To think that the spectre you see is an illusion does not rob him of his terrors: it simply adds the further terror of madness itself -- and then on top of that the horrible surmise that those whom the rest call mad have, all along, been the only people who see the world as it really is--CS Lewis
It had been a week. Hell had crept forth from its gates and had entered her house. There had been three or four days where the hell had crept into her workplace, and then, without choice, she had brought it home to her own house. There was no sanctuary anymore. That was gone. And in its place was violence, much bruising and bleeding, and hellish screaming at all hours.
She couldn't eat. She couldn't sleep. She was smoking now. Incessantly. And drinking. Incessantly. When she wasn't trying to help him, she was sitting on the floor outside his room. She usually had her hands wrapped around her knees, sobbing. It was the end of all things as she knew it. She didn't understand him now. He had been her anchor through all things after Remus had been so brutally taken, and now someone had taken him too.
He still breathed, but the man she knew was apparently gone. She had brought him home against the advice of everyone in her inner circle. Michael had moved into the house now out of necessity. Michael was the only person he would allow close enough to touch him. Michael was able to follow her directions for medical care for the bleeding wounds that the assailant had caused. Michael was able to bathe him and care for him. But the others? They were not safe with him. He would not let her mother touch him. Edward could not touch him, and, he went completely insane if she even entered the room. But with her, it was different. With her, he became horrendously violent.
He threw anything he could get his hands on when she attempted to get close to him. He screamed at her like an animal, incapable of words. He had bruised her and had been unrepentant. He had caused her to bleed, and if it drove her off momentarily, it appeared to calm him. She was starting to believe that he enjoyed hurting her. He struck out at her hardest.
She was still trying. She had the healer's skills, she believed, to help him. She didn't know what else to do but keep trying. So she was still attempting, time after time, and after each time she did, Brian would have to render first aid for bleeding or bruising. His office had been transfigured into an infirmary for the wounds that her father had and for all the countless ones she was getting. Today, Michael was urgently pleading for her to keep some distance from her father, but it tore at her heart to not be able to help him somehow.
She was sure, now, after this last incident, moments ago, that he had broken her left cheekbone by throwing a small cauldron at her and hitting her in the face with it. She was sitting in the hallway on the floor, sobbing, partly because she didn't understand this new madness, and partly because it hurt. This time, it really hurt. She lit a cigarette with her shaking, battered hands, and inhaled deeply. She picked up the bottle of firewhiskey she'd left there from the last time and drank a large gulp straight from the bottle.
Brian hadn't wanted her to try anymore. He hated how battered she was looking. She wasn't able to leave the estate now herself because she looked like she had had the shit beaten out of her. And the truth was that she had--by her own father. Or rather, by whatever had happened to him.
She heard the rattle of chains now in his rooms. She hadn't been able to strip him of his magic, so Brian had at least managed to contain him to the estate. Brian had kept the kids from him so far, but now Khaat was growing afraid for their safety with him in the house. He had gone to the barn and had brought back a length of chain from the barn. She wasn't sure why he had needed that. She could hear the chain rattling against the hardwood floor.
She wasn't sure how much longer she could do this. And she didn't know where she could take him and hide him if he wasn't safe here. The need to take him from here, elsewhere, alone-just the two of them was growing strongly inside of her. She would walk this out with him--whatever it took. Michael had vehemently forbid it. He had reminded her that there was no place she could take Robert where he would not find them and would deliberately interfere with her. Michael thought Robert to be very dangerous and, while he had not fought her bringing him home, had every intention of fighting her being alone with him at any time. And, amongst her fears, worst yet, what if the wizarding world found out? The panic rose up in her throat and took the form of sheer terror. Oh, God, why had they come back to England at all after Grindlewald had taken power? Why hadn't they given up then? Why did Gryffindors have to be so damned stupid? Her own inner torment was growing to be more than she could bear alone.