Chapter Text
The wind slammed against my face but I didn't stop. I couldn't comprehend how far I'd run or where I was.
Suddenly, I found myself banging a door. At least I'd hoped it was a door. My vision was blurred from the onslaught of tears and my head was spinning. The tears stained my cheeks red as dizziness began to cloud my vision like a perfect veil of fog. I stabbed him.
I stabbed him.
The thought ran through my brain in a loop. I have to get out of here, out of this place. I knew I was too weak to cause any fatal damage. Which means only one thing....Once ron recovers he will find me. And if I remain in this town, he will never let me go again.
I stand there banging on a strangers door, trying to understand just how everything had gone downhill so quickly. The longer I stood here the more the panic inside my chest swelled. Was he already up? Was he looking for me? Could he see me now? My head turned quickly trying to make sense of my surroundings, trying to see if he was coming towards me. It was no use. My tears turned everything into distant shapes and colors. I tried to slow my breathing and calm the racing of my mind. Tried to find understanding of just what had happened only minutes ago.
When the door in front of me finally opened, I collapsed. Dazed by the memories and panic. How did this happen? When did my life become such a horror story?
~~~
Earlier in the day:
The apple pie was nauseatingly sweet. I could tell just by the smell. I smile as the warm yellow of the sun pierces through the windowsill above my kitchen sink. It was a beautiful day in my home of Diagon Alley.
Home. The word brought a thousand memories to mind, but none were pleasant.
I suddenly remembered why I was baking this pie. Ron was always calmer if he had dessert.
"It's okay 'mione" I reassured myself "he won't be home for another two hours, just...enjoy the peace."
Ron was my husband. He was handsome, muscular, and........dangerous. He had been quite a different man when I first met him. Or at least, I had seen him that way. Back then he always seemed to be smiling or laughing. He was fun and caring. And then he obtained the job offer he'd always wanted. The one I now wish he'd never have taken. In becoming Diagon Alley's head investigator of the police department, Ron became dull, angry, and scary. The force changed the man I married. Or maybe, It just finally allowed me to see who my husband really was.
It was just two weeks after we purchased our new home. Ron had been working for a full week. I brought out the best wine we had to celebrate.
Once it was accessible, he seemed... attached to it. He was rather angry when I made him stop drinking so we could sleep.
He yelled for the first time that night. He became loud and demanding. My knees trembled at the tone of his voice. I didn't recognize the way this man spoke to me. The complete lack of emotion tied into his voice. In my terror, I am not afraid to admit that I was not thinking logically. Not yet making the connections as to why his behavior had changed. The next day, however, I found myself wondering just why anyone would be so attached to wine. Why it would so drastically change their mood or persona. It wouldn't. It doesn't..... Unless, the person is an alcoholic.
But this was Ron. My stomach turned over in knots. I would know if my own husband was an alcoholic. Right? I would've noticed the signs when we were dating, would've seen the red flags waving. And Ron hardly ever had a drink. Even when we were out and about. It would be crazy to believe someone who never really drank publicly was an alcoholic. Unless, he didn't ever really need to.
I noticed Ron's water bottle sitting at the edge of the sink. I picked it up and took a hesitant sniff. The bottle reeked of vodka.
In my shock, I didn't notice the figure standing in the doorway talking to me. That's when everything went really wrong. A iron hand clasped onto my shoulder. Roughly turning me to face him. Forcing me to look straight into his eyes. Eyes which were blood shot. As though he had tried to drink himself straight out of a hangover.
That was the fist time he beat me.
Every time after that became worse. I had heard the statistics on domestic violence cases. I had heard how many women stay. How dangerous it can be for them.
I just never thought I would become one of them.
At first, I stayed out of love. This was my husband, and though his fits of rage scared and hurt me, I felt that maybe I could find a way to help him. He would always apologize after. Tell me how sorry he was and how it would "never happen again". I wanted so badly to believe him. To believe that this marriage I had entered into was not already failing. To believe that I was not to blame for missing the earlier signs. To believe that he could love me enough to change. To choose me. To just not....hurt me. But eventually, you are hurt enough to know that them changing is not something that could ever be. But, by the time you arrive at that point you are broken and bruised. A sick twisted voice starts to whisper that you deserve this. That it's your fault. That the only reason the man you loved so much changed so entirely is.....well, you. You start to become afraid. Afraid that if you leave , you'll become another statistic. Afraid that he'll find you and hurt you worse. Afraid that if you somehow manage to escape with your life, the next person will treat you the exact same way. Because of that sick, twisted voice. Constantly whispering, "It's your fault".
