That left a bitter taste on her tongue. Hermione hated to acknowledge that point, but it was true—she’d felt it when she’d made love to Harry in her dream. Now she was having to face it with Martin. The only love she’d known for most of her life was the ruinous type, the kind that drained you constantly, always demanding more to sustain itself. The kind that never went dormant—it was always there just under the surface, ready to flare up again at a moment’s notice. She had raged and rebelled against it for so long, going from abhorring it to wanting it. Reveling in it.