July 12th

Hermione waited for hours for Antonin to come home. As much as she might have been expecting the moment when their master finally died to come, especially after seeing him in the flesh weeks earlier, she wasn't prepared for it to actually happen. Planning and assuming what she was going to do in the event was one thing. Reality often was another. In those first few moments after the pain ended, she thought of nothing else but running back home to her family. Maybe she'd made her choice, decided that Antonin was the only one she would follow. She tried not to dwell too much on the significance of what her first instinct was.

Only minutes passed from the time she ran out of her office until she was standing in her kitchen. Screaming out for her wizards, she didn't waste a moment sealing the fireplace. It was imperative that the Floo connection be severed. If the next several hours or days did not go well in their favor, they didn't need to have an access for the outside world to come inside their sanctuary. Part of her wished that they bought the cottage in the countryside years earlier. At the time, they were concerned about being too isolated from the rest of their society, of Oliver not having friends close by to play with. She hated that they stayed in the middle of the village. Defending their home from enemies would be that much harder.

Oliver rushed into the kitchen shortly after his mother called out for him. Completely unaware that his entire world was about to change, he was bothered when he realized what she was doing. There had always been a family plan put in place for emergencies as long as he was aware. Each member of their small family had their parts to play, their responsibilities to perform. Not wasting any time demanding his mother tell him what was wrong, he ran out the back door calling his cat's name. Despite the fact that it only had three legs, his cat had a bad habit of roaming too far from their house. Hermione finished closing off the fireplace connection and moved to strengthening the wards around the entire house.

"Papa isn't home yet."

Her son ran into the backdoor with his cat in his arms. There was fear evident on his face even if it was also clear that he was trying to be brave and hide it. If she wasn't afraid that at any moment an angry mob of people was going to come storming into their home, she might have stopped to smile a moment at the Gryffindor her son became.

"He'll be able to get through when he gets home. We've practiced this before."

"What's happened, Mummy?"

At twelve years old it was easy to forget that he was moving into that awkward time of life when he wasn't a man, but he wasn't exactly a child either. He was perceptive and far more observant than either of his parents would've liked. Hermione lowered her wand, pausing the magic to look at him fully. Her heart clenched at the realization that he was at the same age she was when she first helped Harry fight against the Dark Lord. Was history determined to keep repeating itself over and over again until they learned their lessons? Children had no business being dragged into war!

She wrapped her arms around her son, holding him tightly against her chest. Oliver deserved better than what fate had given him for parents. She could feel the courage in her child begin to waver. What should she tell him? The truth was far too frightening. But, didn't he deserve to know how much danger he was potentially in? If the Dolohovs were eradicated from their world, he would be caught in the maelstrom of violence too. An accident of birth put him in danger.

"We'll talk about it when your father gets home, but for now, we need to make sure the house is secure."

For hours, her son didn't leave her side. She was glad for the company as they waited for Antonin to come back. Neither of them said it out loud, but both of them feared that they would be waiting forever. No one was invincible. No one was immortal. That included their husband and father. They had to prepare themselves for the very real possibility that it was just the two of them left. She had to make plans. Remaining in the country wouldn't be an option. Rabastan made that clear. Maybe she would take Oliver to Africa. His uncle was there and she knew it was safe. Or they could go to Australia. Her parents might even follow them once they found out their only child and grandchild couldn't come back to the country. Hermione knew that she would have to make up her mind quickly if Antonin was dead.

Long after midnight, they were still alone. Oliver fell asleep in his parents' bed while his mother sat against the headboard considering her choices. Would they have any allies? Or just enemies? She was under no delusions that the Resistance would ever be willing to take her in again. Not even if she brought her son with her. They would never trust her again. And honestly, she couldn't blame them. The Hermione who fought for the Greater Good and for the Light side and for what was good and fair no longer lived. She died twenty years earlier in a dark, dusty broom cupboard. All that remained was a witch who wouldn't allow herself to be made a victim again. Even if she had to kill every single person who crossed her path, she would if it meant that she would get to safety.

