May 28th
Living at home again plagued Hermione with more questions than answers. It was becoming frustrating to never have her prodigious curiosity satisfied. She knew that if she could just get her husband to sit still for longer than a few minutes, she might actually get some useful information out of him. But, to her continued annoyance, he seemed to be perpetually on the move. Just like when she was living amongst the Resistance, she could tell something was happening even if no one would tell her specifically what it was.
She also knew that she constantly being contrary in her thoughts and actions. Rationale had little place in her world those days. One moment she would be angry that no one was telling her anything. In the next, she would be glad that she didn't know what was actually happening. Too much knowledge could be just as dangerous as not enough. Her feelings on the matter were ever-changing like the wind. She never knew which direction she'd blow. Maybe she'd wait for days to speak with Antonin hungry for answers and when she finally had the opportunity, she wouldn't want to know again.
This was what made her grow sloppy in her horrible job months before she actually attacked her husband and ran. Every day that she would step into the Ministry of Magic, she would become sick to her stomach with the anxiety of what she was always being required to do. It was difficult to imagine that there was a time when she actually enjoyed her work, when she actually believed in what she was doing. She was a valuable part of ensuring that their Dark Lord's utopia was created and maintained. Everyone always wanted to focus on the positive aspects of the world he designed. No one ever wanted to discuss the blood that was required, the hands that must get dirty, to ensure the dream.
There was an interrogation of a suspected seditionist three months before her son's eleventh birthday that altered something within Hermione. What began as an ordinary day ended as anything but. For the first time in the years since she was plucked from her broom cupboard and taught another way to think, she openly declared that she didn't want to keep going. Of course, she was only brave enough to whisper it aloud to herself in an empty room, but it was far more radical than anything she'd said or done in her years as a loyal follower of the Dark Lord.
She could never be sure what the exact moment was that made her want to run away. It wasn't the hot blood splashing across her face. No, she'd experienced that disgusting side effect of interrogations more times than she could count. It also wasn't the screams for mercy from the accused strapped to the chair in front of her. She'd learned years earlier to tune those out. Unless they were offering up useful information, she didn't want to hear anything they said. It wasn't the acrid stench of the locked interrogation room on Level Eleven. Almost constant exposure to the horrific smells that nasty curses and human bodies in distress could emit made her almost immune. She was used to smelling them. They didn't bother her.
It was an ordinary interrogation. One she could've easily performed half-awake and with her mind focused on other more interesting topics. But something was different. She remembered looking up at Rabastan's smirking face when she'd applied another cutting curse to the poor sod's bare chest. Though he'd looked at her work the same way a thousand times in the past, something about the twitch in his cheek, the curl of his lips made her long to turn the end of her wand on him. She despised him in that moment when she'd only just merely disliked him for much of their acquaintance, including the years they were in the habit of ripping their clothes off in the office they shared. Like a switch had been flicked inside of her, she no longer wanted to be there anymore.
Hermione sat at her desk and tried to block out the sudden rush of memories from that horrible day. Her gaze caught the edge of the desk where she knew a hidden compartment existed. It was her hidden pleasure, her guilty secret. Sometimes the only way she could even get through a day was to reach into the small drawer when no one was looking. A small vial was usually all she needed to alleviate some of the stresses she'd been under. She recalled vividly leaving the interrogation room when it was evident there was no more useful information to gather from its occupant and heading straight for her desk. One vial would take care of all of her worries. Two would make her feel invincible. Three would help her forget. When she'd downed the fourth vial, she didn't even allow herself the opportunity to worry what that much would do to her body. Or her mind.
She wanted to reach out to press the panel that would swing the drawer open. With all of her worries about what Theodore Nott was up to, she thought maybe a little bit of memory loss wouldn't be the worst idea. She knew for a fact that there was still plenty left inside her secret hiding place. And if she ran out, she knew a wretched hag in Knockturn Alley that would gladly provide her with more for the right price.
