Author's Notes: Now, for reasons that I gave in chapter 5 of "Healing", I don't actually believe that Hermione has the Mudblood scar that was shown in the DH1 movie, but I do appreciate the idea for I think it is interesting to see how Hermione and the others will be dealing with it. So I dabbled with the notion a bit.

Disclaimer: Everything you recognize belongs to JKR.

Mudblood, and Proud of It

The silence that had fallen upon the little house was almost as deep as the inky black of the night sky that now surrounded it, only broken by the soft rhythmic lapping of the nearby ocean, and Hermione welcomed the rare lack of bustle that allowed her to finally sort her thoughts. She was sitting in the open back door that led out of the kitchen of Shell Cottage, her back heavily leaning against the frame and one of her bare feet in the grass as a warm breeze gently played around her face.

It was the night before last when they had arrived there after what had easily been the most harrowing hours of her life. Gratefully, Bill and Fleur had immediately taken them in. After they all had had a long and proper sleep (or as long and proper as it could have been, given the circumstances), Hermione had thought that things would finally be turning to the better.

Her hopes were brutally crushed by Fleur who had taken her to the side in the morning in order to show her the unspeakable.

MUDBLOOD.

It was there, in angry scabbed letters, cut into her left forearm, and even before Fleur had started to explain, Hermione had known that this wound was just like the one on her neck: cursed and irremediable. It was bound to stay on her skin for the rest of her life.

It was irony at its cruelest. Only mere hours before that, she had fiercely declared to be a "Mudblood, and proud of it". Yes, she had meant it with all her heart, of course, but, for Heaven's sake, that did not mean that she would have wanted to spend the rest of her living days running around with the word carved into her flesh!

Her stomach clenched painfully as she thought what it would mean for her future to bear what was not only a large and hideous scar that would forever remind her of her torture, but also actually spelt out a racial slur. For one thing, it would be long sleeves for her from now on, no matter the circumstances. Too dreadful was the thought of what the people around her might think if they saw the scar. Her parents would be heartbroken. Future colleagues would whisper about it behind her back. Random strangers would point and stare. Her own children would start asking questions about it.

Even though the knowledge of her wound almost made her physically ill, she had not mentioned it to anybody ever since her talk with Fleur. She would have wanted to, oh God, how she wanted to. Trying to keep it from them, trying to maintain a strong front was almost just as bad, however, telling Harry or Ron was completely out of the question. Harry would forever blame himself. And Ron... Ron would be the same, only that she was certain that telling Ron would also inevitably mean that she would have to bury her hopes of a future with him once and for all. There was no way that he could ever find her attractive with that abomination on her skin.

And yet, a measly two days of knowing were enough to make her feel alienated from her friends. True, both Ron and Harry had seen and gone through way more things than anyone should ever have to deal with, but at least they did not have a lifetime with a pejorative on their skin to look forward to. They had the luxury of being able to eventually move on and live normal lives once they had won the war. She did not. The war would physically stick with her forever.

She flinched out of her misery when a warm light filled the kitchen behind her. She turned her head and there was Ron, Pettigrew's illuminated wand in hand, clad in pajamas and his red hair a haphazard mess. Not having expected to encounter anyone in the kitchen, he gave a start and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw her sitting there.

"Hey, can't sleep?" he said when he had regained his composure. His voice was quiet, barely audible, and so was hers when she gave her reply.

"No."

"Neither could I," he admitted as he slowly, carefully walked into the room. "Mind if I sit with you?"

"No," she said again.

She had said it almost out of reflex and the word had barely escaped her lips when she regretted her response. Did she really not mind? Part of her was glad that Ron was there. There was something calming, comforting about his presence and surely he would be able to distract her from her miserable thoughts. But there was also a part of her that wanted to surrender to the darkness, that wanted to process what had happened to her, that wanted to wallow in self-pity.

She watched Ron as he rummaged around in the cupboards and moments later, he walked over to her, levitating two tall glasses of milk and a plate of biscuits in front of himself. He settled down on the other side of the door frame and carefully let the glasses and plate sink between them.

"Thanks," Hermione whispered. She mechanically took a biscuit and started to nibble on it. It was a miniscule amount of food but it seemed to settle in her stomach as heavily as a cannonball, making her feel queasy.

