Hermione clutched the fat envelopes in her left hand, pressed into her lap. All of them were addressed to Professor Dumbledore, from his future self.

"You will need copies of your own," he explained, waving his wand so as to make duplicates for her. "If I know the members of the original Order of the Phoenix, most will be hasty and untrusting at first. They will not remember you from school. These are your school records and transcripts with adjusted dates. You shall show these to them so that they may see you are a bit younger than they are and they will surmise that they just did not mix with you or remember you."

"Yes, sir. But, how can I be sure that anyone will believe me? If Sirius and Harry's dad are anything like Harry and Ron…What about at Hogwarts? How will I secure a position?" Hermione was beginning to think that this wouldn't work.

"I have bewitched the ink on the original copies that you shall give to my past self. I have carefully composed a letter to myself, ensuring that I will understand what needs to be done. I will then call a staff meeting and request everyone review your credentials and papers and they too shall be bewitched by the ink on the pages. Should any member of the staff need to refer to the other documentation you have provided, they will remember you as they knew you in school currently. They will know you as though you have only recently graduated in the spring of 1980. I have adjusted all professors' names on your transcripts so that they matched who instructed the courses in terms that are reflected on your papers."

So, it could work.

"But," Hermione had one last protest about something she was almost certain that Dumbledore hadn't considered. "The Defense post is cursed. Who taught it the year that I will be taking over?"

"Ah, yes, of course. Miss Granger, you know from your own time at the school that I have always struggled finding a suitable individual to take that post and that for whatever reason, no one has been able to stay longer than a year."

Hermione sighed in order to stifle a groan of impatience.

"Shortly before the start of the term you will be instructing, I wrote to the Ministry and asked Madam Amelia Bones for her assistance in the situation. She was going to take a sabbatical from her duties at the Ministry for that year anyway and was more than happy to help the school in need. She was Head Girl in her day, as well, and her duty to the school was always unwavering. I will be sending you back early enough to where I will need not send correspondence to her on this matter."

"Sir, this plan—"

"Is almost foolproof. Certainly. But only if you do not interact with or adjust events so drastically that it corrupts time as we know it."

Hermione gulped and nodded. She stuffed her own copies of the materials he had given her into her satchel. Her sweat-slicked palms clutched the original copies as he told her how many times to turn the device around her neck as well as instructions of where to go first.

The blurred images and movements of passing through time encircled her, keeping her rooted in her standing position off in the furthest corner of the headmaster's office. Her first worry when it all stopped concerned whether or not she'd gone back far enough. If she hadn't, she had no clue as to how many more turns to give the Turner. She also was unsure of how many to turn forward to get back to her time. Her fingers, usually nimble, fumbled and stuttered over the turning mechanism and her breath caught in her throat as she felt herself losing track of the turns.

When everything stilled, she found herself in an office equally as silent as the one from her time. It didn't differ much from the future; it still held so many unknown and unnamed contraptions. They were as still and silent—listening—as they were earlier…or later.

She tiptoed through the cavernous room, looking for any sign that she had not failed to get back to where (when) she needed to be. She peered into his rubbish bin for any sign of a copy of the Daily Prophet. She reached in with still trembling hands and plucked one out and read the date: 18th July, 1980. She allowed the deep breath she'd kept shut up tight out in wavering sighs.

This doesn't mean anything, you know. A tickling voice in the back of her mind told her. This could be a printing from ages ago.

Hermione shook her head, trying to run that voice away from her mind. No, the house elves wouldn't leave his bin full of old rubbish for this long. They probably clean his office several times a week.

"Hello? Who are you?" A wizened voice asked from behind her. It was full of mirth and amusement.

Hermione whipped around, wide-eye, and clutching the stack of envelopes to her chest. "I—er—that is…hello." She finally huffed out. Her adrenaline was surging. She took a step closer to the taller, older man dressed in flamboyant turquoise robes. "I'm Hermione Granger. You've appointed me to a post."

He cocked his head to the side. "Have I really? Surely not the Defense Against the Dark Arts post. I've had a candidate in mind for a little while now."

