A/N : Written for week 8 of the Ollivander's challenge, with the writing prompt "You're a terrible liar." The fic doesn't center much around that particular line, but it does make an appearance ;-)

Thank you to MsBinns for reading through/beta-ing/commenting on this while driving across the country, you're the best. Thanks Ari too for your opinion!

Also, I highly recommend listening to "Ghosts that we knew" by Mumford & Sons while reading this.

"You can't call yourself that!"

They just finished talking to Griphook and Ollivander. His heart still hammers violently in his chest after all the information they've just gathered. The enormity it represents suffocates him. Harry has gone away, leaving the two of them alone and all Ron can focus on, because the rest is too big to deal with at this moment, is Hermione calling herself a Mudblood.

He is fuming, raw anger escaping through every cell of his body, as her gut-wrenching screams echo in his head.

"But that's what I am," she argues back, walking away toward the front door.

He follows her outside, his voice rises.

"No, it's not. You are way much more than that. And that word is just too full of hate. You are nothing, you hear me, nothing like that word."

The ways she stares at him then, eyes shining with raw admiration, makes him believe that maybe, maybe, there's much more to their relationship than just an amazing friendship. His heart stutters at the thought.

But then she looks down and lifts her left sleeve slowly.

Mudblood.

The letters, still bloody and unattended, disfigure her pale skin darkly.

Understanding sinks in. He cannot breathe.

"Shite! Hermione! SHITE!"

His heart pounds fast in his chest, his ears are buzzing and he feels dizzy. He's going to throw up. He feels so angry. He punches the nearest wall and sees her wince at the sound of his knuckles hitting the hard unforgiving wall.

He doesn't feel a thing.

He starts to walk away, needing the breeze of the sea to cool him down but she calls his name, barely a whisper and he stops dead in his track.

He turns around, her eyes are glistening with tears.

Right there.

That's a look he'll remember all his life. Not a pretty dress or a bashful smile and delicate blush. No, instead, he'll fix into his memory: a broken down Hermione - with a nightgown too big for her, an ugly bloody scar and her face stricken with tears - as the exact moment he realised he'll love her all his life. No matter what.

Words get stuck in his throat.

He takes her in his arms. She is alive. She is not okay, but she is alive and that'll be enough for now.

"Harry can't know," she says, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"You can't hide this from Harry."

"He doesn't need this now. We'll tell him. After."

He buries his nose down into her hair, just behind her left ear.

"After," he repeats hoarsely, even though neither of them know when after will be and if they'll live to see it.

...

When they go to Australia to get her parents, she hides her scar behind a bandage and pretends it needs healing so she doesn't have to show it.

He confronts her about it.

She deflects all his attempts to talk about what happened to her. He stops insisting after she angrily shuts the bathroom door in his face after the fifth time he asked.

Sometimes he's too scared of what will come up in this conversation they need to have. His insecurities, hers, the trauma they went through, maybe it'll be too much and they won't be able to deal with it.

Maybe loving her won't be enough.

He is terrified, but he doesn't tell her. Instead, he holds her hand as she vaguely recounts to her parents the events that lead her to modify their memories.

He bites his tongue when she eludes his desertion or anything that happened at Malfoy Manor. He stares at her cup of tea - long gone cold - and focuses on keeping his dark thoughts away.

He doesn't know if it'll get easier.

…

They left for Australia so soon after the funerals that they blissfully forget she has it when they come back. Then Hermione rolls back her sleeves to help Molly prepare dinner.

The older woman gasps in shock when she sees it.

Hermione meets his eyes across the room. Ron sighs and sits down instantly. He folds his hands nervously on the kitchen table and bends his head, not daring to meet his mother's hard stare. He still can't forgive himself.

He knows Hermione will have to be the one to talk to his mother. He can't retell this particular tale of their journey. Not when it's been months and he still so vividly hears her screams in his nightmares. Even more so since they've been back and she's spending her nights at her parents.

Molly sits silently next to him and Hermione takes the chair in front of him. She exhales shakily and starts talking, her voice barely a whisper.

Hermione has barely begun to explain how they were able to retrieve the sword of Gryffindor when his dad enters the dimly lit kitchen.

"Come and sit Arthur."

His mother's tone, firm and broken, conveys enough. His father grabs a chair and sits next to Molly. Arthur's eyes fall on Hermione's uncovered arm. Ron observes his father's eyes widen in shock. He swallows down the rigid lump in his throat.

He takes Hermione's hand, just like he did at her parents', squeezes it gently as he gives her an encouraging nod.

They still have a lot of explaining to do.

…

They are walking hand in hand down the street of Diagon Alley when Hermione stops short next to him.

He turns toward her and frowns. She only replies by nodding her head sharply toward someone a few meters away from them.

