A/N: I got to thinking about the consequences of Bellatrix's torture and how heartbreaking Hermione would find explaining it to her children.

The sun seeped through the window, turning the room golden. It was her favorite part of the day, the quiet moments, when it was just her and her daughter together. The boys were out of the house, doing heavens know what, and it was quiet and warm in the room.

Rosie sat in her lap, one thumb in her mouth and the other chubby hand tracing her mother's arm. She stopped, curious, at the raised lines there.

'Mama,' she said drowsily, 'what are those?'

'Hmm?' Hermione looked down and was overcome with memories. Pain, blood and that horrible, horrible woman. She repressed a shiver and the urge to push her sleeve down.

But how was she supposed to explain them to her curious, sweet, naïve Rosie?

'Mama?'

With a sigh, she began. 'A long time ago, Mama and Daddy and Uncle Harry were in a war. I was different because my Mama and Papa aren't magical and the bad people didn't like me. I got hurt because I didn't tell secrets and this is what happened.'

'Do they hurt?

'Not any more, Rosie. They haven't for a long time.'

'When did they stop?'

'After I left the house and I was safe.' It wasn't the truth. It had taken weeks until they had stopped hurting and years until the pain was gone.

'How did you get away.'

Hermione was quiet for a moment, a smile tickled the side of her mouth. 'Your father saved me.'

'Oh, then he's a hero.'

'That he is, Rosie. That he is.' She said, planting a kiss on Rosie's head. The little girl prodded the raised lines again. Hermione paid no attention, lost in her own world.

'M.' Rosie whispered softly, tracing. Her mother looked down in surprise. 'U. D.'

Again, Hermione fought the urge to take her daughter's fingers away, to have them on her nose or cheek or somewhere that hatred wasn't burned into the Muggle-born's skin. Her heart ached that to even have her sweet child spell out the scars. But she was braver than that.

'B. L.O. O. D.'

And later that evening, when her husband asked why she was melancholy, the story tumbled out of Hermione's lips.

And despite Ron's puffing when he was acknowledged a hero, he pulled his wife into his arms and held her there. Her safety, her comfort.

'What did you tell her?' He asked, his chest rumbling against her cheek. She buried her face in his sweater for a moment, savoring the fact that it was all over.

'I told her it didn't mean anything. And it hasn't for a while.'

I am not JK Rowling. I hope you guys enjoyed it.