Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

A.N.: So, I must warn you for this one... The idea for this story came to me while talking to a friend of mine, who really loves Ron to death. As I don't, I told her that he would be the sort of husband who abused of his wife. So, yes, this story is quite aggressive. If you don't cope well with violence, language, rape and Weasley bashing, LEAVE THIS PAGE NOW. To those who don't mind, read and review. I'm sure this will develop into something you will enjoy :)

Chapter 1 - Under Attack

She heard the door slam and she knew he was home. Her heart stopped for a split second, as she heard him walk against everything in his way. He had been drinking again, for no apparent reason as always. Every event seemed to be a good enough reason to celebrate over Firewhiskey, and Merlin knows what else. She feared for her life every time he'd walk home drunk, he wasn't the same person.

They had been married little over a year, and everything seemed to move south from then on. Apart from their honeymoon, he had never been the same caring man he used to be, no longer did he surprise her, nor did he look happy to crawl under her arms after a tiring day of work. Nothing was the way he promised her; he was possessive in an uncomfortable way, angry whenever she wanted to go out; they were breaking apart and she new it, for as much as it hurt her, there was no turning back, no way to make it right again.

Suddenly the sound of clattering pots and shattering china rang through her ears, and made her thoughts freeze in mid-air. He had toppled over something - again.

'HERMIONE!' he yelled from the kitchen, making her shudder from head to toe, 'GET YOUR FUCKING ASS HERE AND HELP ME!'

She hated how he addressed her when he was in that state; he became more aggressive than ever, both verbally and physically. Reluctantly, she got up from bed and climbed down the stairs to meet her fallen husband. As she got to the kitchen, she saw him laying on his back, a glass on his hand, and a jug of water fallen over the counter and dripping water everywhere. 'What a sight,' she thought to herself as a disgusted look took over her expression.

'What's that look for?' he asked as she held out her hand for him to grab.

'Don't you want to take a guess?' she replied in a disgusted voice.

'You better not talk to me in that tone, missy.'

The harsh tone did not make her back down and quickly replied, 'Oh, guess what? I just did and-'

She didn't have time to speak again or think of another comeback. His hand flew towards her face and landed on her cheekbone with a loud smack. Tears flooded her eyes, pain pulsed through her, and his handprint was painted across her visage. Never in her lifetime had she been hit in reprehension, not even when she was younger did her father ever think about laying a hand on her. After regaining her composure, and making sure he was a arm's length from her, she said, 'You sicken me, Ronald.'

'Do I?' he said, walking clumsily towards her and withdrawing his wand from his pocket, 'You are my wife, and you will do whatever I say!'

'I'm not a puppet you can play with, Ronald,' she spat at him, her hand raised to cup the side of her face where he hit her. 'I can be your wife, but I still have my own rights…'

At this, he lowered his wand and quickly grabbed her by the wrists, dragging her towards the nearest wall. His face was red with anger, his breath was fouler than she imagined it would be; the smell of Firewhiskey and Butterbeer combined filled her nostrils, and she turned her head to the side to avoid inhaling that nauseating smell, but he didn't care: he pushed himself against her and brushed his lips on her hurt cheek. 'You don't talk to me like that, Hermione. Don't do it, for your own sake.'

'Get off me,' she mumbled, trying to avoid his touch but failing miserably. His grasp was firm and hurtful, and she could't find a way out of that confined position.

'Don't tell me what to do,' he breathed into her ear, the smell making her sicker by the second, 'Now get your arse back to bed.' He let go of her, but hung close to her, watching her every move.

She was more scared than she had ever been. Rubbing her wrists, she started walking out of the kitchen and through the living room, but before she climbed the first step of the stairs, she felt his wand being raised behind her back. That night wasn't going to be the best, it wasn't going to be remotely calm, on the contrary, it was already the worst she had had. Thoughts were racing through her mind; that wasn't the marriage she had hoped to have. Since she was five, she imagined how loving her husband would be, how happy they would be, what their wedding would be like. Now, at the age of twenty one, her dreams had been shattered: the marriage hurried by her mother-in-law, the lack of affection, the way Ron seemed to want to drive her away from everything she had ever had, and now he had just slapped her, hopefully out his drunk state.

What would come next she didn't even dare to think; he could just roll over on bed and sleep, or he could take his rage even further. As she stepped into the bedroom and approached the bed, she turned around, facing him. Her eyes were filled with tears and she could't help but sob at the sight of her husband pointing his wand at her. 'Please, Ron… Let's talk this over like two grown ups,' she pleaded, even though she knew that wouldn't help their fallen union.

He didn't answer and instead pushed her to the bed, in which she landed with a louder thud than she imagined. She laid there, motionless and speechless, afraid of being menaced with something more, afraid of not making it through the night.

Putting his wand aside, he crawled on to bed and ran his hand through her leg and beneath her nightgown. His touch was rough, uncontrolled, and she could feel his arousal pulsing against her thigh, at which she shuddered lightly. 'He can't. He wouldn't,' she thought as panic started to take over. She tried to push him away, but could't do it. His bulk structure was too heavy for her weak arms to move when he was sober, let alone when he was that drunk. As he noticed her unwillingness to subside to him, he reached for his wand again and cast a Full Body-Bind Curse on her. She could't move, she could't talk, which didn't mean she could't feel.

