She’d grip her bathroom sink and recite her affirmations that she wasn’t afraid, that she was brave and strong enough to navigate this world alone. But the second of May came every year, and by that time she was tired of being brave. On those nights, when the temperature in her bedroom dropped and the bed shook with her trembling, she would Floo to Grimmauld Place and crawl into Harry’s bed to sleep, just for the familiarity of a warm body next to her. Perhaps it was their continuous shared trauma that made Harry the only person Hermione trusted fully with the magnitude of her sadness, with the loss of self she felt, of the crippling loneliness. 