March 18th

A night of restless sleep meant Hermione was in no hurry to get out of bed. What did she need to crawl out of her sanctuary of blankets for anyway? She didn't have a job to rush off to. No one was relying on her to keep them fed or alive. Even if her son wasn't in Hogwarts for his first year, he didn't exactly need her anymore. He was more likely to run next door to Mafalda than he was to seek out his mother when she was around. The Resistance villagers seemed to prefer when she couldn't be seen. No one was bothered by her seeming absence. Certainly they weren't seeking her out.

Hermione was bored. Painfully bored. And when she got bored, she grew sullen and depressed. When she used to grow restless, her teacher would set her a seemingly impossible task to keep her occupied. He attempted the same a few times after they were married with little success. Instead, he would gift her a new volume on spells or potions to perfect. Antonin practically built her a library with all of the books he found her when she was bored. She could've used them too.

As much as she might have tried not to, periods of idleness forced her mind to thoughts of her husband and the life she left behind. In all fairness, life with Antonin wasn't always so bad. They had their moments, of course, but there had been a kind of happiness with him too. Maybe not the kind of joy and contentment found in so-called 'normal' families. There had been a lot of laughter in their home. And nights were filled with moans, almost always the pleasurable kind. If she'd known before they were married what she could've had the opportunity to experience in his bed, she probably wouldn't have had done so much to avoid it.

Nothing she told the kind lady who didn't have her arrested for trespassing in her barn had been a lie. Their lives were violent just simply because of their close proximity to the Dark Lord's power. Punishments for misdeeds, perceived or otherwise, bled into their home at times. She was far from being innocent. When they were alone, away from those they always had to remain above, she had attacked Antonin too. Of course, her behavior didn't excuse his. They were both wrong.

His rage terrified him the night he pushed her down the stairs. It had been a reflex she wasn't sure he would ever forgive himself for. The two years that followed, when he worked so hard to make up for his terrible lapse in judgment and his dangerous temper, had been the best years of their marriage. A flicker of hope within Hermione that maybe they weren't doomed to a life of abject misery fanned into a flame. Until a long day at their fucked up excuse for an office ended with the back of his hand splitting her lip open.

The physical attacks didn't happen every day. If she stopped to actually consider each and every one, they didn't even happen that frequently. Maybe once every couple of months. Sometimes less. They each had a tendency to bring their work home with them. During successful, peaceful times, their home was quiet. When their regime was threatened and longer hours were required to snuff out the whisper of revolt, they got irritable and nasty. Both of them. In another lifetime when she was a different girl, more naive and less sure of how the world worked, she would've called herself a fool for remaining in a violent marriage for as long as she did. But idealistic Hermione Granger hadn't learned the tough lessons that battle-hardened Hermione Dolohov had.

Like how leaving wasn't always an option. She'd pledged her life to Lord Voldemort's eternal service. He gave her the order to marry Antonin. Going against her master's orders was a death sentence. Admitting that she couldn't stay married to the wizard because he was physically violent with her when he lost his temper wasn't a good enough reason. It showed her to be weak. Any hint of weakness could be sniffed out by the more ambitious and power-hungry Death Eaters. She would instantly become a target. All of the hard work and degradation since she was pulled from her broom cupboard would be for nothing. It was better that she endure Antonin's tempers with as much stoicism as possible and use his repentant moods that followed to her advantage.

She wanted to leave, but she didn't know how it would be possible. Nights she would lie awake in bed imagining how she could grab Ollie and run. In the beginning of her fantasies, she would have never even thought about abandoning her son. Either her only surviving child would come with her or she would remain in the same toxic and tumultuous home. Withdrawing small amounts of money at the bank and having the goblins secretly exchange it for Muggle currency helped her believe that eventually she would have enough to get them both out of Hogsmeade and away from the influence of her husband.

