Work Text:
Ron pulls his shirt up over his head the best he could with his right arm, wincing slightly at the motion. Most days he tried to avoid looking at the wound on his upper left arm, for fear that it would suddenly become too real for him. The possibility that his left arm might never be the same was a looming possibility, and with every passing day Ron found it harder to pretend everything was fine.
The fabric dividing Ron’s quarters from the rest of the tent is parted softly by the wind outside, and Ron catches sight of Hermione standing just by the folds, her dark eyes watching him. He swallows.
“Where’s Harry?” he asks.
“Getting food,” Hermione says. Her eyes stray to the chunk of flesh still missing from his shoulder, and then trail down his left arm to the swirled scars that covered his skin. Permanent marks of the Battle of the Department of Mysteries from just two years prior.
Hermione sucks in her lower lip and looks down for a moment. “I’m sorry.”
Ron frowns, confused. “Sorry for what?”
“That I couldn’t do more. That I was too scared to use magic–”
“Because you thought it might kill me,” Ron says, “Hermione, you saved my life. Again.”
She doesn’t look convinced, so Ron steps closer, forcing a bright grin on his face. “And hey, you know me. One little injury’s not enough to stop me.”
Hermione looks up at him, in the way only Hermione can – part unimpressed, part concerned, and part amused. “It is not just a little injury.”
“It will be,” Ron says, though not entirely convinced of it himself, “eventually. Thanks to you.”
Hermione’s fingers brush over Ron’s bare right arm, where another swirled scar twists around his bicep and down to his wrist. It’s slightly raised, unlike any scar she’s seen on a person before. But, she supposes, this is a magical scar.
“I forget you have these,” Hermione says, “you’re – they’re – usually covered up, in robes or those oversized muggle clothes you wear.”
Ron laughs softly, “Yeah. Mum started only giving me big stuff because I grew too fast for her to see any point in buying fitted clothes.”
His face fell slightly at the mention of his mother. He’d been so worried about her lately. Her, and the rest of his family. He tried not to let it get to him, to lock it away in his mind. Still, whenever Harry had one of his visions, Ron couldn’t help but ask, or indeed hope, for news about his family – much to Harry’s annoyance.
“They’ll be okay,” Hermione says reassuringly.
“I know,” Ron says, “I know.”
As Hermione lets her finger trail over the swirls again, she wonders how she could forget they’re there. She remembers how they looked just after the battle – big dark welts, rather like a jellyfish sting, trailing down his arms in just the same pattern now. He’d shrugged that injury off then, too, but she had known they must be painful. Now, the scars were a stark contrast against Ron’s pinkish, freckled skin. In the dim light of the tent, the scars seemed to glow beneath her fingertips.
“Ronald,” she says softly. Ron hums. Hermione was the only one who called him Ronald aside from his mother. The only one he let call him Ronald aside from his mother. “Why don’t you let people know you’re hurt?”
“What’d you mean?” Ron says.
“I mean,” Hermione starts in her usual tone, “you hide things from us. I know you do. I saw – you can’t even get dressed without being in pain and you won’t even tell me or Harry. I mean yeah, you joke about it sometimes and make offhand comments but we didn’t think it was still this serious–”
“I didn’t think it was that important,” Ron says, plainly.
“Of course it’s important,” Hermione says, “You’re important. You’re our best friend, we want to know when you’re hurting.”
Ron took a moment to consider what she said before saying, “I’m not very good at that.”
“Never noticed,” she said sarcastically.
Ron raises an eyebrow and grins, “Oh, does Hermione Granger do funny now, does she?”
“Always have,” Hermione grins back, “you’ve just been too busy wallowing to notice.”
Ron scoffs, “I don’t wallow, I brood; much manlier.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you
cared,”
Hermione teases.
“Oh yes, very much,” Ron replies.
Ron uses his right arm to brush a stray piece of hair behind Hermione’s ear. “I want you to know that I’m fine, okay. As fine as I can be, considering…” he trails off, not quite sure how to summarise, but he didn’t need to. Hermione sighs.
“I suppose I better help Harry bring back whatever food he’s managed to find
this
time.”
“Can’t be any worse than that fish,” Ron comments.
“Oh, absolutely. Nothing’s worse than that fish.”