Houses Competition. Ravenclaw Head of House, Round Six. Additional, Prompt: Fury, WC: 1200. Muggle AU. Draco and Hermione are in a relationship.

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"Draco, honey, it's time to get up," I murmur at the sound of the blaring morning alarm. He groans, as though physically in pain, but I know instantly what is going on. Even as he turns over, eyes closed, I'm already annoyed. "Come on, big day today. Monday morning - the start of a new week." I swipe my fringe away from my eyes, sitting upright. Maybe my moving can motivate him into getting up today.

He stretches. "I can work from home today."

Internally, I sigh. To the unknowledgeable onlooker, this may look like my boyfriend just wants to stay in bed a little longer, and that he wants to work from home in order to be closer to pyjamas and home-comforts in our fridge to vegetate on. However, this is not the case.

I can't remember the last time Draco left the house for work. Maybe it was two weeks ago? Three weeks ago?

I love him, so I don't sigh on the outside. Despite the chill that envelops me, I brush my hand over his shoulder in comfort, in the hope that he can feel more relaxed, and I shift myself from the bed we share. I love him, and I know him. I know that the anxiety is what keeps him in bed, what keeps him in the house, and what prevents him from engaging in social situations more often than not.

"If you're sure," I say, giving him one final out. He nods and rolls over, the duvet rolling with him.

Like every other day, I dress quickly and efficiently, and I leave the house in good time. I worry briefly about Draco, then push it from my mind for the moment. It shouldn't make me angry that he has the inability to leave the house, but it really does. Because, when he doesn't do those things, he doesn't do other things as well. Like helping me with the shopping, or cooking, or making himself vaguely presentable.

Sometimes, I go home and he hasn't moved from his pyjamas all day. Sometimes, he's simply brought his laptop into the bed and not done more than a cup of tea or a bowl of soup for sustenance.

He's a grown adult, he should be able to take care of himself.

"And he's too proud to admit that he has a problem," I'm venting to Ginny four hours later over our salad-filled lunch boxes. "Which is beyond frustrating. Because even if he was like this when he was younger, he should be over it, now, right?"

Ginny frowns. "I don't think things work like that, Hermione."

I stab at my salad. "They did for me." She starts to ask, but I can't bear the thought of people asking me about it. Instead, I interrupt with my short version of the truth. "I was like that - I was anxious, and afraid. Panic attacks, suffocating feeling, I wanted to die. For a long time. But life moves on." I shrug. Of course, I don't mean to be blasé about things, but I guess I decided I didn't want to be like that anymore. "I didn't want to cry in toilet stalls anymore. I grew up because I had to."

"It's not really about growing up," Ginny comments, raising an eyebrow. She doesn't approve of my anger at him, of my impatience, I think. "If you're right and Draco really does have problems, then you should try to support him -"

"I do support him!" I rage, throwing my arms up. "I cook, and I clean, and my money is the primary income. I go out by myself because he's too afraid to leave the house. It's not a relationship, it's literally just me supporting him." I sigh. "It just seems so obvious to find a solution, but he can't see that."

We rest for a few long seconds of silence, Ginny thinking over my words, and me angrily stabbing at a rogue piece of diced cucumber.

"Why are you really angry?" Ginny asks quietly. "Is it really about Draco?"

"Yes!" I shout, almost laughing at her painfully annoying tone. "Maybe. No?"

She rolls her eyes. "Okay, so what are you actually angry about?"

Before I can either process the thought, someone else is hollering from across the canteen. It's Steve Davidson, from IT - where Draco works. I wave him over, already concerned. What has happened now?

"Hey, Hermione," he starts. I notice his nervousness - fumbling with keys and his phone, eyes moving swiftly from one point of focus to another without much time to take anything in. Maybe this is just him, or maybe something he needs to say to me is not a pleasant thing. "Is Draco in today? I haven't seen him, but he hasn't called in sick either."

I frown. "He said he was working from home today. Has he not logged on?"

"Um, no." Davidson falters. "Okay, no worries. I'll let you guys get on with your lunch…"

"That was weird," Ginny laughs. I glare back at her. "And totally not funny, I know. I think this is something you gotta take up with Draco, in all honesty. He needs to hear your thoughts, and you also need to understand a little more of what's going through his mind - how different it might be to what you were feeling when you felt it. Help him." She packs away her lunch box. "Take the rest of the day off - I'll let Georgia know. Just text me later."

"Okay," I murmur, smiling back sadly.

The first thought in my head when I arrive home is that the place is a mess. By which I mean it looks worse than it did when I left early this morning. That old, faithful fury returns to me in a sudden, burning blast. Dishes decorate the kitchen counter, the post lies abandoned on the doormat. So he obviously had time and energy enough to make food, but not to pick up several bills from the floor? And from the smell in the kitchen, it was a particularly pungent dinner - that he hasn't tried to even mask with any sort of febreeze. Stupid things, I know. But there's all this, and his total disrespect for our lives. I don't live in a relationship with this man, we just occupy the same, sad cage.

"Draco?" I call through the house. No reply. Anger sizzling its way through me, I stalk up the stairs. What, he can't be bothered to even reply? I know he's here. He hasn't left the house, the same as every day for so long.

I'm almost halfway to accusing him, yelling at him, expelling every feeling I've encountered in the last however many weeks.

Almost.

Because, as I round the landing, that's when I see him.

My heart falls flat. I crawl towards him on the floor, mouth agape in shock. Unable to speak, he doesn't look me in the eye through streaming tears and choking breaths. He's shaking. His laptop lies, forgotten, on the bed. There are scratch marks down his arms and legs, and his fingers are chafed raw from carpet burns.

The anger, the fury, dissipates from me instantly.

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