A/N: This fic comes with warnings. I hope to avoid giving spoilers so they are at the bottom of the page, but I do urge you to read them. I do not own Harry Potter in any way shape or form. Thank you so much to camillablue, Dramione Perfected and Lauren Larkin for all their help and patience. x

I wish.

It was very quiet. And sudden. There was no fanfare. No blazing lights. No curses flying everywhere. No screaming, no protest and no goodbye. He wasn't tortured for information. He didn't fling himself in front of an innocent. He didn't go out in a blaze of glory. There wasn't even an illness that struck him down in a fickle fit of fancy. Just the sound of flesh hitting flesh, then flesh hitting a kitchen counter and then nothing. Nothing but the sound of a sobbing child.

That was me.

I don't know why it shocked me after that but it wasn't the first time, I was told. I wish I hadn't witnessed the last.

I remembered clearly, years ago, my dad holding me tight. He was whispering comforting nonsense to me; telling me 'it's okay', 'I'm sorry', 'I love you.' But it wasn't okay and dad shouldn't have been sorry and he didn't know what love was. Not if he counted this. It sure was a fine way to celebrate his Anniversary; laying in the hospital bed, wrapped in bandages and tubes.

I hadn't realised the truth at the time, of course.

"Just an accident, James. Let it go."

I wish I hadn't.

…

His body was covered in marks: burns, bruises, scars; some formed under friendly-fire. I just never realised. Always assumed it was the enemy.

"But how did it get there?" I'd stared down at the table top, transfixed by my father's hand.

"It doesn't matter, James," dad had sighed, the way he did when my endless questions turned to the past.

"Who put it there?" I'd demanded.

"An evil woman." It was said simply; so matter-of-fact, like stating the time.

"Why does it say that?" I'd reached for his hand to look closer, but he had simply turned his palm upwards and taken my smaller hand in his. "You're not a liar." He'd looked down at that, not into my eyes like he usually did.

"I was telling everyone that Voldemort had returned. She didn't want people believing me."

It was all I was going to get out of him, I'd known that. Besides, my attention had been re-captured by his wrist and the marks staining his skin.

"Did an evil woman do that too?" I'd asked with all the tact of the small child I'd been. He'd glanced up apprehensively and bit his lip. I'd felt my mother's hands on my shoulders.

"James, leave your father alone." I'd craned my head up to look at her. I'd wanted to protest. I'd wanted to know more about the evil woman. I'd pictured her dressed in black; green and warty like the Wicked Witch of the West in the Muggle film dad had shown me. Or with crazy black hair and dark eyes and a skull-like face, like in that newspaper clipping I'd caught Teddy glaring at once.

She smiled at me; her tone was gentle but firm: "Go and play Quidditch with your cousins."

The idea of Quidditch had driven wicked witches out of my head. "'Kay, mum!" I'd jumped off the chair and raced out the door. I'd only looked back for a second and glimpsed mum and dad kissing; her fiercely so - a hand tangled in his hair. To me they'd looked so in love.

I wished I'd looked closer.

Maybe I would have seen some green under those beautiful looks.

Then again, maybe not.

….

I used to believe that they never fought. But all couples do, some just behind a locked door. Always his idea. Let's talk in private, dear. The silence frustrated me. I liked listening in on conversations, especially those that involved me. Didn't like being kept in the dark. I wish I'd stayed there.

"I'm sorry, Love. You know how much I want to go but they brought the court date forward-" I'd heard dad's voice drift up the stairs as I descended. I'd hoped to have him on my side when I asked for a new broom. It was that bloody tree's fault not mine, after all. I'd listened for a response and sure enough she sounded peeved.

"You promised, Harry. You've had this date in your calendar for a while now." I'd sighed. If dad was already in mum's bad books then now wasn't a good time to ask. Not without an ally.

"I know Gin, I tried to get out of it…" he trailed off as he caught sight of me. Mum turned and saw me too; she hadn't looked as annoyed as her voice had suggested. In fact, she was lovingly smoothing out dad's rumpled shirt collar. She'd smiled at me and gave dad's shoulder a squeeze. I thought I'd imagined the wince.

"It's fine. I know you wouldn't be cancelling if it wasn't important," she'd told him lightly.

"Thanks for understanding, Gin. I'll make it up to you." He'd kissed her on the cheek and my heart had soared. They were playing nice; maybe a new broom was possible after all.

"I know you will, love."

…..

How could I have been so self-absorbed? So naive? So clueless?

"Merlin, dad, slow down." We'd been rushing through the busy street; weaving in and out of fellow pedestrians. I'd had a hard time keeping up with dad but he'd kept me close; probably worried about losing me in the swarm of workers making their way home.

"We're late."

"I'm sure we're not," I'd reassured, trying to glance down at my watch.

"We were supposed to be there half-an-hour ago, James," he'd informed me, sounding slightly breathless.

"Only half-an-hour? Merlin, you'd think we'd missed the whole thing the way you're carrying on."

"James." There'd been a warning in his voice that only a parent could achieve.

