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Ginny Weasley has more scars from her last year of Hogwarts than the rest of her life put together, and to be honest, most of the time she forgets about them until it's summer or Harry is kissing her and his hands will find some mark, some half healed wound, a reminder that she isn't whole anymore.
She's broken, and she always will be.
There are the deeply set scars on her left hand, from Muggle Studies class, where Alecto Carrow made her write the words Blood Traitor over and over again in her own blood and the Death Eater had only cackled madly at the irony of the statement. Harry always makes sure to hold her left hand, and the fingers of his own marked hand trace over the words again and again.
Ginny can't help but be reminded that they're both scarred, that they both carry around broken memories that can't be healed. Worse, they don't even try to heal them. They carry their burdens alone.
She has more scars than that, but she can't bear to speak of them other than in short, clipped sentences, and Harry, at least, seems to understand. Ginny has white scars that criss-cross all over her back (Filch liked whips) and a handful of scars on her right arm, precisely made lines, designed to run along nerve endings (they made us watch others being tortured, and if we cried out, they cut us) and purple lines crossing her ankles (the chains left marks) and a piece of twisted white skin over her left knee (I fell badly under crucio once).
The scars scare her more than anything else, because when she sees them, they're an all too real reminder that she isn't a child anymore, that there's been a war. Ginny knows she'll carry them with her forever.
Someday, Ginny is sure, she'll be proud of the scars, the marks of defiance and rebellion and courage.
But for now they are just broken reminders of the world that once was and of the girl that used to be.