July 1st

Hermione's day at the Ministry was every bit as interminable as she expected it to be. It had been a long time since she had to keep such grueling hours. Out of practice, all that kept her from giving up early was the knowledge that that was exactly the kind of weakness Rabastan was expecting her to display. He was always searching for reasons to get the upper hand and she refused to allow him the satisfaction.

The interview with Rosalind Nott lasted many, many hours. Once she got over her initial shyness and shame, she was extremely cooperative. A few times she continued speaking even after the Veritaserum wore off. To be safe and to ensure that they could trust what she said, they always had her repeat what she said again under the influence of the potion. Each time she told the truth. She was easily one of the most cooperative witnesses they'd ever had. Sneaky too. Despite clearly being terrified of her new husband, she'd had many opportunities to snoop through the manor to listen at keyholes or uncover hidden nooks and other hiding places while she was left alone during the planning of her wedding. Neither her parents nor her betrothed thought that she would be able to provide anything useful to the conversation so she was left out entirely. She promised to be helpful in the inevitable investigation that would take place in her new home. There were a few cupboards she thought they would find interesting.

With her head practically swimming with information and plans for their next steps, Hermione considering skipping a visit to Number Twelve. Surely the potion would be all right for one day. She had another long day looming ahead of her in just a few short hours. In the end she decided she was too close to the end to be reckless. A quick visit, uninterrupted by any unwanted guests, was all she needed to settle her nerves. The potion was still in perfect condition.

Just after midnight she unlocked her front door, more ready for bed than she'd been in ages. It was unsettling to leave when the sun was down and come home in the dark. Climbing the stairs was an effort for her tired body. How much worse would it be when she had to participate in the more thorough investigation of Theodore Nott? Careful to be quiet, she stepped over the creaky stair.

The door to the bedroom she shared with Antonin was still open to her surprise. Neither of them liked to sleep without the door closed. Beyond the fact that open doors made detecting an intruder intent on doing harm in the middle of the night more difficult, Antonin had an almost irrational fear of fire. One article in an outdated issue of Witch Weekly left in the waiting room of the Healer who delivered Oliver taught him about all of the horrors that could happen in a fast-moving house fire where the bedroom doors were open. With a roll of her eyes behind his back, she made the promise to always close the doors.

She felt the exhausted muscles in her face morph into a smile when she saw the scene that waited for her within. Oliver, evidently waiting up for his mother to return home, was fast asleep in the middle of their bed. Antonin lay asleep next to him. Her son really was too old to be sleeping in bed with his parents, but she couldn't help but think how sweet it was, how reminiscent of the days when he was much smaller seeking out the protection of his parents when he'd had a bad dream. Little did he know at the time that his parents were actual monsters and the stars of other peoples' nightmares.

It was tempting to climb in bed with them just as she was. Only the icky feeling that clung to her skin each time she left the Ministry of Magic prevented her from doing just that. Carefully placed silencing spells around the bathroom as she washed the invisible slime off of her body that came with her career kept her men asleep. When her shower was finished and she was dressed in her pajamas, she wondered if she would have enough energy to even make it to her bed.

Once the spells were removed, Hermione opened the door slowly to the bedroom. No movement on the bed proved her efforts were not in vain. To put her husband's mind at ease when he woke up in the morning, she pulled the door leading out to the corridor closed. She still found it amusing that a man who was perpetually cold thanks to well over a decade in Azkaban could be so afraid of dying in a fire. In her warped mind, she would think that would be how he'd want to go. At least then he wouldn't be cold. But, she supposed irrational fears were just that - irrational. She had more than enough of her own to worry about someone else's.

Padding softly on her feet across the thick rug, she pulled the edge of the covers on her side of the bed up. Oliver had been a heavy sleeper since he was a baby. It was a trait that neither of his parents shared to their amusement. Of course, it wasn't difficult for an innocent child with no regrets or worries on their mind to find peace. Their son slept soundly with the knowledge that his parents would always take care of him. She was able to slide in next to him without him even stirring.

Even though she was exhausted, Hermione couldn't make herself look away from the sweet face of the child she never wanted. He was looking more and more like his father, a fact that should've encouraged him. There was a lot about Antonin that wasn't pretty, but his face wasn't one of them. Looking at her son always helped to give her a sense of what the young, innocent Antonin Dolohov was like before the cruelties of reality irrevocably changed him. Her husband claimed he could see a great deal of his mother in Oliver too. Perhaps he felt the same way looking at their child. He was a visual reminder of the innocents his parents would never be again.

A lock of his thick, wavy hair fell over Oliver's eye. Though it wasn't bothering him as he continued to sleep, Hermione reached out to carefully brush it away from his face. She felt a stirring within her chest that she couldn't quite describe. Something akin to pride, perhaps. She wasn't sure. But she did know that after an entire day and most of the night interviewing another practical child who was thrust into the cruel harshness of their world, she longed to protect him as long as she could. He was the same age she was when she aided her best friend in his mission to keep the Philosopher's Stone out of the hands of the dark wizard she would later pledge her life too. So young and so very innocent, she couldn't have known how difficult the path she would later travel would become. If he was every bit the Gryffindor that she imagined him to be, Oliver would soon find himself in his own noble quest to fight for what was right in a world that was wrong.

There was no question in her mind whether or not she would aid Rabastan and his mysterious faction once the Dark Lord died. Even the thought of knowingly and deliberately creating a situation where her son could become a victim of their violence simply because he was the son of an enemy stoked a fire in her blood. Yes, Rabastan might have claimed that he wouldn't allow any harm to come to her son, but she didn't trust him. Not as far as she could throw him without magic. The man was slimy and unpredictable. She was better off trusting the fate of her son to a venomous viper.

It felt bizarre to feel so protective of her child when she rarely felt much of anything at all for him over the twelve years of his life. She wasn't a good mum. That was a fact that no one would ever convince her of otherwise. Oliver would've been better off being born to just about any other woman in the entire world. Or simply not born at all. But, now that he was her responsibility, she felt the desire to keep him safe and away from the same horrors of war she experienced as a child so strongly it was almost choking.

She gently kissed his forehead, not even caring if he woke up in that moment. No doubt if he did he would find her behavior unsettling. Rarely was she affectionate. Staring into his serene sleeping face, she almost missed the shifting of the bed on the other side of her son. Antonin reached over Oliver's still form to brush a tear on Hermione's face away with his fingertips. Their eyes met in the semi-darkness. She knew what her answer would be if Rabastan asked her again to join his side. Maybe it would be harder to run away with Antonin as the Dark Lord, but at least she could be secure in the fact that their son had the best chance of remaining safe with his father in power.

"I'm going to tell Rabastan no."

Not even the whisper interrupted their son's sleep. She envied him the ability to be so confident and secure in his own safety. It had been years since she last felt the same way. Antonin's fingertips traced the outline of her jaw.

"Don't tell him no. Not yet. He might tell you more if he thinks there's even a chance you might agree."

She couldn't argue with her husband's logic. Rabastan was tenacious. When he wanted something, he set his mind to it and wouldn't be deterred. It was highly possible that he would say too much as he tried to persuade her to join his side.

"All right. I won't tell him no. Not yet."

The thought of being a spy again brought her no peace of mind, but she supposed that was a luxury she couldn't afford. Not in those uncertain times. With the agreement settled, she closed her eyes to try to find her own rest. She didn't bother with setting an alarm. Her body would wake when it was ready, not a moment before.