A/N: This was supposed to be a super short one-shot in lieu of the approaching festive season but the plot ran away from me like a million bunnies on steroids. Oops. And honestly? It all started with this picture: ognivik at deviantart - /art/Through-mist-164739823

DISCLAIMER: I own nothing, JK is Queen of everything, and I really don't like Wednesdays either.

– – –

It was a Wednesday night, and there was nothing even remotely interesting about it. Plus, it was bloody freezing, which only really reinforced the fact that she had never particularly liked Wednesdays anyway.

(Let's see then, Wednesday is the third day of the week, half-way through, hovering, not important, Quidditch practice day, it was a Wednesday when they lowered the caskets into the ground – )

She trudged through the sleet on the edges of the side walk watching as people darted past, eager to escape from the chill that had settled so quickly into the air this month. There was tinsel up around the shop fronts, despite the fact that Christmas was still three months away. She mentally went over her shopping list. Eggs, milk, Flour, cat food for Crooks. A new set of white button-downs since her last was puked on by a drunken idiot, and she wasn't about to put that on again. Anything forgotten? No.

Satisfied that she had everything, she hefted the bag into a more comfortable grip and headed down the street to her apartment block. The amount of people slowly petered out, and by the time she had turned the corner on her street, there was no one else around. No cars, no noise. The silence unsettled her.

(No noise was bad, no noise coming from either of them was the worst thing she had ever heard, and no no no it couldn't be like this it can't because they were the trio, three, and now there's only one)

She gripped her bag tighter and felt for her wand, and prayed that she wouldn't have to use it. It would mean having to move again after finally settling in, and who knows where she would have to go this time to stop the trackers finding her.

She briefly contemplated Russia. She had always wanted to see St Petersburg during winter…

And then she saw him.

A lone black figure walking on the opposite side of the street.

She had to be dreaming. Or going mad. Either one.

Considering the circumstances however, the latter option was probably the most logical explanation.

She couldn't see his face. But surely there was no mistaking the billow, the slightly hunched shoulders and the way he walked? Then again, it's been years since… well, since, and she had never really paid that much attention to the way he walked anyway. She stopped as he moved past a flickering street light and –

She blinked.

He was gone.

She drew a shaky breath. Of course. The dark never seemed to agree with her. She nodded to herself in affirmation and continued down the street. She refused to acknowledge the tightness of her chilled fingers around the straps of her bag.

– – –

A flash of blinding light and it was over.

Everywhere the Death Eaters were falling to their knees, hands up in surrender. Weary, ragged faces looked at each other in relief.

All except for one.

"Harry!" Her screams cut through the silence, piercing and painful. "No, please, oh god Harry! Ron, where are you? Ron?"

The figure stumbled across the battlefield, her face streaked with red and tears, eyes darting frantically from side to side as she searched for the two boys that had come to mean everything to her.

"Hermione…"

"Oh Professor, please, have you seen Ron? He was just behind me, I know he's around here somewhere, he can't have gone far, and Harry's going to be fine isn't he? We'll send him to St Mungos. Yes. That's what we'll do."

"Hermione–"

"And then everything is going to be okay, right Professor? I mean, we've planned everything out, nothing was going to go wrong, and of course nothing is wrong–"

"Miss Granger!"

The firm tone jerked her to a stop.

"I'm sorry. They're gone."

– – –

She caved in and finally made an appointment with a psychiatrist about a month after that brief hallucination on the streets.

Maybe it was the fact that she began seeing flashes of him everywhere; turning a corner, strolling through a park, walking out of the post office, you name it.

Of all the people she could've been hallucinating about, and her subconsciousness chose him.

Clearly there was something seriously wrong with her.

The man just sat there and listened to her stoically before scribbling down something on the notepad (he had terrible handwriting in her opinion) and told her that there was nothing wrong with her except perhaps stress. He advised her to take a couple of days off work.

Amazing how paying a stranger who was no help at all cleared your head.

She went home, downed a painkiller and went to bed early.

She didn't have time for this.

– – –

They said the people needed to see her. Needed to see the heroine who survived against all odds (never mind the fact that she clearly wasn't the only one who survived, and she didn't even think she had done nearly as much as most of the aurors, or even the others like Neville and Ginny).

So she attended public functions mechanically, nodding when she was told to, smiling at everyone until her cheeks hurt.

She managed to get an apartment all by herself, and at first only the Order knew the location. Ginny visited on a regular basis in between finishing off her NEWTS. Strange how the world just kept on going. Students back and completing homework, studying for exams. Nothing changed yet everything did and somehow, she seemed to be the only one that has noticed. And it was... nice. For a time. But. There were always the "but's" that followed. There was only so much the Order could do to keep away the press.

Three months since the final battle, yet every day was a battle itself.

Day after day. Reporter after reporter. Knocking, hounding, demanding.

Asking about the chaotic events that happened during the fight.

Asking about how she felt being the last of the 'Golden Trio'.

Asking questions she didn't want to answer.

Funny how the world seemed to have forgotten Harry. And Ron. And everything they sacrificed.

So very, very funny.

– – –

The place was unusually busy for a Wednesday night, though perhaps it was the spirit of the season seeping into every crack of the town. She brought out dish after dish from the back, handed them out before heading back to bring out another batch. Surely they could afford another staff? Four waitresses for the shift was hardly enough, despite the cosiness of the restaurant.

She read over the latest order again, sighed and stuck it at the top of the kitchen shelf. Banana milkshake for table three. Right.

She grabbed the large decorative glass now filled, topped it off with a straw and headed towards the table near the entrance.

The front door bell jingled as it opened, and a blast of cold air and a black clad figure greeted her.

Crash.

