A/N: Hi. So I'm attempting another fic: In this one, there's abuse, so you've been forewarned. This takes place after the Trio has graduated and ignores most of HBP and DH.

She sat on the cold, rough concrete silently praying that it would stop. Her eyes glanced upward as if to question God Himself about the horrors of her life. Her eyes fell to her arms. They were scratched and bruised. Her wrist was wrapped haphazardly with the dirty bandage barely clinging onto her thin wrist. Her tongue swept over her swollen lip. It tasted of blood. A slam from a door inside made her noticeably flinch. He was home. She leapt up from the concrete and set off into a sprint, heading towards the dilapidated shed. The shed was her only refuge. She could hide for hours amongst the rakes, shovels and sinewy cobwebs. When she reached the door, she wrenched it open and quietly pulled it closed. She quickly went to the far left corner and hid by the old push mower. A whiff of old lawn clippings rushed to her senses. She brought her knees up to her chest and rocked back and forth as the man in the house started screaming her name. Tears streamed down her cheek. Why was this happening? She shook with fear when she heard the back door open. He had never ventured this close to her hiding place.

"Hermione! Dammit I know you're out here, you witch!" The man was screaming in a drunken rage.

She began chewing at her lip nervously cowering, trying to hide in the old shed. A spider unaware of the scene taking place belayed from the ceiling from a silvery thread. The uneven footsteps grew louder as the man unsteadily approached. He continued yelling unintelligible remarks. She was trying hard to make her breathing silent. With months of practice, she was almost entirely silent. A tug at the door made her jump. The one following renewed the stream of tears that flooded down her face. By the third tug, a tall, brutish man stood in the doorway reeking of alcohol. He clutched a bottle of whiskey in one hand fiercely as he screamed her name again. She winced unmovingly. A sense of moira rushed through her veins. She refused to look up when he stood before her blaring. It wasn't long until she was forced into reality when he yanked her from her sanctuary as if she were a china doll. A popping sound and a rush of pain notified her that her arm was no longer in her socket. It had begun. There was no way out now.

The next morning Hermione woke up on the floor to her mother dabbing the new pains with a damp cloth whispering kind words. As she came to, thoughts of the previous night came flooding back to her. Him. Shed. Screaming. Beating. What else happened last night? She couldn't remember coming back inside the wretched house. Had he brought her back in? Hermione looked at her mother with disgust. She had done nothing for the past several months except clean up the mess. And a mess she was. Hermione' eyes darted across her skin to see what happened this time. Large bruises were again forming. There was a gash by her calf. How would they explain it to the doctors this time, she wondered. She tried to right herself to get a better view, but a piercing pain shot through her body. Nearly doubling over in pain she threw herself into a coughing fit. Her mother's fine, delicate hand coolly touched her forehead as she continued her whispering. She tried to brush away her mother's hand, but she could hardly lift her own from the pain. Her mother noticed, and a tear fell down on quivering lips.

"I'm so sorry." Her mother embraced an unwilling girl as softly as she could as to not cause more pain. She helped her daughter stand, and she took her to the hospital for the fourth time that summer.

Unknown to Hermione or her mother, the Order of the Phoenix had been keeping tabs on their members, even unofficial members, throughout the year. It was at one such Order meeting that news of Hermione's predicament reached their ears.

"Hestia, I believe you have some news for us," asked Dumbledore in a soft voice; the usual sparkle in his eyes had vanished.

"I'm afraid I do," she said gravely. It was common knowledge in the Order that while Hestia had completed high profile jobs for the Order, like being a part of the Advance Guard, she usually helped with the mundane tasks. She planned schedules for the watch, planted stories in the Daily Prophet, and worked with Madam Pomfrey to make sure that all of its members were in good health. With an intake of breath, she continued.

"Miss Granger has just been admitted to a muggle hospital for the fourth time this summer." There were some shocked expressions and some frantic whispers as to why that would ever happen. "She has maintained some more severe injuries this time than any prior time, and I think it's about damn time we did something, Albus!" It did not occur to the rest of the Order that Dumbledore would have been privy to this information long before had, nor that he had known how to amend the problem. The other members were merely shocked that Hestia, Hestia Jones, the kind timid witch from Hufflepuff would address Albus in such a way. They were abruptly snapped out of their musings when a drawling voice asked a question.

"How exactly did Miss Granger sustain such injuries?" Snape's voice left in its wake only silence. After a moment of consideration, Hestia answered.

"Well, it is the belief of myself and, umm, the muggle authorities that. You see we can't be entirely certain, but –"

"Get on with it woman!" Snape barked out. Hestia let out an "oh" of surprise.

"Itwasherstepfather," she mumbled.

"Care to repeat?" Snape questioned in a voice that would cause most first years to cry. Several Order members thought it was strange to see Snape seemingly care about a student much less, Hermione. Again Hestia let out a bit of a squeak before answering. Poor thing, she had never been a brave witch.

"It-was-her-step-father," clearly enunciating in a shaking tone. Snape let out a hiss before turning to Dumbledore.

"Making a habit, are we? Always choosing to ignore, when you could help?" Snape addressed Dumbledore more coldly than he had ever done. Dumbledore let out a sigh, and his age began to show. He looked onto Snape with pitying, sad eyes.

"We've been through this before Severus. I could not, no matter what you still believe, help before. Now, however, the tide has changed and years have gone by. Perhaps you'd be interested in helping Miss Granger?" The old man looked tired. This reply baffled the Order. Severus Snape, the overgrown bat of the dungeons, help Hermione Granger? What could he possibly do to help the poor girl recover than scare her to death? Surely Mrs. Weasley would be a more appropriate choice? But these thoughts were silenced by the look Dumbledore gave each of them. They would not question this.

"What do you want me to do?"