History of Time…Being and Nothingness…despite the almost painfully dry nature of the collection, Hermione was impressed. Snape's collection suggested a mind inquisitive of every subject, always prepared to learn. Since that was how Hermione saw herself, it was a bit startling. "Don't you own any fiction?" she asked finally.

"I tend to concern myself with the real world, Miss G- Professor," Snape said acidly.

"Some of us enjoy retreating from the real world from time to time," Hermione shot back, her temper flaring slightly. "In case you haven't noticed, sometimes it's rather hard to endure. Besides, you're about to step into a work of fiction – what's that if not retreating from the world?" Snape had no reply to that, so Hermione continued her search. "Maybe Shakespeare?"

"I considered it," Snape confessed grudgingly. "However, the role of hero must be clearly defined, or I may end up as anyone. I've no desire to intend to be Iago, and wind up Othello."

Hermione nodded; Snape had a point, and it certainly limited the choices. But then her eyes fell on one particular book whose colorful binding looked promising. "Here's something, I think," she said, pulling the book down from the top shelf; although the other books on the shelf were somewhat dusty, this book was clean and obviously well-read. "It's…" Hermione read the title, and her jaw dropped. "Why on earth do you have-?"

"Give me that!" The poised, dignified professor disappeared and Snape lunged across the table at the book in Hermione's hand. Just as his hands close around the book he collided with the cauldron, sending the Potion sloshing onto both himself and Hermione.

Before either of them could react, a sharp tug not unlike the feel of a Portkey grabbed them and sent them hurling out of reality.

A/N: Please review! My sister and I came up with this story.