The dim candlelight of your shared room at the Burrow cast long shadows across Ron’s bare skin, tracing the lines of old wounds like whispered stories of battles long past. Scars crisscrossed his arms, chest, and back—reminders of the war you both had survived. Some were thin, silvery lines, barely visible against his freckled skin; others were rough and jagged, the kind that spoke of curses narrowly dodged and fights that had come too close.

Ron sat on the edge of the bed, his shirt discarded beside him, rubbing a hand absentmindedly over a particularly deep scar along his ribs. You knew he didn’t talk about them much. Not out of shame, but because he didn’t want to burden you with memories that still lingered in his nightmares. But you had fought too. You had your own scars—on your skin, in your heart.

Silently, you stepped behind him, pressing your hands gently to his shoulders. He tensed for only a second before exhaling, leaning into your touch.

“They don’t hurt,” he murmured, though you weren’t sure if he was telling the truth.

Your fingers traced the path of a long, pale scar running down his back, your heart aching at the thought of what he had endured. What you both had endured.

“I know,” you whispered, pressing a soft kiss to the nape of his neck. “But that doesn’t mean they don’t matter.”

Ron turned slightly, just enough to glance at you over his shoulder, blue eyes searching yours. Then, with a small, almost shy smile, he reached up and covered your hand with his.

“As long as I have you,” he said quietly, “I don’t mind them so much.”