Hermione thinks with an ache sharp in her chest of the small safehouse that she, Harry, Ron, and the rest of the Weasleys have been staying in for the past several months. Of dinners at the long table, and Harry kissing Ginny on the cheek. Of Ron laughing and teasing her, always balancing a knife-edge between flirtation and casual joking, and neither of them ever willing to cross the line. She had always thought he would be the one. But in the end, it was Malfoy, and it doesn't even count. She thinks of Teddy Lupin, so like his dead parents – she thinks of how sweet he is, how cuddly, always smiling. She thinks of her parents, and wonders like she always did at the safehouse, whether they are still alive; she hasn't asked Malfoy, although it's possible he might know. Because what if the answer is that they are dead?