As she sat in the lounge with her son trying to read a book that held no interest for her for yet another day, Hermione's thoughts moved on from Augustus" fate to Draco's. When had she last seen him? She couldn't remember. Other than at the funeral, of course. It was best that she push all hated memories of that day aside. Was it the Sunday afternoon she visited his flat? How long ago was that? It was difficult to tell time when every day was exactly like the other. Especially when Antonin would tell her nothing. Being coddled like a helpless child was unacceptable.