Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any of the characters. J.K. Rowling does. Continue Reading.

WARNING: Physical abuse, rape, and depression. Don't expect for a happy tale.

(A/N: My first HP FF. I'm not sure if it's a oneshot or if I should add more chapters. I worked really hard on it, please review

Summary: When he asked for friendship, I said I told myself I'd learn tobe friends, when he asked me on our first date, I told myself I'd learn to like him, and when he asked me to marry him, I told myself I'd learn to love him. Somehow, along that road, I'll I've learned is how to hate him. WARNING! Includes rape, physical abuse and depression.

Hate by the Hated

I woke up and thought to myself how cold it was, and peered uneasily over my shoulder. I was relieved to see that "he" was not there, watching and waiting for me to make the next wrong move. It was like a game of cat and mouse, I ending up taking the wrong turn into the claws every time. When I sat up on the bed, I winced at the pain that seemed unbearable for a moment, the throbbing pain in my sides. Lifting my shirt, I wasn't surprised to see the pattern of bruises that decorated my pale skin.

'It was an accident.' I scanned my mind to provide the excuses I could use to cover it up this time, I had already used the stairs excuse the week before. I didn't know why I was lying to everyone, I didn't know if it were for my own protection or for his. If I did tell, the pain would only increase, he'd beat me to death, I was sure of it. The truth was that I needed him, no, I didn't love him, but he kept me off the streets and he made me . . .useful. I guess after a year or two, I had convinced myself I deserved every one of those beatings, they were only punishment if I wasn't perfect. Yes, that's it. Beating me to perfection.

My feet landed on the cold, cement floor of the basement, and I practically limped towards the stairs. Taking hold of the railing, I was able to use it as support to lift myself up the obstacle, to the freedom of the kitchen. Once at the top, I was panting, not from exhaustion but from pain, but I had managed. I looked around the corner, hoping to god that he wasn't there, excited about another round. After I was positive I was safe, I took my first steps across the hardware floor, to get a cup of coffee. He had left it in the pot, and although it was cold I was thankful that I got something to drink.

I shuffled my feet to the kitchen table, to sit down and enjoy the mug of brown grime, and gratefully gulped it down with no regard to the taste. It was a drink, and that was all I card about.

'He won't do it again.' I lied to myself. I always told myself that, it made me less afraid and half convinced that he loved me. He told me that sometimes too, that it wouldn't happen after that day, or he loved me and he didn't mean to. Maybe that was why I protected him, - I thought I had hope. I remember the days before, when we were friends, when we were equals, when I was a person in his eyes.

I still remember the first day we became friends. Even though he had teased me about being a bookworm, I still accepted his friendship. I had thought to myself, I'll learn to be friends with him.

I still remember the day he asked me out. Even though he had betrayed my trust, many, many times before, I still accepted the date. I had thought to myself, I'll learn to like him.

And I still remember the day he told me he asked me to marry him. Even though he had forced me to sleep with him, even though he stole my innocence, and even though he cheated on me, he had told me he loved me and that was exactly what I wanted, needed, craved. I thought to myself, I'll learn to love him.

Then after that, I remember the first beating, how scared I was, how terrifying he seemed to me. He came home, and it was a long day of work for him, as it always was. I didn't know why he hit me, I just remember how angry he was, the look in his eyes being so full of anger. He had left me on the ground, crying to myself, bleeding with a black eye. I told my friends that it was just an accident, like I always did. They called me clumsy, yes clumsy, and despite my hate for the name, I didn't tell them the truth. I just couldn't.

After thoroughly cleaning the coffee mug, I set it back in its place in the almost bare cabinet, and set to washing the pot and counters. If the house wasn't clean to his standards, I was afraid of what might come afterwards. While bleaching the sink, my mind started flying off again into daydreams, some filled with hate, and some filled with freedom.

