Seven years had passed since what the wizarding world referred to as "Voldemort's Fall". Harry Potter, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger counted them as very long years. It was hard for them to celebrate the anniversary of the day knowing it was the day they'd lost so many friends. Though it was never discussed, none of them ever contacted the other on That Day. They all went their separate ways and dealt with it on their own, no matter how close they were for the rest of the year.
Harry had seen enough killing to last for the rest of eternity. He declined all offers to enter into the Auror program. The Chudley Cannons had offered him the Seeker position on their team more for his celebrity status than anything else. They were very happy with their acquisition, since his skills on a broom had only grown. Not only was he the best Seeker at Hogwart's in many years, there was talk that he would be one of the best Seekers to play professional Quidditch ever when his career peaked.
Ron found himself growing sicker and sicker of being in the spotlight. He'd always craved it and didn't want to be Harry Potter's sidekick. However, not being able to go anywhere or do anything at all without being followed, photographed, written about, or otherwise bothered had made him re-think his entire life plan. He decided to settle into a nice quiet career working as the new head of the Department of Games and Sports.
As for Hermione, she found herself a bit at loose ends. Her childhood socialization had always included, "and then you'll go to college." This was made difficult by the fact that there were no wizarding institutions similar to Muggle universities. Her excellent NEWTS and a personal recommendation from Professor Flitwick made it possible for her to land a job researching and innovating new charms for a large ready-made-charm corporation. It wasn't her dream job by any means, but it would do for the time being.
The night before the seventh anniversary, Harry, Ron and Hermione met for dinner, as they did at least weekly. None of them made any mention of the date, nor did they ask what the other's plans for the day were. The dinner was subdued, just as had been the dinner before the sixth anniversary, and the one before that, and so on. Hermione went to bed with a heavy heart after the boys left. Her boss had tried to give her the day off, but she preferred to work. She needed the distraction, even knowing exactly what was going through the minds of all of her coworkers. After the last one had congratulated her on the "spectacular and innovative" way she had killed Rodolphus Lestrange, she told him that if he would rather not see a repeat rather closer up, he'd better leave. Apparently, her clenched fists, white face and enraged voice made it clear that this was not a subject open for discussion, because no one had ever asked again. Now they just looked at her askance as she walked in and kept to themselves. They all knew Hermione was a very nice woman, if a bit bossy, on any other day, but this day was not the day to chat.
After an entirely unproductive day at work trying vainly to distract herself, Hermione returned to her flat and had very hot bath. From the Muggle psychology books she'd read, she knew it wasn't healthy that seven years after the incident, she was still trying to scrub off the feeling of dirtiness. She didn't exactly regret killing Lestrange just before he was able to hex Neville Longbottom, but she regretted with all her heart actually becoming a killer. Now and for the rest of her life she would have to deal with the knowledge that she had the capability of taking another human being's life.
Hermione toweled off and began to get dressed, taking more care than usual. This night, as she had on the other anniversaries, she was going out. One year it had been to the symphony, another to the opera, yet another to the ballet. She always went alone, so she could leave at intermission without having to worry about another person wanting to stay. Intermission was always when she realized how futile it was to try to distract herself this way. She would then go home and down a bottle of Dreamless Sleep so she wouldn't have to think any longer. Still, going out seemed healthier than just staying in and taking the potion, even though she knew how the night would end. She had to at least seem to make the effort.
She forced herself to choke down some sliced veggies from the fridge. The smell of meat cooking on this day reminded her too much of the smell of the battlefield. Once she finished, she put on a touch of lip gloss and mascara and apparated to a warded apparition point in a small park just down the street from the theater she would be attending that night. She had a ticket to see an Irish folk dancing group as a change of pace from the other types of events she'd been attending.
She found the small theater to be rather empty. A short, nervous man walked up to the podium situated at the right side of the stage. He announced that the first dance was about to commence, and that it would be the Rinnce Fada. Hermione was not a student of Irish dancing by any means, but all witches and wizards knew that many of the Irish dances had Druidic roots. There were even rumors that through dancing the magical Druids were able to commune with nature and reach a state in which their power was intensely magnified. As the tumblers swept out across the stage with their acrobatic maneuvers, she was transfixed by the sight and sound of it all. Suddenly, a new figure appeared in the midst of the dancing. He was tall and fair with long dark hair that swept out behind him unbound as he spun and jumped. It took several moments for her to realize that she was looking at Severus Snape, DeathEater-turned-supposed-Spy and murderer of Albus Dumbledore. The face and height were the same, but the look of joyful concentration rather than sneering indifference was completely new.
Hermione almost couldn't believe it, since she, and the rest of the world, believed Snape to be dead, killed at Voldemort's Fall. So many bodies were never found, obliterated beyond recognition, liquified, or even vaporized into nothingness. Several people had sworn that they had seen Snape hit with one of those hexes and heard his shriek as he died. How, then, did it come to pass that he was twirling and capering before her on the stage? Her heart raced and she flushed, for a moment wondering if he was a hallucination. He seemed real enough. She knew then that she must find this man after the performance to see for herself close up.
She watched the rest of the performance with a growing sense of anxiety. Every time he left the stage, she fought the urge to run after him. Finally, the cast came out for their final curtain call. Hermione slipped out of the theater and down the alley next to it. As she had suspected, that was where the side entrance was. She cast a spell to make herself go unnoticed by the dancers walking out as she waited for him, wand at the ready. He walked out the side door. It was definitely Severus Snape. Hermione grabbed him and with no warning, she apparated them both to her flat. It was the safest place she could think of on short notice. Her wards were set so that only she, Harry, and Ron, or someone apparating together with one of them, could apparate into or out of the place. As soon as her feet touched the floor, she shoved him as hard as she could while he was still off-balance. He landed in a heap in her floor. Keeping her wand trained on him, she slowly stepped backwards out of arm's reach.
"Don't reach for your wand, Snape," she said.
"I do not have a wand," he replied.
AN: Thanks to Kim R for putting this plot bunny in my head.