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Summary
She cries for all the things she’s given up, for her stolen youth, for the education she’s missed out on since being a fugitive, and for the love she’s never experienced and likely never will. Hermione isn’t so naive to assume she’ll survive this war. No, she knew when she threw her hat in with the Boy Who Lived that the odds of dying at the hands of a prejudiced piece of excrement branded by a snake and skull were far too great.
Hermione is so consumed by her own grief and rage that she doesn’t even hear Harry when he calls out to her from behind the privacy partition. It isn’t until she feels his cold hand smoothing back her unruly curls—if you could still call them curls after close to four months without running water and smoothing products—that she even registers his presence.