I had a chance at life, to be great and brilliant. I could have graduated top of my class, go to college on full scholarship, and become some great woman who really helped the world. But he said no, women's places were in the kitchen, and he would be the breadwinner, he would be the worker. So he became a writer for the Daily Prophet, he and our best friend, Harry. I missed Harry, but he wouldn't let me see him when I asked anymore. He didn't want that to lead me being unfaithful.

I tried to plead with him, and tell him that Harry was happily married to Ginny, and I wouldn't try anything, but he denied. He let me talk to Ginny over the phone though, and that was my one release, even though I had to lie to her about my life. When our friends came over, it was a hassle. There was extra cleaning, extra cooking, and extra lies, going over how I received my injuries that covered me from head to toe.

In the beginning of being beat, I tried to be strong, not to cry, and not to break down in front of him, but after a while, he had convinced me that I couldn't win. So late at night, no matter in what way he abused me, physically, sexually, or mentally, I didn't let myself cry until he left. Soon, my eyes had become numb, and on some nights I couldn't cry at all. I lost my energy and my dignity - Was that not the greatest loss of all?

We as humans can lose everything in life - our home, our love, our friends, everything. But the one thing that's engraved into our skins, the one thing that's worth holding until we die is our dignity. That's something we can't lose - that's something that has to be taken and pried away from us. For me it was taken away a long time ago, and living without it made me feel so alone, such a lesser being, someone not worth the time of day. If I had been living my normal life, I would have looked at this girl I was now, and pitied her with all of my being. I would've looked at myself and thought, how pathetic, how worthless, how degrading to be a girl like her. In all truths I would have looked and hated this helpless girl, but never in a million years would I have thought that's whom I had become.

I bet people are asking, what did I do to deserve my latest beating? I don't know how I could have accepted the blame, it wasn't my fault at all - It was his. The night before, I discovered that inside of me, was a growing baby, that I myself was going to birth a child. My first reaction was shock and excitement, and my already growing love to be a mother. I thought the father would feel the same, filled with joy and anticipation, proud to call it his very own child - not his own burden. But to my regret, I told him, and that's why I got beat the other night. That I was pregnant, that I was burdening him, and that I was ruining his life. He thought it was my fault that I was pregnant, but the fact was it took two people, and I didn't want to sleep with him in the first place. But if I told him that, if I reminded him that it was he who abused me to get that child, it'd all be gone - he'd kill the baby. My baby.

Even though he wasn't excited, I was proud that I was going to be a mother, and I would protect this baby from their father at all costs, even if it meant my life. For once I had something, something that was mine, that could grow and learn. I just hoped the beatings wouldn't be too rough during these nine, long months, but all I could do was pray that this baby would be safe. Placing my hand on my stomach, I felt the rush once again of being a mother, and even smiled when preparing for the rest of the chores. I was scrubbing the floors, but still I had one ounce of happiness.

Our dirty, gray, depressing house wasn't a home to me, but merely a jail. I was locked here, and I didn't know how I could ever get free. I had thought of running away, of taking all I had, which was little, but enough, and leaving far from here. But he'd find me, no matter where I ran, he'd find me. It'd just be another wrong turn for the mouse, the cat will always be behind. Quickening up my pace on scrubbing the floors, I looked at the clock and realized I was a little behind, thanks to all my thinking, but I finished the floor and started on the preparations for dinner. I was going to make steak, one of his favorites, and hopefully there'd be nothing wrong that night. If I kept him happy for nine months, my child would be safe.

I really asked myself sometimes, do I hate him? Do I despise this man with all of my heart and being? I didn't quite know the answer, but I knew that I was afraid of him. He scared me out of my skin, because I knew what power he held and what he could do with it. I've seen his wrath, and felt it break my bones, wasn't that enough to hate him? Hate was such a word only the hated could achieve to speak. For me to say that I hated my husband, I needed to know if he harbored such feelings for me. At home I was dominated, I was trapped, fear being the ball and chain keeping me confined to such blank and dreary walls. What I wouldn't give for just a day of being free, a day at the beach feeling my toes dig into the wet sand as the waves come crashing down, drenching me until nothing else in the world existed.

