TW: Blood, knife play, implied on-page character death? murder?, sex (though it's not too explicit?), abuse/toxic relationship, infidelity
Duncan was lucky. At least, that's what everyone told him. He had an excellent job at the ministry, a beautiful house, and, most importantly, he had Mary-Claire Fawcett - well, Mary-Claire Hobhouse now, not that anyone called her that. He had been so naive.
Three years ago, Duncan had been invited to join some of his old classmates for a drink, to celebrate five years since their graduation. Of course Mary-Claire had been there. Golden girl. Hero of Hogwarts. Best in their year. Duncan had been nervous - the teasing and bullying had abated after school, but with everyone together... His stomach had twisted itself in knots and he'd sat quietly in the corner, trying not to draw undue attention to himself - until Mary-Claire had dropped into the seat beside him, all smiles.
Duncan! How have you been? You look really fit - and this hair suits you. I'm glad you grew it out. You know, I've been wanting to apologize for hanging that leaf over your head all those years ago...
So naive. Too busy with the pretty girl and her pretty words to see Ominis Gaunt storm out of the bar, his wife Grace scurrying out after him. The quick courtship had been bliss, but after the wedding day... Duncan's eyes had been opened. Now? Now he loathed going to work. Smiling, greeting - Hello, how are you today? I'm - oh, yes, the wife? She's wonderful. Platitudes and empty words and no one asking about him. But then the time came to head home and it was so much worse. He had to fight the dread that welled up like bile each time.
Duncan apparated onto the front steps of his home. The brisk autumn air nipped at his nose as he waved to Mrs. Cloke next door. The leaves on the tree in the garden had turned a brilliant red in the last week, and the asters were taking their last stand against the nightly chill. Duncan took a deep breath, feeling the cold, fresh air brace him, pushing back the knot of dread.
He opened the front door and stopped short. Mary-Claire was just inside, draping a cloak over her shoulders.
"Oh, are you heading out, darling?" Duncan asked, his voice as measured as his smile.
"Yes, I'm having dinner with Natty, so I'll be home late."
She gave him a terse smile in return.
"Have fun then."
She brushed past him, disapparating before her shoes could touch the grass.
Duncan sighed as he stepped inside. The cold air flooding in behind him, wrapping the house in a cold embrace, leaving it feeling chilled and desolate. He made no move to shed his own cloak as he trudged upstairs. When they'd first been married, he hadn't thought much of her heading out to see friends - a bit jealous, perhaps, but who was he to refuse her that? And then, when he'd run into Adelaide Oakes one afternoon, who had supposedly joined Mary-Claire for a walk the previous day, he'd learned they hadn't spoken for months. He'd tried confronting her about the discrepancy - but all that had earned him was her ire. When excuses had failed her, she had turned to insults, taunting, trying to play with his head and make him think he'd heard wrong. He had learned quickly to let it lie.
So after he'd washed up and changed out of his work robes, when he saw Natty and her husband in the park across the street, he bit his tongue and moved on to making himself dinner. Mary-Claire wouldn't be home tonight. On the nights she left, sometimes he felt the urge to go out. To find a bar, just to be away from this empty house, perhaps to flirt with the women there - if only to remind himself that he was no longer the sniveling boy from school. But tonight, like always, he stayed in. He sat contemplatively by the fire as it died, then moved to the bedroom, slicing open the day's mail and skimming the contents before tossing it on the nightstand and getting ready for bed. He used to leave a light on, just in case. But now, he blew out the lamp, rolled over, and slept without a second thought.