"I assure you, you have given it to me." With a less shaky hand, she extended her arm and all but shoved the envelopes into his chest.

His long, thin fingers extracted them from her grasp and he looked at them, peering over his half-moon spectacles to do so. "Ah, I see. Give me a moment."

He opened the first, thicker envelope, and sped through reading it. "My apologies, Miss Granger. End of the year madness, you know. It must have slipped my mind. How could I have forgotten that the brightest witch of her year with an unmatchable and unprecedented amount of N.E.W.T.s has been awarded a professing position at so young an age?"

Hermione chuckled nervously. It was all she could do without bursting out in loud laughter.

Dumbledore hummed appreciatively. "Hm. Well, yes, I see in the terms of your contract here that you are to be set up with rooms and an office for the remainder of the summer and that your contract shall end in June of the following year. To…" he turns to the next hand-written page, "pursue studies abroad before returning and finding work at the Ministry or in Healing?" He peered over to her after this note.

"Y-yes. Whatever comes to mind first."

He continued without acknowledging what she said. "Excellent marks, of course," he thumbed through the rest of the papers after damping the tip of his finger with his tongue. "I shall of course pass this along to the rest of the staff, should you see that appropriate?"

"Yes, sir."

"Excellent."

Hermione's rooms were very private and on the fourth floor, tucked away down a corridor that no students really had business going down—there were no nearby classrooms or restrooms. Her office and study was the immediate room beyond the door. There was a large, bare dark oak desk in front of a massive fireplace that took up the majority of wall space. There was a deep purple leather couch adjacent to the desk and fireplace as well as several squashy armchairs that reminded her of the ones from Gryffindor Tower. Bookshelves lined the walls, excluding near the fireplace, and they were already bursting full of texts and tomes about Defense Against the Dark Arts. She worried that she would need more space for books, as she would be buying her own, not to mention the ones she would borrow from the library. Plants and succulents were mixed in with the books and upon the desk. Some lined the fireplace's mantle. Above the mantle hung a Gryffindor banner.

Her bedroom was to the left of the desk. There was a chest of drawers near the only window (albeit, large window) that looked towards the lake. There walls had built-in bookshelves, all of which were empty and she was immediately pleased. A four-poster bed draped in scarlet sheets and comforter stood in the middle of the room. There was a smaller fireplace to the right of the window. Near the fireplace was another door that led to a small, but comfortable enough bathroom.

She threw herself down on her bed and draped an arm over her eyes. She exhaled deeply. What a day. She sunk into the mattress and immediately felt drowsiness take over until her stomach grumbled. Dumbledore told her that supper was served around 6:30 and that most of the staff usually dined in their rooms, calling n house elves, whenever school was not in session. However, if she wanted to dine in the Great Hall, she was welcome to do that, as well.

Hermione feared that if she stayed in her rooms any longer that she would be enticed to fall asleep and neglect food. She hadn't eaten at all this day—she knew skipping any meals for the day entirely wouldn't be good. Perhaps taking one of the DADA books with her would get her in a thinking and more energetic mode. She forced herself to a sitting position and picked a book from her office-study and then fell into autopilot as her feet led her to the first floor and into the Great Hall.

The floating candles were in abundance and a storm was playing in the enchanted ceiling. A few ghosts were sitting with the Fat Friar at the Hufflepuff table. The Bloody Baron was floating lethargically around until he passed her to go through a wall. There was stillness and silence without students, or anyone else for that matter.

A warm ball of nerves bundled up in the pit of her stomach. This would be the first time she ever sat at the Head Table. Where was she supposed to sit? The center chair was for the Headmaster. She wracked her brain to recall where her professors sat, wondering if there was some kind of assigned seating. Surely not, and of course no one would say anything to her about it since the term hadn't even started.

