July 27th

Her husband hadn't returned from wherever he ran off to before night fell. Not that she really expected him to. After what she admitted earlier that afternoon, Hermione knew that Antonin would need time to calm down before he could face her again. She might be his weakness, but she was also the one person who could make him the angriest, the fastest. Likewise, he was the same for her. Something about being married, perhaps? Even the couples she knew that were madly and disgustingly in love with each other, the Rowles, for example, admitted that their spouses could drive them to desire the most heinous forms of violence simply for opening their mouths at the wrong time. It was possible that marriage was complicated for everyone.

She didn't doubt Antonin's warning that he would throw her out of their home permanently if she tried to remove the wards again, even temporarily. The cold manner in which he looked at her as he mentioned his son instead of theirs was further proof that he meant what he said. She was his weakness. Oliver was his strength. There was nothing he wouldn't do for their child, including throw his mother to the wolves if she proved to be a danger.

From the moment the front door slammed behind his irate father, Oliver knew something was wrong. Experience taught him a great deal about reading his parents' moods, even if they attempted to pretend that all was right in the world. He always knew. His father's perceptiveness and his mother's inquisitiveness made for a dangerous combination. He was just the sort to get in a great deal of trouble as he grew older. Hermione only hoped that the influence of his father could keep him from being punished too severely when he did. She didn't get the feeling she'd be around long enough to know for certain. The future was impossible to predict.

The sound of Oliver's footsteps climbing up the stairs and then coming towards her bedroom didn't surprise Hermione. She knew it wouldn't be long before he came looking for answers. What she was going to tell him was something, however, that she didn't know. Oliver was only twelve years old. It wasn't fair to drag him into the problems created by the adults. Her childhood and adolescence were ruined because careless adults dragged her into a war they should've never fought. She would be damned if she would allow the same thing to happen to her child.

"Is Papa mad?"

Hermione sighed, unsure where to even begin. Knowing she would find no more rest, she climbed out of bed. Oliver stayed in the doorway, concern written all over his face. She gave him a half-smile.

"Only at me. He'll come home later when he's had a chance to think and calm down."

"I don't like it when you fight."

His words were said in a soft tone that struck Hermione right in the heart. Even though he'd grown several inches over the past year, standing just a few steps away he looked so much like the little boy he used to be. All too quickly he would grow up, but in that moment, it was obvious that he was still a child. Of course he hated when his parents fought. Unfortunately for him, that had been a common occurrence in his life since he was born.

"I know. I'm sorry. Sometimes it's unavoidable."

For the rest of the day and into the evening, Oliver was never far, always watching, waiting. She knew it unnerved him to have his father outside in the world when he didn't know the details of what was happening either. For a reason that she couldn't understand yet, Antonin cancelled all delivery of the Daily Prophet, so they didn't even have the facts that the regime wanted them to know to read. Or maybe it was all so chaotic out there that the newspaper wasn't being printed regularly. Hermione couldn't be sure. When she would stand at the windows of her home looking out at the small corner of the village she could see, she never saw any movement or anything indicating the world was falling apart around them.

When midnight approached and went, she ordered her son up to bed. He could barely keep his eyes open as it was, but she didn't like having him near while she was so close to worry. Antonin could've been out there doing only gods knew what, possibly getting himself killed in the process. Though not usually the paranoid sort, isolation from the rest of the world was beginning to put her overactive imagination to work. Having Oliver close by worrying about his father made it that much harder for her to convince herself that everything was going to be all right.

By half past one in the morning, she knew something was wrong. Yes, her husband had had some late nights since the trouble with the regime began with the fall of their leader. This, somehow, was different. She could feel it in her bones that he was somewhere he shouldn't have been. Considering all that she admitted to him when she woke up that started the row and then all that he learned last night about what she uncovered in her sessions, it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine that Antonin was out there trying to track down his enemies.

What would happen if he somehow managed to find Rodolphus? She knew that Antonin would try to kill him without a single doubt in her mind, but would he be successful? Rodolphus hadn't made it that far in life without knowing how to take care of himself and his enemies. The moment he knew that Antonin knew his secret, he would be ready to kill. Whatever he had ultimately planned for Hermione, her husband would only be getting in the way. The evil animagus preferred when he was out of the picture completely.

