Of Crimson Red but Never Blue
A/N: Now, you can imagine this woman as Hermione, Ginerva, Cho, whatever your ship may be. I left that up to YOU to decide. And you can name the little girl.
She never imagined it would be like this.
It wasn't the kind of life she'd dreamed of, lying awake late at night after her mother and father had come to tuck her in. They were always sweet, always kittenish and tender attention, answering her sleepy questions with beams and nods. Their whispered replies would often ring in her mind as slumber approached her, and she always grinned wearily as her head sunk deeper into the pillow, and sleep claimed her.
You can be whatever you want to be.
Well, she had thought it would begin with Harry. Finally, in her sixth year, he took notice. A late attention, but an attention she craved.
It was harder when he went to war in his seventh year. It was lonely, long bouts of boredom, with short, fatal battles sparsely placed between. He graduated early; she missed him every moment. His letters, which came almost daily, were filled with promises and happiness, and he claimed that the battles weren't affecting him at all. He seemed normal; it would soon change.
By the time she saw the difference in him, she wanted to call the wedding off. He'd been home for a month when they married. She wanted to run, to escape the madness she saw behind his glasses, clouding his brilliant green eyes. But she was much, much too frightened.
After the first time he immediately apologized. He whispered sweet nothings in her ear, holding her close, and she believed him. Damn her, she believed every lie he fed to her. They made love for hours, bathed in soft candlelight. The next morning, she hid the bruise on her cheek with thick concealer.
After she discovered she was pregnant, Harry stopped his relentless tirades. For awhile, she thought he was back to his old self, the man he was before the war. He brought her roses after work, popped in on his lunch break for a kiss or a hug, or a homemade cookie. She saw a glimpse of his anger in the hospital, surrounded by family and friends, as they discussed names for the little pink faced bundle in her tired arms. Someone suggested a name, and for some unknown reason, he snapped.
"No way in hell!" He screamed, swiping his arm around furiously, knocked a daffodil filled vase to the ground with an earsplitting shatter. The baby started and began to cry loudly. Harry glared at everyone before swooping out of the room. She gave a frightened glance to her mother, jiggling the baby gently, and received an equally startled glance. But no. She protected him, denied that anything had ever happened. Her chance to escape slid gently through her fingers.
The beatings were regular. After the baby came home, he would make sure that she was asleep in her crib, and he would drag his wife into the other room and scream in her face, his breath reeking of firewhiskey. He beat her close to the point of passing out, but she held on, dragging herself up when the baby cried to be fed. He worked more and more often, sometimes taking not even a day off a week. So she stayed at home with the baby for three years, tending to her child in the way her parents brought her herself up. Please, thank you, excuse me, respect your parents... she grew up magnificently. Until Halloween night, year two-thousand and one.
Harry came home drunk as usual. He found his wife asleep with his daughter in her lap in the child's room, a muggle TV that had been playing a movie now glowing blue. She was awoken from her light slumber by her husband pulling her up by her hair, and, frightened, she screamed for him to let go.
"WHERE'S MY DAMN DINNER?!" He bellowed into her face. She winced against his words, cowering. She didn't answer. When he yelled like this, answers made him angrier, if at all possible to do. He grabbed at the back of his daughter's romper suit and flung her across the room, and she woke with a squeal and crumpled in the corner, screaming continually. He began to pound on his wife, and she hollered at her child to run, get help. Her arms over her face, she could barely make out the figure of the man who was supposed to love her, protect her, bring a large book down on top of the little girl's head. The woman, who could do nothing, screamed as her daughter fell to the floor, dead. He turned on her, malice in his eyes, and put his wand to her temple.
"Tell me you love me, darling."
Gently, she did.
The end came anyways.
A/N: Yeah, a bit depressing, huh? Guess the war drove him crazy. Flames will be used to light my Pagan bonfire for the next Sabbat. Enjoy! 3 Liaetha