Hermione struggled with setting a hefty hardback upon the dusty bookshelf, puffing from the weight as she finally placed it on the topmost ledge. She breathed a sigh of relief a second later, deeming that it was not going to fall, and stood back. Turning around she surveyed the room, taking in the dim and shadowy atmosphere of the place, wondering on the decisions she had made recently.

In the past year, she had not used magic. She had tentatively, and sorrowfully, stowed her wand away in a box and placed it under her bed. The temptation of drawing it out and revealing she was still able to cast spells was apparent, but she had resisted it so far with great endeavor. Her love for enchantments and the magical world had dwelled profoundly within her as she resided in Muggle London, but she felt that this was the best way for her to live. Thoughts of the treasured people she had left behind in her old life were not dismissed but cherished. She missed them dearly and thought of them every day, especially her two oldest friends.

Harry Potter, the man who had saved the Wizarding World from the darkest wizard of all time, had taken over Hogwarts and become the next Headmaster, relieving Minerva McGonagall of her position as she retired for her health. Being blasted once by Professor Umbridge and quite a few times during the last battle by some evil spells had taken its toll. Harry oversaw all the ongoing things at Hogwarts, and the Chosen One had finally found his place among the occupational world. He, too, had been offered the post of the Minister of Magic, just as Dumbledore had, but had refused, the job ultimately going to Kingsley Shacklebolt instead. Harry had never approved of the Ministry’s doing, and while he would have been able to set things straight because of his good nature, he found the job too daunting. His devotion for Hogwarts had surpassed it anyhow. His devotion to Ginny Weasley held firmly, too, even after her death in the final battle.

Ron Weasley had become a top Auror. Three years after Voldemort’s fall the Death Eaters had found it appropriate to appoint a new Dark Lord. Their usual antics had resumed and death tolls had mounted again, but the Aurors had prevented it only months after the mission had gone into operation. Ron was the head of his department, the supervisor and chief being. He had been the one to bring Fenrir Greyback to justice, walking away scathed but unbitten by the werewolf’s monstrous jaws. His never-ending workload had been the thing to wander into Hermione and his relationship, eventually finishing it. They both had been heartbroken but not discouraged.

Hermione’s love for books had soon buried her mind, and she had discovered a secluded shop on the outskirts of London to establish a bookstore, a place where she could wield her own adoration as well as assist others in theirs. She had bought the store with next to no money and pawned off some of her belongings to purchase the books from retailers to sell to interested customers. What had started out as a shop that many thought would go out of business in weeks had established itself as a very worthwhile enterprise. The owner was described as someone very likeable and organized, thorough and well kempt. The few books she had possessed when the shop had opened had turned into thousands, and Hermione had eventually had to relocate to a larger building to fit everything inside. Customers poured in by the hundreds every day. She had had to move away from her flat only miles away from the Burrow only to sustain her current occupation. With the many drives back and forth she had had to make between the bookstore and her home, her move had been the best thing to do. She could have Apparated, she knew, saved time from the thirty-minute travels, but she chose not to. She had no real use for magic now, having a Muggle occupation as the one she did. Hermione now lived in a nice apartment complex on the outskirts of town, only a fifteen minute drive from the shop. She was happy.

Satisfied with her success though she was, her workload too had crashed down upon her. Her visits with the Weasleys and other friends had grown fewer and fewer, eventually growing to naught. The last time she had even seen Ron and Harry had been at a small outing at the Burrow after Christmas, and it was now nearing October of the following year. She longed for companionship dearly, especially from her childhood comrades, but the many demands of customers and retailers had rained down upon her. The only friend she had now was her current boyfriend, Mark, but his constant whining and demands only reminded her of her customers, and he tested her nerves so much that she wondered why on earth she didn’t end it. She didn’t love him. Usually an eleven-month relationship amounted to something, such as marriage, and she dearly hoped that Mark wasn’t planning on proposing. He was rather wealthy, a doctor among the many shopkeepers and lawyers in this part of the town. He was a Muggle, though, and Hermione had thought it best to keep secret her old life--- the life that she loved, filled with magic, good friends, and her loyal upstanding. He had been the main reason she had decided that stowing away her wand had been for the best--- he surprised her at her apartment incessantly, always bringing flowers or maiming her with gifts. One day she could be watering plants with the tip of her wand, stirring soup on her stove with power emitted from it, combing her unkempt locks with a brush she had transferred across the room with forces unseen and him stopover. She couldn’t let him witness that or she’d be on the news so fast her head would spin. Mark loved her but he definitely possessed a strident mouth as well. His love for gossip would surely surpass anything she could give him.

