This one has been in the works for a long time, but I feel happy with it now, and hope that it's good enough, considering the topic.
Warning: Mature language, and references to domestic violence
0-0-0-0
"Hermione," a voice blurs into the thrumming sounds of my own pain. The aching fuzz that races through my head, and that odd noise people associate with tinnitus and rock concerts. "Hermione, come on, please," he says again, a light touch on my arm, begging.
I yank my arm away so quickly that the other person jars, and my eyes fly open, looking quickly around the room, blinking in the light. It takes several seconds for my eyes to adjust, one more swollen than the other. But the flash of red hair is evident, and evidently not dangerous. I move backwards instinctively, against the wall, flinching away from any kind of touch. Can't have that. With those thoughts, my throat feels constricted and my entire face warms unpleasantly.
Fred holds his hands up in surrender, apologizing over and over again, but I can't listen to the exact words. Instead, I try not to remember the moments from the night before. How the glass had smashed above my head, and then a blow had come to the side. And a glass shattered closer after that, and I had screamed. I close my eyes tight, trying to force away the images, and to think of something else. To think about someone better than my husband.
"Hermione!"
The voice calls out to me again, not touching this time. Fred Weasley. I'm shaking too much to even open my eyes, to take my hands away from my face. I can barely move, but he's not touching. He's just talking, talking to me, like the nicer and better man that he is.
"Hermione, I'm not going to touch you. I'm not going to ask what happened this time. Please, just open your eyes. Look at me," he begs, voice a little closer this time, and much gentler. Slowly, gingerly, I pull my hands away from my aching face, from the sticky surface where the blood has congealed over time. Gross, but I know the feeling by now. As I move the bottom half of my body into a better position, a bottle rolls away from me, making a rumbling noise against the tiled flooring. "His car isn't here, don't worry. He's gone."
"For now," I mutter, voice so dry that I can just about breathe without too much strain. Fred stands up and I reach out, without meaning to. He doesn't stop, but fills a plastic cup - one of those red ones seen at college parties - with water, frowning very slightly at the near-empty cabinets. The water gushes from the tap, making more noise than I would like. A piercing pain races across my head and I wince, gasping out. From the counter, Fred turns quickly, but then slows as he walks towards me, thinking deeply. "It's nothing," I tell him. He hands over the cup.
He shakes his head, the creases in his face deepening.
"You always say that," he murmurs, sitting down on the floor opposite me. I take a big gulp of water. It doesn't soothe me fully. I drink some more, not wanting to talk much yet, and letting him speak for the both of us, instead. Just as I usually do. He talks, to stop himself from saying something, something, in our silence that sometimes persists. The silence that follows this kind of thing. "I think he'll be gone for a while, so I could take you back to the burrow, get you sorted and cleaned, and then help out with dinner. I know you won't let me get you out of this, whatever the heck this is. But I'll be damned if I don't do something."
"How do you know he'll be gone for a while?" I ask, in spite of myself, sounding worried. I try not to sound scared, for fear that Fred will do something stupid. "And how did you know I'd be here?" Fred stands again, moving towards the sink again, filling the filter with water for later. He boils the kettle then, as I know he does to just do something, to take his mind off whatever it is that he's actually thinking.
"Golf clubs are gone. And I was driving to Tesco for some ingredients, so offered to drop off the invitation for Harry and Ginny." Fred doesn't look at me, but stares at a place just above my head. I glance up and see the wine stain, and quickly turn back to him. "A nice meal then?" he asks, looking around the room for more evidence of whatever has happened the night before. "Looks like he cleared up this time -"
"Fred."
"What?"
"Please, don't," I utter, looking down at the floor. The empty bottle of whiskey a metre away. The smallest shards of glass. The faintest pattern of blood, spotted over the rust-coloured tiles. An aching in my left side persists and I move my arm just so I can take a better look behind the dark hoodie I must have worn to dinner last night. Blood soaked through the white blouse I must have worn to work yesterday. I don't remember exactly, just moments.
Fred slumps down onto the floor where he is, by the counter, his head in his hands. Shaking a little. I try to focus, to see whether there is pain. Very carefully, I peel the shirt away from my skin, wincing at the pull of it. Whether there is an actual wound, or whether it is just blood from somewhere else remains to be seen. Fred doesn't look up though, as I'm glancing quickly beneath the blouse. No open wounds, but purpling beginning to form already.
