Ask: Hello you! Your writing is beautiful and makes my day anytime I read it đź’ś It's not in your list, but please could you write a piece post-DoM about Ron dealing with the brain tentacle trauma? I enjoy having my heart ripped out. Thank you!

TW for angst, PTSD, talk about scars, low self-image

Ron knows when Hermione is around, but he hasn't always.

It's a feeling that's been growing for a while. Her presence sets every hair on his arm on edge and sends his pulse racing. Sometimes, it's hard being in the same room with her, but he tries his best anyway.

He's not surprised—they've spent almost every waking hour together since the age of eleven, studying and hanging around. And since McGonagall made them Prefects last September, their closeness has only grown.

Maybe he's just used to her being there.

This morning, the sun is low, barely poking its head over the top of Stoat's Head Hill. Ron isn't usually awake this early, but Mum promised the rays would help with the scarring on his arms. But he isn't sure he wants anyone else to see yet. So he comes out to the garden at the crack of dawn to bask in the morning light.

It's easier to hide at this time of the day.

Ever since Dumbledore delivered them back to Hogwarts, and to the safety of the Infirmary, the adults have been asking questions. "What happened? Why did you go to the Department of Mysteries? Why did you accio the brains?"

He doesn't know. He can't even remember what spell the Death Eater hit him with. All he can recall is finding everything far too funny, and the tightening grip around his neck as something tried to choke the life out of him, and then nothing until the Headmaster's booming voice woke him.

Footsteps sound in the gravel behind him, and Ron scrambles to pull down the arms of his sleeves before Hermione can see them. He doesn't even get them to his elbows when she mumbles, "Don't," before plonking herself on the blanket next to him. "You don't need to hide them from me, Ron."

"Yes, I do. They're disgusting."

This is the way their conversations are now. Stark and honest, with no pleasantries before them. If Harry were around, they'd be acting differently—more civil with over the top banter—but while it's only the two of them, they're more open with each other.

Hermione tuts and Ron turns his head to look at her, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. How often have they exchanged this back and forth since she arrived at the Burrow five days ago with her own bandages, a pale face and deep purple circles under her eyes.

They're both concerned about each other, although neither of them will admit it.

"Would you say that about mine?" she scoffs, tilting her head back to expose her own wounds.

A white plaster pokes from the collar of her t-shirt, protecting the spot where Dolohov's curse hit her. The healers are stumped—none of them can work out what he used—but thankfully, Hermione seems to be healing okay.

At least outwardly.

"Never," Ron replies. It's a simple statement, but it's one that's loaded with far more that he longs to say. Your scars make you even more beautiful. You're ferocious, amazing, scary as fuck. And I'm proud.

She rests her hand on his arm, being careful of the jagged circles of pink flesh, still raw and hurting. It's an automatic action, yet the sensation of skin on skin sets off a riot of revulsion in Ron's head. Because it's her, he manages to keep a slight grasp of control to stop the sickness from overcoming him. But still, he pulls away from her touch and winces at the hurt look spreading over her face.

"I said don't."

Hermione sighs and moves her hand back to her lap before staring out at the garden as it wakes. The Gnomes are already out and about, getting on with whatever business Garden Gnomes have to do whilst trying to avoid the yellow-eyed glare of Crookshanks. The trees in the orchard wave their greetings to each other in the light summer breeze, and everything looks hopeful and fresh and new.

"Thoughts leave deeper scars than almost everything else," she finally says. "At least that's what Madam Pomfrey says. Don't you remember anything about…"

"No," Ron sighs out. "Nothing. I wish I did. I wish it hadn't happened, so I could have protected—"

"Ron. Stop."

She touches his cheek as if to stop the words from spilling out. Although he braces himself for the flinch, it doesn't come. The heat that spreads from Hermione's palm spreads across Ron's pale skin, distracting him from the voice screaming to knock her hand away. His chest heaves and a tremor passes through him as the war inside still rages on.

But on the outside, he rests his head against her hand and closes his eyes.

After the attack, he wasn't sure if he would ever be the same old Ron Weasley. The brains and their tentacles left behind far more than the scars running over his arms. And although it's been a month since their failed mission at the Ministry of Magic, the nightmares still haunt him, each one worse than the last, as if they're building up to one final explosion.

But it never comes.

They seep past the dreamless sleep, the worried whispers of his mum as she tucks him into bed despite his age. They've gotten so bad, Ron has considered stopping trying to sleep altogether.

If he were old enough, he'd have hit the Firewhiskey hard. Maybe that might numb everything he feels.

Ron came close to losing everything he loved—Hermione, Harry, Ginny, his friends. He's not sure how he would have coped. They all survived, so why is he so fucking fucked up?

Well, almost everyone. A wave of guilt crashes over Ron as he remembers Harry's devastation at losing Sirius—his best friend's one hope of a proper family. Yet the Death Eaters got away scot-free.

It's so unfair.

"It'll get better, I promise," Hermione whispers, her thumb caressing a circle over his freckles.

He blinks away the tears burning behind his lids, the tips of his ears heating up in shame. Ron has never felt so exposed before. Hermione's gaze burns into him—it's as if she can see inside him and right through to his deepest fears and desires. Yet she's not running away.

Ron risks a glance at her face and, instead of judgement, only sees kindness and concern. And perhaps something else? He shakes the idea away. There's no way someone like Hermione would fall for someone like him. Especially now he's so damaged. Girls like her don't go for monsters like him, with his inability to sleep and body covered with scars.

Why would she want someone who can't even handle anyone touching him? What kind of relationship could he give her?

That door has been closed for good.

But maybe she's right. Perhaps Ron's head will eventually get better. He has to believe in something to get him through the darkest of his thoughts, so he nods.

"Yeah, probably."