August 23rd

The first moment that the Dolohovs could leave the attic bedroom after Augustus' late-night guest left, Antonin took advantage of it. Early in the morning before the sun even up, he made his escape to their usual bedroom to shower and dress. Hermione tried not to take offense to his clear desire to be away from her, but it was difficult. A man's hurt pride was often a hindrance to a peaceful home.

It had never been her intention to upset her husband. If she was perfectly honest, she wasn't even entirely sure why he was so upset. How many times did she have to tell him she didn't want a future with Augustus before he would actually believe her? Of course, she could hear that obnoxious little voice in the back of her head reminding her that she never assured her husband that she wanted a future with him either. All she'd said was they weren't even guaranteed a future so why should they worry about it and waste the present? Hardly a romantic gesture on her part to tell him he was fine for now, just maybe not in the future. She could understand why he was so sensitive about her desires for the rest of her life. In truth, Hermione wasn't even sure she saw Antonin as her future. No doubt he could tell. That had to hurt.

No one really got to choose who they loved. It was one of life's great cruelties. Sometimes a person could be completely genuine in their feelings and actions toward the one they loved and still be rejected.

Love also didn't always make sense. Antonin admitted to her once in a drunken stupor that he fell in love with her only days after she moved into his house. The protective instinct he possessed in abundance desired nothing more than to keep her safe and sheltered from the ugliness of the world she was made a part of against her will. Though she didn't know it at the time, it was why he wanted to guard her cupboard. Hadn't her life been turned upside down enough without the fear of additional trauma inflicted upon her? It had been a kind gesture, one she wouldn't have expected out of the fearsome Death Eater notorious for his love of torturing Muggles. When she announced her desire to become a Death Eater herself, he'd begged her to reconsider, promised her that he would keep her safe. She was tired of relying on other people to keep her safe, tired of feeling weak. Becoming a Death Eater and more than just the Dark Lord's prized pet gave her the opportunity to have her own power. She didn't feel weak with his Mark on her arm.

She had been unkind to him over the course of their marriage. When she considered not just the physical violence she'd inflicted on the man, but the cruel emotional and verbal abuse, she struggled to believe why any sane man would still love her, still desire to have a future with her. Not that he was perfect. Far from it. Her memories might have been manipulated to lead her to believe that he'd been the abusive one, but that didn't make him a saint. Antonin had done his share of bad and hurtful in their marriage. Perhaps to be in love, one had to first be a little bit insane. Or perhaps he believed that after all of the terrible acts he'd committed over the course of his lifetime, loving an abusive woman was his due punishment. She hated that she had to classify herself as such. Considering the way she acted under the influence of the illegal potions and her own blood thirst, it wasn't as if Hermione could deny it was the truth. Not now that her head was finally clear after years of being choked in the shadows.

When Antonin stormed out of the safe house shortly after dressing, she no longer had any desire to remain inside. The walls felt like they were closing in on her, suffocating her. A long walk along the beach was exactly what she needed. Fresh ocean air would hopefully clear and lift her spirits. She wasn't even halfway out the kitchen door when the sound of her son's voice stopped her in her tracks.

"Are you going outside? Can I come?"

It seemed cruel to deny him the fresh air just because she was in a petulant mood. With a smile and a nod of her head, Hermione made her son's morning. Oliver rushed out the door with her, eager to be outside. They made their way to the water's edge without speaking, simply enjoying the morning air. When they'd been out for maybe a quarter of an hour, her son finally spoke the first word between them.

"Was Papa mad this morning?"

She sighed. How could she possibly answer that without getting too complicated? Nothing was ever very simple in her life. Considering her words before she replied, she couldn't help but smile when Oliver hooked his arm with hers. Their relationship was slowly developing. It crept along at a snail's pace, but there was a definite improvement from where it had been even since she returned to Hogsmeade on his twelfth birthday. As strange as it still was, Hermione discovered she rather enjoyed her son's company.

"Your father has a lot on his mind right now and I fear I may have upset him without meaning to."

"Does that happen a lot when people are married?"

"It can. Some marriages more than others."

"Sometimes I make Emmy angry and I don't even know what I did."

Hermione bit back a smile. She didn't want to embarrass her son. Emmy Rowle was Thorfinn and Hannah's middle daughter. A year older than Oliver, even Hermione had noticed how her son's eyes lit up when the pretty, quiet girl entered a room. His first love was so innocent and pure that she envied him the experience. Had she ever been so innocent? It was impossible to remember.

"I'm afraid that can happen sometimes."

They continued their walk in silence again. Oliver didn't release his hold on his mother and she found she quite liked the affectionate gesture. Each moment he didn't pull away from her warmed her heart just a little bit more and gave her hope that perhaps all was not lost between them.

"In Diagon Alley you told me that you had an episode. What did you mean by that?"