The glass drops out of her hand and shatters into three distinct pieces, one large, the other two smaller and jagged, there's a lull in the conversations around them and she feels a pang of dim annoyance because it was going to be her wages that are going to be docked and she should really grab a dustpan and sweep it up before someone cuts themselves on it –

(Three years)

"You're dead."

Well. That could've gone smoother. She mentally smacked herself over the head into the next decade.

His lip twitched slightly.

"I see both your observational skills and the little tact you once had have both deteriorated substantially."

The voice that came out of his mouth was scratchy, whispery, jarring, but the insult was expected and familiar enough that it soothed her nerves in an odd way. She bit her lip, a nervous habit she still hadn't outgrown, and glanced around the room. The couple she was supposed to be handing the glass to both had rather miffed expressions on their faces. A few people shot her looks and Clara was glaring pointedly at her. If there was one thing she needed to avoid it was gaining unnecessary attention.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry sir," she chirped up at him with false cheer, playing dumb. "I'm awfully clumsy, but if you'll take a seat, I'll be out to take your order soon."

She turned and apologised profusely to the couple, who were slightly placated after she promised that someone will bring them another glass as soon as they can. Whipping around and dashing out to the back, she grabbed the blue dustpan and set to work cleaning up her mess. After she dumped the glass in the bin at the back, and completely ignoring Clara's hissed "Jane, what on earth is wrong with you?", she returned as fast as she could, whipping out the notepad and pen that was tucked snugly into the apron pocket.

"What can I get for you sir?"

(That's it, it's official, she's completely lost it)

She stopped at his single table and gazed down at him with a fake smile, her pen poised and ready to take down his order like a good waitress. She refused to acknowledge the slight tremor in her hands. He merely cocked and eyebrow before turning his gaze down at the menu in front of him, giving her a chance to study him in full.

He looked both worse and better, if it were somehow possible. As thin as a twig, just like before. So very, very thin. His skin had finally lost the pallid quality that he had been famous for while teaching, but it was still a long way from anything that could resemble a tan. The edges of his high collar couldn't entirely hide the top of the livid red scar that disappeared under the fabric, and he was still unfavourable looking as always. He did, however, look like he finally got around to washing his hair.

This day just keeps getting stranger and stranger.

Not only did her hallucination come to life, it even washed its hair for the occasion.

Huh.

He studied the menu in detail, gazing over the list and flipping the pages almost lazily. She had to stop her hands from twitching from the amount of effort she was putting in the restraining herself from screaming at him (or, you know, hurting him in every physically imaginable way).

Finally after what felt like an eternity (or more like ten minutes according to her wristwatch) he placed the menu down, peered at her expressionlessly and ordered pasta with a side of garlic bread, and a glass of water.

Seriously?! she wanted to yell at him. But instead she wrote it down, nodded with a sugary smile and headed back to the kitchen.

She had to congratulate her mind on fabricating such an extensive illusion.

He was still a dick like before.

– – –

There wasn't much to pack in the end. Crooks, her only picture of her mum and dad, and a small trunk full of clothes. She had already siphoned the rest of her money out of Gringotts and into a private bank account under another name. The conversion rate was pretty good going from Wizarding money to Muggle money. A well-timed 'obliviate' dealt with the goblin who handled the transaction, and by the end of the week her vault was empty.

She left a note to Ginny. Some of the words were blotched out where her tears had hit the paper and caused the ink to run, but it was still readable.

"Hey Ginny,

I need to go. Can't say where, and you probably won't hear from me again in a long while. I'm sorry. I really am. You floo here regularly enough so I know you'll find this eventually. If there is one thing you can do for me, as a last request? Don't tell anyone until they find out themselves. I can't have anyone following me. Please.

Take care of everyone for me.

Love,

Hermione."

It was raining that night when she left. The irony of the pathetic fallacy was not lost on her.

– – –

He began coming in every week.

He always ordered the same thing.

And she thought she hated Wednesdays before.

That was nothing compared to now.

– – –

"Why are you here?" she finally hissed a couple of weeks later when he showed up earlier than usual and the restaurant was blissfully empty. He glanced up from his almost empty plate and look at her like she was something unpleasant that had stuck itself to his boots.

"Because I enjoy the food."

She scowled and continued to wipe down the table he was seated at violently.

"Don't play games with me. What I mean is: why are you here, as in this bloody restaurant in this bloody tiny town in the bloody middle of nowhere?"

"I see your mouth has become fouler too. What else has changed, Granger?"

"Don't call me that," she hissed again. Back and forth the cloth went, gliding along the polished surface of the table.

He actually had the audacity to look amused. Asshole.

"I'm sorry. What is it now? Jane?"

Surely it must be a talent for one man to make a simple name sound like the biggest insult you could throw at someone. She squashed the tiny thought that suggested asking him to teach her that specific ability. She had her pride, damn it.

"Oh, and am I to suppose you still go around calling yourself Severus?"

He didn't even look remotely phased by her using his first name. "Don't be daft," he simply stated. Perhaps this wasn't the right way to go about it, she thought. She stopped her attack on the poor table and dropped down into the seat opposite him.

"Look here. We saw you die," she said bluntly. "We saw you keel over with a giant snake wrapped about your head and your throat looking like a bloody red fountain. We saw you stop breathing after you started leaking memories everywhere. The least you can do is give me some answers."

He gazed at her solemnly. She held his gaze.

"But you haven't done anything to do deserve those answers, Granger," he finally stated, the corner of a mouth twitching upwards in a semi-smirk.

She blinked in surprise as he pushed his chair back with a loud scrape and left without another word.

It was only after she had returned his empty plate to the kitchen that she realised he hadn't paid.

That dick.

– – –