Besides Mark’s droning nature, another problem that Hermione suffered with was his temper. Anger problems were his key element and his answer for everything. When he was irate he would throw objects at walls and break them, cursing loudly--- horrid things such as smashing car windows, releasing the air in tires, throwing bricks at houses. These things sounded childish if spoken about lightly, but when you were the firsthand witness such as Hermione was, then you became extremely frightened. The one time Hermione had gained the courage and tried to break off their relationship, Mark had turned furious, possessive, crazy, and had turned on her. When her regular customers had come in for their morning coffee and paperback the next day and asked what had caused her two black eyes and broken hand, Hermione had lied and said that she fell down the stairs and dropped a book off the topmost shelf and onto her face. Clumsiness, she blamed it on.

It was nearing five o’clock and Hermione hadn’t seen a customer trickle inside in the past hour. The sign upon the glass door formally stated that she didn’t close until six, but a dinner with Mark tonight prompted her to close early. She stacked the few returned books back on their correct shelves and altered the sign from ‘open’ to ‘closed.’ She hummed delightfully to herself the theme of Hogwarts as she locked the front, back, and side doors. She exited and went to her car, finding a bouquet of roses stuffed mercifully in the front seat as she opened the door. Almost smiling she scanned the surrounding area for Mark’s green Suburban but came up with nothing. The smirk hastily went away as she compulsorily picked up the flowers and threw them in the passenger’s side seat. Even a dazzling bouquet of her favorites couldn’t alter Hermione’s feelings for Mark. The dread of going to dinner with him played in her mind and she critically thought of canceling, calling Mark with a fake, sickly voice and telling him that she had caught the flu. But in a matter of four hours? She suddenly remembered that he had stopped by for lunch and she had put on the most cheerful persona possible because of the many surrounding people. He’d certainly insist on visiting her as well to bring soup, daunting on her every hand and foot as if she were a child. She’d already tried that. Couldn’t pull that one off. She put the car in drive and hurriedly sped home to shower and change.

Hermione had just arrived home and placed her keys on the dining room table when a knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. She rolled her eyes, glancing at the clock on the mantel above her fireplace. He was thirty minutes early. She groaned inwardly and strode to the door, peering through the small peephole to see if her suspicions were correct.

“Honey? Hermione?” came a voice from outside. She closed her eyes and prayed inwardly for strength. She pried the grimace off her face and replaced it with a smile as she opened the door.

“Got to take a shower,” she said hurriedly, turning away from him before the door was even halfway ajar. “Be right back, make yourself at home.” Hermione knew that he wouldn’t have a problem with that. She jogged to her bathroom and shut the door, clicking the lock into place as she undressed and stepped into the warm, comforting stream of water coming from her showerhead.

~ * ~

The drive to the restaurant was only ten minutes, but to Hermione it felt a lifetime. With Mark’s overprotective nature, he had not released her for even a second. His hand was always somewhere on her body, her knee, hand in hers, caressing her cheek. She tried not to seem too disgusted and feigned an authentic smile to satisfy him. It did and that only prompted him to touch her more. Hermione’s insides writhed and twisted in abhorrence at herself, but she couldn’t prevent it. If she attempted to leave him again then she would surely suffer worse than a broken hand this time. He might even kill her, and with all the connections he had it wouldn’t matter if he had or not--- he’d get off just as any other guilty criminal would. No remorse would play inside him either.

“How was your day?” he asked.

“All right. The coffee machine decided to break at seven in the morning, so most of the customers were pretty angry that they couldn’t get their drinks when they found out.”

“Do you need to pick up a new one?”

“No, I went out after you left and picked one up.”

“I certainly would have taken you. Why didn’t you ask?”

“I just didn’t think it that important, and besides I forgot when you came by anyhow.”

Mark grimaced and his hands turned white against the steering wheel. “Well, it would have given us more time together.”

Hermione brutally fought the urge to scoff or laugh. He stopped by the shop every day at least once, and he took her to dinner almost every night. Hermione felt that she saw him quite enough.

After pulling into a nearby parking location from the restaurant, Hermione gasped in awe at where they would be eating. The nicest French eatery in town, The Ledbury, stood to her left and she immediately turned to Mark and smiled.

“You didn’t have to do this. It’s really expensive, it’s just---”

But he put a hand up to silence her. She fell quiet and he stared into her brown eyes deeply, as if confirming to himself that she was really his. Hermione forced herself not to look away, but he finally concluded his gaze and opened the car door. Hermione unbuckled her seatbelt and reached for the handle, but Mark yelled through the windshield for her to stop. With wide eyes she freed the lever and waited for him to come around and tell her what was amiss, but he only smoothed his hair and buttoned his coat outside her door. She waited anxiously for him to complete whatever it was he was doing and he finally opened the car door for her. Mark didn’t want her to have to lift even a finger tonight. Hermione rolled her eyes and groaned, realizing that tonight would be another night that he would be solemn and complaining.