"Why, Hermione?" Fred asks from the other side of the room. I try to shuffle again, sitting up better this time. Aching, as always. "Why do you continue to let this happen?"
"I don't let it happen," I mutter, sipping at my water, relishing in the feel of it down my throat. Something vaguely comforting about the taste of nothing, about the slightly metallic taste and the sureness that nothing bad can come from the water - instead of coffee, or alcohol, or other drinks so often had in this house. "It just happens," I say finally, pushing against the back walls to move forwards. Nope, that hurts. I move my legs instead, so they are bent up against my body, forcing my voice through the pain. "I don't control him, and I don't control this."
"But you can, if -"
"Fred, stop. Please."
He closes his eyes tight, then forces them open again, looking completely spent; exhausted beyond himself, beyond sanity. Looking as though he is questioning perhaps his own sanity, as well. Questioning all that surrounds him. I don't do that anymore. Maybe I do deserve what I get, no? But then I can't remember exactly what went wrong, what I did wrong this time. I can't exactly remember much anyway. I had tried something new last night. Said something presumptive? Maybe I'd asked about the wedding again? He doesn't like that topic.
"I'm not the only one who sees this, Hermione," Fred interrupts my thoughts. "Harry and Ron can see it too. In bits." He pauses. "When Harry found you last time, thinking you'd fallen down the stairs. And Malfoy had been so caring and loving and offered to stay nights at the hospital with you. Harry saw you pause. I saw you pause. Ron has been telling me to go and see you. Because Malfoy wouldn't tolerate him or Harry, but he might tolerate you having a cup of tea with me, for some reason."
"Fred -"
"No, please, let me," Fred says quietly, looking at me dead-on this time. I stay quiet. "Harry was worried when you fell that second time. Fell," he laughs humourlessly. "And in all the times I've been here, Malfoy has never been here. He's never around. And you've got these aches and pains that you so surreptitiously mention - maybe to try and get us off your back or something. But I know there is something up. And I've kept this secret, like you've asked." He sighs painfully.
"I didn't ask -"
"He'll kill you, Hermione." He drinks some more water from a plastic college party cup. "I can't sit by and let that happen."
"That's not your decision."
"I know," he sighs. Fred runs a hand through his hair and drains the cup of water, before putting it back upon the counter. "Can't you come to the burrow for a few days? Just leave a note or something?" I shake my head and go to drink more water, before realising that it's all gone. Fred looks at me for a few moments, before standing to bring me another cup of water from the tap. Though we both know that I need something more. He swallows heavily.
"Why do you even bother, Fred?" I ask the million-dollar question. Why does he come, if he knows that it will happen over and over again, no matter how many times he tries to talk to me about it? I've always wondered. It can't be something brotherly, because Harry has never come over. My husband is scary, I know that. I can't imagine anyone amounting the horrors he has. So, why would Fred ever even try?
For a moment, Fred doesn't say a word, looking completely incredulous.
"Because I fucking care about you? Is that not enough?" he answers, a little more harshly than usual. Nothing less than what I would expect, however. "I'm not scared of him. I don't want to have to choose to see you. I want to just know that you're okay; that everything is okay." He stops himself, just short of say something else.
"If you cared, you'd leave it alone. I mean it's not that -"
"Not that bad?" Fred second-guessed me. "You're kidding right?" But I don't answer him. "Anyone could treat you better; could protect you. You should be around people who aren't like. You should be around people that care."
"Fred -" I start.
"No, please just listen to me," he begs.
"Fred."
Hermione," he parries. We fall into an uncomfortable silence, both of us waiting. "I know I could treat you better."
My stomach sinks painfully. "What are you talking about?"
Fred Weasley runs his hands through his short ginger hair, stressed out no doubt. He looks around the room for anything else to catch his eyes on. Waits few precious moments, in our silence, before finally saying those words which plague him. "Hermione, I love you. I'm in love with you." My throat begins to close up, and the stabbing pain in my side recedes just a little. But my heart aches. "I understand that's not enough alone to make you leave him. But you are so important, and I just can't let this happen anymore -"
"Fred -"
"I swear to God, if you don't let me finish, I will never say this." I nod, allowing him to continue. "You deserve love."