"Welcome," Ron replied, propping Pettigrew's wand up against the plate so that the space between them was bathed in its warm light constantly. He helped himself to a biscuit, dunked it into the milk and put it into his mouth. As he chewed, he watched her under furrowed brows.

"Wanna talk about it?" he asked.

Pulling her knees to her chest, Hermione gave a shrug. Yes, she did want to talk to Ron. If there was a person she wanted to know about her wound, it was Ron. The trouble was that simultaneously, Ron was also the very last person she wanted to know. Her own logic was starting to make her head spin.

"Hermione," he said tentatively.

"What?" she hissed, her confusion rendering her irritable.

"Talk to me."

"Why?" she snapped, turning fully towards him. "Why do you think I need to talk, Ron? Is it because you think I'm gonna fall apart if you don't check on me every few minutes or so? Is it that? I do realize that everyone's been walking on eggshells around me ever since we came here and I'm sick of it, Ron, I'm sick!"

Ron was actually shrinking back, his eyes widened at her sudden outburst, and it gave her a feeling of nasty satisfaction. As unfair as it was to take it out on him, fighting with Ron, letting out some steam, instantly made her feel better.

"No, it's... I'm just..."

"What is it then?"

"I just want you to be okay, 's all."

Hermione let out a mirthless laugh. "And of course that doesn't have to do anything at all with me being tortured, does it?" she asked, her voice dripping with sarcasm.

"No, it bloody well doesn't!" Ron cried out, sitting up as tall as he could without getting to his feet. "Do you really think that... Goddammit, I always want you to be alright, Hermione! You're my friend, for fuck's sake!"

"Yeah, you did a really great job showing that when you left!" Hermione shot back.

It was a low blow and she knew it. Ron's face immediately lost all color.

"Stop it, Hermione," he said quietly, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "Look, I reckon it's up to you to decide whether or not you believe me when I say that I care about you. And if I'm getting on your nerves and you don't want me here, you're free to tell me to fuck off. But I can see that something's troubling you and I don't want you to think that you have to go through it alone."

Her insides suddenly burned with shame. He was just being nice. Sweet even. And even when she ran him down in such an atrocious manner, the pureness of his heart was evident. He did not deserve to be burdened with her, to be tainted by her darkness. But he deserved to be trusted.

She turned to the side again, flexing and curling her toes in the grass as her gaze became unfocused against the blackness of the sky. "Have you ever thought about the future?" she asked vaguely. "What your life will be like once our mission's over?"

"No," he responded, helping himself to another biscuit. "Every time I try, it's like You-Know-Who comes popping right up and gets in between and all I can see is him."

She nodded in understanding. "But isn't there anything that you would've liked to do if we'd had a normal life?" she prodded, chancing a sideways glance at him.

The corners of his mouth twitched curiously before he gave his reply.

"Dunno," he said. "I s'pose I would've wanted to finish school, to get a job, to..." She saw the tips of his ears turn pink. "...to... well, to marry someone and to have kids. Perhaps not as many as my parents, but... Yeah. That kind of stuff," he concluded with a shrug.

"You'd be a good father," she couldn't help herself saying, smiling as her mind conjured the image of an older Ron teaching a gaggle of adorable ginger-haired children how to play Quidditch. But then she imagined those very same children asking why Mummy had a bad word on her arm and her heart broke a little.

"And you'd be an amazing mother," said Ron who was blissfully unaware of what was going on in her mind.

Wrapping her arms around her knees, Hermione snorted. "I'm not so sure about that."

"Why not?" he asked with a grin. "You'd be great. I can just imagine what you'd be like. Teaching your kids all you know about the world. Making sure they know 'Hogwarts: A History' by heart before they're even starting school."

Hearing him talk so casually about a future that was so completely out of reach pained her even more.

"That's not gonna happen, alright," she said bitterly and she was appalled to feel tears stinging behind her eyes.

"What d'you mean?" he asked, confused.

"Well, don't you... I mean... Who would ever..." she started, her voice raising with every word before she stopped, biting her lip.

"Who would ever want me?" she asked defeatedly and let her gaze sink to her knees, blinking rapidly to force back the tears that were trying to sneak out.

