Summary: Sometimes his throat still feels hoarse with sounds of her name. Sometimes he can still hear her screams. She places her left arm against his chest, murmuring something close and maybe involving I and love and you as his eyes grow heavy. And with mudblood against his heart, they both sleep through the night. Ron-Hermione, and the aftermath of what happened at Malfoy Manor (yes, yes, from the movie). A futurefic.
Disclaimer: Wouldn't it be cool if JK wrote some fanfic? lol. Sadly, this is not the case. I don't own Harry Potter. (Though if I went to Brown, I'm convinced Emma Watson and I would be great friends.)
AN (1) : Recommended listening : "ára bátur" by Sigur Ros.
AN : So, this is my first Harry Potter fic! Yay! I was just watching DH part I again (because it came out on Blu-Ray :D) and I was struck again by the incredible cinematography of the Malfoy Manor (mudblood) scene, so I felt inspired to write this. (Plus, you know, I have a three hour chem pre-lab to do. Who cares? lol). Anyways, this goes through the 19 year gap in DH, and how Ron and Hermione deal with her scar. So... please review! :)
Someday We'll Fly
Never mind. The self is the least of it. Let our scars fall in love.
- Galaway Kinnell
She wears long sleeves.
"Hermione," he tries softly, when it's a grand total of 87 degrees outside and they're going to meet Harry and Ginny for lunch at a cafe outside.
She glares at him, her brown eyes impassive but also more hurt than he'll ever be able to fix. "Ronald. Leave. It. Alone," she whispers, carefully punctuating every word.
He swallows, silently allowing her to slip on a cardigan. "You're beautiful, you know," he tells her.
She bites her bottom lip and he sees the doubt written over her entire body, only visible on her left wrist. But she doesn't try to argue, only allows him to take her hand comfortingly in his larger, stronger one.
She really does want to believe him.
…
She falls asleep during her favorite Sigur Ros album, sprawled on their bed. Her arms are spread wide, like wings.
Like she's trying to fly away.
He sees it (because in sleep, her nightmares are there without the reminder forever etched on her skin.)
It still sends bursts of anger through him, flames and flurries and flickers that won't ever go away, just like the bursts and crackles and shifts that he sees run through her eyes too.
He remembers - always will - when they'd tried to get it removed. Tried everything, every potion, every spell. But it was a scar. It was irreversible, as irreversible as the fact that she'd been tortured. That she could've died.
Her wrists are small, dainty, petite. Light against her maroon sheets. Her hair is a mess, curls everywhere. Her face is calm, for once, her mouth open in a little permanent sigh. Her chest rises and falls, rises and falls, and he remembers sitting by her in Bill and Fleur's house, watching her chest and praying for her to wake up.
Praying (wishing pleading hoping begging) that she wake up to be the same girl he'd so fallen in love with. Fleur had silently placed a bandage over her left wrist. He hadn't seen it, figured it was just another cut, scrape, from the falling chandelier. But when she wakes up (he'll never forget her eyes), she cradles it to her chest and sobs.
He knew then - she was the same but not. She'd never be.
He lays down next to her, just as he had that day. She curls up into him, pulling him close in her sleep.
Sometimes his throat still feels hoarse with sounds of her name. Sometimes he can still hear her screams.
She places her left arm against his chest, murmuring something close and maybe involving I and love and you as his eyes grow heavy.
And with mudblood against his heart, they both sleep through the night.
…
He comes home, one day, and she's sitting on the floor.
Naked, and normally, he'd be all for that. But she's in their closet, staring at her wrist, next to a pair of her boots.
Tears - silent and burning - are streaming down her face.
"'Mione," he whispers.
She doesn't move an inch, just lets him wrap his arms around her. "You're safe. We're all safe," he promises, but he knows that's not why she's crying.
It won't go away. It won't ever go away.
…
It's raining. He smiles, coaxing her out into it.
"Dance with me," she commands, and he holds her for a second, waltzing slowly.
But soon he can see tears mixing with raindrops (only with him does she get so girly). And then he takes her and kisses her, as softly and powerfully as he can.
It's more than his inadequate words could ever tell her.
She backs up, after what seems to him like a heartbeat but is probably a few minutes, he knows. She smiles his favorite, genuine Hermione smile, and starts twirling around and around, her arms outstretched.
