May 20th

Hermione's relaxing weekend turned out to be a great disappointment. Once she was no longer able to eavesdrop on the conversation her husband was having with Corban Yaxley, the rest of the day passed in a stressful analysis of what she'd overheard. Antonin remained outside in his garden for hours before coming in only to shower and leave again. Where he ran off to was anybody's guess. She assumed it was another visit to Andromeda. Any time he was frustrated with his wife, he would seek his mistress out for the calming effect she apparently had on him. But, Hermione wasn't going to seek him out to ask what he did when he was away from home. She felt certain that she didn't want to know.

Her initial plan was the spend the weekend turning over ideas for her plan to assist Aberforth in his escape. This was an operation that required finesse and the utmost diligence. Smashing into Level Eleven with nothing but reckless bravery would get her killed. Truthfully, those same actions should've gotten all six teenagers killed in the Department of Mysteries debacle. Over two decades passed since that horrible event, but still the upsetting reminders that her life could've been over so easily that day continued to plague and haunt her as an adult. No, there were too many moving parts to just improvise. She would have to give it a great deal of thought and consideration.

But, thanks to her husband, she was unable to focus on anything but what she heard him talking to Corban about. First, the fact that she still couldn't separate the fake fate of her parents with the real one was upsetting. She knew that if she just asked him again, he would tell her the truth. Antonin had a lot of faults. Lying to her was never one of them. Her, pride, however, kept her from making the necessary step to actually speak to the man and ask him.

Mostly what bothered her was Corban's reaction to hearing what she said about the tragic incident with the stairs. The wizard was furious that she would suggest Antonin was somehow responsible for her fall. Why? It couldn't have been a secret to their closest neighbors that their home was often filled with violence. Between the shouting they must have been able to hear and the fact that Hermione knew for a fact that Ollie snuck out a few times in the midst of their biggest rows to seek refuge with Mafalda, there was simply no way that the Yaxleys didn't know what was happening next door. Why would Corban act as if she was delusional and making it all up in her head? She wasn't that confused.

After a long, dismal day of doing nothing productive, Hermione went to bed early. It was strange how her new existence back in her old home felt just as lonely as some of the days she was out on her own on the run. Before she ran, she never felt alone. That was half the problem. Antonin hovered and consumed her every waking moment most days. He was an intense, complicated man. Being back home but feeling detached from it was bizarre. It seemed an even more compelling reason to complete her mission sooner rather than later. She was suffocating in her own home.

Sleep was practically impossible to find. After tossing and turning and fitfully dozing for a few hours, she was frustrated. Granny Granger always asked if she had a guilty conscience keeping her up at night when she couldn't sleep. It became something of a joke in her childhood home. Her parents would tease each other with mock outrage and demands that they unburden their blackened souls each time the other would complain about not sleeping well the night before. Oddly enough, years later when Hermione was in the midst of committing the darkest deeds of her life, she slept soundly with no interruptions.

Her focus would not drop the conversation she overheard. She wanted to know everything, and yet, she was afraid to know the truth. What if she was somehow blocking details about that day that she didn't want to remember? There were Muggle psychiatrists and psychologists who were of the belief that traumatic events were often repressed by their patients when they were unable to deal with the facts. Was that what happened to her? Or, was there something more sinister at work here?

The first time she was confused and struggled to remember a memory about her past, she worried that Antonin was somehow messing with her memories. Maybe he was cursing her when she was asleep or drugging her food. How else could she explain the periods of time that passed when she could hardly remember her own name? Part of his orders when she was first sent to his house was to reprogram her into a dutiful, little puppet for the Dark Lord. Most of that involved a great deal of propaganda and debates that he inevitably won. No curses were needed. No spells were even used. He simply had very convincing points to make. It wasn't necessary for him to access her thoughts and memories at all.