They walked into the building, hand in hand, and were seated by a very handsome waiter. Many people lingered out of doors, so Mark and Hermione’s ability to walk right up to the counter and be seated showed that Mark had most likely bribed the man.

The drinks and food were ordered, and Mark finally found himself alone with Hermione. He grabbed her hand from across the table and held it delicately, taking in its scent as he ran it across his freshly-shaved face. Hermione, this making her feel uncomfortable, looked around warily to make sure no one was staring.

“I love you, Hermione.”

Hermione smiled to let him know she’d heard.

~ * ~

“Weasley?”

Ron looked up from surveying the beauty of the streets and raised his hand, indicating he’d heard.

“Only one?”

Ron sighed and nodded accordingly. He was seated near the back of the restaurant in a booth alone. Every person around him seemed to have a companion, a lover. He longed for someone to be with, but he understood that he didn’t desire just anyone. He knew exactly who he wanted.

Only seconds after he had decided his order, the waitress returned carrying a large bottle of scotch and set a heavy glass to his side. He gave a smile and she gave it back, offering a ‘What will you have?’ in return for his order. He told her the special and she clasped her hands together after she had written it down, promising to return in a bit with his food. He poured a sip of the drink into the wineglass and drank.

Ron watched another woman as she crossed to his other side of the room with a rather large tray of at least four entrées in her hands. She only got a few tables down when, without warning, a man stood up quickly, carelessly, and knocked the woman down. Ron almost gasped as he saw how hard she smacked the floor. Ron believed that the man would immediately swoop down and apologize, assisting her up from the floor, but it didn’t happen. The man only yelped and looked down upon the woman spitefully as she cringed, searching her elbows for signs of blood as she attempted to stand. The entire restaurant fell silent and many looked around for the cause of the stillness. The others’ eyes were fixated upon the scene unfolding.

“In my way! The service here is truly horrible, can’t even look where they’re going!” He scoffed and kicked the booth he was seated at, grabbing at chunks of broken meatballs and spaghetti sauce littered across his nice jacket. His companion stared at him as if she couldn’t believe what was happening, her eyes wide, her mouth opening and closing. The next thing their audience knew, the man pulled the strands of spaghetti into his hands and forcibly threw them at the waitress on the floor. Uproar came from the crowd in the form of gasps and shrieks of disbelief. On impulse Ron leapt from his seat and grabbed the man’s fist before he could do any more harm, wrenching it behind him.

“What the hell? Let go of me!”

Ron released him and the man dropped the food from his now clenching fists. Both men’s nostrils flared as they stared at each other, hate boiling and raging. The man’s companion stooped down and helped the poor waitress from the ground, but she flung her arms away and fled toward the kitchen, weeping and stumbling as she ran. She didn’t bother to pick up the food or broken glass.

“Mark, let’s go.”

“No, if this guy wants to be smart then he---”

“Mark, don’t be ridiculous. I’m leaving. Please, come on, we’re being stared at. I can’t even believe this.” She placed her head in her hands, then looked up to see if Mark had obeyed. He hadn’t, of course, and she only put her fingers to the sides of her face so she couldn’t be identified.

The entire time the woman pleaded with Mark to leave, the two men didn’t stray their eyes from the other’s. There was something catching and familiar about the woman’s voice that attracted Ron greatly to her, but he thought nothing of it and didn’t turn to identify her. Mark pulled back a fist to swing at Ron’s face and the woman screamed for him to stop. “MARK!” she shrieked, almost crying now. His fist stopped in mid-air and went to his pockets. Ron could tell that he was struggling with his emotions and the thoughts of pleasing his companion.

The only sound in the restaurant now was silence. No china clinked against china; no sweet conversation came to anyone’s ears. The woman’s last yell had echoed across the restaurant and she now stayed in her chair, weeping, staring at her friend as if he were about to do something even more vile than he had already done.

“It wasn’t the waitress’ fault, it was yours. Let’s go, we’ll apologize later---”

“My fault?” He scoffed and stared at her, enraged. “She pushed me! Didn’t you see it?”

“You were in your seat and you got up! Please don’t argue, don’t be a child, please---” But the man cut her off again.

“Look, I was going to do this tonight anyway, so here it goes.” The woman looked at him incredulously and he knelt on the floor on one knee. After dismissing the fact that he wasn’t going to hit the other man, Hermione felt a bit more at ease, but the shocked patrons’ stares made her weary. He pulled a small black box from his back pocket and opened it in front of her.

“Hermione, will you marry me?”

