Of course, in the month since they’d been apart, Hermione had considered reaching out. She had considered demanding an explanation, or requesting a conversation for closure, but she had ultimately held strong. Nothing good could come of seeing him then, when she was still too fragile to even look at a photo of him. Indeed, the first time she’d seen that foul Rita Skeeter publish on his reemergence into Wizarding society—eighteen days after their breakup, but who was counting?—she’d broken down into tears at her desk in her Ministry office. The pitying glances from her coworkers and assistant made her want to sink into the floor, and she’d scurried home without a backwards glance. She had reinforced her wards that day, already having recalibrated them to bar him entry into her home, but now adding a layer to prevent his owl Apollo from reaching the grounds. And then she’d promptly sobbed into the pillow that had, until then, lay untouched on his side of the bed. To her deep sorrow, it still smelled faintly of cedarwood and citrus, his signature scent still imbued in the fibers of the cloth, and the fragile shards of her heart had cracked into even tinier pieces with every inhale.