Ron seemed utterly gobsmacked.

"Where is that coming from?" he asked as if she had just announced that her favorite pastime was cuddling with Blast-Ended Skrewts. "You... you can't be serious!"

She did not dare to look up at him or to show any other kind of reaction whatsoever, mortified by the way she had confessed to him.

"You are, aren't you?" he started to ramble. "Hermione, of course there will be... somebody who would want you. How couldn't they?"

She lifted her head ever so slightly. Ron's face had taken on a furious shade of red, but he was looking down at her intently.

"What makes you say that?" she asked.

He blushed even more. "Do you... Do you really want me to spell it out for you?"

Under any other circumstances, Hermione would have hated herself for such an open display of despair, but right now, she felt that she needed to hear it. "Yes, please," she whispered.

"Well, you are... you are amazing," Ron said, squirming uncomfortably in his seat. "Brilliant. You care about those who are close to you and you're all about doing the right thing and... Argh, I'm sorry, I'm shite at this, but... um... you're fun to be around and you're strong and brave and fierce and... beautiful and..."

He rubbed his neck, his ears now clearly crimson, before he moved in front of her and cupped her elbows in his hands.

"Listen, I know it sounds like crap, the way I'm putting it, but you are all that," he said. "One has to be out of their right mind to not see all of that in you."

Hermione closed her eyes and let his words wash over her, words that she had wanted to hear him say for a long time. And biting back her tears suddenly felt even harder because she knew that those words normally would have made her unspeakably happy, but now they only made her sad.

"That's what you think of me?" she asked softly, opening her eyes but not having the heart to meet his gaze again.

"Of course it is," he replied, his thumbs starting to rub gentle circles on her arms. Her breath hitched.

"Would you still be saying that if I was horribly disfigured?" she probed.

Letting out a snort, Ron abruptly let go of her. Alarmed by his sudden change of demeanor, she jerked up her head and stared at him, but instead of making a harsh comment or leaving forthrightly, he had sat down on his calves and pushed up the sleeves of his pajamas.

"You mean like this?" he asked bluntly, showing off his forearms which were still covered by the numerous crisscrossing scars from the brain tentacles, all perhaps two or three shades darker than his pale skin.

A sudden wave of sympathy crashed down on her and just as suddenly she realized that Ron would understand. She remembered all too well how self-conscious he had been during the first few weeks after the attack. She had tried to talk sense into him, that those were just scars and that he did not have to be ashamed and that it was silly to hide them under long sleeves in the middle of summer. More words for her to swallow.

"Worse," she whispered.

He looked down at her, his brow furrowed.

"But you'd still be you, right?"

"Yes."

I think so. I hope so.

"Then I wouldn't give a damn. No, really," he added when she gave him an incredulous stare. "I mean, I'd hate the thought of you getting hurt and I'd hate that you'd had to live with that, but it wouldn't make any difference otherwise. I wouldn't think less of you if that's what you're worried about... Hermione, is there something I should know?"

His voice was so full of concern that she could not hold back any longer.

"You... You were there all along while Fleur healed me, right?" she asked.

"Yeah." The crease between his eyes deepened even more.

"How much did you see?"

The blush had disappeared from Ron's face but now it made an instant return. "I... ah... I saw you topless for a second," he said, cringing. "Fleur tore off your jumper without any warning and I couldn't look away in time. But I didn't see anything, promise!"

Hermione nodded. So he really doesn't know about the scar.

"I can trust you, right?"

"Yes, you can," he said and looked straight into her eyes, his gaze piercing right through her.

She found it fascinating how promptly that little question of hers turned Ron from an embarrassed boy into what appeared to her like a stoic, sincere pillar of strength. It was the urgency with which he had said his words that gave her the courage to go on.

"Okay," she said breathlessly, her heart suddenly beating furiously in her chest. "I need to show you something. But, please, don't freak out."

He swallowed, then nodded. "Alright."

She took a deep breath, then looked down at her arm and with trembling fingers, she pulled up her sleeve until she had fully laid open the bandage that went from her wrist up to the middle of her forearm. Feeling Ron's gaze on her, she slowly unwrapped it, careful to hold her arm so that her wound would be hidden from their view. When the bandage was gone, she closed her eyes and before she could change her mind, she exhaled the breath that she had been holding in tense anticipation and turned her arm around.

