AN: TRIGGER WARNING for implied rape. This could be canon if you squint, but I just view it as the projection of my own baggage onto the characters, which is something I am quite fond of doing. I don't own Harry Potter.

Part One

Flashbacks flashbacks flashbacks. The more she tries to ignore them, the more they haunt her. She's not stupid. On the contrary, they say she is the brightest witch of her age. She knows that she is experiencing a completely normal reaction to both acute and prolonged trauma, but she finds that her brain can't explain that to her stomach, which feels like it's training for Olympic gymnastics. Post-traumatic stress disorder, that's what it's known as in the muggle world, although wizards don't seem to have a name for it.

She's not the only one experiencing it. She considers that a silver lining, which makes her feel guilty for her selfishness. She doesn't want other people to hurt, but she doesn't want to be alone either. Even Ron has nightmares, and he's always been the sort to let things roll off his back.

(To be fair, she supposed that was true of all of them in the early years. The insanity of what they went through probably didn't register in her mind until fifth or sixth year. That's when she really started to be aware of what they were doing, when she really started to feel fear. Harry probably felt it sooner, what with Voldemort living in his head and all that. It surprised her that he was as well-adjusted as he was now.)

She feels like she's walking on eggshells around herself. She feels both too much and not enough. It's an odd feeling, like she's hyper-aware of everything and yet not really there at the same time. She mentioned it to Ginny once, who confessed to having the same experience after she was possessed during her first year. Ginny assured her that eventually it goes away, but she couldn't offer a timeline.

She wonders if it would be easier or harder if everyone knew the details of what plagued her. She, like everyone else, was generally traumatized by the war, and those close to her knew about her torture at Malfoy Manor. But she hadn't told anyone about Dolohov, not even Ron. Especially not Ron.

She knew it confused him, that she was sending mixed signals by initiating emotional intimacy while rejecting physical closeness. She dreaded the day when he asked about it directly, when all the hurt and irritation he was surely bottling up exploded and she had to either come clean, lie, or end things.

She hadn't realized anything was wrong with her for a while. It was just small things at first, flinches at a hand that wasn't hers in her hair or the warmth of Ron's breath as he leaned in to whisper in her ear. Then it turned into bigger things, like avoiding hugs and taking a lot of showers. Sometimes she caught him staring at her as though he was trying to solve an intricate puzzle, but he always looked away when he noticed her noticing. She couldn't blame him. She exasperated herself with her own behaviour, all the while being unable to shake the panic that knotted itself in her stomach.

Still, she was determined to ignore it. Once things had settled down a bit more, once all the traces of fighting had been removed, once all the curse wounds had faded to curse scars, once everyone began to feel confident in their safety, she was sure it would all go away. She was determined to make it happen.

It's finally here, the confrontation she was dreading.

She'd gotten out of the shower and gone through her nightly routine. Ron was already in bed. When she crawled in beside him, he'd scooted closer and tried to hold her to him. She panicked, disentangled herself, and buried her face in the pillow. She would usually tolerate it, but she's particularly on edge tonight. That was when he let out a huff of air and turned on the bedside lamp and asked, "Okay, what gives?"

She tries to be casual as she rolls over and props herself up on her elbows. "What do you mean?" she asks, not quite meeting his eyes.

He huffs again. "Really, Hermione?" he says. "You're not an idiot, so don't pretend to be. You know what I mean."

Ron has a history of letting his temper get away from him, but this time she knows it's warranted. She just wishes it weren't her fault.

"I'm sorry," she stammers, "I'm just not in the mood."

"Not in the mood for what?" he demands incredulously. "Cuddling? Hugging? Basic affection? Because you haven't been in the mood for any of that for over a month. Kissing you is like kissing a rock now."

She opens her mouth to defend herself, but no words come out. He hasn't said anything that's not true, after all.

His gaze softens. "I just don't understand what I've done wrong that you keep pushing me away," he says in defeated tones, and she hates knowing she's the cause of that wounded puppy look on his face.

"You haven't done anything," she answers honestly. "I love you."

"And I love you, but I still don't understand."

She braces her arms across her body and lifts one hand to gnaw at the thumbnail. It's a bad habit she's picked up since the end of the war. This is her chance: tell him, lie, or end it. Her options seem equally unappealing.

"Is there someone else?"

Her eyes widen. "God, no!" she says, sitting upright. "I promise, no. Never."

"Then what?" He clenches and unclenches his fists in frustration. "You're the one who's always on about communication, but you're doing a real shoddy job of it yourself right now."

She looks away again. She hugs her legs to her chest and tucks her chin on top of her knees. She squeezes her eyes shut.

"Hermione?"

It's the break in his voice that decides for her.

"You know how Dolohov cursed me back in fifth year, in the Department of Mysteries?" she says, eyes still closed. Her voice comes out a bit muffled by the fabric of her nightdress.

"Yeah, but what-"

"That wasn't the only time he… hurt me." She risks a glance at him. His brows are knit together in confusion, and he doesn't appear to be about to speak, so she continues, eyes downcast once more. "During the final battle, when we got separated. Everything was happening so fast, it was hard to think about anything in particular, you know what it's like, and he disarmed me before I realized he was there. He… assaulted me."

She thinks the weight of the silence might kill her. Finally, she sneaks another glance at him, and she is just in time to see the moment when the penny drops and all the blood drains from his face.

"He… touched you?" Ron asks in a low, raspy voice. The look on her face must be all the confirmation he needs, because now his face flushed red and a vein pops out on his forehead. "I'll kill him," he declares.

"Professor Flitwick beat you to it," she says, and tries to laugh to lighten the mood, but it comes out as something between a cough and a sob.

"Doesn't matter." He shakes his head vehemently. He needs a haircut. "I'll resurrect him and kill him again."

There's more silence. She thinks she might cry, so she starts compiling a mental list of everything she remembers from Professor Binns's history lectures. Crying is possibly the only thing that could make this moment worse. Well, apart from Ron deciding that he now wants nothing to do with her.

"I'm sorry," he eventually breaks the silence. "I dunno what else to say. I just- I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she says automatically.

"I know, but I'm still sorry." There's a pause, and then he asks hesitantly, "Can I touch you?"

She stiffens, but then reminds herself that this is Ron and that everything is okay. This thought suddenly gives way to a rush of gratitude that he asked, and that he actually wants to touch her. It almost makes her wonder why she didn't tell him sooner.

"Okay," she says, and then she feels his arms wrap around her, first tentative, then firm. She allows herself to relax into the comfort they offer.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asks.

Now she does laugh, but it's bitter and self-depracating. "I'd hoped I would just forget," she says.

"Is it really possible to forget something like that?"

"Total obliviation might do it."

It's his turn to laugh now. There's no humour in the sound. His arms tighten around her, and she feels him bury his face in her hair.

There is yet another silence, but it's not teeming with anger or awkwardness this time.

When he finally speaks, he sounds almost embarrassed. "I don't know what I'm supposed to say or do now."

"This is good for now," she says in a small voice, then she adds, "Thank you."

"I love you," he replies simply.

"I love you, too."