"I know that," she mumbles, pressing her thumbnail into the back of her other hand as hard as she can and watching it dent deep, pain radiating almost pleasantly. "But it doesn't change things. And hurting you won't make me feel better." And then she hobbles forward as fast as she can, snatching up his wand and retreating with it, to the overstuffed armchair that crouches in the dark corner by the bed. She curls up on it, knees to her chest and arms wrapped around her legs, face buried in the hollow between legs and body. His wand, she holds tight in her right hand. She waits, for him to say something else, but he doesn't. There's only silence beating against her ears, until her soft, muffled weeping chases it away.