May 1st

The tantalizing smell of bacon sizzling woke Hermione up long before she was ready. With little to do in Draco's flat alone other than sleep, she had been taking advantage of the quiet and the solitude to get caught up on the sleep she'd been missing out on. It helped to pass the time and if she could slip away into her dreamworld, all the better. Finding her stomach growling at the promise of breakfast was unexpected.

She dressed quickly before stepping out into the corridor to follow the source of the delicious smells. In the several days since she was brought to his flat quite against her will, Hermione had only seen her host a few times. He was often out of the flat before she even knew he had been home. Or he just simply never returned. His earlier assertion that he was rarely home had in fact been the truth.

Draco stood at the cooker frying up bacon when she entered the kitchen. His nod in her direction was the only indication that he knew she was present. The wizard wasn't very talkative in the mornings. She'd discovered that fact early on when they were sleeping in the same tent in the forest so many weeks earlier.

Hermione didn't mind a lack of conversation over breakfast. She tended to keep odd hours. In her previous life, there was no telling when she would get home from the office. There were times that she had only enough time to shower off the dirt and grime from her late-night interrogation before her husband and son were awake for the first meal of the day. Knowing without being told from a very young age when his mother was not in the mood for mindless chatter, Oliver would sit patiently at the kitchen table without speaking until one of his parents asked him a question. If Antonin had also had a late night, which was frequently the case, the three of them would spend the entire meal silently chewing. She found comfort in the silence. Not every single moment had to be filled up with inanity. There was enough of that as it was.

In order to give herself something to occupy her mind while Draco finished up breakfast, Hermione took a seat at the table in the middle of the room. A small stack of post littered the top. Ignoring all of the personal messages, she dug around until she found the morning edition of The Daily Prophet. One benefit of living in the home of a wizard who was ostensibly a loyal member of the regime was the access to all of the day's current periodicals. She found it easiest when she was on the run to ignore the news whenever she was faced with the opportunity to learn what she was missing. That morning, however, she found her curiosity stronger than it ordinarily was.

She hadn't realized what day it was or the significance of the anniversary. Her eyes fell across the headlines on the front page advertising the elaborate plans for the celebration of the end of the war. Draco set a plate in front of her just as she began to read about how the rest of the country was planning on celebrating the day their lives had changed irrevocably so many years earlier.

When she was a loyal Death Eater, every single May 2nd she was paraded out in front of the country to show what a proper supporter of the Dark Lord she had become. Even when she longed to do nothing more than just linger in her bed for the entire day, she was forced to be out in public in the very heart of the grandest celebrations. Lord Voldemort liked her to be with him at his side or better yet, at his feet. Ron would never be far away. They were his prized pets, his proof to the society that he had well and truly won that horrific day. It had been hard to dress in her finest clothes and plaster a smile on her face. Antonin usually took pity on her by keeping her hand full with a drink every single second of the extravaganzas and taking her home the very instant the Dark Lord allowed. He'd even tried to keep her at home the year she was pregnant with their son out of fear that she would go into early labor. Unfortunately, their master refused. He wanted the whole world to see her ripe and full with the next generation of Death Eaters.

She didn't want to stop and count the number of years that had passed in such a fashion. Too many. Perhaps if all went well, this would be the last year that anyone dared to celebrate the destruction of what their world used to be. She hoped that the Resistance and their allies might actually be successful in overthrowing the Dark Lord. Even if it meant that she faced the end of her life, she wanted the world to change. Maybe the Resistance would let her son live and he could grow up in a world that was better than what his parents had been able to give him.

No longer wanting to even think about the lavish celebrations that would be taking place around the country over the next few days, Hermione dropped the newspaper to pick up a fork. Draco was trying not to make it obvious that he was staring at her, but he wasn't as careful as he likely imagined he was. She hoped that he wasn't about to ask her any uncomfortable questions. Her appetite suddenly gone, she started picking at her eggs, pushing them around her plate with her fork.

Her gaze fell on a prominent scar marring her left wrist. Even though she must have seen it a dozen times a day since the day she got it, she was usually able to ignore the puckered flesh. Only about an inch long, the mark was a result of being burned in the process of retrieving Helga Hufflepuff's cup in the Lestrange vault. When all of the contents began to multiply and burn, it had been impossible to escape unscathed. Add in the fact that she and Harry and Ron escaped from the bank on the back of a blind dragon, they'd each had multiple burns before the day was done.

"Something amusing?"

She hadn't realized she was smiling until Draco spoke. That had been a grand adventure. One that they would've gladly told their children about if the following day had ended differently. Though there were rumors that still swirled around about the escape on the back of the dragon, most of the citizens of the country did not know the story. Hermione certainly would never tell Oliver even if she had another chance. He didn't need to know about her past. There was enough curiosity in the child as it was to get him into trouble. As much as he might have looked just like a younger version of his father, there were times that he would behave so much like his mother she feared for his safety. What kind of terrible adventures was he getting himself involved in at Hogwarts? Was his first year anything like hers? If she heard that he'd faced down a mountain troll in a bathroom with two other first years, she wouldn't be the least bit surprised. No, the story of the dragon would go with her to her grave. Oliver didn't need any ideas.

"I was just thinking about how I got this scar."

She held up her wrist for him to see. Though the table wasn't very large, he leaned forward from his seat to get a better look. When his hand reached for her wrist, her first instinct was to push him away. The feel of his fingertips on her bare skin forced goosebumps to the surface. She was embarrassed, desperately hoping he didn't notice the effect he seemed to have on her traitorous skin. That was a complication that neither one of them needed to have. Whatever their friendship, their relationship was, it was complicated enough already. Involuntary biological responses needed to be ignored whenever possible.

"How did you get that?"

"Breaking into your aunt's vault in Gringotts. Everything was charmed to duplicate and burn if touched. I think this was from a pile of galleons falling on my wrist."

"It's a miracle you ever made it out alive. You could've fallen from the dragon at any moment."

Their daring escape had been passed on in whispers amongst the survivors of the war. She wasn't surprised to know that Draco was aware of the dragon. Though it wasn't spoken of in public, she knew that it was part of her legend. There were others who were impressed by the tale. It proved that she wasn't just some weak, terrified little Mudblood scared of her own shadow. That had helped her more times than she was certain she was aware of. Wanting to change the subject, she gestured to the discarded newspaper.

"I suppose you will be expected to be at the festivities tomorrow to celebrate."

Draco released his light grip on her wrist. The smirk that had been present just moments before disappeared. With a deep sigh, he rose to his feet, ignoring the half-eaten meal still present on his plate.

"Funny how we're expected to celebrate the day our world turned to shit."

Just as he had every other time he left the flat, he gave no indication of where he was headed. Simply walked out the front door moments later. She was positive that she would never understand the man.