Her Floor is My Ceiling

I do. I hear it. Every night. He's there. Staining her. Repressing her. Robbing her of all the happiness that she could have. I feel for her, because she deserves more than he can give her, she deserves the world wrapped in tissue paper. Tissue paper. That's what she reminds me of. So thin, translucent, and you know that one tear would rip a hole right through her. I don't suppose she ever cries, but what I wouldn't do to hold her while she did. To hold her close, and shield her from the dirty world all around us. I admire her, I always have, she's stronger than she looks. And to put up with him...well, as I said, she's stronger than she looks.

/He finishes her quickly.../

I know. I hear it. The 'thump, thump, thump' of a cheap bed-head on the thin walls. The simulated pleasure moans. The few quiet grunts that indicate his end. The stilted footsteps across the sticky floor. The flush of a toilet. The whispered words of goodbye. The scream of anguish she lets out after he goes. Sounding like a wounded animal. And I, better than anyone know that sound. I wouldn't do to her what he does. Treat her like some cheap whore. I'd care. I'd care that she didn't love me making love to her. Which is of course, what I'd do. Make love to her. Not fuck her like he does. There's a world of difference.

/The books that I read they are full of bravado.../

They are. I wish that I was brave. That I could tell her exactly what I think. But I couldn't. Who am I to interfere. Oh, I know that she's unhappy. Anyone that doesn't eat, and screams her pain, and walks on tiptoes of fear, is unhappy. And I want to help her. I do. I'd show her how it is to be loved. Not to be used for nothing but sex, a carnal toy. I'd treat her like the precious person that she is. But I'm invisible to her, as I should be. For you see, it is not exactly how it seems to be. I'm 20 years her senior, and as much as I don't care that I am, I know that she would. She would wrinkle her nose at me, and laugh that laugh, that giggle that reflects all of her pain, and say 'Oh Remus, really.' And then I'd walk away, and that night I'd hear them again, the bed-head, and the whimpers, and the grunts, and the footsteps, and the toilet, and the goodbyes. And then, the scream. And I'd block my ears to drown it out, but I wouldn't be able to because it's burnt into my brain, like a macabre tattoo. And I'd read more books, and listen to music, and think that perhaps I should say something to her again, but then remember the yesterday when I did, and the effect that it had, and resolve not to.

/I'll sit and rot in the damp with a head full of her.../

That smile, that's warmth and heartbreak. Her eyes that are intelligence and anguish. Her skin that's smooth and poisoned. Her hair that's beautiful and desperate. All of her is what I dream of, long after her screaming ends. How I wish it could be me that was upstairs, touching her, taking away the pain. Instead of Harry James Potter, who takes from her all the dignity she has. How I would love to whisper into her hair that I love her. Because I do love her. I love Hermione Granger, and she will never love me.