I study myself in the full-length mirror on Ginny’s closet door. I used to love this swimming costume: a red one-piece with little white flowers all over and a low back that dips down to my waist. It used to fit perfectly—the red was just right with my dark hair and eyes and a light summer tan. But almost a year has passed since I last wore it, and I see now that I am far too thin. I should not be surprised—Mrs. Weasley has been fretting over my weight since she laid eyes on me in May, and continues to throw herself fully into the task of fattening me up properly. I turn to the side and try to push out my stomach, but there is no difference. I will have to cooperate with Mrs. Weasley and eat more bread at mealtimes.

I wish excessive thinness was the only change my body has seen since last summer.

There are marks across my back now—marks made by dark magic from the wand of Bellatrix Lestrange. I don’t even know what they look like, which is both infuriating and the kind of thing to make me cry if I think about it too hard. I turn away from the mirror and twist, glancing back over my shoulder, trying for the hundredth time to get a glimpse of the damage. As always, I am blind to my own scars. I might believe she had intentionally attacked me in the one spot I would never be able to see, except that I know she had no thought of me surviving her onslaught.

My eyes slip shut and I let the memories come.

It begins with Ron. He was behind me, but I could not find his hands no matter which way I grabbed; we were all banging against one another as they pulled us forward on the ropes. There was more… some conversation, some violence… and then there was Ron again, screaming objections and begging her to take him instead. I had not seen him properly since we had talked in the tent a lifetime ago. His face was bloody and already bruising, but I memorized it as she dragged me away by my hair. He was not looking at me; his eyes were wild, searching anywhere for a way out of this. Look at me, I begged him in my mind. There must have been clumps of my hair all over the floor from how she dragged me. I remember being surprised by the pain of it. How little I knew then. Finally, his eyes found mine and the tears would no longer obey me. They spilled over, and I saw that he was very near to that as well. Goodbye, Ron. My heart clenched; I knew I would not return from wherever she was taking me, and all I could think was how many opportunities I had had to kiss him, to say something. But I’d only sat there, watching them all go by. I was a fool.

Why do we always think there is so much time?

I move to the bed and pick up the over-sized, white button-down shirt I sometimes wear over my swimming costume. I slip into it, wishing there was a way to leave it on once we head into the pond. It’s nearly sheer, but I think it would keep the scars from being noticeable. I just don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to see the guilt in Harry’s eyes. I’m not sure if Ginny or George knows what happened to me, but I can imagine the questions I would see on their faces if they saw the damage. And then there’s Ron.

I hear the creak of the bedroom door as Ginny slips into the room. “Are you ready? Everyone’s downstairs.�

I pull the shirt tighter around me. “Do you have an extra swimming costume?�

“No. Is something wrong with that one?�

“Not exactly. I just…� I feel pathetic. “It doesn’t fit as well now.�

She scrunches her face in disbelief. “You haven’t changed much since last summer,� she says easily. “Come down soon, okay?� Then she is gone.

Ginny doesn’t understand.

You haven’t changed much since last summer. I hear her words again in my head and am surprised by a hard surge of anger. Unchanged, am I? I can’t even remember the innocence of last summer—swimming in the pond and getting the house ready for the wedding. Even though we knew the danger that awaited us once we left to find the Horcruxes, those days together had been glorious. Now there were unrelenting nightmares. Ginny doesn’t know about them because of my skill with Muffliato, but they are black and violent and terrifying. And at no point have I awakened in the night to the comfort of knowing it had only been a dream.

I fight the urge to chase her down the stairs and jerk her around to face me. I have done a lifetime’s worth of changing since last summer.

Memory is a funny thing; it fades in and out sometimes, and mine is littered with periods of unconsciousness, which does not help. I remember the fear—fear that grew so fast and large inside my chest that I thought it might kill me before Bellatrix had the chance. I could feel the hammering of my heart in my throat and in my ears. I remember her voice, full of disgust and frustration as she screamed questions, curses and threats. I remember the carpet being soft and plush. The left side of my face pressed into it as I stared at Draco’s black shoes from my position face-down on the floor. They were shiny, recently polished, and his wand tapped nervously against his calf. That son of a bitch had a wand. I vaguely remember my own screaming, but it felt like it was coming from somewhere else. I was mostly unsure of my own consciousness, though I do remember coming up with that story, and her bringing in the goblin. I must have blacked out after that because the next thing I remember is Ron screaming very near to me. I didn’t know what it meant, except that he was alive, and that was enough. Darkness came like a blessing, and then I was in his arms in the grass outside Shell Cottage.

I lower the open shirt back down over my shoulders so it hangs from my elbows and turn from the mirror, trying again to see. I never stop trying to see.

I don’t think I am a vain person. I’m smart, but I’ve applied myself to learning, and I never think of it as anything I’ve come by naturally. I’m average looking. My hair is wild, but I have nice eyes and my skin is okay. I’m not the type to catch a boy’s eye, but I’ve never cared much about that. I’ve always considered myself marginally pretty… pretty enough.

“What are you doing?� he asks from the door. He’s wearing swim shorts and a Canons shirt.

It’s hard to believe that we are standing here in Ginny’s room, preparing to do something as normal as going swimming. Every ten minutes or so, I fight the memory of the smell of that carpet, of Ron screaming my name from the confines of his own hell. Of brothers kneeling over the lost one in a corridor at Hogwarts.

Yet somehow, here we are.

I feel the burn of tears as I pull my shirt back over my shoulders. Just show him, says a voice in my head. I hesitate, crossing my arms over my chest.

“What’s wrong?� he asks, walking over to me.

Our eyes meet, and my decision is made. “Scars,� I say in a tight voice.

He studies me for a long time. “Where?� he whispers.

I turn away from him, toward the mirror, and slowly lower the shirt again. He is behind me, watching me in the mirror as I pull my hair away from my back and over one shoulder. I watch in the glass as his eyes drop to my upper back, now exposed. My eyes squeeze shut, causing hot tears to slide down my cheeks.

Then his fingers brush my skin. “Have you seen these?�

I move my head back and forth.

“Then how do you know about them?�

I swallow hard, hoping I can get some words around the lump in my throat. “Fleur told me.� I hear the break in my voice. “When we were at Shell Cottage.�

His breath is on my neck. “Most of them are barely visible.� He traces lines across my back like a spider web, sending shivers through me from head to toe. “The worst is here.� His warm hands move like a whisper over my flesh. I lean back into him—simultaneously aroused and self-conscious.

“Do these really bother you?� he wants to know.

I take a shaky breath. “I suppose that depends.�

“On what?�

I hesitate, and then lift my eyes to meet his again in the mirror. “Do they bother you?�

In response, he nuzzles my hair and kisses the back of my head. His hands slide down my arms to my hands, and then I feel his face brushing against my shoulder. He kisses my neck. I let my head fall forward and close my eyes. God, I must be beautiful. He kisses what he’d said was the worst scar, taking his time with it… all the way down to my shoulder blade. His hands are around my waist and I clutch at them. “I think you’re perfect,� he whispers. More kisses. “Please come swimming with me, Hermione.�

He has seen it now, and he doesn’t care.

I think of Tonks and Fleur, how fiercely they loved and how little they thought of things as trivial as scars on the one they loved. Ron is like them, and suddenly, so am I.

After a little while, we go downstairs.

We are going swimming.