Hermione can’t even finish the sentence. She feels stupid for even admitting it out-loud, what a comfort watching tv had been during those long summers, the house empty around her while her parents worked. A part of her had imagined that, maybe, she would have it too: a found family with her friends, holidays gathering, hanging out at her friends flats, someone she loved and who loved her back. Only the last part has come true, the war twisting and poisoning everything else until she wished for nothing more than a quiet life for her and Draco, away from judgement and hate.