For instance, a year ago sometime in the wee hours of the morning, he had died. A year ago a little after that, he had returned to life. He hadn't been sure of the precise time he had gone to meet his end at the hands of Voldemort in the Forbidden Forest, except that it had been deep nighttime, before sunrise. Maybe on subsequent May 2nds, he should consider enchanting a Muggle alarm clock to wake him up at what he judged to have been roughly the appointed hour of his death. He shook his head. Perhaps that was being a bit too solemn to the point of being morbid. After all, Hermione wasn't sure on precisely which day in April she had been tortured, so she had spent almost the entirety of last month wearing sweaters in rapidly warming spring weather. Harry hoped for her sake that one day, she would be able to look upon her scars left by Bellatrix Lestrange with pride. And lose the jumper – it was hard enough seeing Ron in his Christmas maroon get-up every December.