July 9th

Hiding from her fate was the act of a coward. Hermione woke up Monday morning with a renewed determination that Rabastan wasn't going to scare her away. Only guilty people ran from their crimes. If it was her destiny to be arrested, so be it. Maybe it was time she was made to pay for her crimes. One couldn't spend more than half their life committing atrocious acts of violence and get away with it. At least they shouldn't.

Whether or not her hours spent at Draco's flat the day before trying to forget everything that was happening outside of his bed was the reason she was more confident was unclear. Certainly it had been a very pleasant way to spend her afternoon. When she returned to Hogsmeade after a long, shared bath in his decadent tub, most of the stress and worry was gone from her shoulders. At least if she was going to finally be arrested, she had a pleasant afternoon to remember. Most of her victims over the years didn't have the same privilege.

She descended the staircase in her home for what could possibly be the very last time. Each step down brought up a memory, some bad, others quite good. Though she still couldn't be sure which ones she could trust to be real and which ones she couldn't, it was still a lovely reminder that there had been at least some measure of happiness within those walls. Her husband wasn't always a monster and she did love her son. Maybe not like other mums, but she did.

Just like most mornings in their past, Antonin had breakfast ready for the family. The wizard had his faults, certainly, but he could be surprisingly nurturing and domestic when it suited him. Imagining him taking over as the next Dark Lord was becoming harder. Now that she knew the true desires in his heart, she was worried. He would be better off taking their son and running away. If his claim about smuggling people out of the country was as easy as he made it seem, perhaps what remained of her tiny family could start a new life elsewhere. Antonin had three brothers in various locations around the world. One of them might even be willing to help his older brother and nephew get back on their feet.

As she watched the man she was forced to marry thirteen years earlier move around their kitchen, she felt the tiniest shifting of her feelings towards him. He'd been far from a perfect husband, but she could never deny that he didn't try. Nor could she say he never loved her. She hoped that with his weakness gone and no longer able to consume his thoughts that he might be able to survive the coming power struggle.

Oliver watched her over his plate of eggs. She sometimes wished she could read her son's mind, but since he reminded her so much of herself at times, it was probably best that she couldn't. He was entirely too curious for his own good. Antonin would have to keep a close eye on him to keep him out of the same trouble his mum used to get in. Truthfully, it was something of a miracle that she survived her adolescence at all. There were many opportunities chasing Harry around where the outcome could've been vastly different.

She waited until the very last morsel was gone from her plate before she stood to her feet to leave. Usually, when her existence wasn't in question, she would rush through breakfast and get out of their house as quickly as she could. Spending too much time with her husband and son used to leave her feeling annoyed and frustrated. That morning, however, she didn't want to go. She wanted to make sure they would be all right without her. Sure, they survived a year without her when she was on the run, but this was different. During that year there was always the hope that she would return. Her death would be final. Were they prepared for that possibility?

If he was startled by his usually cold and distant mother's arms wrapping around his neck, Oliver didn't let on. He acted as if the tight squeeze she held him in for several long moments was perfectly normal behavior. Perhaps that was what he wanted from her all along. She'd seen how Mafalda and even Hannah hugged him. Neither woman ever appeared to be in a hurry to let go. Even if it was the only embrace he'd ever get from her like that, Hermione didn't fail him in that instance.

Antonin watched the scene at the kitchen table with a stoic, impassive expression that told his wife more than he likely meant to. After so many years together, she could read him even when he was making it difficult. He was worried, concerned that something was happening. It was possible that he was preparing himself for the very likely chance that she was about to run away from home again. In his mind, it was only a matter of time before she left. A man didn't track his wife's magic because he trusted her.

Pushing aside the sinking in her gut that he was aware something was off, Hermione kissed him goodbye. Lingering longer than she normally did, but not enough to make their son uncomfortable, Antonin lifted a single eyebrow when she stepped back. He was still staring at her with the quizzical look when she disappeared into the fireplace. Did he have an inkling that that might be the last time she ever saw them? She hoped not.

If she hadn't been afraid that she was about to be dragged down to the lowest level of the Ministry, the morning in her office might have passed just as any other did. Rabastan, of course, was late arriving. Even when she didn't want to see his face she was annoyed by his complete disregard for punctuality. He always had a separate set of rules for his behavior and for the others who worked with and for him. Hermione always brushed it off as being an obnoxious Pureblood trait.