She heard Ron inhale sharply and she gingerly looked up at him. He was gaping down at her wound, lips white and trembling as he took ragged, uneven breaths, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat.

"B-Bellatrix?" he whispered after a few moments of silence.

She nodded in response.

"That bitch," he said venomously. "If I ever get near her again..."

"Don't!" Hermione cried out. "Don't talk like that! We've already had that, remember? You can't go after her, I won't let you!"

"I know. I'm sorry," Ron said, hanging his head. "It's just that I want her to pay so fucking much for doing that to you."

"That won't change anything," she said hopelessly, feeling the cracks in her facade run deeper and deeper. "I'll still have to live with this for the rest of my life."

Ron closed his eyes for a moment, his face a grimace of pain. Then he cradled her wrist in his hands, careful as though his touch could break her, and lifted her arm towards him until her scar was pressed against his chest right above his hammering heart. Her hand was on his shoulder and, too transfixed to reacted in a different way, she held onto it. His warmth seemed to stream through her arm and all over her body and she tightened her grip on him as though he was her lifeline and clutching him was the only thing that saved her from drowning.

He removed one hand from her arm and gently placed it around her shoulders, pulling her closer. She let go of him and both her arms shot around him and held him tightly to herself. The hand of his that was not on her shoulder went up, stroking her hair lovingly and as she rested her head against his shoulder, she finally allowed her tears to fall. They silently ran down her cheeks and into his shirt as she closed her eyes and lost herself in the comforting feel of Ron's body and his warmth and scent.

"I hate it," Hermione tearily whispered several minutes later. "I hate that scar. I hate how it reminds me how her. I hate how it'll impact my whole life and the way people see me and how it marks me as not belonging in this world."

Ron tightened his hold on her.

"Mudblood, and proud of it," he muttered.

"W-what?" she said in bewilderment, leaning back and looking at him through narrowed eyes.

"Mudblood, and proud of it," he repeated. "That's what you said the other day and you were right about that."

When she did not respond, he reached for her arm and brought it back between their bodies.

"Yes, that scar is ugly, I give you that," he said, looking sadly down at it. "But it also proves how amazing you are," he continued and her breath caught when he ran his thumb across the scabbed letters ever so gently before he placed his hands on her shoulders and held her at arm's length, making her look up at him.

"You were t-tortured by Bellatrix Lestrange and there aren't many people who live to tell about it," he carried on. "And you not only went through that, you're here and you're holding your own so damn well. You... you're so fucking brave and strong, Hermione, and you being Muggleborn only makes you more incredible. You came from a different world and yet you can give any wizard who grew up in this world a run for this money. You can be proud of yourself. I know I'm proud of you."

He wrapped his arms around her again and leant his forehead against hers. "I'm so damn proud of you. You're amazing and I don't get how people can't see that without making an effort to tune you out. And, you know," he continued, looking into her eyes again. "If people do that, they can fuck right off. And if some bloke ditches you because just of your scar-" he added grimly, his jaw set. "-he doesn't deserve you. Much rather deserves my fist against his nose."

She emitted a shaky laugh into his shoulder and gently stroked his back with her thumb. He seemed to further melt into her at her touch.

"This all sounds very nice," she said. "But none of this matters in this order. Not to the ones who have a say in things."

"That's why we're out here fighting," Ron said, his tone steely. "We'll get rid of You-Know-Who and knock his fucking order down."

He turned his head and placed a soft kiss against her temple. And she closed her eyes and leant into him, savoring the feel of his body against hers, the spot where his lips had been still tingling pleasantly.

She wondered if Ron had an inkling of how much it meant to her that of all the people around her, it was him who was saying those words and that it was him who was staying by her side. She fought down her sudden urge to grab him and to snog him senseless. She would never impose herself on him like that, she told herself. He might be able to see past her scar, perhaps he even loved her to some extent, but she just could not do that to him. He deserved someone pure, someone less troubled, someone who would not drag him down. The thought still saddened her but all the same, a sort of grim pride sparked in her chest and she was filled with new hope for a life worth fighting for and nothing could take that from her.