Ron’s ears perked at the sound of the name.

The shock of the marriage proposal paired with the abuse of the waitress forced Hermione to burst into laughter. Had he really just proposed with an entire restaurant staring at him in incredulity because of how rude and awful he had just been to someone? She found that even their stares couldn’t stop her laughter, this was just too much.

His smile faded into a deep grimace. “What is so funny?”

“Mark, we need to go,” she said, finally able to impede her tears that accompanied the giggles. She grabbed her purse compulsorily and placed a large bill onto the table. “I really can’t believe--- never mind, please.”

Ron finally decided to glance at the woman, cautious that the man would strike him earlier. He saw a face that he hadn’t seen in nearly a year and his heart leapt with happiness. A smile lit his features and he didn’t even think as he shouted excitedly, “Hermione?”

The woman looked up quickly and cautiously, this happening to be the first time she had glanced the man’s way as well. How did he know her name?

But after only a second of staring at him, her heart bounded inside her chest. His hair had grown longer, his face unshaved, but he was unmistakable. “Ron!” she said delightfully, fully overlooking Mark and how he still rested on one knee on the dirty, food-laden ground.

“This--- This is the last place I would have expected to see you!” she said hesitantly, looking around.

“You know, being an--- er, what I am,” he added, realizing he was in a room full of Muggles, “makes a bit more than what you’d think, you know. Thought I’d treat myself. Sorry to see you’re here with uh--- this guy.”

Hermione gave a fleeting look upward at the rising Mark as he brushed the noodles off his pants and placed the black box back into his pocket. “Wait a minute . . . you know this guy? Please don’t tell me that.”

“We’re friends from school,” Hermione said matter-of-factly, not daring to take her eyes off Ron. She felt that if she released her gaze they would lose each other again, this time forever.

“What about the question I asked you?” Mark asked almost jokingly, straightening his tie.

Hermione waved a hand in his face, still not dropping her gaze. “Later.”

After their stares lasted more than a minute, Mark’s jealousy flared. With Mark’s utter reprisal and tugs at Hermione’s shoulder to leave, Ron followed her outside and to their car.

“Do you want to catch up?” he asked loudly, over Mark’s commands for Hermione to get in the car.

Hermione smiled and placed a hand on the glass behind the closed door, as if it were her prison. She nodded as they sped out of the parking lot, leaving a confused manager running out of the front door, screaming just as loud as Mark could for them to come back. But Ron only smiled.

After the mishap at the café and the heartfelt reunion with Ron, Hermione was extremely surprised to flee unscathed from Mark after he had dropped her off at her apartment that night. His temper seemed to have solidified while they were on the date, and Hermione had figured that as soon as she had gotten back to her residence that he would have wrenched her out of the car and drug her inside. Her screams would have amounted to nothing but despicable laughter and a prolonged beating from her dearly beloved. Mark believed she had agreed to his proposal and had set about the past few days making wedding plans and calling many companies and friends that could help. He had already taken Hermione shopping for her dress, something she had found ridiculous. Not only was the groom not meant to see the bride before their actual wedding, Hermione realized that her get-together with Ron had encouraged her to disapprove of being in that kind of dress if it weren’t meant for him, Ron. Despite her prolonged time away from him, Hermione still loved him. No matter how much Mark harmed her, damaged her spirit, made her weep, he could not seize that affection from her.

Mark turned up at the store and stayed the entire time she worked every day. Most of the time he would do nothing but laze about and talk about marriage procedures. Hermione didn’t know if it was because of his intense obsession with her or if it were in fear of Ron showing up. Because he had worked at the same office for the past ten years, the board of doctors and nurses that assisted Mark trusted him without hesitation. Hermione presumed that they had no idea of his livid disposition. Thus, he had asked for the upcoming fortnight off for the plans he and his bride-to-be were to formulate, and he was granted that request with no inquiry. Hermione, on the other hand, could not simply get off work because she was the only one that worked there. Many of her customers would be downhearted if they were unable to obtain their morning coffees and purchase the latest books. She ran the entire shop alone, something that Mark had bugged her relentlessly about, telling her that he would pay for the hired hands, but she had refused. She felt it was her punishment, her duty, to manage the store unaccompanied because she had left all her other friends behind.

The one time she had been alone at the shop, Ron had so charmingly strode in. Hermione’s delight had doubled with relief as she had realized Mark was not about. The couple had spoken of all the things they had missed out on with the other. Harry was doing all right, as was the rest of his family. He had been to visit Ginny’s grave the day before with his mate and placed a few flowers. Mrs. Weasley was still the best cook anyone had ever encountered. Hermione had told him of her relationship with Mark, only leaving out the details of the violence and mistreatment. Ron knew that she didn’t love him, Hermione had ensured to thrust that point across, and he knew of her intentions to end the relationship. They had made plans to get together a few days later, and that day happened to be today. He was expected to come to her flat and pick her up in nearly thirty minutes, but a twisting feeling in Hermione’s gut prevented her from being excited. Apprehensive, frightened were the terms she would exercise from her extensive knowledge. Mark was here, and he was sitting on the couch.