It was a silly dream, but dreams are something we can hold onto without anyone realizing it, the worse things got, the more my dreams grew. Just then, my stupid thoughts made me slip on the knife I was using to cut the steak, and I started to bleed. I despised the sight of my own blood, but with him around, I saw it quite often. Wrapping it up, I continued with the meal, looking at the clock and praying he'd be late. While I set it to cook, I had to make myself look presentable for my husband, so I rushed to the bathroom. I frowned at the bruises on my face, but continued to put on muggle cover-up to hide all the purple and gray marks. He took away my wand, knowing of my intelligence, that I could somehow fight back. I picked up the brush and tried to get through the knots on my straight brown hair. I was allowed to use muggle shampoos after all, and he preferred my hair being sleek rather then frizzy and curly.

The mirror was a hideous tool, showing me that I was half the girl I used to be. My eyes were swollen, my face small from lack of food. My skin used to glow with youth, and I was only twenty-three but I looked like I was falling apart. Slowly, I lifted up my gray shirt to reveal my skinny, frail body. I used to be wonderfully curvy, but now my ribs jut out and I could find every one of them. I hated the girl that this mirror showed me, and everyday she got worse. I used to have beautiful brown eyes, that would put chocolate to shame, but now they were dull, lacking in their beautiful color. Maybe I was just delirious from lack of food. I hadn't eaten since yesterday, before he locked me in the basement. Then, while criticizing my every bone, I remembered that I still had the steak cooking and I had to tend to it. Gladly, I reached it in time before it was burned to a crisp and set it on a plate. I set the vegetables in the steamer, and scrubbed the seats at our kitchen table. Everything had to be spotless. I set the steamed broccoli on his plate, and just a few on mine with a small cut of the steak. Once I had laid it all on the table, the door slammed open and I jumped.

I could hear his footsteps on the hardwood floor, but I couldn't turn to face him, my terror wouldn't let me look him in the eye. I felt his evil arms snake around my waist and pull me against him. I winced remembering the bruises, but I didn't let him notice. He whispered in my ear, pushing my brown hair back.

"Hello, Dear." I stayed silent and pointed to the food. He ignored my gestures and just squeezed me tighter, making me cringe at the pressure on my body. "I am so sorry for yesterday. Remember, I love you." I let his venom seep into me once more, taking in the lies as a comfort.

"I love you too." I let the sin cross my lips, and he let go sitting down at the table. His red hair was shining in the dull light that lightened our table. He dug in like a pig, and it sickened me at how I spoiled him, regardless of everything he did. Still, I sat down across from him putting my disgust aside and politely eating the small amount of food on my plate. I could feel his hot stare burning my skin and my defenses. If only it weren't for that bloody stare, maybe for once I could talk back to him, but I was so intimidated. He finished within minutes, and dropped his dishes into the sink, expecting me to clean them as soon as I could.

He went and plopped down on the couch, flipping to the news, as I finished and began to scrub the dishes dropped in the sink. When I was finished, I put them back in their places and headed into the small living room, sitting in the hard, wood chair across from him. Realizing my presence, he didn't even think about condescending to invite me to share his couch, but he did give me another stare - this one filled with lust, scrutinizing my every movement, blink and breath. I hated his lust most of all, I knew it'd just be more pain to suffer later. Whenever he looked at me, I felt so dirty, so used, so ugly and helpless. He stood up from the couch and started towards the bedroom.

"Follow." He ordered, and like a dirty dog I obeyed. The only sliver of hope I had was that if I agreed to everything I wanted, to follow everything he demanded, and to pleasure him for one evening, he wouldn't hit her. When we entered the grungy bedroom, he kissed me on the lips, I didn't kiss back, but I allowed him to try to "romance" me. He laid me on the bed, and did his business, and at that moment I realized I was nothing to him, but a vessel. The only reason he married me was an excuse for me pleasing him, sleeping with him, working for him - I was his property, because I let him control me.