As time went on and she hid more and more around her home, her thoughts began to change. Oliver grew more and more like his father every single day. Not only in looks, but in mannerisms and behavior. He began to emulate his father's actions, including his unpredictable temper. There was only one incident when he was ten years old where he tried to strike out at his mother in the same manner as his father. One incident that was quickly stopped by a stinging spell to his gut from his mum's wand and a punishment down in the basement with his papa that left enough of an impression on him that he didn't ever raise his hand to her again. She didn't ask Antonin what he did to ensure the incident was never repeated. She didn't want to know. It wasn't exactly a secret that many in their social circle utilized the unforgivable Cruciatus Curse on recalcitrant children. Part of her believed that maybe it was best if Ollie went ahead and understood what that felt like. If he continued to follow in his father's footsteps, he'd become very familiar with the torture curse eventually. A small hope in the back of her mind she didn't dare give voice to was maybe he might even decide to choose a different path.

Oliver would become a liability if she took him with her when she ran. The first opportunity he had, he would give away their location. His father hung the moon and the stars in his eyes. Though she assumed there was love there for his mother too, she knew that he would do anything to get back to his father. When it was obvious that she couldn't take her child away, Hermione gave up her plan to run. The Muggle money remained where it was. Her other supplies stayed packed up. She would just have to endure what her life had become for the foreseeable future.

Everything happened so quickly the day of Oliver's eleventh birthday. Antonin was a perfectionist. Nothing was ever good enough, a fact that he appeared to take great pleasure in informing his wife. Enough time passed that she couldn't even remember what he was upset about. No doubt it was something meaningless and unimportant. Frustrated that he was whispering his criticisms in her ear with all of their guests in the same room, she didn't even bother to discreetly exit to the kitchen. She made it to the kitchen sink before he was steps behind her, his exit much less dramatic than hers.

"Come back to your guests, Hermione."

"Give me a minute."

"You're embarrassing your son on his birthday."

All she needed was a minute to herself to calm down. That's it. Ordinarily, her husband was perceptive enough to understand what his wife required. Entertaining, especially inside his home, put him on edge. Any time a member of their small family dared to put a crack in the false façade that they were the perfect family, he would get angry. Knowing that going back out to the room where their guests had assembled to celebrate the milestone in their son's life would be a mistake until she was less annoyed, she didn't turn from the sink.

Something in her snapped when Antonin squeezed her arm roughly in his large hand and tried to pull her back. It was a motion he'd done more times than she could count since the very first days that she lived in the house as his student. Hard enough to leave bruises that she covered with long sleeves or glamours, he wasn't gentle when he wanted her to do as he ordered. Usually, she just went along with what he wished. It was easier that way. That day, however, she didn't want to be grabbed again. She'd told him over and over again in the privacy of their bedroom when emotions had calmed that she didn't want him to grab her like that again. Why wouldn't he listen?

She couldn't even remember picking up the fork. It was in her hands and shoved into his right eye before she realized what she was doing. His startled shout of pain seemed to only spur her on further. The moment he released his grip on her, she reached for the knife that had been used to carve the roast they served for lunch. With bits of meat still clinging to the blade, she slid the metal across his torso. Louder shrieks echoed in her ears. Antonin was the expert with the knives, but he'd taught her a few tricks. Finding the perfect spot to slide the weapon in between his ribs, she pushed. Her husband collapsed to the floor, taking the knife with him, before she could make much of an impact. The door flew open and the shocked blue eyes belonging to Corban Yaxley took in the scene at his feet.

Running away from her next door neighbor and close friend had been difficult. She almost didn't make it. Even when she arrived at the gates with Corban hot on her heels, she kept going. To stay meant to face her death. She wasn't ready to die yet. All shouts and pleas from the wizard she once quite literally trusted with her life were ignored.

As she lay in her bunk remembering the details of that day, Hermione was surprised to find that she couldn't remember slicing and then stabbing Antonin with the large knife. Of course the large amounts of blood on her skin and clothes made sense, but somehow, she'd been able to forget how brutal her attack had been. If there hadn't been at least one St. Mungo's Healer in attendance at the party with her son, there was no way that her husband would have survived.

Maybe she didn't want to remember how bad it all was because she didn't want to imagine what her son witnessed. Did he see his father lying in a pool of his own blood while his mother fled the scene? The whole affair must have ruined his birthday. Eleven was such an important age too. Would Ollie ever be able to find it in his heart to forgive her for what she'd done?