The sound of the front door opening downstairs broke Hermione out of her thoughts. Careful not to jostle the bed too much to wake Oliver up, she got up to prepare for the next few moments. Unless her husband gave away the secret of the wards they used to protect their home, only one person would be standing at the bottom of the staircase. She was surprised at the intensity of the relief she felt to see Antonin unharmed and whole. Her feet descended the stairs faster than they'd ever done so before. Her husband was ready to catch her when she threw herself into his waiting arms. Holding him tight, she understood his strange behavior that morning. He had been saying goodbye. Whatever happened that day, he didn't expect to come home from.

"Papa!"

Hermione didn't have an opportunity to ask him any questions before their son joined them downstairs. In a similar move to the one she made, Oliver launched himself at his father. Antonin hugged him so tightly that his feet dangled off of the ground. Soft sobs were muffled by the heavy fabric of Antonin's robes. Feeling suddenly emotional and fearing she might burst, Hermione busied her hands and her mind with reapplying the wards her husband had to pull down to enter. When he set Oliver back down on his feet, Antonin kissed the top of his head and playfully ruffled his hair. Tears streaked down their son's face.

"Ollie, take Sam and go upstairs to your room. I promise no one is coming through these doors."

Their son seemed reluctant to follow his father's orders, but he knew better than to argue. With another hug from his father and a kiss from his mother, he called to his cat. Up the stairs they went while his parents watched in silence. Hermione knew that whatever Antonin was going to tell her wouldn't be said until the door to Oliver's room was shut and silencing spells placed around them. At the sound of the door shutting, he did just as she suspected. Only when they were encased in a silent bubble did they speak.

"Antonin, what happened?"

He pressed his lips hard against hers.

"I killed him."

"You… you what?"

"I killed the Dark Lord."

For weeks she'd been preparing herself for the moment when he came home to announce that Lord Voldemort's rotting body finally gave out. It was only ever going to be a matter of time. Based on the seeping sores covering his flesh when she was forced to meet him face to face, she knew that he was practically dead. Never did she expect those five simple words to come out of her husband's mouth.

"What?"

She didn't trust her ears and needed him to repeat himself. A hint of a smirk formed on his lips.

"Remember how I told you that Ollie could finish him off with a tickling charm? Apparently a pillow over his face worked just as well."

The truth was hard to believe. The supposedly immortal Dark Lord was killed in perhaps the most ignominious way possible. It was how elderly Muggles were murdered by vengeful grandchildren or inept burglars… not how the most powerful Dark wizard in history was supposed to be taken down. It was almost funny. She could feel a nervous chuckle bubbling up inside her. Hardly an appropriate reaction to the news that her master was dead, she tried to stifle it.

"Why? The Dark Lord was already dying."

"We needed a big enough distraction to get the attention off of you after whatever it was you did that you won't tell me. And we needed a distraction to get Babajide Akingbade smuggled into the country."

Her husband killed the Dark Lord for her. Not just because she was in trouble, but also because he needed to get the memory charms expert from Uganda across the border. If she ever needed proof that he loved her as much as he claimed, that was it. She also couldn't deny the brilliance of the plan. Those in charge of watching the borders were almost all Marked. Even those that weren't could hardly be blamed for getting distracted by their supervisors writhing in pain and vomiting a foul, disgusting substance for several minutes. It was just enough time for an unauthorized border crossing.

"Alain is back and he brought his friend with him. I've got them tucked away in a safe house. No one will think to look for them there. Akingbade said that he's willing to help you with your memories."

Hermione could see the light at the end of the tunnel. As much as it terrified her to know what she was missing, to know what she had blocked in her mind, she was excited.

"What happens next?"

He pressed his lips against hers again. Softer than before, he didn't break the kiss until they were both short of breath and needing air.

"First, you are going to join me in a long, hot shower and then I'm taking you to bed where we're going to celebrate the beginning of the rest of our lives. The monster is dead."