She had just wanted to talk. Just wanted to make Draco see that it could turn out okay. That the future might be so terrible not. That what they had was worth it. That it was the present that mattered anyway, and not the far off future. Hermione had just wanted to talk. To fix things. Make it all better. Make Draco see. But she had made it worse. It had all gone so, so wrong, and she didn’t understand any of it. She didn’t know anything anymore. She didn’t understand what had just happened, and it had felt so wrong but so good, and she sickened herself, repelled herself.