March 31st

The moon was high in the early morning sky as all of the village slept except for a single soul. Hermione wasn't sure of the time. Too late to be called night and too early to be called morning. It was that in-between phase just before the world began to brighten with the first of the sun's rays. She hadn't even bothered to climb into bed. There seemed no reason to try. She was too awake, too anxious to sleep.

For the first time since she'd started her journey as an escaped Death Eater almost a full year before, she found herself craving the potions Antonin would make her drink when her mind began its kaleidoscopic spin. As much as she hated the feeling of heaviness that was always a side-effect, at least she was calm. It had been a long time, weeks, maybe even months since she'd felt at ease even for a single moment. Blissful unconsciousness sounded heavenly.

A battle had been raging within her since she spoke with Ginny the previous afternoon. Or was it evening? She couldn't remember. Everything was bleeding together. Time was moving too quickly and dragging on too long all at once. She had to go. She had to stay. Her son needed his mother. Her son deserved better. If Antonin was dead, she had to take care of Ollie. If Antonin was dead, Ollie should be taken care of by Mafalda Yaxley. She should rid the world of the misery of her existence. She had to stay alive to keep fighting for a better world.

Everything made sense in one breath. In the next, nothing. She used to resent her husband for drugging her with potions she didn't think she needed. Once she imagined in her paranoia that it was simply one more method he used to control her behaviors. Hardly the same pliable and terrified child she'd been in those early days in his house, she knew it frustrated him when she didn't behave as he wanted. She loved to frustrate him, to wind him up just until the moment he was prepared to explode. It was a game she played. When he started forcing her to swallow the hated potions, she resented him, hated him for changing the rules of the game. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe her husband truly had her best interests at heart.

She shook her head. No, she was being foolish. The fear that Antonin might be dead was the only reason she was having charitable thoughts at all. There was no reason to be sentimental. Even if it was true that he was dead, what did she care? Wasn't she the one who tried to kill him in the middle of their son's birthday party when he was only in the next room? What right did she have to be worried when he was almost dead at her hands months earlier?

Idleness and the lack of information were taking their toll. Moving through the tent, Hermione picked up all of her meager possessions she had strewn around the space to pack away in her bag. Staying too long in the same place made her lazy, sloppy. The relative safety of the village made it unnecessary to remain ready to run at a moment's notice. She needed to remedy that shortcoming.

As she moved towards the beds, she heard a sound. Spinning on her heels fast enough that she almost fell over, she could've cried when she saw Draco enter. If only she remembered how, of course. All thoughts of packing to escape left her embattled mind. There was nowhere else she would rather be in that second than where she was.

At first glance, she was pleased to discover that the wizard didn't appear to be injured. Dressed all in black, he was rumpled and his hair was far from the perfection he always strived to achieve in school. Every ounce of him drooped with exhaustion. The reason he hadn't rushed back to the village suddenly made sense to her. If he wasn't injured in the explosion, he would be expected to put his prodigious tracking skills to work to root out the suspects. He likely hadn't slept in days.

She didn't know where to start. A thousand different questions ran through her mind. None of them seemed important enough to ask. Draco wasn't in a hurry to speak. Each step he took in her direction was a struggle. Acting quickly before his legs could give out, Hermione rushed to the table to pull out a chair for him. He only just made it in time. Almost immediately he began to relax. Unsure what to do next, she busied her hands with brewing tea. Spring might be upon them, but the nights were still chilly. His eyes, gradually becoming less guarded and fierce the longer he was seated, never ceased their frank surveil of her frame. And still, neither spoke.

"Who was killed?"

The question slipped out as she placed the steaming teacup in front of her guest. He was making her nervous, a feeling she wasn't used to. It was the absolute worst question to ask first. She knew it before the last syllable was uttered. Based on the raw fury that crept up on the wizard's countenance as she asked, she knew he felt the same.

"Scared Rook didn't make it?"