"It's Lavender," she clarifies when his frown grew deeper.

The blond woman is laughing loudly next to a couple that looks like her parents.

"Should we go talk to her?"

Before he has time to ponder Hermione's question, Lavender sees them and waves her hand at them invitingly.

As they approach her, Ron notices that her face is smooth and devoid of the scars he knows she has. He hides his puzzlement and misses the beginning of the polite small talk between Hermione and her.

"We're only here to buy school supplies," Hermione replies, gripping his hand more firmly to remind him he ought to talk too.

"Oh, you're going back?" Lavender asks bewildered.

"Of course she's going back," Ron says, his tone harsher than he wanted to and he mentally slaps himself. Hermione tightens her hold on his hand and he squeezes hers back lightly.

"That's not what I-"

"I know, sorry," he interrupts, uncomfortably shifting his weight.

He sees Lavender look down and notice Hermione's scar on her left forearm. She gasps loudly and Ron almost turns around to run away with Hermione. He doesn't want to hear what Lavender has to say about Hermione's scar, he doesn't want to hear anybody's opinion about it.

But Lavender is quiet for a long time, contemplating what she wants to say. He shifts restlessly even more. Hermione leans slightly against him, clearly sensing his agitated state.

"You- I- You know," Lavender finally says clumsily. "I thought you belonged in Ravenclaw. You were always the smartest of us all. But now," she pauses and her eyes meet Hermione's. "Now I know why the hat sorted you in Gryffindor. You belonged there. Your scar. It just proves it. How strong and brave you are."

He doesn't know what he expected Lavender to say, but certainly not what he just heard. He feels his heart surge with pride for Hermione. She gives his hand a gentle squeeze. When she replies, her voice quivers, but he hears the deep raw humility she tries to convey.

"So do your. You shouldn't hide them."

…

It takes him awhile to touch her scar, or kiss it. Not because he is disgusted by it. But because it symbolises much more than just a nasty scar. And he's almost too afraid to acknowledge it and the 'what ifs'.

He is Pure-blood, a Blood-traitor, and she is a Muggle-born. Had they not defeated Voldemort, their union would have not been possible, she may have died or be sent away because she hadn't been birthed by magical parents.

He chokes down a sob the first time he lays a kiss on the 'm'.

After his lips lift from the last 'd', he catches her stare. She watches him with such intensity, he would do anything if she'd ask him right this moment.

Instead, she opens up to him, like she hasn't before. And he realises that they are still both trying to process everything that happened that day, even a few years after.

"It's like," she pauses, her eyes leaving his and fixing up the ceiling, "my body isn't my body anymore."

He shifts and lies down next to her, his right thumb rubs her scar carefully.

"I don't know how to explain it. It's me, but it's not me. It's a part of me now, and it'll always be and I don't know how to deal with it," she pauses and catches her breath before turning her head towards him. She looks down as his fingertips traces her marked skin. "Most days it's fine, I just forget it's there and it doesn't make any difference. But then, there's days when my body just feels so foreign and it frustrates me so much. I just- I want to rip my skin out."

He doesn't have an answer for her. So he puts Mudblood against his racing heart and tells her he loves her.

This is something that they'll have to deal with all their life. Her skin has been branded like a vulgar cow ready for slaughter. Even though he hates that she's been scared so literally by the war, he reminds himself that she resiliently survived and became stronger because of it. He swallows down the heavy lump in his throat.

They'll carry their scars forever.

…

She's been acting weird. He figures it's because she got promoted at the Ministry and has now even more responsibilities than before. She barely sleeps.

She insists they go to the beach one cold and rainy October morning.

"Are you sure this is a good idea? We're going to be soaking wet," he protests hesitantly.

But she doesn't listen, takes his hand and Disapparates them without even putting a coat on.

It's windy and drizzling when they get there.

She drops his hand, walks toward the shore and stretches out her arms as she turns back toward him. He can see the angry letters on her pale arm as her jumper lifts up slightly. Sometimes, it's still hard to breathe when he sees it.

When she speaks, her voice is barely a whisper.

"I'm pregnant."

He hears her, loud and clear.

She looks at him with daunt excitement as she waits for him to process the news. He is in front of her within seconds.

"Really?" he asks breathlessly.

He sees a light in her eyes that he hasn't seen since before the war as she tearfully chuckles and nods. His heart combusts and he crushes his lips against hers, pulling her towards him. His right hand curls against her left forearm as she wraps her hands in his hair. He can feel the uneven skin under his fingertips.

Her scar is a reminder of darker times. The new life now growing safely inside her womb will forever be a reminder that they got through it and were victorious.

…

There will always be people who will try to use it to bring her down.

