May 25th

The end of her second full week back at the Ministry was a pleasant relief to Hermione. Though she was slowly beginning to feel more confident back in the familiar arena of her old life, she had forgotten so much about how to play the game. What had once been second nature to her was lost in the time she was away. Imagining going back to the place where she could survive without even second-guessing her decisions sounded like a terrible existence. Her time away gave her a fresh perspective she hadn't realized that she needed.

It was difficult to remember what it was that made her find joy in her previous life. She could very specifically remember a time when she was happy practically living in Level Eleven of the Ministry of Magic conducting terrifying interrogations of suspected enemies of the regime. Her work gave her a purpose, a reason to keep going. What did it say about her as a person that she could find such fulfillment in such degradation?

There was a great deal about her that was different than even just a year earlier. Something within her simply snapped right before she went on the run. It was more than just Antonin grabbing her arm in their kitchen. Though that might have been the immediate catalyst that put everything else in motion, there had been something else bubbling under the surface. For how long, she had no idea. Months? Years? She had become nothing less than a ticking time bomb waiting to explode.

At least she only attempted to murder her husband when the moment finally came. What if she'd hurt her son or another innocent? She had years of experience pushing aside the worst thoughts into tiny little, hidden boxes in the back of her brain. For whatever reason, she was unable to push aside the very real fear that she was an unstable accident waiting to happen. Oliver was just in the next room when she exploded. Would she have tried to kill her son if he'd been the unlucky soul present for her breakdown?

In her past existence, she thrived on violence. It was truly not a shock to anyone that it spilled over into her home. She was conditioned to spread misery and pain to those around her. How else was she supposed to be successful in extracting information from unwilling informants? She knew exactly where to press someone until they were on the verge of breaking, exactly the amount of pressure required to hold them there without allowing them to topple over the edge. How many people had she seen inside one of the locked side rooms she was terrified to find herself in again? How many of them never emerged again on their two feet? Of course there was an official number of the lives she'd destroyed filed somewhere in the dusty corners of Level Ten where the horrid Umbridge cow resided. Hermione didn't have the courage to seek it out. Maybe once upon a time she would've been able to see the exact number of interrogations she'd held with a source of pride. Those days were long gone. She didn't understand how she could ever casually go to work in the morning knowing that she would have blood on her hands before lunch. How did she come back home at a regular hour each day to spend the evening with her small family, pretending like what she did was perfectly normal?

It was no use dwelling on a past she could not change, she'd decided. All that really mattered was the simple fact that the taste of blood was no longer as sweet as it once was. Given the same conditions in that moment, she would have different reactions. Learning that if she wasn't swift enough in her mission she might be forced to employ some of her old tactics on the man she was trying to save didn't help calm her nerves in the slightest. She knew she wouldn't be able to relax until it was all over.

Knowing that she had two full days at home where she could think over the details of her growing plan without worry that Rabastan would overanalyze her was encouraging. She was looking forward to the peace and quiet. Blocking out the ambient noise of the Ministry was harder than she remembered. After so long of being alone and wrapped up inside her own mind, she found being around so many people day in and day out upsetting. She pulled a small charmed notebook out of the pockets of her robes to begin making notes in at the kitchen table. Writing in a code only she could understand, she started to sketch out what she had so far.

Antonin wasn't home to bother her planning. It was yet one more thing to be grateful for. Where he was located that night was of no concern to his wife. If he was committing indecent acts in Andromeda Tonks' bed, she was thankful that at least he wasn't trying to recreate some of their more memorable evenings in their own bed. She had too much on her mind to worry about her husband pawing at her whenever he desired. Let Andromeda worry about him for the time being. As much as she truly hated and detested the woman, she had her uses.

Her plan to help Aberforth escape had to be complicated. There had to be at least a dozen moving parts or Rabastan would uncover it immediately. No doubt he was already looking for ways to discover what she was really up to, why she was really back. Simple plans were usually the most effective. Too much going on meant there were more opportunities for it to all go wrong. But, knowing her former lover, he would be expecting the simple. She had to make it all so subtle and complicated that he wouldn't even know where to begin looking.

The roughest of plans was written out before she heard the front door open. A quick glance at the clock hanging on the kitchen wall showed it was a just a quarter to midnight. She hadn't even kept track of how long she was seated at the table crouched over her plans. Casting a spell on the notebook to keep it from prying eyes, Hermione slipped it into her pocket just as her husband entered the kitchen.

Antonin looked exhausted. All thoughts that he'd been spending his evening away with his mistress flew out of Hermione's mind. This was not the kind of exhaustion that came from an erotic encounter between the sheets. She could see without even needing to know the details that her husband was coming home after a very rough day. Feeling the slightest bit of pity for the man, she rose from her chair to pour him a glass of fire whiskey. He accepted the drink with a grateful peck to her lips as he slid down into an empty chair.

Hermione didn't press him for answers or explanations as he gulped down the first glass. She knew him well enough to know that when he was ready, he would speak. When his glass emptied, she filled it again. Her reasons were entirely selfish, of course. Twenty years of knowing the wizard taught her the valuable lesson that too much alcohol always loosened his tongue. She would keep pouring until he refused to drink anymore or until she had all of the answers she desired.

"You were out late tonight."

Antonin sighed. His tired eyes closed for the briefest of moments. Given the opportunity, he would crawl into their bed and sleep for a day if he could.

"There was a meeting in London. It did not go well."

She wanted to know all of the details. Was it just like the ones they had in the Leaky Cauldron, before and during the explosion? How close was he to gathering the necessary support to overthrow the Dark Lord? Was that his end goal? Practically vibrating with nervous energy in anticipation of finally learning some of what happened during these top-secret meetings, she tried to remain patient enough to allow the man to speak.

"We're trying to make plans for the inevitable, for when we no longer have a clear leader. Everyone is aware that that won't be much longer."

"Why wasn't I invited to this meeting? I used to be right at your side for everything."

The words tumbled out of her mouth before she could stop them. A big part of her wanted absolutely nothing to do with the intrigue that was swirling around the Death Eater ranks, but she couldn't deny that her curiosity wanted to know every single detail. Antonin didn't immediately answer her. He stared in her eyes for several seconds, unblinking, hoping that maybe she would move on from the question if he waited. She could've laughed in his face. She hadn't been gone from his life that long to change so drastically. When she wanted something, she was stubborn enough to wait.

"You've only just returned. I didn't think that… I thought it best that you not get too involved."

"Yet or ever?"

While she could appreciate the sentiment behind his desire to shield her from the unpleasantness of the Death Eater gathering, it also frustrated her that he would try to keep her out of something so serious without even asking her what she wanted. No, she wasn't particularly interested in surrounding herself with the cretins whose company she used to seek out in her former life. That didn't mean she didn't want to at least have the opportunity to decline the offer. Was that asking too much?

"If you would like me to be completely honest with you, Hermione, then I will be. I think it is best that you don't get involved with what's happening now ever."

She fought the urge to pout like a petulant child. Of course she appreciated his candor. It made life more bearable than constantly wondering whether or not her husband was telling her the truth. They had their problems certainly. Lying straight to her face had never been one of his faults.

"It's dangerous right now. Unpredictable."

"What makes now so much more dangerous than it was before I left?"

He sighed again and took a moment to gather his thoughts. Hermione assumed that she knew what he was going to say, but was anxious to hear it anyway.

"Because the Dark Lord is dying. Maybe he has a few months left. More likely just weeks."