If he was being honest, he did not want to be happy. Not if it was without Hermione. He could bear to see her moving on, see her laughing and smiling and enjoying herself without him. In fact, it brought a sort of masochistic joy to his broken heart to know that she was still capable of feeling happy. But for himself, he could barely stomach the thought. A life without Hermione was unthinkable to him. Who else would egg him on the way she did? Who else possessed such a vast knowledge and could constantly surprise him with some new factoid he never knew he needed? Who else's lips could feel like they were sculpted to fit his own with such quiet perfection? Who else could make him weak in the knees with a simple glance or subtle movement? No, he was absolutely certain that his happiness was linked to hers. Even if there was such a witch who could deign to take Hermione's place in his life, he would not want her. What good was an imitation when he had once treasured the real thing?