March 5th

After a restless night's sleep, Hermione had everything she owned packed up neatly inside her beaded bag. She wanted to run. Not caring that William Wood was likely very serious in his statement that he was allowed to kill her once she walked through the village's protective wards, she knew she couldn't stay. What had possessed her to think that remaining with the most hardcore supporters of the Resistance was even a plausible option? Had she finally gone completely round the bend?

She slumped down in the chair next to her bedroom window. All of the drapes were closed to keep the late winter sun out of her room. It seemed easier to make the decision to run when she was in a dark and gloomy place. Outside the doors of the house she was existing in there was a great deal of hope for the future that she just could not believe in. She knew what the world was like and she didn't like it. She knew how difficult it was to keep a government running and a people fed. Were these amateurs truly ready for running a civilization? Pulling one down was easy enough. Building one back up and keeping it secure was another matter entirely.

No one present would appreciate her views or opinions on the matter even if she chose to stay. It didn't matter how many of the Resistance leaders put aside their prejudice and their anger to treat her like just another human being. That would never be enough. Not that she could blame them. If the situation was reversed and someone like Ginny Weasley or Aberforth Dumbledore stumbled into Hogsmeade with promises, unspoken or otherwise, that they would become loyal followers of the regime, they would be met with a great deal more than just suspicion.

Of course, Hermione never asked to come live amongst the rebellious rabble. She wanted nothing more than to just be left alone. Yes, she was glad to know that the Jordan family was alive and doing very well. The ache that had been in her cold and battered heart when she learned the false news of their tragic encounter with her enraged husband lessened to the point that it almost disappeared. It was uncharacteristic of her to care what happened about anyone else other than herself. That had been her coping mechanism for many years. She would never have survived the Inner Circle if she hadn't learned how to put her survival above everything and everyone else. Hell, she wouldn't have lived long enough to be Marked if she hadn't.

Some would say that she had been selfish in her decision. Fuck all of them, was generally her thought. They would likely throw in her face the number of people she knew and loved who never gave up, never turned their back on the ideals they had been fighting for when the world crashed. Neville and George were constant reminders of the kind of person she should have been. Even if she martyred herself in that very moment for the Resistance's cause, she would never be celebrated. Too little, too late. Putting one's self above all others was wrong in their view. She couldn't exactly argue against those beliefs even if she didn't hold them herself. Harry would be disappointed in how his two best friends turned out. Frequently, she had to push that thought back down to the darker recesses of her mind. Dwelling too much in the past kept one stagnant in the present and delayed their future.

Survival was not easy. Even when she was a Muggle-born living in the world pre-Albus Dumbledore's murder she had to ignore some of her scruples to make it. Culture shock was an understatement. To go from a very privileged childhood in the Muggle world to suddenly being at the very bottom of the wizarding society had been a difficult adjustment. Many times she was tempted to snap her own wand in half and pretend she had never been a witch at all. Life amongst the Muggles would have been decidedly easier with someone of her background. Within the magical community she would never amount to much. The hierarchies were unsurmountable at times.

Unless one was willing to prove they were brutal and not one to be discounted. Every single step of the way she had to prove herself worthy to be there, to practice magic. Even outside of school she had to constantly fight to belong. She would always be grateful for the lessons she learned from Antonin in those first years. He'd molded her into someone that was not timid or easily stomped upon. If she hadn't been broken down to absolutely nothing and then built back up into the perfect example of how a Death Eater should be, she would have been killed a long time earlier. Likely in a very painful and humiliating manner even. As much as she loathed her husband at times, when he was her teacher, she was thankful for him.

She wasn't sure that she had the energy to stay with the Resistance any longer. What purpose was she serving there anyway? Besides being an annoyance to some and a source of fear for others? She'd seen how the mothers of the village herded their children away when she came near. How they'd forbidden them to go outside when she was about on a walk. It was insulting, but she couldn't even blame them. Wouldn't she have done the same with her son if the roles were reversed?