“. . . am planning on it being a huge wedding. My friends want to bring their own family; they’re quite fond of me, you know. How many invitations are we going to need for your relatives?” He didn’t even look up as he asked her the question, still jotting down numbers and adding them up on a calculator. His cell phone lay next to him in case an important phone call needed to be made.

Hermione stared at him from across the room where she was boiling tea on the stove. A fragile grimace was pursed on her lips as her worry unfolded into terror with each passing second. “Sorry, what?” she asked him.

“How many invitations are you going to need for your family?” He looked at her as if she was some kind of blubbering idiot and persisted with an idiotic stare to confirm she had heard.

The sarcastic gawk he detained on her forced something inside of Hermione to angrily click. He thought she was worthless, stupid. “None,” she told him frankly, hoisting the teakettle from the eye with a potholder and placing it on the counter to pour. She didn’t even look at him.

“None? What do you mean? You don’t want your mother or father to be there?”

“Shows how little you know about me, Mark.” Tears sprang to her eyes at the memories. “My parents are dead. They were murdered.”

“Oh, sorry.” He momentarily appeared as if he truly was remorseful, but then a grimace came to his face and a sneer erupted from each corner of his lips. “You don’t mean it that way.”

“No, I don’t.” Hermione still didn’t dare to glance toward the living room where he was seated. She took a deep breath. “Mark, this is just too sudden, too early for me.” Her heart bounded severely in her chest and she felt as if she was going to retch with each passing word. Hermione not only needed to get this off her chest, but him out of her home before her visitor arrived.

He did not move. The only thing Hermione could hear was the sound of his labored breaths, growing deeper and louder by the second. She saw an irritated tear run down his cheek and his tongue snaked above his lips to get rid of it. “I don’t understand. It’s been eleven months.” He finally stood and Hermione did not falter in her steps, carrying the tea from the kettle to her cup at the table, trying not to show the fear that timidly welled within her. He was going to hit her this time, she knew it, and her eyes glanced nervously back and forth from his approaching figure to the cup, ensuring she wasn’t trembling too much and would spill the drink. Her body became rigid as she awaited the blow, hoping he wouldn’t intend for her face this time. Four past explanations of I fell down the stairs would presumably not stick well with the customers inquiry a fifth occasion. Her stiffness must have been apparent because Mark noticed.

“Think I’m going to hit you?”

Hermione didn’t respond. She put the kettle gently down upon the table and cautiously took a step backward, dim-witted, she knew as soon as she had done it, because it only cornered her more. Mark filled in that step in half a second, that signature sneer encountering his features once more.

“I’m sorry, Mark,” she offered at little more than a whisper. It startled her even more at how feeble her voice sounded, how minute. She hardly dared to breathe. “You need to go. Just . . . just give me some time to think.” She added the last just to give him hope. She’d call the police and they would force him to leave her alone. But for how long? She didn’t even allow it to concern her, she’d move if she had to, just to escape. If she gave him the false pretense that she was going to think on her decision more, this might influence him into leaving.

“No. No, I don’t think so.” His expression softened somewhat, but for only a moment. Hermione’s hopes of his departure fled swiftly. “What can I do to make you love me, ‘Mione?” Her stomach did a somersault at the horrid nickname and she gasped for breath. He was only inches away from her now. “Can I kiss you? Will that make you love me? You always said that my kisses made you go crazy.”

Hermione thought it absurd how he would think that kissing her would cause her to love him, especially after all she’d been through. And when had she ever voiced her opinion on his kisses? She hadn’t, that was the answer. Her thoughts were interrupted, though, by his lips pressing with surprising gentleness into hers. Her back touched the wall and she found herself being pushed against it overpoweringly. Her lungs constricted in her small chest after the kiss had lasted for almost a minute, her stomach churning in revulsion. She couldn’t breathe; his face was too much in the way. All of her oxygen had been nearly gone when Mark finally broke it, opening his eyes and smiling wickedly. He probably believed that it appeared sweet, the way he thought, but it scared Hermione.

“Make you even crazier about me?” he asked sincerely, offering a grin. He reached up a hand to caress her chin but she turned away. He grabbed her hand and squeezed it tightly, so tightly that Hermione felt the blood rush from her fingers and turn an insipid color. His nails were digging into her palm with stabbing vigor and she prayed she wouldn’t emit any helpless noise. That would only cause him more pleasure.

