It was quiet, at first. Small, whimpering noises in the dead of the night. So tiny you could make yourself believe it was just a figment of your imagination. So he tries. It carries on. The same sounds, every night. Soft and helpless. He can't get to sleep. Some days are worse than others. It could get louder - or worse, more broken. Why the fuck is nobody helping her?
After a week, he is able to tell what kind of night she is going to endure. He hopes it won't be a hard one. Every day, he hopelessly hopes. He just wants her to stop hurting. And some sleep. That would be nice.
On the ninth night, he hears a scream. It is unadulterated terror-he recognises the tone. It jolts him awake, and he hits his head on the wooden frame of his four poster bed.
He grinds his teeth together; useless-so-called-fucking-people-she-calls-her-mother-fucking-friends. He's been waiting for someone to do something. She's supposed to have people that would do anything for her. Clearly being broken is akin to a sin for those imbeciles. He thinks that he can be the one to do something. If no one else will, he should. Right? That is what he tells himself anyways.
He pads over towards her room, footsteps unnaturally light from necessary experience. Knocks once. Knocks twice. The whimpers stop. He pushes the chipped door open.
"Granger?"
She's sleeping still, her brows slightly scrunched. In pain? Fear?
The monstrosity she would call her hair is splayed out on the pillow. Brown against cream. She could probably suffocate under all of that. Her too-big eyes are closed, but he knows they are honey underneath. Of course he knows. They haunt him. They are rather beautiful.
He walks over to where she lays, and his hand hovers slightly above her arm.
"Granger?" He says it a little louder this time, hoping to extricate her from whatever horrors she is going through. Thinking about that will break him. Which would be counterproductive. So he doesn't.
She opens those eyes. Honey. Obviously. They widen a little, and he has the fleeting thought that it is adorable.
Fuck it.
He motions for her to make some space, and she complies. Slowly, tentatively, he reaches out to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. She closes her eyes. He takes this as an invitation. He uses his feet to drag her legs between both of his, and tucks her too-small frame so she is against his chest, so his chin is resting on the bird's nest she would call her hair.
He feels her shaking a bit. He thinks she might be crying. He decides right then that he can be this person for her. He will. He'll hold her and let her cry. It's the least he can do. He only hopes she will let him.
"I've got you, Granger."