"He loves -"
"No, he doesn't." Fred looks at me then, full in the face. "He might say that he does, but this isn't love. He's cruel." Fred allows his hair to falls across his face before pushing it backwards again in frustration. As if he hates himself, which I know he doesn't. He shouldn't.
"I love him," I argue.
"I'm not questioning your feelings," Fred tells me. He stares at the floor, as if willing better words to come. But he's always been good with words, so I don't understand why they would fail him now, in this instance. "Someone who loves you would not do this. Please, believe me."
"It's too late -"
"It's never too late-"
But then he hears it too. The in mistakable sound of a car rolling up the drive, across the purplish gravel we installed a few years ago. When Draco insisted on me making a few choices here and there, so it maybe doesn't look so suspicious. Those were my few bitter thoughts back then, but I have never considered leaving him. I've never considered doing anything other than hoping that he changes back to the man I once met. To someone who is more like Fred; carefree, loving, and kind.
"I'm not leaving you," Fred says.
The front door clicks open, and Draco Malfoy walks in. He removes his jacket, staring at the pair of us on the floor, with those slight red cups in our hands, and my own blotchy face. Hermione Malfoy. God, I am such an idiot. He has that look on his face. Playing the part of a doting, forgetful husband. Smiling placidly at Fred. A fake smile set in place.
"Weasley, what are you doing here?" he asks, setting the jacket on a cloak hook.
"Just bringing over the Potter-Weasley wedding invitation," Fred answers genially, with an equally fierce smile.
"Aright, well I guess we'll catch you later then?" Malfoy's tone is a false friendliness. It's almost terrifying, but I've seen it far too often to consider this much of the 'big-bad-wolf'. Fred doesn't move, though. "Kinda had plans today, mate," Malfoy continues, as if coaxing, or threatening, Fred into leaving.
"Nice, what kind of thing are you up to?" Fred asks, sounding more interested than cynical.
Draco goes over to the fridge and pulls out the water jug, and a plastic-coated cup. "Well, I haven't seen her in two days. Probably spend the day. Watching movies. Drinking wine."
"Not really sure drinking is such a good idea," Fred laughs coldly.
"What does that mean?"
I try to warn Fred with everything I have left in me, but it's no use. He's taken on this new fierce look, his hair making him look like the rest of him is on fire. "I should probably take Hermione to the hospital. Think she fell again," he accuses.
"Fred," I interject.
Malfoy stares between us; me staring at Fred, and Fred giving me that same look from before. The look that practically is screaming his internal battle, out for the world to see.
"You and him? Really?" Malfoy demands, moving towards me, beginning to curl back in anger. It's probably not a good thing that fear begins to race through me, but the more prolific is the embarrassment. I can't let Fred see this happening. Even if he just left, I think it would be okay. Like some sort of protection from Draco.
"Come on man, be nice," Fred laughs. My stomach sinks further, and Draco takes a step towards him instead. "What, are you gonna hit me too?" Fred stands up straight, as if welcoming the punch. The punch I know will sting.
"You are out of line," Draco spits at him, clenching his fists tensely by his sides. Warning sighs. Alarm bells. All that jazz. I still have that chunk of iron in my gut, yanking me down to below the core of the earth, leaving me to sink and faze out of the world around me. Maybe I can stay in this other world, one in which I don't have to concentrate. Vaguely, I hear their voices, as if from a thousand miles away.
"Fuck off," Fred snarls back. My head rolls against my shoulder.
Before Malfoy can even take a step, Fred's arm is out and snapped across his cheek, knocking him out. He bends down, grabbing my hand and my arm. An electric shock runs through me, pulling me back into this world.
"You have no idea how long I have wanted to do that for," he admits to me, hauling me out of the house, and into his car.
We drive all the way to the hospital, and Fred calls the police. It's scary, but not as scary as before.
I still flinch away from other people.
Ron and Harry are still worried about me. That's not going to change soon.
My name has been changed back to Granger.
And the last time I saw Draco was in court.
0-0-0-0