She knew that if she tried to go to bed she would find no rest. Besides having slept for most of the day thanks to the potion she imbibed, her mind wouldn't shut itself off if she tried. As much as she might have hated to admit it, she was worried about Antonin. That was a feeling she was surprised to have for the man. Rest would not be possible until she knew that he was back inside their house, safe and sound. Not for the first time since she returned to Hogsmeade, she reflected on how much had changed in just a few short months. Sipping at a full glass of fire whiskey she poured to calm her nerves, she continued her wait at the kitchen table, hoping that it wouldn't be much longer.

Her third glass was more empty than full and the clock over the table showed a quarter past two when she heard the distinctive 'pop' of Apparition in the back garden. Jumping to her feet, she prepared herself for the very real possibility that the new arrival meant her harm. She extinguished the only light left in the room and crossed to the large window over the kitchen sink.

"Is it Papa?"

So rattled were her nerves that Hermione spun around to point her wand in her son's direction. Oliver stood in the doorway dressed in his pajamas holding his own wand in his hand. Her heart clenched at the sight. He was just a child! What sort of spells could he hope to use against an enemy that meant them harm? He should never be in a position where he had to even worry about trying to protect his mother or himself. She hated the world. Every fucking bit of it. Was this why she fought in a war and then spent the past twenty years supporting the regime that was built from the ashes? Children should never have to fight.

"Go upstairs to your room, Ollie, and lock the door."

He was reluctant to leave his mother alone in the kitchen. Just as she was about to lose her patience and yell at him to go, the back door opened. There wasn't time to run. Spinning back around, she had half a dozen curses ready on her tongue.

"Papa!"

None of them were needed. Antonin stumbled into the room, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. Oliver, completely ignoring his mother's earlier demand, rushed towards his father to keep him from tumbling to the ground. The sharp scent of blood hung in the air. After so many years in her chosen profession, Hermione could always smell it before she saw it.

"Help him to the chair, Ollie."

She closed the door behind her husband after she swept the immediate area with her eyes for any intruders or someone else who might wish to harm them. Satisfied when she saw nothing out there, she reapplied the wards he had to tear down to enter. Only when she knew that no one was coming in behind him did she allow herself to take a closer look at her husband.

He was a stubborn fool who wasn't easily killed. Or at least that's what she'd told him more than a few times over the twenty years they shared a house when he would come home injured. Sometimes he didn't know when to back down from a fight. His pride would be his downfall one day if he wasn't more careful. Without asking him for permission, Hermione started removing his bloody shirt to see what sorts of wounds he had. The tremors in his hands told her that he'd been subjected to the Cruciatus Curse at least once, though probably at least two or three times based on the severity.

"It's just a few cuts and bruises. I'm fine."

"Let me be the judge of that. Ollie, go upstairs and get the box of healing potions out of the cupboard."

Oliver didn't need to be told twice. His concern for his father was clear. Only moments after being asked, he was rushing out of the kitchen towards the stairs. Hermione waited until she knew he was out of earshot to speak.

"Are you telling me the truth, Antonin? I can tell you've been Crucioed. Don't even try to deny it. What else?"

"Just a few cuts and bruises, I swear."

"Where did all of this blood come from?"

He dropped his eyes to the floor to stare at the heap of fabric she'd dropped.

"It's not all mine."

She wanted to demand more answers from him, but Oliver ran into the room with the potions. Their son didn't need to know the details of what he had been up to. As much as they could, they wanted to shield him from the nasty truth about their world. He was already frightened enough. Adding more worries to the child just felt cruel.

"Ollie, you should be in bed. It's late."

"I was worried about you, Papa."

Antonin smiled at his son and gently ruffled his hair. Both of them calmed ever so slightly at the interaction.

"I'm home now and I'm fine. Your mum's going to take care of me. Go on up to bed. I'll see you in the morning."

The fact that he wanted to argue about staying downstairs was further proof that he belonged to them. Everyone in the Dolohov family was too stubborn for their own good. It took one more demand from his father before he went back up to his room. They waited until they heard the door to his bedroom shut before speaking again.

"What do you mean it's not all your blood? Whose is it?"

"Rabastan's mostly. Probably a little bit of Marcus Flint's too."

"Did you kill them?"

He laughed and immediately thought better of his decision. Grabbing his side, she knew without checking that he had at least one broken rib. Whatever he'd been involved in that day since he ran out of the house clearly was very interesting.

"No, they're both still alive. Rabastan probably wishes he wasn't though."

She pushed a healing potion and a bottle of Skele-Gro into his hands. Reluctantly, he swallowed both potions. As soon as they started to take effect, she helped him up the stairs to their bedroom. Healing bones was an exhausting and painful process. The rest of his explanation could wait until he had some rest. Now that he was home, she felt confident that she could finally get some sleep too.