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Summary
Hermione Granger did not cry.
She used to, a long time ago. On the stairs at Hogwarts. On Harry’s shoulder. Into Ron’s chest. In front of every magical person she knew – both alive and dead – after the final battle. In her husband’s arms, at one point.
I suppose she did cry, still, technically. Alone, usually, in the bathroom of their master bedroom that felt less and less like his every day, or into the pillows of the bed she used to share, late at night, when she thought no one was watching.
It was a drought, really.