I hated his frigid hand that caressed me.

I hated his arms when they embraced me.

I hated his kiss that was violent and wanting.

I hated his eyes that told me he hated me.

I hated his temper that snapped at me.

But I couldn't muster the thought that I hated him.

I hated everything about him, but I didn't hate him.

When he was finished with me, I sat up from the bed, naked after the degrading activity. He traced my spine with his cold hand and laughed to himself.

"You're bruised." How I wanted to tell him it was his fault that I was like this, how I had no self-respect, how I didn't feel human around him, how I hated myself. He made me hate myself. "Have you thought about options of the child?" I looked at him for once, I looked him in the face with question.

"What do you mean the options?" He rolled his eyes. "You idiot, adoption, abortion, your pick." I nearly gasped, but I couldn't show him my weakness. On the inside I was about to burst with the anger that was building up.

"I'm keeping the baby." He laughed, a laugh that seemed to be filled with joy and amusement of my defiance against his will. I couldn't stand his laugh, I turned and looked at my feet.

"You got to be kidding me, there is no way I'm raising a child." I looked at him, for once trying to earn dignity and respect, for once to be a human, to have a mind and tell him what I was thinking. "There's no way in hell you're making me get rid of this child." His eyes turned angry, they showed the hate. He hated when I talked back, he hated the hassle. He stood up and grabbed my chin, forcing me to look him in the eye. His grip was harsh and tight, but I kept the fear from my eyes, I stared into hate.

"Listen to me and listen to me good," He started off slowly. "You're going to get rid of this child the right way, or I'll get rid of it myself, but you have absolutely no chance of keeping it, and even if I have to beat you and it to death, it will not be born into this world." He fiercely let go and I returned my gaze to the floor. My voice was shaky, barely above a whisper, but I responded.

"No. . .I won't." He stood up from the bed and I covered my naked body with the thin sheet. My hair was tousled, my body was debilitated and abused, but I still stood my ground, and I was damn proud of it. He stood up to me, my face just a few inches from his, and I desired to spit in it. He slapped me and pointed his finger in my face, his cheeks getting red and flushed.

"You will listen to me, or I swear I'll beat the hell out of you." I continued to glare at him, both our eyes exchanging words faster then even our own lips could utter. Then, he hit me again and pushed me down on the bed. "How dare a filthy little slave like you even try to look me in the eyes!" He used me again as if he didn't get enough kicks last time but this time I tried to push him away from me.

He punched me again in the stomach and threw me on the floor. I coughed up blood on the hard floor, and he leaned down to me and looked me in the eye.

"So adoption, abortion, or me?" I felt it, I felt the hate radiating out of his being, I felt my walls, my numbness evaporating into thin air. My eyes welled up in tears as I shook on the floor. I went to speak, but my jaw was shaking so bad I could barely mutter the words.

"Don't. . .please." Yes, I was prepared to beg for my baby's life, no matter how degrading, no matter how low I had to go, I would beg this evil man for my child's life, to spare it, to let it grow. He almost pitied me in my state, but soon, he hardened up again and lifted my chin.

"I'm guessing you're choosing me?" I widened my eyes in horror and shook my head furiously. He was going to beat my child to death, and with every inch of my being I would try to stride to keep it.

"Please, please don't. . .it's your own child. . ." My voice shook and squeaked at the end from the hot streams of tears that were running down my face.

"It's my own burden. Until tomorrow, dear. Goodnight." He left me in the room, on the ground with a bare sheet covering my body. My face was lying in my own blood, but I didn't care. My hand only levitated to my child, growing inside of me and suffering. If it weren't for the baby, the only thing I would have hoped for was to die. And that's exactly what my husband wanted me to do.

So with the strength I could muster through tears, I was able to speak from my heart who's lips had been dormant for such a long time now.

"I hate him."