The Cracks in the Foundation
The front door slammed.
Hermione’s hand tightened around the serving spoon, but she didn’t turn around. She could hear Ron kicking off his shoes, tossing his bag onto the floor—all the little sounds that told her what kind of mood he was in.
“Long day?” she asked, careful to keep her voice light.
He didn’t answer right away. He walked into the kitchen, glancing at the table where she’d set out his dinner. Then, without a word, he grabbed a bottle of firewhisky from the counter and took a swig. Hermione looked down at her plate. Bad night, then.
Ron sat down with a sigh, rolling his shoulders. “Harry and I were at The Leaky today,” he said after a moment. “Bloke comes up to us—some Ministry prat, can’t even remember his name—and you know what he says to me?”
She stayed quiet. She already knew this was a trap.
Ron scoffed. “He says, ‘Must be tough, mate. Everyone still talks about her like she’s the real hero of the war. What’s it like being married to someone you’ll never measure up to?’”
Hermione’s stomach twisted. “Ron, I—”
“I had to sit there,” he snapped, “and pretend it didn’t piss me off. I had to laugh, shake it off, like it wasn’t a big deal.” He leaned forward, eyes dark. “Do you have any idea what that feels like?”
“Ron, I never—”
“Of course, you don’t!” He slammed his fist on the table, making the plates rattle.
Hermione flinched. His eyes flicked to her, sharp and knowing. And that was the worst part. He liked seeing her afraid.
She swallowed past the lump in her throat. “I need some air.”
She stood quickly, reaching for her wand. Maybe if she just stepped outside, she could clear her head, get her thoughts straight, decide what to do. But before she could take a step, Ron was there. His hand gripped her wrist, hard enough to make her breath hitch.
“You’re not going anywhere,” he said quietly.
Hermione’s pulse pounded in her ears. Stay calm. Don’t fight.
“I just need a walk,” she murmured. “I’ll be right back.”
His grip tightened. “What part of no don’t you understand?”
Hermione’s breath came short and fast. She could feel the bruises forming beneath his fingers, but she didn’t dare pull away. He wanted a reaction. He wanted a fight. So, she did the only thing she could. She stayed still.
“Good girl,” Ron muttered, finally letting her go. “Now sit down and eat your damn dinner.”
She sat. She picked up her fork with shaking fingers. She didn’t taste a single bite. And as Ron ranted on about work, drinking his way through half the bottle, Hermione folded in on herself.
Because she knew, without a doubt—she wasn’t getting out. Not tonight. Maybe not ever.
Not unless she found a way to break free.