If he altered her memories or rooted around in her brain at all during his training, the effects would've been felt much sooner than they were. She wished she could blame her husband for the moments in time that the world swirled around her and she felt like she was doomed to spin for all eternity. Or when she forgot Harry was dead. Her greatest fear had always been that something would happen to her mind. Years into her service to the Dark Lord, her nightmares began to come into fruition. No, her confusion was never Antonin's fault. She only resented him because he was there when they happened more often than not. He wanted to seek out help to discover the underlying cause and how they could be prevented or eliminated entirely. Her paranoia that he was searching out a weakness to bring her down kept her from trusting that the potions he fed her were actually just there to help. In his warped way, her husband cared very much for her.

Deciding that she needed to drink something warm to help her fall asleep, Hermione threw the covers off and climbed out of the empty bed. A very small part of her really wanted to drink one of the potions that she knew were just steps away in the bathroom, but she was afraid that she would still be fuzzy-headed and groggy for Monday morning. She had to be sharp at all times when she was at the Ministry. Especially now that Rabastan was so determined to find fault in her performance.

She was halfway down the stairs before she realized that Antonin was asleep on the sofa. Yet another night she hadn't heard him come inside from wherever he spent his time. Tempted at first to quietly tiptoe the rest of the way to the kitchen, she put that thought out of her head. If she couldn't sleep, he shouldn't be able to either. Maybe it was petty. She didn't care. Taking care to stomp on the creaky step, her husband was awake before she made it to the bottom of the staircase.

His eyes opened wide when he realized she was standing there in the middle of the night. He seemed ruffled and confused. When she noticed him examine the clothes she was wearing and then relax, Hermione sighed and rolled her eyes. Trust wasn't going to be easily rebuilt in their marriage, it seemed. Not that she really cared.

"Don't worry. I'm not running away again. I just can't sleep."

Not waiting to see if he would finally speak to her again, she directed her steps to the kitchen. A cup of chamomile tea usually did the trick to calm her down. The kettle was full and halfway to boiling when she heard the soft footsteps. Turning to glance over her shoulder, she sighed when she saw her husband watching her from the doorway. She turned back to the task of brewing the tea, suddenly exhausted straight to her very bones.

He didn't say a single word to her as he stalked across the floor to where she stood. His left arm slid gently across her chest, his right across her stomach. The feel of his familiar body against her back brought a sense of relief and comfort she wasn't expecting. Sighing once more, she rested against him as his arms tightened their grip around her body. He pressed his lips against the top of her head.

"When I woke up in St. Mungo's and no one could tell me where you were, I went a bit mad. Thorfinn said they had to sedate me because I kept trying to get out of bed to go look for you. The Healers were concerned I'd injure myself further."

She was surprised by his confession. Why would he be so worried about her when she was the one who put him there in the first place? Shouldn't he have been furious and hungry for vengeance? In the past when someone wronged him, or even simply appeared to have wronged him, he wouldn't stop until his full punishment was exacted. His gentle tone was confusing. Who was this man? Was he playing a part in some larger scheme she didn't understand? Or, had he always been this man and she didn't realize it? How much was real and how much was manipulation? Would she ever be able to figure it out?

"I know I haven't been a very good husband to you, my darling." He brushed his lips against her temple. "But, if you let me, I'll spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you."

Hermione had to make a difficult decision in that moment. If he was being sincere or simply stringing her along in some sort of nefarious plot, she wasn't sure. Possibly, she'd never learn the full truth of his motivations. She had a thousand questions, each one more puzzling than the last. For the hope of answers, she would have to play along at least for a little while. Pulling away from him only enough to allow her to rotate her body until they were face to face, she leaned up on her tiptoes to cover his lips with hers. Over as soon as it began, she dropped back to her feet.

"Come to bed. I know that sofa hurts your back."

He didn't argue. Taking the kettle off of the heat, she found she didn't need the tea anymore. Her eyes were heavy and she felt certain that once she rested her head on her pillow, she would be asleep. Only minutes later with her husband's arms wrapped around her from behind once more, she put that theory to the test. Two deep breaths was all she needed to find her escape.