His body fell harshly on top of hers; his weight was suffocating, her eyes were filled with tears. She could feel his rough hands brushing against her skin, making her soul clench inside her. Without further notice, he dived inside her dry womanhood and she felt tears falling on her cheeks from the pain it caused. She could't feel pleasure, she just wanted to roll out from beneath him and run, run somewhere where she felt safe, where she knew someone would take her in their arms and rock her to sleep, away for all those demons her marriage had created.

As he reached his climax, he rolled out to her side, breathlessly saying the counter-curse to release her. With that done, he fell asleep almost immediately, and she could't help but letting the tears roll down from her eyes and into her pillow. She was torn apart; every inch of her body ached now more pointedly, almost sure that she would have bruises all over her stomach and thighs. It was a nightmare, it hand't happened, but her pain was far from imaginary. She really liked him, not to say she loved him, and he had managed to ruin everything that was still good between them.

She was unable to sleep; it hurt too much. Lately they had been discussing the pros and cons of having their first child, and now this. She could't bear the thoughts of having a child growing in such an abusive environment, not after what happened. What were the chances that his drinking would stop after they conceived? How could she stop him from doing that? Probably it would go on. Probably she wouldn't even make it through full-term, for one night he could come home the same way he had done tonight, and do the same thing to her and their unborn child.

Accusing him could lead her into a deeper abyss. That hadn't been the first time he talked to her out of his drunken state, but this time it was different. There was no way that he could make up to her this time, there was no conversation that could make it work, none except one: the one where she would tell him that it was over. She could't handle it anymore, she could't and she wouldn't be baby-sitting him all her life. He was a grown man (or so she thought), he could look out for himself.

The morning dawned too soon, and the light that stubbornly wanted to enter through the curtains finally laid itself upon her bruised face. She struggled to get out of bed; he body wasn't aching as badly as it did before she finally got to sleep, but it still hurt whenever she moved. Finally, she managed to walk down to the kitchen where she started to repair and clean all that Ron had thrown down when he got home.

She stopped for a few moments as she passed through a glass case: she could see the damage he had done to her; the bruise from the smack, the dark circles around her eyes from her incapacity of falling asleep, and the bruises on her wrists. Her lower lip trembled at her own sight and tried to contain a sob from escaping her mouth, but instead muffled it with her hand. She looked dreadful and it was his fault.

Hours later, she heard Ron walking across the hallway and down the stairs. He was still dressed with the clothes he had worn the day before, his red hair was messy, and his hands were massaging his forehead in an attempt to ease the headache she knew he would have. 'Bloody hell, my head hurts,' he said as he approached her from behind, resting one of his hands on top of her shoulder.

'Oh, does it?' she replied angrily as she turned to him, letting him see the damage he had done to her.

His eyes widened at her sight. 'What happened? How did you get those bruises?'

'I figured you wouldn't remember…' she said coldly, 'You did them. You came home pissed drunk last night, and you decided I wasn't behaving accordingly to your "wife's rights", so you smacked me,' she continued, her expression shifting with her words to a disgusted frown. She paused to let a lone tear roll down her face. 'And then you menaced me with your wand… You made me have sex with you, but I didn't want to, so you thought best to put a curse on me so you could have the night of your life…' her voice trailed away as she lowered her head to hide the falling tears.

'Hermione, I'm sorry-'

'You're sorry?' she bellowed, her face redder than ever. 'You disgraced our marriage! There's no way I'm forgiving you for this one, you miserable beast! I should have never married you, I should't have let you taken me for granted!'

He tried to reach out to her but she turned away. 'Don't you dare touch me ever again! I want a divorce, I want you out of my life - FOREVER!'

'But I was drunk, Hermione… I wasn't acting accordingly.'

'Don't give me that talk again, Ronald, it's not going to stick this time. I'm you wife, not a toy you can throw around and have sex with! In case you never noticed, I have feelings too, I get hurt and I'm as free as you are. We're done, Ronald, there's nothing you can do about it.'

His face grew redder at her words, and quickly grabbed her by the arm. 'You can't do that, I won't let you,' he spat at her, his grip tightening around her arm. 'You promised, like I did, that we'd always be together.' His expression had turned to a grimace, and she tried to free herself from his grip so that she could run away from him.

'Well, promises can be broken… Especially when the man you married isn't the same person anymore,' she said as she looked him in the eye, a disgusted look upon her face.

'You filthy whore…'

He finally released her arm, but as soon as she thought she had made her point and he turned back to leave, she was surprised once again by another slap. She felt her face heating up and tears dried in her eyes. That was the last drop, but for some reason she could't react. This time, he walked out of the kitchen and locked himself up in the bathroom. It took her just a few seconds to acknowledge that he was now at a safe distance, and quickly got herself together and quickly made her way to the bedroom.

As she packed all her belongings in her suitcase and managed to dress something that would hide her bruises, she tried to contain the tears and the screams of anger and disgust. She was not spending another day in that place, she was not going to let him hurt her over and over again. She needed to leave, she needed someone's arms to crawl under, her safe place.

She grabbed her suitcase and, with a loud pop, she Disapparated with her mind set for never returning there.