“Mark, I can’t make a commitment now. The store---” She scanned her mind for any other things to blame, but she found that to be it. Her life was her bookstore. Mark just couldn’t understand. “I have too much going on. I can’t do this now, I just can’t.”

“I can’t believe that you’re saying no. To me?” Even in heartache, egotism and selfishness remained unchanged inside of Mark. But the way he hung his head to the floor dejectedly allowed Hermione’s sympathy to suffer for him. She placed the free hand that he wasn’t holding to his shoulder and peered up at him.

“Mark, you’re going to find someone that loves you. Me?” She faked a miserable smile. “I have no idea what I want.”

“But we were doing so well!” he yelled suddenly, his fingers sinking deeper into her flesh. For a man his fingernails were unexpectedly sharp. She hazily felt the droplets of warm blood spring upon her skin but she ignored it and closed her eyes. “I thought that you loved me. What happened?” he asked.

The mental picture that Hermione kept stowed away of Ron released itself within her mind. His smile melted her heart and she suddenly remembered that his arrival was rapidly approaching. She didn’t desire for another argument to take place between the two men.

As if reading her thoughts, Mark said, “Now I see it. It’s that guy, Don, isn’t it? Childhood playmates? I’ll kill him. Then we can be together.” He let loose her hand and Hermione quickly wiped her blood onto the faded blue jeans she was wearing, hoping he hadn’t seen. It was as if he was some werewolf, always craving blood for his meal. He upturned a chair forcefully and it went across the room as if it were a rag doll. Hermione knew that she would soon be next. Her spine stiffened and she struggled to breathe for the blockage in her throat. She didn’t want to cry, she needn’t cry, but the tears welling in her eyes didn’t seem to have sympathy. Her signs of weakness only contributed to his delight in her pain.

“His name’s Ron.” Now she was really being clever. Why should she allow him to push her around if all of this was going to amount to nothing? They weren’t fighting for a relationship. Well, Mark was, Hermione knew, but she didn’t wish to tarnish the rest of her life with this man.

“You would have said yes if he hadn’t shown up.”

“No, Mark,” she said, making her eye rolling incredibly obvious. “It’s been coming for a while, I just couldn’t figure out how to say it.”

He immediately leapt toward her, closing the few inches that separated them, and threw her to the floor. Her reaction time to this sudden violence had been dreadful because she hadn’t been expecting him to strike yet. Her head smacked the floor and a headache quickly sprang forth behind her eyelids. She let out a cry as her skull struck linoleum. Black dots sparkled in front of her eyes and her frame quivered in fear as he leaned over her. His rancid breath shocked her as his face came only a half-inch from her own. He thrust his finger in her face, she only half seeing it from her struggle not to faint. “That is bullshit.” He spoke the words defiantly, as if challenging her to defy them. She chose not to. “You wouldn’t leave me. No one would.” His hand slithered up her thigh and she shifted to bring her knees together so he wouldn’t touch her, but she could no longer feel anything. Thoughts of a serious head injury came to her mind, but faded quickly as he yanked her from the ground and to her feet. Her knees protested and soon buckled beneath her and that made him even more irate.

“Please---”

She had hardly emitted the word from her shuddering lips before a staggering slap to the face cut her off. She did not move, did not even flinch or blink. Her complexion turned crimson from the blow, and it was all she could do not to burst into tears. Silence engulfed the room for the longest time. His callous breathing propelled her hair in every direction. A shrill ringing noise reached Hermione’s ears; she guessed it was from the bash to her head. She began to sway in and out of consciousness.

“Do you honestly think that I want to be with you? After all this?” Her voice came at only a hoarse whisper.

“I always get what I want.”

Hermione gave him the dirtiest stare she could muster. The shock that she was choosing to disobey him boiled inside of him, and he reached out to strike her again.

A knock at the door ceased all movement.

Hermione suddenly allowed the tears to fall as a plummeting feeling in her stomach nearly impelled her to vomit. Mark had already promised to kill Ron--- now here he was, arriving directly on the front step for him to carry out exactly that.

“Who is that, Hermione?” he asked. “Don?”

“No. No, it’s the cleaning lady you hired, honest. She always comes at this time. Just ignore it, she’ll come back later---”

Mark gave her a filthy stare and picked himself off the ground, brushing the white dust off his black pants from sitting on the floor. He commanded her not to move and Hermione ducked under the kitchen table to avoid being seen from Mark as he walked curiously to the door, in full view of whoever it was that was there. They would see her and she would plead for them to help her. She was safe now.

