March 17th

As she had already come to discover, dreams were often the only place in Hermione's life where she could find any measurable amount of peace. When reality was too difficult to face, she could slip into her fantasy world to imagine a paradise that did not exist. Sometimes she dreamt of happier times in her past: learning she was a witch, making real friends at school, Harry. She would wake up feeling nostalgic for a lifetime that could never be again.

Or she would dream of a future where she no longer had to run, no longer had to fear that any second she would be killed. Augustus was usually in those. As ridiculous and foolish as it was to fantasize about any kind of existence with that wizard, she couldn't control her subconscious desires. There was still a great deal of love between them. Days spent under his care while she was sick only reinforced that fact. Years had passed since they were free to be alone together, but little had changed in how they felt about each other. Facing decades stuck as Antonin's wife meant she had to learn how to suppress those emotions that would only complicate an already complicated situation. In her sleep, however, there was no need for control.

She would likely love Augustus up until the very moment she died. It didn't make much sense. In truth, they were fucking horrible for each other. 'Unhealthy' wasn't a strong enough adjective to describe their relationship. There was too much jealousy, too much passion of the wrong kind to be much of a success. What they had often translated to memorable moments in the bedroom and violent fights everywhere else that resulted in bruises and scorch marks from spells cast in anger. Sometimes two people could love each other and be the absolute worst thing that ever happened to each other. Marrying Antonin hadn't seemed like a good idea when she married him. Years later she still wished they could've continued their teacher/student relationship without worrying about the messiness marriage would bring into their lives. At least their orders kept her from making a mistake with Augustus they would've come to regret.

Sometimes she would be forced to relive some of the more gruesome moments of her life when she was asleep. She enjoyed some of those, recoiled from others. No matter how foul the cleanup was, she would never think about Walden Macnair's end without a smile. Thinking about Oliver Wood's death or the raid in Edinburgh that went so terribly wrong when she was a young Death Eater still under Antonin's observation made her sick to her stomach. If she could somehow extract those moments from her brain, she wouldn't hesitate to do so. Many memories were better left in the past.

Hermione sat up abruptly in her bunk inside the empty tent. Unsure of the time or how long she'd been asleep, all she could focus on was the rapid beating of her heart and the cold sweat dripping over her entire body. Details of her dream slipped through her mind, like trying to hold water in her hands. Something about her parents. They were alive. Or were they dead? She couldn't focus her mind enough to discover the answers she needed. It felt like she had a dream about them before. Maybe several times.

Her mind was a fog. Discerning between a memory and dreams grew increasingly more difficult. She could imagine her parents just as vividly as if she had just seen them in the next room. How long had it been since she was with them? Years? Months? Moments? She cradled her head in her hands, desperate for the nauseating swirling of images to cease. Everything was so confusing.

She hadn't seen her parents since the day she stripped them of their memories and sent them off to Australia for their own protection. They'd died there. A terrible accident not long after the war ended. A car, maybe. Or a bus. Maybe a rogue Death Eater? She couldn't remember. All she knew was at the time she learned they were dead, she felt relief. Not because she was glad they were dead, but because she no longer had to worry about them. Selfish, no doubt, but she was hardly keeping it together in those days. One more thing outside of her control to worry about and she was afraid it would all become too much.

But why did she keep seeing the same image over and over again in her dreams? It felt too real to not be a memory. Her parents were older, much older than before they left during the war. They were back at their old house. Antonin was standing in the garden with her father, politely discussing something inane. Tomatoes? Pansies? Her mother sat on a bench smiling with her arm around Ollie. He was at least eight or nine and perfectly content, like he'd been around his grandmother many times before. That wasn't possible, was it?

She rubbed at her eyes, cursing the imperfections of her confusing thoughts. More flashes in her mind of other visits to her childhood home. Antonin was always there and their son was in various stages of development. Were they real? And if they were, how was it even possible? Her husband loathed Muggles. Believed they were of no value whatsoever. She'd witnessed him strike an innocent down many times for no other reason than he was bored or they crossed his path. Making an exception for his hatred simply because they were his in-laws hardly made any sense.

Family meant a great deal to Antonin. Mostly because his own had been such a failure. Both of his parents were dead and he wasn't too concerned about either. There hadn't been much love there for anyone. His mother was a proper Pureblood witch who fell in lust with the dangerous, mysterious stranger from Russia. A dalliance at a high society wedding reception resulted in him. His mother's engagement was broken off and they were hurriedly married to each other before anyone could suspect that she had been disgraced. Though he never asked to be born, and certainly not under such inauspicious circumstances, Antonin's mother spent her life taking out her resentment on her eldest son. Three more sons followed. Whether or not they were a Dolohov in anything more than name was a secret she took with her to her grave. A simple paternity spell could have given them all the answered, but for a reason he never understood, his father never cast it. At least not to his knowledge.

Vadim Dolohov took advantage of the place in British wizarding society that he was offered with his advantageous marriage. Claiming all four sons instead of just Antonin meant that he had more leverage with his influential in-laws. He was hard on his eldest, expecting more out of him than any of the others. No one was positive what happened to Hermione's father-in-law. Before his son was thrown into Azkaban the first time, he disappeared on a trip to his native country and had never been seen since.

Antonin had almost nothing to do with his younger brothers. They were scattered around the world, not a single one interested in taking part in the lifestyle their brother had chosen. It was no matter to him. He had never been close with any of them.

To make up for his shortcomings with his first family, he would, at times, go overboard with their small family. It was important to him that they not only look like a perfectly harmonious, united front, but that they actually be one as well. For several years, she had been able to go along with the illusion he desired. Each passing day it grew harder and harder to keep up the charade.

Knowing how he felt about his family, it was possible that Antonin might overlook the fact that Hermione's parents were Muggles. Without them, Ollie would have no grandparents. It was enough of a reason that she began to wonder if the memories she was having weren't false after all. Of course, she still wasn't clear why she believed they were dead. Maybe they were.

Sometimes when she got confused, her husband would have her drink a potion. Tasting faintly of strawberries, it was supposed to help her clear her mind, help her to calm down when she grew frustrated. Usually, it just made her sleepy and feel like the world was moving around her while she stood perfectly still. When she understood how the potion made her feel, she would fight him, beg him not to make her drink anymore. He almost always won. Claimed that he was trying to help her, trying to keep her from hurting herself.

Every muscle in her body was sore from being tensed. Hermione laid back down in her bunk, hoping that she would be able to relax enough to fall back asleep. Regardless of the time, she wasn't ready to get up just yet to face the prospect of another day. She forced herself to take several deep breaths. Maybe if she fell asleep again her mind would stop turning. Maybe she could figure out what was real and what wasn't.

Part of her, the weakest part of her, thought about leaving again. Thought about going back to Hogsmeade. It wasn't always easy, but at least she wasn't as afraid to be there as she was on her own. Antonin might have forgiven her for attacking him. He could take care of her again.

But, her good sense prevailed. There was nothing left for her back in Hogsmeade. Maybe her husband would answer some of her questions if she went back. It wasn't worth it though. Better for her to exist in the confusion. Did it matter if her parents were alive or not? Deciding that it was easier to just think about herself, she convinced herself that the memories of her parents dying in a tragic accident were real. Perhaps later, when she was no longer forced to be on the run or in hiding, she could separate the fact from the fiction. Until then, she couldn't afford to worry about anyone but herself.

She fell back asleep soon after lying back down. More dreams awaited.