She knows this one will stay with her long after the other wounds have healed and the other scars have stretched and smoothed and faded to be unrecognizable. mudblood carved into her arm, etched perfectly with the care of a mad artist.
She wears long sleeves even in summer, sweats rather than roll them up. But she can see it when she dresses or in the shower, and every glimpse makes her feel ill, violated, wrong. She sways on her feet and slams her hand against the wall, fights against the wave of nausea while the water cascades over her.
A quiet knock tells her when Harry has heard the noise. "I'm fine," she calls, eyes squeezed shut. She ignores how shaky and unconvincing her voice sounds. "I slipped."
On those nights he handles her delicately, like something unbelievably fragile. He eases her shirt off and frowns when she crosses her arms automatically, cradles the damage close. She lets him take her wrist, though, move her arm away and gently brush his lips against the scar, kissing each horrible letter.
And under his touch, she feels lighter, not hunched under weighty words and ugly scar tissue. For a moment, it's just a part of her, a mark of the past and nothing more.
She reaches up and sweeps her thumb across his forehead, touches her fingers to his hands. They're all just marks on flesh.
For a moment, the history fades away.