Hermione didn't understand why he was so bitter. From the moment he stormed out the tent after their heated discussion that morning, she hadn't been able to figure out his reasons. There was an evident hatred there that hadn't existed before. If she'd been younger and less jaded by the reality that the world morphed into, she might have believed that she was the motivation for his anger. But, that didn't make any sense. It wasn't as if Draco cared for her. He'd never cared to spend more than a few moments in her presence before the whole mess began on New Year's. Choosing to ignore the heat in his words, she pressed on.

"No one here knows anything. Ginny said that someone important must have been killed because they don't want the citizens to panic."

Draco scoffed. The rolling of his eyes was so reminiscent of the teenager he'd once been that she could almost imagine they were back at Hogwarts. Only the deep scar on his left cheek and the subtle wrinkles in the corners of his tired eyes gave any indication that a significant amount of time had passed.

"Don't tell me that you're actually worried that your husband is amongst the dead?"

She didn't like this Draco. He was too much like his younger self. Too arrogant and mean. She half-expected him to call her a 'dirty, little Mudblood' with each breath he took. When he pulled a small bottle from the pocket of his robes to take a deep swig, she understood at least partly. Not only was he exhausted, he was drunk too. Whatever had happened in the last few days must have been difficult for him. She felt sympathy for him in the same moment she wanted to riddle his body with deadly and painful curses.

"Tell me, Granger. Would it make you sad to learn that your husband was dead or would you be relieved?"

Even if she knew the answer to the question he was asking, she would never satisfy his curiosity. Wasn't it enough that a large number of the Death Eaters were well aware that she'd tried to kill Antonin? Lots of the marriages of those situated in the highest levels of the regime were hardly ideal. Their lives weren't easy. Trying to push the perception onto the rest of society that they were all happy, perfect families wasn't a task many were up to. She and Antonin were hardly an exception. Public perfection often came at a high price in private.

"Is Antonin dead?"

She didn't want to play his game. Drunk Draco was a dangerous arse. Part of her wanted him to leave the tent, answers or not.

"No, I'm sorry to be the one to tell you that your husband made it out of the explosion with hardly a scratch."

The level of relief she felt at hearing that he wasn't dead surprised Hermione. With him still alive and unharmed, she didn't feel the urge to rush back to Hogsmeade. Her son would be cared for without her there. Antonin was a good father in his own way. At the very least she knew Oliver was safe.

"But Rook on the other hand…"

Any measure of relief she might have felt hearing that Antonin was all right disappeared in the next breath. She was no fool. Every single person with a Dark Mark emblazoned on their left arm was in constant danger of being killed even without the Resistance and their bombings. Simply stepping outside their homes put a target on their backs. Not just from their enemies, but even from those that they might have considered their friends. It wasn't uncommon for one Death Eater to end the life of another. Hermione had done it many times herself for various reasons. Augustus' life would one day come to an end, likely violent. Possessing that knowledge didn't make it any easier to hear.

"Is Augie dead?"

The words stuck in her throat. She hated herself for the feelings that still lingered. How many years would need to pass before she could forget the man? Would they both have to be dead first? Draco took his time answering the question, leaving her in agony. Only after he'd knocked back the rest of the contents of the bottle did he meet her eyes again.

"No, he's not dead, but it was a near miss. Damn fool was in the wrong place."

She felt the tension in her shoulders melt away. Yes, there were others that could've been caught up in the violence that she still cared about: Allie, Corban, Theo, even Ron to an extent. But, knowing that Augustus wasn't dead yet removed the last bit of her worries. Still, she longed to know the details that no one else but someone who had been there would know.

"Who was killed?"

Draco rose from the table in one swift motion. Throwing the empty bottle at the cast iron stove that provided the heat to the tent, she gasped in shock as the shards of glass flew. The exhaustion that plagued him only minutes earlier was non-existent. Glaring at her, he mumbled in his drunken state only just loud enough for her to hear.

"Guess I shouldn't have expected much of a greeting."

Before she could say anything in response, he raised his voice.

"Maybe you should run off to Cornwall."

The wizard stormed out of the tent moments later. Hermione didn't know what to make of him. She only hoped that the next time their paths crossed he would be sober. This other side of Draco made her nervous.