Hermione's first instinct was to shield her son from the full truth. Yes, he knew bits and pieces from their previous conversation when she explained that Rodolphus couldn't be trusted because of the spells he used on her mind, but she didn't tell him everything. Part of her began to understand why Antonin was so determined to shield the ugliness of the truth from her. She didn't want to frighten Oliver or have him concerned about her well-being. Wasn't he allowed to just be a child? His childhood would be over so soon. It was tempting to carry the burden entirely on her shoulders, but considering how infuriated with Antonin she got for doing the same to her, she just couldn't bring herself to keep it hidden.

"I already told you I got confused. I thought I was back in my sixth year of Hogwarts when Headmaster Albus Dumbledore died. Do you recognize the name?"

He nodded, but didn't say anything else. Over twenty years after his death the legacy of the wizard had been tarnished by Lord Voldemort's regime. Some still remembered him for the good he once did. An entire generation had grown up hearing nothing but lies and rubbish about her former Headmaster. Now, though Hermione's own feelings about the wizard were complicated, she couldn't completely ignore the positive to only focus on the negative. History was always rewritten by the victors. She wondered what else would change as the regime she helped build continued to crumble. If history books mentioned her name, she highly doubted she would be remembered fondly.

"Albus Dumbledore was a complicated man. I disagreed with a lot of what he did when I was older and better able to understand how harmful his tactics really were. When he died, it was terrible. The school was attacked."

"By Papa?"

"No, he wasn't a part of that attack."

It struck her once again that her son knew more than she realized. With such a prodigious curiosity, it shouldn't have been a surprise that he would seek out everything he could learn about his parents' pasts. A day would come when the Dolohov family had to sit down and be completely honest. As much as she might have dreaded that day, it was only fair.

"We were devastated by the Headmaster's death. His funeral was quite elaborate. When your father and I went to the Dark Lord's funeral, I had a terrible headache. I got very dizzy and confused. Somehow I fell out of my chair into the grass. Caused quite a scene. Everyone was looking at me. When I looked up and saw your father, I thought he was there to kill me. I thought I was back at the Headmaster's funeral and we were under attack. I screamed that the Death Eaters were there and we should all run. Then I called out for Harry Potter."

Oliver's eyes widened at the mention of the name no one was brave enough to speak out loud.

"The Minister for Magic actually had to stun me because I started kicking and scratching your father. When I was stunned, he carried me home. It was an embarrassing scandal, I'm afraid."

"Is that why the newspaper keeps printing articles saying you've lost your mind?"

"How do you know about that?"

Realizing he'd said too much, Oliver's cheeks flushed red and he suddenly found the ground at their feet terribly fascinating. Hermione wanted to laugh, but managed to keep her composure. Staring at him with a serious expression, he broke under the pressure. With a heavy sigh he confessed his dark secret.

"Gus is really terrible at hiding the newspapers Papa doesn't want us to see."

Unable to hold it in any longer, Hermione burst out into loud laughter. Understanding that she wasn't upset with him, Oliver joined in. She shouldn't have been surprised at all to learn her son found the newspapers. He was like her in so many ways or rather, who she used to be. A part of the girl who died in the broom cupboard was reborn in her son.

"You're absolutely right. He's terrible. Did you read anything that shocked you or you have any questions about?"

"I know most of what's in there is complete tosh. At least that's what Papa says, but… it said that you seemed afraid that Papa was trying to kill you again. Has he… has he tried to kill you before?"

There seemed no reason to lie to him. In only a few years he would be the same age she was when she broke into the Department of Mysteries, the first time Antonin tried, and mercifully failed, to kill her.

"Yes, your father's tried to kill me at least twice. Almost succeeded the first time. I suppose after what I did at your birthday party, he and I are even now."

The topic of his eleventh birthday had not yet come up between them. Like his parents' violent pasts and her moments of public confusion, it was only ever going to be a matter of time before they eventually had to discuss the truth. It was better in her opinion that they do it sooner rather than later to prevent him from hearing wrong information elsewhere.

"Did you mean to kill Papa that day? Or was it just the potions and the spells in your head that made you do it?"

She felt a burning in her eyes that she wasn't used to. It had been so long since she allowed herself to cry regularly that when errant tears popped up in her eyes, she wasn't entirely sure what to do with them. Rubbing at them, she sighed and tried to think how she was going to broach such a difficult topic.

"Yes, I believe it was. I think Rodolphus Lestrange wanted me to attack your father, but I'm not sure why."

They ended their walk along the water a short time later. Oliver knew the barest of details, the broadest of outlines. While neither of his parents came away looking very good after she explained to him the reasons why they'd both attacked each other in the past, she knew it was a necessary conversation for them to have. For the rest of the day, she watched him lost in his own thoughts, waiting for the next questions she was sure would come.