Like she's going to fly away.
"Ronald Weasley, I love you!" she shouts.
He grins, just watching her because he'd never be as graceful or lovely. The sleeves of her sweater slip down, catching on her elbows.
And her scar, it's there - forever red and raw and angry against her otherwise flawless, pale skin - but somehow it's like it's being washed away.
…
"Will you, uh," his voice gets caught.
"Just ask already, Ron!" she tells him, her brown eyes full of tears, though, and a smile already on her face.
"Marry me?" he finishes, looking up at her from his spot on his knee.
"Yes!" she shouts, grinning and bouncing up and down.
He engulfs her in a hug, then a kiss.
And he takes her hand, her wrist, his fingers feeling the scar on the underside of her wrist. Their eyes meet - the sea and the earth - as he slips the ring on her finger.
"I'm going to be Hermione Weasley," she whispers.
He smiles. "Pleasure."
She laughs.
…
He brings his lips, slowly, tentatively, to her wrist.
He kisses every letter, feels where tissue clumsily and brokenly formed after being ripped and sliced apart. She cries, softly, but she lets him.
"I love you, Hermione," he says seriously, low and powerful. "I love you."
His words, they leave a different type of scar, she thinks. A good one. That covers and forgives.
And heals.
…
She's in a hospital gown.
"Rosie," he coos, and their tiny daughter squirms in his arms. "C'mon, now, don't fuss. Mum needs her rest."
She beams wearily at him. "It's okay. I'm okay."
Her hair is even crazier than normal, some of it matted down against her forehead, some of it sticking straight up in a tangled mess.
But he hands her Rose, and she instantly calms. Hermione holds her tenderly, and there's a moment of peace in her eyes that he's never seen before.
Rose squirms a tiny bit, one of her absolutely tiny fingers reaching out and brushing against Hermione's scar.
He doesn't breathe, doesn't know how she'll react (she's Hermione, after all).
Her breath catches, and she looks at her arm for a moment, the mudblood in amazing contrast to everything else.
And then she brings her eyes to his. "She's perfect," is all she says.
He allows blessed air to fill his lungs. For the first time in what seems like forever. He stands and leans down, smoothing her hair and kissing her forehead.
"So are you, 'Mione," he says.
She doesn't argue, for once.
She can't do anything but believe him.
…
"Dad?" Hugo asks, quieter and more timid than normal.
Ron nods, allowing his seven-year-old son to sit on his lap.
Hugo looks down. "What..." he stutters (a trait he definitely did not inherit from his mother, Ron silently acknowledges), "Mum has a scar. A... a word," he finishes.
It's not a question, but Ron knows that it is (Hermione's taught him that much).
He takes a deep breath. "Mum is the bravest person I know. She got that scar saving everything. She saved me, she saved Uncle Harry. She saved you," he adds, because it's true.
Hugo's eyes are wide. Hermione's eyes. "It hurt," he says quietly.
Ron nods. "It hurt a lot." Forever, he thinks.
"Mum's the smartest wizard ever," he states, and Ron smiles the tiniest bit, allowing Hugo to continue. "It doesn't matter, about..." his brows knit together, not knowing how to articulate what he feels.
Ron hugs Hugo to his chest. "Absolutely, son. Mum's the smartest wizard ever. It never mattered where she came from." He looks at Hugo very seriously. "It only matters what she did. The same goes for you. And everyone you meet."
Hugo nods. "It's kind of wicked," he says sheepishly after a while.
Ron can't help but smile, though his eyes fill with tears. "It is," he agrees.
Hugo grins, jumping from Ron's lap, racing off to play. "Thanks, Dad!" he shouts over his shoulder.
Ron nods, wiping his eyes as Hugo races into the yard, into the rain, pretending to fly, he and Rose shouting with joy as they move their arms (wings).
Hermione runs to join them, grinning and shrieking laughter. She doesn't cover her scar anymore, just moves her arms along with their children, lifting off to somewhere they could only imagine.
It's just a part of her. She's Hermione and he loves her and nothing will ever take that away.
"Thank you, son," he whispers. "Thank you."
He goes to join them.
AN : So... what did you think? I've never published any HP fic before, so please let me know! :) Thanks!