Hermione Jean Granger thought she knew pain, she had, in a very philosophical way, sat with it, engaged it, and it wasn't a stranger. Whether by Bellatrix's wand or Ron's punches, it didn't matter. It was the sensation, that familiar experience that in some ways is the true equalizer of humanity. Old or young, male or female, rich or poor, witch or muggle. When pain came too you, everyone's the same.
The sound of knuckle beating flesh, of boots finding her ribs, of her hair being ripped out. Her bones, breaking. Her flesh, bleeding. Screaming. She guessed that was hers. Panting and the occasional curse, that must be his. She was too far gone to tell anymore, the pain was washing white-hot over everything and sleep looked so inviting…
The punches, the kicks, the slaps, everything stopped. She breathed, maybe it was over now. She would sleep right here, curled into the tightest ball she could contort herself into, until the daylight came. Until the smell of fire whisky left the room through the open window and she could crawl to the bathroom and get some healing potions.
She was so far into unconsciousness that the first notice she received of the trauma that was about to be inflicted was her right ankle was roughly grabbed and she was forced from the sanctuary of the foetal position. Then, her legs were forced apart and she closed her eyes tight.
God no. not that. Please, anything. No, please
Her prayers went unanswered. Even she wasn't surprised: they always did.
Big, strong hands. She used to love them; they stroked her face, held her close. Now they cruelly forced her eyes open.
Ron's eyes. They were red and slurred with alcohol and rage. She remembered them younger, so kind. So full of happiness. How could this world, so full of magic, have reduced them both to this? Dirty and degraded and beaten. She wasn't even sure who she was describing. Either. Both.
The pain ripped through her. This was new and horrible and she couldn't do anything. Her mind was blank, observing from a distance. She couldn't even name what she knew was happening to her. Denial was even stronger than the hands holding her down.
"Look at me. I CAN DO THIS. NOT HIM… understand?" The voice didn't even sound like Ron, it was slower and so full of hate, the fragile artefact her teenage mind had called her heart, broke all over again.
Another thrust of white-hot agony. Another and another. It gradually faded; the soundtrack of an atrocity. She waited, immobilized with horror and pain and shock.
It ended. She felt him leave her, heave himself off. The click of the front door. She felt the blood between her legs, the ache that was unlike anything, distinctive in its agony.
Sleep beckoned, sleep and dreams of a life away from this. A life with a smiling red-haired man, happiness, children. A man not her husband. A woman, not lying on a filthy floor, trying not to cry. Finally, she slept.