It was bad enough that Ollie was headed for a lifetime of violence and intrigue within the highest echelon of Death Eater society. If his father was able to succeed the Dark Lord as she imagined he would one day, he would be even more entrenched in that lifestyle. There was a lot about her son that she had to take credit for, whether she liked it or not. The stubbornness he possessed, the insatiable curiosity about everything around him, the constant need to prove himself. She wasn't sure where that last one came from. If there was any child in their society that didn't have to prove he had the credentials to be a part, it was their son.

Her thoughts traveled back to the day he was born. Part of her had been excited, most of her had been terrified. She had never wanted to be a mother. Not even before when she was still a relatively innocent child attending Hogwarts. Children seemed to be a burden, a detriment to getting where she wanted to be. Hermione's second greatest fear had always been losing her shot at having a meaningful career because she was stuck at home raising the next generation. That life was fine for some women. She'd known plenty of women that excelled as mothers and truly found their calling in it. Hannah Rowle was the perfect example. A loving mother and wife, she actually liked keeping her home clean and her family happy. Once upon a time she had a dream of becoming a Healer. Once she fell in love with the lumbering Death Eater who truly had a warm heart hidden amongst his brashness and fury, she turned her entire being and focus to him. When their girls began to arrive in quick succession, she was even happier.

That was never Hermione. She wanted a different life. Wanted to feel like she was a part of something bigger. When she was ordered to marry and breed, she had been crushed. Had everything she had done for years been worth nothing to her master? Was she going to be forced to stay at home while her husband and the other wizards were out there making an actual difference? She'd had a taste of freedom, a taste of violence, and she loved it. How much of her life was going to change once she followed orders?

It was with a great deal of reluctance that she allowed Antonin to impregnate her almost immediately after their vows were sealed. He had been more than up to the task. She imagined that if she got it over and done with, maybe the Dark Lord would let her remain in her current position within his ranks. It hardly seemed fair that because she was born with the right body parts to carry life inside of her that she should be denied the power and influence she had been cultivating for so long.

When their son was born, her usually solemn and austere husband couldn't wipe the proud, goofy grin off of his face if under the threat of an Avada. He held the tiny baby in his arms every second that Hermione wasn't. Which, if she was perfectly honest, was most of the time. She would cradle the baby in her arms, stare down at his face, and will herself to believe that she wasn't going to be a completely shit mother. Several of her other female acquaintances had explained to her that there would be an overwhelming surge of maternal affection that would wash over her when she first looked at her child.

It didn't come. If anything, her disgust and anger only increased. Surely there was something defective with her to be able to stare down at the being that she'd carried inside of her for nine months and feel nothing for. Or at least nothing positive for. She'd glared at Antonin. Of course he was allowed to be excited. Nothing about his life would change. His position was still secure. His hard work would continue to be celebrated. There was no question whether or not he would have to stay home and care for the being that was completely incapable of caring for himself.

"What shall we name him?"

Throughout her entire pregnancy, Hermione had been able to brush off the same question when her husband asked. Usually, it was brought up when they were in bed and Antonin was obsessively touching her growing belly. She didn't want to even think about names. Didn't even want to consider the fact that the changes in her body were due to an actual child growing within. To acknowledge it with the possibility of a name was to make it real. She wasn't ready for that.

Nor was she ready for it when the child was no longer nestled in her womb. Maybe she would never be ready for it. She tried to brush off the question again, but her husband would not be deterred that time. It was too late. Their baby was born and in need of a name.

He'd suggested her father's name because he and his father had certainly never had any love between them. She nixed that idea instantly. Too painful to have a constant reminder. None of his younger brothers were worthy enough of the honor. He had no use for any of them either. Family was not a high priority for most of the Dolohovs. When she'd jokingly suggested naming him Harry, she was met with a stony silence and a glare that could curdle milk. Neither of them had any close friends they wanted to name their son after.

She was just about to tell him to just pick one and tell her what he chose when a strange idea came to mind. Later she would blame the potions that the Healers had given her for muddling her brain. After all, who in their right mind names their only child after the first person they ever murdered?

"What about Oliver?"

Antonin stared down at their son's face. After a couple of seconds, he nodded.

"I like it."

She knew a day would come when she'd regret their choice.