A familiar twinge of pain coursed through Hermione’s veins at that thought. They’d been so well-matched, so perfectly balanced, all for... what? For him to cast her aside at the first chance? How could he not know how devoted she was to him, how much it had taken for her to bring him past her wobbly defenses? And yet she had done it, despite the overwhelming fear at giving anyone a glimpse into her vulnerability. She had made room for him in her life, in her bed, in her heart. And it had been so wonderful: their dates romantic, their conversations engaging, their passions aligned, their desires compatible. The more she got to know the real Draco Malfoy, the man he’d become after the War and apart from the poison of his family, the more she realized that he was everything she’d ever wanted. He was always equipped with a quick remark when she fell into a mental rut, ready with stillness when her life was moving too quickly, and above all, armed with a soft place to lay her head every night when she came home to him.