Mark treaded quietly to the door, stepping around creaks in the floor so the visitor would not hear him approaching. He peered through the tiny hole and his expression faltered from intrigued to shocked and angry.

“Get in the damn bedroom now,” he told Hermione as he turned around. He didn’t even care to whisper. Another knock resounded and he located her under the table. “I thought I told you not to move! Go!”

He rushed over to the kitchen where he seized Hermione by the shoulders and dragged her by her hair and arm toward her own bedroom. Hermione painfully reached up to pull his intertwined fingers from her frizzy locks but only succeeded in getting her own tangled as she forced herself not cry out. She crawled backwards with her aching arms until he finally pulled her into the room and slammed the door with warnings that if she came out she’d be severely punished. He treated her as if she was a little girl.

She soon heard the front door creak open and she fell silent, not even breathing so it wouldn’t hinder her audibility. The voices were slightly muffled but she could understand them.

Hermione could just mentally see Ron’s shock as he had opened the door and it been Mark instead of her. A thought within made her gasp and her insides writhe. Maybe he thought that she had set him up--- that she had only invited him her to receive a brutal beating from her massive boyfriend. Because it was what she now delighted in because of her ongoing encounters with some Muggles that had turned her wrong. Maybe next he thought she would join the Death Eaters. But even though nearly a year had passed, Hermione hoped that Ron would see past this and dismiss it. There was no way would she ever do that to anyone, especially him. Mark could kill if he wished, and Hermione was something that he would do it for. Ron wouldn’t give up.

“Is er- Hermione here?” Ron asked, surprised. Mark stared at him for a moment as if he were something disgusting and then seized him by the collar of his shirt, pulling him forcefully inside as he slammed the door. Ron struggled to keep his balance as he was pushed out of the doorway and into Hermione’s living room. A small bouquet of flowers fell from his hands and Mark looked at them, amused, picking them from the ground as if they smelled and looked repulsive. He opened the door again and placed the stems in the frame, then slammed the door, trapping the roses between inside and out. He tugged on the green stalks and shreds of petals came from the flowers, ruining them. Hermione wouldn’t be putting those in any water.

Ron’s nostrils flared and his fists clenched. Reaching into his back pocket for his wand, he suddenly remembered what Mark was and he didn’t feel as if modifying a stray Muggle’s memory would be the best thing to do if he wanted to carry on in his occupation. Too many memories had been modified without authorization and the ones accountable had been sacked without explanation. Ron decided to abandon the wand inside his back pocket until he truly needed it. He didn’t know what this guy was playing at, but recollections of the night a few days ago surfaced and rage rose inside of him. Both of them.

“How’d you know where she lived? My fiancée?”

Ron’s face expressed shock and he meant it to. A sardonic grin soon spread across his features. “I was aware she had said no,” he said mockingly, forcing his fists to his sides, not tempting them to crash into Mark’s teeth. He was toying with him. Ron was a man who would much rather talk his problems over with the other person than resort to punching through thick walls and faces. Mark was the complete opposite.

“You’re wrong.”

Silence once again engulfed the room, this time for different reasons than the first. Mark was still debating on whether or not he should murder Ron here or take him to another place. Ron was trying to solve the mystery of Hermione’s location. Was she in this apartment or had she departed to meet him somewhere?

“She’s not a piece of property. She’s---”

But just like Hermione, Mark didn’t fancy to listen to what Ron had to say. Hermione perceptibly heard a great scuffling sound as one of the men crashed into the coffee table. Mark’s well-aimed fist had struck its mark. Silence followed, and Hermione found herself surprised that further fracas was not taking place. She quietly cracked the door to peer into the other room to see what was going on, but a large creaking sound reverberated throughout the house as she opened it, ridding them of silence. Ron’s head turned in her direction and for a brief second their eyes met, but another blow to the head caused Ron to stumble backwards and Mark to jump on top of him, raining as many punches as he could muster before the other man could react.

“STOP IT!” Hermione cried, racing into the room where the quarrel unfolded, out of harm’s way. “Stop! Both of you---”

Though Ron didn’t appear so, he was stronger. The many lessons and tasks of becoming an Auror came into play, and those experiences strengthened him. He forced Mark off him, slamming his head into the coffee table, dazing him for a second. That moment was just enough. Ron pulled Mark’s fists behind him and twisted him onto his abdomen, placing a knee deep into his spine as Mark struggled to become free. Mark’s hand was slowly coming undone as Ron resisted. That hand soon came up and punched Ron again, forcing him backward and off his attacker.

“I don’t want to fight you. I just came to---”

“Yeah, no one would,” Mark told him, his breaths rising and falling rapidly inside his chest as he smoothed the hair on his face and gained his balance. “And you just came to steal Hermione from me. Guess what? She’s not interested.”

