Sitting beside her father, opposite her mother, was a small girl. She had short mousy brown hair and, more like her mother, she had darker eyes, not quite bronze, but a dark green, almost hazel. Her small face was covered with light freckles but she was very much an equal mixture of both mother and father, displaying nothing other than pure and innocent beauty.

"... Squib. Muggle. You’re just splitting hairs. Either way, I’m not a witch. I go to an independent school in Somerset not Hogwarts ..."

“I’m not a Weasley.”
“Well, you’re part of the Weasley-Potter-Granger clan.”
“Weasley-Potter-Granger-Malfoy?"
“We don’t have to go that far, but whatever makes you happy.”

She loved Draco. She was in love with Draco. Draco was in love with her but history dictated and taught them that this was not a relationship that easily worked. He harboured feelings of pride, self-pity and self-hatred, while she was full of insecurity, fear and reluctance. Together, they didn’t work but they didn’t apart either.
 

  Hermione,
Stop this. Stop crying for me. Stop hiding out. Stop trying to get me back. Stop trying to get me to forgive you for nothing. You did nothing. It was all me. Do something useful and look after our child. Love her and not me.