She automatically walked towards the right of the table and sat close to the end. As soon as she lifted the napkin from underneath her utensils, her plate magicked a meal for her. Her goblet filled with pumpkin juice. She tucked in, closing her eyes when she took the first bite. No matter whose cooking she had, nothing ever compared to the food the house elves made. She didn't know if that was because of the affinity she had for them, or if it was just comforting to be here again. She opened her eyes and looked down at her textbook, opening it and reading through the table of contents.

"That's my seat," a low voice said from behind her.

She sputtered pumpkin juice over her front before whipping around. "I'm sorry, I-I—" but her words failed her because looming over her from behind was twenty-year-old Severus Snape.

His face was smooth and would be considered slightly boyish had he not been wearing a scowl all his life, already brining on lines etched into his face. There were dark bags under his eyes. His raven hair, though not as long as Hermione could remember it from her time, attempted to hang in curtains around his face. It was clearly unwashed. So unwashed and greasy that it looked as though it were damp. His black eyes bore into her amber-brown ones and his mouth tipped up in a smirk while she took too long to complete her statement.

He was as fully dressed and layered exactly as she remembered, buttoned completely up to his neck and down to his wrists. His arms were crossed over his chest, shoulders hunched slightly. She didn't remember him seeming this tall. She went to stand, to properly face him, sending her utensils clattering onto the floor.

"I'm—"

"Miss Granger, I know." His deep, sensuous voice made him seem much older than he was at the moment. It was the voice of a grown man, not someone just finished with being a teenager. "This is my seat you are sitting in," he repeated. "I claimed it last week."

"Oh. Well. I thought that. Tonight would be fine, you know? Nobody is here." She drew herself up to her full height.

He quirked an eyebrow and looked at her appraisingly. He uncrossed his arms. "You took the Defense post." He spoke quietly, but with venom.

"Yes."

"And you are the youngest staff member ever hired so far."

"Yes. Probably since Professor Dumbledore started, I think he said."

"Dumbledore is a fool. He has hired a child barely out of Hogwarts to teach one of the most important courses this school has to offer." He stepped forward, gripping the right side of the chair's back with imperious and long fingers. The white of his undershirt sleeve barely poked out from under his black frock coat.

She flushed and grabbed the other end of the chair's back, "I am eighteen."

"Oh, I see. Miss Granger is a full-fledged woman, fully capable and—"

"Brightest witch of the age is what they call me."

He blanched.

"And what are you? Rudest wizard of the century?"

There was a low ooh from across the room as the ghosts at the Hufflepuff table averted their gaze from the professors' conversation and cleared out.

He dropped his hand from gripping the chair. "Professor Severus Snape. Potions Master." He did not raise his hand to shake hers, but she let that go. It was going to be impossible getting to know him on any level that did not include animosity and insults. He looked down at her, up and down. "Soon, we shall see how you fare."

"And we shall see how you fare," she retorted hotly. "The first of September will be your first day, as well. Let's see you do Horace Slughorn proud."

Snape gripped the chair again, pressing a knee into the cushion to level with her and get into her face. He was glowering at her now, his black eyes burning like coal in front of her. "Slughorn is an imbecile. His professing skills were less than lackluster. He was far more concerned with his little popularity contests that the exact science and true art that is potion making."

Hermione's eyes trailed from his face, down his arm, and to his right hand gripping the back of the chair and his fingers wrapped around it. She looked back into his face and found his expression less hard, but now unreadable.

"I have read your records, Miss Granger. Insufferable know-it-all such as yourself. I'm sure Slughorn's had you collected since first year. Well, you shall not receive the same fawning-over-you and your Gryffindor greatness from me."

"I never asked you to," she said through clenched teeth, nails digging into her skin. She turned her head to see if they were quite alone in the hall, and they were. "Just because you weren't a favorite of somebody's and just because you missed out on the post for my teaching appointment doesn't mean you have the right to treat me like rubbish."

Snape withdrew from the chair, brushing at his knee that had dug and indention into the chair's cushion. "See you at the Welcoming Feast. I trust you now know where to not sit."

He turned on his heel and went to exit the Great Hall, his robes billowing behind him.

You impossible man, she thought to herself. It very well may take this whole year to become his confidant.