Ron didn’t dare to shift his gaze to Hermione, who still cowered in the corner, her eyes large and incredulous.

Mark lunged again. Hermione couldn’t stand to watch this and she fled back into her bedroom, an idea forming inside her mind. She plunged her arm into the blackness beneath her mattress and felt with great desperation for the box she was so seeking. Her fingers finally struck something wooden and she clasped her fingers tightly around it and pulled it out. Rushing into the next room only a second later, she pointed the object at Mark and Ron immediately pushed him off, raising his hands in submission. His lips sported a cavernous cut and his eye was starting to swell, but otherwise he was all right.

Mark stayed rooted to the spot, sarcasm glazing his features. “What are you going to do, Hermione?” he asked, taking a step toward her. Hermione’s breath caught in her throat and she took a quickened gasp. “Hit me with that twig? Go on. I don’t mind.” His voice dripped with scorn. He held out his neck for her to slap him once or twice with the object and tapped his cheek.

“Don’t come any closer, Mark,” she forewarned as he took yet another pace toward her. Her voice shook with fear and that only made Mark chuckle as she raised her wand toward him. Ron balanced on both his feet, poised and prepared to stop the man if he lunged at Hermione. “I’m warning you.”

“Oh, now she’s warning me, eh?” His cackles of ridicule echoed across the room. “Really, Hermione. You can’t beat me. I always get what I want.”

“Not this time,” she said through gritted teeth, tears springing to her eyes. This shocked him again, how she was being so insubordinate. Her already black eye was enflamed and bulging and Ron stared at her in disbelief. Had all of this happened in the minutes before he had arrived? His thoughts were interrupted, though, by Mark’s pace quickening toward the young woman.

“Mark, really. Just give it up and leave.”

Mark stopped immediately and turned toward him. He was silent for a minute before speaking. “If you end up with this one, Hermione, then damn you to hell.”

Hermione closed her eyes and tried to wipe the phrase from her memory. Ron didn’t even appear abashed. His fingers danced in their sockets at his sides, itching to strike with his wand, but his responsibilities kept him from doing so. Mark’s stares penetrated Hermione’s very soul, and his sudden movement toward the door surprised them both. The next thing they knew Mark had exited from the room and a loud bang assumed that the door had slammed, very forcefully, behind him. His stomps dulled as he neared the bottom of the stairs, and finally Hermione heard a loud creaking noise, indicating he had exited from the gate below them.

It was over.

Hermione’s gaze did not falter from the door, and neither did the posture she detained with her wand. She did not drop it, Ron thought lest Mark decided to return with a new vengeance. She halfway lowered her wand, but Ron’s very idea struck her thoughts and she raised it again. No emotion showed on her face, her expression blank and unreadable. Terror still crowded her heart and the images of Mark beating her did not resign from her mind even after his departure. She suddenly began to feel the pain of the bruises he had poured upon her, those on her face the most. It looked as if she actually didn’t have to use the stair excuse this time for her injuries.

Hermione’s knees buckled from beneath her, the weight of Mark’s departure, the ending of their relationship, the abuse becoming too much for her thin frame to hold. She hoped desperately that this time it was really over. She went to the floor, her quivering arms breaking the fall as she struck the carpet, but another figure was soon at her side with words of comfort as she felt the tears she didn’t know she was crying gush from her eyes. Ron’s heart melted as he glimpsed Hermione in so much hurt. Her wand rolled away to the other side of the room but she no longer felt the need to have it in her grasp; Ron’s reassuring presence prevented any trepidation from reaching her. Her sobs continued and she sensed no embarrassment as they persisted, sometimes growing louder with each gasp of air she took in. With all of the things they had been through together, she couldn’t be. Amid every soothing word Ron spoke aloud, Hermione’s ease strengthened. Ron’s hand stayed comfortingly on her back until the weeping subsided.

“You’re going to get through this,” he whispered consolingly, reaching a swift finger upward to wipe away a tear on the bridge of her nose. She looked up and found him kneeling on the floor beside her, his wand only inches away in case Mark really did decide to return. The air grew chilly for a second as she realized he had gotten up from the ground and walked to the door. Was he leaving so soon? Hermione’s stomach sank not only with disappointment but fear. She needed his protection, probably even a place to stay for the night if he offered it, until she found her own. But as he stretched out a hand to the knob she realized that he hadn’t reached to turn it, he had meant to bolt it. The windows as well. He traveled through the rooms as if it were his sole intention, to care for her. More tears flooded her eyes, but this time they were tears of joy, of love--- love for the friend that had come to save her in her harshest time.

*Thanks a ga-gillion to the lovely Melissa for beta-ing!