Hello there! I haven't published a fanfic in ages, but was reading over some of my older work and stumbled across this. It's not perfect by any means, but I really enjoyed writing it and exploring more of Ron's point-of-view. It's a short drabble, but let me know what you think! Reviews are absolutely lovely, whether they're positive or constructively critical.

I do not own Harry Potter or any of the characters or world mentioned. They belong to the ever-fabulous J.K. Rowling.

Harry always said he was marked. Claimed for an eternity by dark magic. Of course he was referring to the scar that had made him so famous. I told him he was mental. It wasn't the scar, it was what it stood for. He knew I was right, yet for some reason felt that if the scar disappeared, so would everything else. That's all he wanted for the longest time.

I guess all of us have marks. Things that define us, you know? Whether these marks are physical, such as Harry's lightning-bolt scar, or if they're a mental standard set by an event in our lives. Like a brand or stamp, embossing our past and lessons we've learned. Kind of like how every scar has a story. Sounds cheesy, I know. But literally, if you ask a bloke where he got a weird scar on his arm, he'll have some sort of story about where he got it. Whether or not he tells you, however, is an entirely different matter. But I digress.

I really didn't think much of it after he initially said it so many years ago. Being marked by his scar. That is, until the famed Horcrux Hunt that led to the downfall of Voldemort.

There I was, sitting in that bloody tent. The same tent I'd been forced to live in for so long. Well, not forced. But it was still hell, even though my presence was voluntary. Harry was on watch, and I heard him rearrange himself in the chair just outside the tent. Hermione, in an action that was quite unlike herself, was reading. I smirked, and she looked up at me.

"What?" she queried, one corner of her mouth turning slightly upwards as she attempted not to smile.

"Nothing," I answered simply, rolling up one sleeve absentmindedly. "You're just always reading."

"After all this time, do you really find that surprising?" she retorted, looking at me with an amused expression. She glanced down at my arm where I'd pushed up the sleeve. She put her book down gently and walked across the tent, sitting down in front of me. She reached out and touched my arm, tracing her fingers along the faint scars that remained there.

"What are you doing?" I asked of her, my arm tingling from her light touch.

"What are these from?" she inquired, though I could tell from her tone that she already knew. I decided that being blunt was the best approach.

"You. Those bloody canaries, remember?"

Her eyes met mine, and I saw the slight remorse there. She looked back down at the scars, still running her hand over them slowly.

"I'm sorry. I was just upset, and-" she stopped, seemingly unable to find the right words. "-I didn't mean to actually hurt you. Well. I take that back. I did, at the time. Now I understand that I was overreacting."

I put my hand over hers. She looked back at me once more. "I was a git. Don't apologize. We both did some mental things last year."

She smiled, and I returned the gesture. We sat in silence for a moment, until she went back to retrieve her book. She returned with it and situated herself next to me, keeping just enough distance between us so that we were not touching. I pondered for a while, thinking about the scars on my arm from her yellow canaries. I then decided that, like Harry's scar, these were my markings. They were what marked me as me. Ronald Bilius Weasley. They were what marked me as hers.