Scars are proof you survived.

Scars are things that mark you as strong, as capable, as brave.

Scars are ways for you to tell your story, to enthrall and inspire, to share your life.

So what was this scar proof of? What did it mark her as, what story did it tell?

"It's proof I have dirty blood," she said aloud to the empty room. "It marks me as something less, it tells everyone I'm not the same. I'm not worthy. I'm a mudblood." She was scratching it again. She had pulled up the long sleeve of her sweater to expose it to the room, door locked, wards up. She could still hear the ocean outside her window, and she knew they wouldn't stay in this cottage for long. Every minute they risked the lives of everyone here, and every second they let themselves fall one small step behind. But that didn't matter right now. What mattered is that she was scratching it again, until the scarred words were covered with blood from her arm and she winced in pain as it dripped on the bedsheet.

This wasn't like Harry's scar. This wasn't a symbol of hope, of bravery, a mark that let everyone know that he would be the one who saves them. He is their dreams. This was a reminder, even if she survives it all, even long after the war. A reminder of intolerance. A reminder of hate. The way the war started.

She heard the door handle, and then heard the whispered spell and by the time Ron had entered the room she sleeve was already down again and the wards dispelled. She turned the inside of her arm away from him and carefully hid where her gray sweater was slowly turning red and sticky, the blood seeping into the cloth at much too high a rate for her comfort.

"Ron. I was just thinking, for a bit." She looked out the open window. "The sound of the waves helps."

He looked out with her and then back to her, and back to the spot next to her on the bed. She followed his gaze to the blood drops that had stained the ivory sheets and did not say anything, just watched his face as he stared at the sheet, then looked at her arm. "I'll sit with you," he said, walking over to her and sitting next to the incriminating drops, setting his hand on hers, fingers touching. She looked down at their hands and felt the tears stream down her face, slowly at first until she couldn't help but make a sharp sob to accompany them.

He took her hand and turned it, seeing the way that a river of red had seeped through her sweater and looking up at her. "Oh, it's not-" she started, but he interrupted her before she could try and make some excuse.

"Is it still bleeding?" he asked, all concern, all worry, lifting the sleeve gently so it doesn't hurt her more. What he saw were two long gashes through the center of the word, bleeding steadily. What he saw was the dirt and skin and blood under the nails of her right hand, and the places where she had smeared the red over her fingers while wiping away tears from her face. What he heard was her crying, more than before, not trying to contain sobs and tears and wheezes and turning away from him in embarrassment. He didn't think about it, but he was already holding her tightly, his hand in her left one, pressing the scar and the blood against his arm and hoding her tightly as she cried into his chest.

"I just want to carve it out," she whispered. She cried for a few minutes, but to Ron it seemed like days. She was finally out of tears, out of sobs and she spoke with the same wheezes that let you know she wasn't done yet, but her body was. "If I carve it all out and it can't be read, then it's like it's not there. Like I'm not...not..."

"Not what? Not yourself, you mean?" Ron said sharply. She sat up to look at him, surprised. He took her shoulders, gently, forcing her to sit and really look into his eyes as he told her this. "Hermione. You're everything she could never be. You're good, and kind, and smart and strong. You're a muggleborn. You're everything she doesn't know she wants to be."

She didn't look like she believed him. She broke eye contact to look down at her hand and pull the sleeve over her arm again, before his hand stopped her.

"Look at me," he pleaded softly. She oblidged. "We need you, Hermione. We need you here. We need you whole. I...I need you whole." He took her left hand and brought it up to his lips, gently. "You are so much more than her. So much more than anyone else I know. Don't let her try and take that away from you."

She smiled. Finally, her lips curved, ever so slightly, and she smiled. It was like an entire ocean of relief washed over Ron and he moved so he could hug here again and feel her arms around him, feel it as they slowly, gently came to rest around his shoulders, and then gathered strength and steam and held onto him for stability, for happiness, for life. He returned it, knowing they were feeling the same thing, knowing that this hug probably meant more than anything he just stumbled through saying.

They stayed like that for a while. When they finally broke, the first thing he did was to take out his wand and heal her scratches. The first thing she did was correct his method of doing so.

Sometimes scars mean something more. She wasn't quite sure what that something was, but she knew Ron was. That was enough.