Her Co-Head never once gave any indication that there was something for her to fear. If he seemed surprised to see her sitting behind her desk when he arrived, he hid it well. He did, however, spend much of the morning stealing glances at her across the room and saying nothing. It was an odd habit of his, one usually indicative of a desire of his to push aside work and partake in the pleasures of the flesh instead. When that was the case, he would occasionally allow his eyes to linger long enough that they made eye contact. A playful smirk would tell her what he wanted. But, each time she glanced up in an effort to catch his gaze that morning, he looked back down. He wouldn't make reading his thoughts easy at all.

In Hermione's mind there was no reason to bring up the fact that the door was closed when she was attacked in the Atrium unless Rabastan had plans to use the knowledge against her. He had never been the sort to sit on information that could be used to his benefit. If she was found to be responsible, or at least possibly responsible for helping a prisoner to escape, she would no longer be standing in his way. It might have taken over a decade, but he'd be the one completely in charge.

By mid-morning Hermione was ready to bolt. Her earlier confidence that she could meet her fate with her head held high was waning. Rabastan had a bad habit of playing with his intended victims. He liked to make them wait until their own minds betrayed them. She struggled to even keep her mind on her work. Nothing that sat on her desk was of any importance to begin with, but when all she could think of was the wizard's cruelty, she could hardly even make the words of the parchment make any sense. Was it too late to run? She didn't have her beaded bag with her because she wasn't expecting an opportunity. Was that another foolish mistake in a long line of others she'd already made?

The abrupt entrance of her idiot assistant gave her mind something to focus on. She really wasn't sure why she hadn't gotten rid of the witch yet, especially considering it was painfully obvious that they'd resumed their inappropriate dalliance. Perhaps Gemma Lestrange was serious in her quest to have another baby. In the past when the urge struck her, he'd done his duty as her husband and then sought out the charms of other women to 'cleanse his palette'. He truly was disgusting.

"This urgent message just arrived for you, Rab… Mr. Lestrange."

His squinted his eyes, annoyance evident to everyone else in the room except for the bloody idiot. When she didn't immediately exit the office, he grew more frustrated. He wasn't a man who appreciated seeing his mistresses in the harsh light of day.

"Was there something else?"

Finally realizing that she was upsetting him, Rachel rushed from the room. With a dramatic sigh and roll of his eyes, Rabastan unsealed the delivered message.

"Damn!"

Even though she knew she would likely come to regret it, Hermione wanted to know what was in the missive. He wasn't usually one to show such emotion over a message. It must've been important.

"Bad news?"

They were the first words they exchanged all morning. Initially reluctant to share the news, he sighed a second time and gave in.

"One of the prisoners down in Level Eleven died of a heart attack in the night. The spells in his cell alerted the DMLE that there was no sign of life. They just went downstairs to confirm it."

Dying of natural causes brought on by the stress of arrest and imprisonment combined with the dread and fear of an upcoming interrogation wasn't that uncommon. With the cells full, it was even less of a surprise. That many people kept down there in a constant state of anxiety usually caused some deaths.

"Thanks to the Dark Lord demanding we focus on the explosion and leave the Resistance alone until our investigation was complete, I wasn't even able to scratch the surface of what he could've told us."

He slammed his fist down on the top of his desk. All Hermione heard him say was 'Resistance'. To the best of her knowledge there was only one prisoner down in Level Eleven with known connections to the Resistance. The wizard that she was responsible for getting captured and the one she helped escape days earlier.

"I'm afraid that your efforts to get Aberforth Dumbledore captured were in vain." He stood to his feet and kicked at the rubbish bin next to his desk. "We're not going to learn anything from him now."

Rabastan stormed out of the office like a petulant child. None of what he just said made the least bit of sense. Aberforth couldn't have died of a heart attack when he wasn't even in the Ministry! Assuming there was enough polyjuice potion for Dolores Umbridge to keep taking it for almost a week, which there wasn't, if she died of a heart attack even under the influence of the polyjuice potion, her body would revert back to her usual form in death.

Someone was covering up the fact that Aberforth Dumbledore was no longer in Level Eleven. Covering up and ensuring that Hermione's secret about forcing Umbridge to do her bidding didn't get out. Who would have the power to do that? Or even the desire?