Work Text:
Matching
Hugo is three and he sees the marks on their arms, the squiggly lines that cover Ron and the letters he traces but can’t read on Hermione’s right forearm.
“Ow,” he says, his voice as small and little as he is in that moment. Rosie is asleep on Ron’s bare chest, the day of chasing after cousins in the summer sun tiring her out. Hugo is red and freckly, but he’s sudden vigilant of the marks on his parents. “Boo-boo?”
Ron smiles, a story about brains and Death Eaters and a harrowing rescue and escape on his mind. Children playing soldiers and brave men dying for noble causes, the war is to be remembered for every winning battle.
Hermione bites her bottom lip and tries not to cry. The war is still bright in her mind, clear and filled with screams of agony and funerals of friends. She had been taken from one world to another.
“Si,” whispers Hermione before her husband can say anything, she doesn’t know how much she wants to tell her bebe, her Mijo about the pain of war. “But it’s better now.”
Hugo looks down at his scabbed knees, covered in bandages and wonders if he’ll have the same marks as her or his daddy.
“Some boo-boos take time,” whispers Ron, his voice a comfort as he causally wraps his arm around Hermione’s shoulders and pulls her in close. He ruffles Hugo’s curls and gives his nose a little boop, enough to make him giggle.
Hermione relaxes into Ron’s side, she remembers waking up and seeing Ron’s scars and feeling horrified. She also remembers the way he screamed her named down in a cellar while a mad woman craved into her skin, branding her forever.
They both wear scars on their arms, and it really isn’t unusual for either of them to be found in public in long sleeves. There is almost a comfort in being a matching set in a way, they always have the same secret to hide in the very least.
Hugo reaches over and gently touches a bandage on Rosie’s leg, just under her knee and wonders if their sets will be the same, like their mummy and daddy are. There is a comfort in knowing his big sister is the same as him.
“Mijo,” whispers Hermione, tapping Hugo’s chin and making him look up at her, his brown eyes the exact same as hers. “Time for bed, you can sleep right here.”
Hugo nods and rests his head in her chest, right over her beating heart, and Hermione can’t help but kiss the top of his little head. She knows that she can’t prevent her children from getting scars, but she can be there for them as they gain them.