"Sorry, it's just you're panicking over nothing," I'd huffed as we'd broke off from the crowd and headed down a deserted alley. We'd slowed our pace as he pulled himself together.

"I'm not panicking," he'd protested. "It's good to be punctual." He's given me a stern look that was softened by his smile. I'd grinned; cheekily and carefree. I'd teased him:

"You just don't want mum to be mad at you."

"Yes, I'd rather avoid that, thank you." His tone was deadpan in a way I was used to associating with his sarcasm. I'd completely missed the wistful note to it.

"Look, she'll just tut and look disapproving, maybe moan a little and then laugh it off. We'll go to this stupid function, she'll have a great time and that'll be that." I'd been so nonchalant; couldn't see what the fuss was about. He'd smiled back. All traces of worry were gone from his face. He'd taken my arm and before we'd apparated he'd told me:

"Yea. You're right."

I wish I had been.

….

I cried when it happened. I cried so hard.

Now I can't help but wonder; can't help but look back and think. How many 'Let's talk in private, dear's' had resulted in a reasonable adult discussion and how many with hexes unfurling? How many black eyes and split lips had been the result of a 'bad day at the office' and how many from a bad day at home?

How many times had I woken to dad yelling from a nightmare as he slept beside his wife? How many times had it been from a nightmare he was living because of his wife?

"I'm sorry I woke you, Jamie."

"Go back to sleep, buddy."

"Everything's fine, son."

My dad was a very private man. Very quiet. He kept his opinions to himself, unless asked. He kept his secrets too, even when I asked. I wish I'd tried harder.

"Are you crying, dad?"

I'd heard the front-door door slam as I'd walked into the kitchen and the sight was disconcerting at best. Dad didn't cry. He was a big, tough Auror. Head of the Aurors. Totally indomitable.

"It's the onions."

I'd screwed my face up in confusion. "Onions?" Dad wiped his eyes on his sleeve, blinking furiously, and moved over to the simmering pot on the stove. It had smelled heavenly. My dad's cooking always did.

"Onions make me cry, kid." He'd gestured to the slices of onions, carefully chopped on the counter, as if they were exhibit A in his case. I'd crossed my arms over my chest, trying to look defiant as I stated my counter-argument.

"I'm not crying." Dad had simply chuckled, adding the onion to the pot.

"You must be tougher than me, then," he'd teased before beckoning me over. He'd handed me a spoon. I'd stared at it and he'd laughed. "You use it to stir, Jamie."

"I know that," I'd grumbled and for a while I'd stood there, stirring the pot while dad prepared the next ingredient. He was quieter than usual and I'd wanted to break the silence.

"Where's mum gone?" I think he'd stiffened at that. I barely noticed at the time and I might be imagining it now.

"She's at a friend's house," he'd told me and I'd rolled my eyes. I'd gotten that reply a lot.

"She's always there."

"Her friend's going through a tough time, mum's helping her out." He'd shrugged casually but he'd succeeded in making me feel slightly guilty for moaning.

"Oh. She home for dinner?" He'd shaken his head before putting on a smile.

"It's just me and you misfits." He put his hands on my shoulders and gently moved me aside as he spoke.

"I'm not a misfit," I'd huffed. The pot had bubbled as dad had worked his muggle-magic. "They're misfits. I fit just fine." He hadn't chuckled, like I'd expected him to. He'd turned and pulled me into a hug.

"We all do, Jamie. We're a family." I'd nodded into his chest, not really sure how else to respond. "I love you, kid." He'd held on a little tighter, like he never wanted to let go. He did though.

I wish he hadn't.

It had happened again the following week. The same door slam. The same meal prepared. Another hug.

"I love you and I'm not going to lose you." It was just a whisper but I'd heard it anyway.

"Why would you lose me?" I'd blurted out. He'd looked slightly startled, then smiled, his eyes teasing – normal dad again.

"It's you, Jamie, you're too skinny." He'd tickled me then, announcing through my giggles that I'd 'disappear if I turned sideways.'

"I'm not that skinny," I'd protested. He had stood back and looked me over, pretending to consider my point.

"Yea, you're right. You don't need fattening up anymore. I think me, Al and Lil will have this all to ourselves." He's gestured to the pot and I'd thrown my hands up in mock indignation.

"You can't do that! I'm helping to cook it after all."

"I suppose so," he'd relented.

"Love you too, dad." It was meant to sound lightly sarcastic but he'd teared up anyway.

At the time, I'd sighed, shook my head and joked, "Those onions really get you bad, don't they, dad?"

…..

I wish he'd told me. Somebody. Anybody.

My dad was a very private man. He's also a very dead man.

I wish – oh God, I just wish. I wish you were here. Here. With. Me.

I'm sorry.

I miss you.

She can't hurt you anymore.

I wish she never had.

Thank you so much for reading. Constructive criticism more than welcome but please don't flame or send hate for the way I decided to portray this pairing.

Spoilers!

WARNINGS: This is a death-fic. It includes non-graphic domestic violence. Female on Male abuse. Can be viewed as OOC-Ginny but not intended to be a fic created to bash Ginny. Very slight fluff. No sexual scenes of any nature.