Just as she felt her hand stretch out to the desk, she ripped it back to her side. When she was on the run, she feared she would die without the potion. Maybe she almost had. Those first few days, few weeks were madness and misery. How she didn't get caught when she was in the midst of what she knew could only be withdrawal was a mystery. When she came back into consciousness inside a rundown, dingy flat with a frustrated and annoyed Kingsley Shacklebolt wiping her sweaty brow with a wet cloth and spooning broth in her mouth, part of her thought that she was dead. Heaven certainly wasn't her destination. She made a promise to the wizard before she was released from his care that she wouldn't ever allow herself to return to such a low spot again. There was no doubt in her mind that she owed the former auror a life debt. How she came to be found by him was still unclear. She hoped that one day she would be able to put the pieces of it all back together and perhaps even discover a way she could return the favor.
Deciding that remaining seated at her desk put her in danger of succumbing to the urge for oblivion that still existed in her no matter how much time passed, Hermione stood to her feet. It was a perfect time to put into action the first step of her plan. With a mumbled excuse to Rabastan that she was going downstairs to review a case file she desired, it seemed safer to tell at least a semblance of the truth, she headed for the lifts. When she stepped outside of the lift in the Department of Mysteries, she tried to ignore the chill that always crept its way up her back in that level of the Ministry. Each step towards the staircase that would take her to the level where the courtrooms and the neglected file room was located brought up more memories she wished she could push out of her mind.
She could always hear Harry's voice down on that level. No matter how many years passed or how much she changed, she couldn't get the shouts from that night out of her head. Her best friend would be so ashamed of the woman she became and the man Ron eventually became as well. Rabastan's training had been so thorough and so brutal that there was very little about the wizard that existed when they were young in the castle. Rabastan had an effective way of pulling out the very worst qualities of a person and twisting them until there was nothing good left.
Her breathing returned to normal when she was down the stairs. It was easier to push away the memories when she wasn't in that awful corridor. When there wasn't a trial in progress, Level Ten was practically silent. If she was forced to endure a lifetime of shuffling parchment in that dreadful place like the Umbridge cow, Hermione knew she would go completely mad. She wouldn't even need the destructive potions. Certainly there were worse existences, but not many.
Dolores Umbridge sat behind her desk with a scowl on her face. A pile of files almost reaching the ceiling loomed ahead of her. Dust coated everything she wore, including the ridiculous bow that she had perched in her hair. When the sounds of Hermione's shoes clicking into the room reached her ears, she tried unsuccessfully to remove the expression. The woman might hate the younger, but she wasn't foolish enough to be openly hostile to her either. That was how wretches like her ended up in Level Eleven with a false report filed claiming they'd been critical of the regime.
"Good morning, Madam Dolohov. How may I be of assistance?"
Hermione rattled off three files that she required immediately. There was no reason to delay her actions. It wasn't as if she wanted to be down there any longer than the other woman wished her to be. As soon as Umbridge waddled off towards the section housing the documents Hermione claimed she desired, she was completely oblivious to what was happening behind her back. Hermione resisted the urge to roll her eyes. There wasn't time to waste. With her wand pointed at the ghastly pink robes, she whispered a familiar spell.
"Imperio."
Only a couple of minutes later the older witch returned with her arms filled of the requested files. Her mouth was split in a wide, genuine grin. Hermione felt her confidence rise. The woman was foolish to allow herself to be cursed so easily. Had she learned nothing in their world about not turning her back?
"Is there anything else that I can do for you, Madam Dolohov?"
"Not at this moment, Dolores, but I assure you, I will return soon."
The witch's smile never slipped the entire time Hermione was there. Satisfied that the first phase of her plan to ensure Aberforth Dumbledore was able to escape was complete, Hermione retraced her steps back to the Department of Mysteries. Her confidence that she was finally getting somewhere helped push away the worst of the flashbacks that plagued her until she stepped inside the lift.