After that day, steeling her heart and mind against the onslaught of emotions she still felt, Hermione carried on with her life as if he’d never existed. To anyone who might have witnessed them crossing paths in the halls, it was as if there was never anything there. She never spared him a glance, never acknowledged him in meetings. She barely seemed to notice his presence whenever they managed to be in the same room—at least, that’s how it appeared to onlookers. Inside, she was still shuddering at every sight of him, shaking with the ache of grief and desire. She couldn’t decide whether she hated him or herself more: her for her own weakness, him for so thoroughly decimating her. She craved his touch; she never wanted to see him again. She missed his laugh; she hated his smile. She wished for a word from him; she continued to bar his owl from her home. The duality was tearing her apart as much as the heartbreak was.