And so I stayed. Everyday praying that today would be different. Making apple pies, or chocolate chip cookies in hopes that his good mood would protect me for another night. I had no idea on that night, that I was about to face one of the most brutal beatings yet.
My body flinched in response to the front door slamming. I tried to mentally prepare myself for what was to come. I stopped, looking at myself in the kitchen windows reflection. Sadly asking myself, "how do you prepare yourself for torture."
I set the table with the finer plates and forced a smile when he wrapped his arms around my waist. Dinner itself, went pleasantly. I dared to hope that the Ron I loved was back. That is until I got up to clear the table. "Ate you finished" I asked warily.
"Yeah" he replied.
A real smile lit up my features as I grabbed his plate and the wine and started for the kitchen. The sound of a inhuman-like chuckle sent shivers down my spine. Rooting my feet in place on the floor.
"Does it look like I was done with that?!" He all but growled, as I sprinted to put the wine back on the table.
"No, of course not."
I felt his hand grab Mine and his fingernails dig into my wrist. "What does that mean Hermione? Do you think I some kind of alcoholic?"
I frantically tried to assure him I thought nothing of the sort and I felt his grisp tighten on my wrist. His fingernails digging harshly into my pale skin. Continuing their torment, until finally red blood appeared in small circles.
It was too late. He was screaming at me. Of that, I was certain. But the panic had clawed its way up my throat. I could not hear anything but the sound of my continuously increasing breaths. The world was silent. His mouth moving, but no sound reaching my bracing ears. I saw his arm move before I felt the sheer force of becoming weightless. I crashed to wall behind me with brutal impact. Sharp pains stun my back as I tumbled to the ground. My hands shook as I stayed there, frozen on the ground. Blood was visible in small cuts all over my arms now. I quickly realized why. He had thrown me into the mirror. The sharp pains I felt were shards that had broken forcefully upon my skin. More shards lay in pieces at my feet.
"After all I've done for you, you think of me as nothing more than a drunk man?"
I wanted to move, to run, to do anything! But I couldn't. My body was frozen laying in a heap on the floor, surrounded by mirror shards. Rough hands grasped my waist, turning my on my back. My back which screamed in pain and agony. The same rough hands were around my neck not even a moment later. Slowly, squeezing the life out of me. "It's okay" I assured myself "he's choked you before. Never any longer than a minute". My hands grasped at his own of their own accord. Weakly trying to removed the object obstructing my air. But I focused on trying to conserve the little air I already had. It would not do to waste it now.
I counted to sixty in my head. That's when the realization hit me. Ron was far too drunk and far too angry this time. He wasn't going to stop. My body took over. The freeze that had previously been activated was overpowered by the raw sense of fight being currently unleashed. I saw a shard of mirror sticking out of my left forearm. I released my hands from his wrist and grabbed it. Unthinkingly, I shoved it into his right rib. He cried in pain before dropping me. I gasped for air as i lay in the glass-like fragments. He lay still on the floor. One hand clutching his side, but his eyes closed and Jaw slack.
When I finally had enough breath to regain my head, I shot up. I sprinted to our master bedroom and grabbed a black suitcase I grabbed five changes of clothes, emergency money, and any precious items (that hadn't been broken in one of his rages) and flew out the door.
I could only pray I had enough time to get away.
~~~
I awoke to find myself in a bed at the Brown house. Lavender, a quirky girl about 3 years younger than me, told me how she had opened the door to find me faint. She said it was only ten minutes after she had brought me inside, that a man came out of the corner house cursing and clutching his side.
She said after seeing my scars and the frantic pounding it wasn't hard to put the pieces together. I'd expected myself to be embarrassed, but it felt surprisingly good to be able to talk to and trust Lavendar. I stayed there about two weeks, then I ran hopped on the train. I exited twice to board different lines. After the second switch, I figured I was safe to jut sit until It hit the last stop.
My name is Hermione Granger. I am 28 years old. I don't know where I am.
The one thing I do know is that I was abused.