They don't realise that coming from them it'll only make her lift her chin higher and wear the scar on her arm as a badge of honour, a mark of defiance. Daring anyone who tries to come across her and her strong mind in attempt to prevent her from changing their ancestral laws for the benefice of all, that they are dealing with one of the strongest survivors of the war they'll encounter.

"I'm not the one who should be ashamed," she tells him one night, within the darkness of their bedroom. "The ones who did this should be ashamed."

He agrees and fervently presses his lips against hers. His fingers brushes Mudblood absentmindedly as he deepens their kiss.

Some days it's hard to remember how much they were involved in the war. It just feels like a different life.

…

Rose is four.

And fucking brilliant.

Their children have been quiet for too long when he offers to go check on them. When he enters Rose's bedroom, he stops breathing. Hugo is completely starkers and Rose is wearing her favourite purple skirt and nothing else. Both children are completely covered in scribbles from the brand new markers Harry got Rose for her birthday the week prior.

They look up at Ron guiltily.

"It was Hugo," Rose quickly states, "I tried to stop him but he wouldn't listen."

Hugo, Ron observes, has scribbles all over his back. The almost two years old runs wobbly towards him and hugs his right leg strongly before lifting his head and arms up to him.

"Dada."

He can't resist his son. Not when he looks at him and in his features - his tiny button nose and wide brown eyes - Hermione is all he sees. He picks the toddler up and drops a kiss in the hollow on his neck making the little boy giggle loudly.

"You're a terrible liar Rose," Ron scolds gently.

His smile drops when he looks at his daughter and notices that she is hiding her left arm guiltily. He puts Hugo down, approaches his daughter and kneels in front of her. He asks to see her arm and she obliges obediently as tears fill her eyes.

Air leaves his lungs instantly and every swear he knows crosses his mind within seconds.

Rose is too brilliant for her age.

Mudblood is written in uneven green and red letters on her left forearm.

"Rose-" he starts warningly.

"-I wanted to be like mummy," she tells him quickly before rushing into his arms and breaking down in uncontrollable sobs.

"Ron, what is-" Hermione halts next to him.

Words are stuck in his throat as he looks up at his wife. He reads the question in her eyes, and in reply, turns Rose's arm toward her. He sees her eyes broaden in shock. She kneels down slowly next to him and Rose, her breath coming in short ragged pants. She swallows arduously and takes a deep uneven breath.

"Rose, look at me." Hermione caresses their daughter's hair softly. "Do you know what that word means?"

The child shakes her head against her father's neck and looks down at her mother's forearm. Hermione follows her eyes, he closes his and swears mentally once again. They knew they'd have to have their conversation with their children one day. Never did he imagine they'll have it with their daughter sobbing half naked in his arms after she marked her own soft skin in coloured markers.

"When daddy and I were younger, bad wizards wanted to make the rules. And they used that word for children who didn't come from magical parents. You know how grandma and grandpa Granger can't do magic? They are Muggles and cannot do magic."

"And we are not supposed to do magic around Muggles," Rose recites astutely.

He meets Hermione's eyes and smiles encouragingly.

"Right, true. But sometimes children from Muggles families are able to do magic."

Rose lifts her head and turns toward her mother eagerly.

"Like you?"

"Like me yes."

Ron observes his daughter as she reaches down and delicately traces the letters on her mother's arm. She looks so much like Hermione at this instant that he feels his heart swell despite the seriousness of the situation.

"This is not a pretty word," Hermione tells her simply.

"Is it a bad word?"

"Yes."

"But why do you have a bad word there?" the four years old asks, a serious frown on her face.

"Because some bad people didn't like that I could do magic."

"But daddy says you're the best witch ever!"

"And it's true!" Ron interjects.

Hermione smiles. Rose stays quiet and traces the letters on her mother's arm again. When she's done, she throws herself into Hermione's arms, hugging her strongly.

"I love you," Ron murmurs to Hermione. She tearfully smiles back and holds Rose even more strongly against her.

Her eyes widen suddenly as she looks behind him.

"Hugo, no!" She says alertly, "Ron, do something!"

He turns around rapidly and holds back a laugh. Hugo is proudly standing next to Rose's bed, his hands and penis covered in a deep shade of purple.

"Where is the camera?" he snorts as Hermione glares at him, "What? Don't look at me like that! You mean you don't want to embarrass him in front of his girlfriend one day?"

She seems to ponder his words, then Rose starts giggling in her arms and she gets up swiftly.

"It's in the cupboard by the front door. I'll go get it. You watch them."

Rose grabs his hand. He looks down at the word etched on her arm and his thumb grazes it with an odd familiarity. Her skin is smooth though, not rough and irregular like Hermione's. Rose follows his movement and then looks up.

"I'm sorry, daddy."

"That's okay, honey. It's just a word, your mum is much more than just a word."