Six years after the war, Hermione parents are dying and her marriage to Draco is crumbling. Nothing seems logical in her life anymore. Her healer tells her to start writing about it, so she does, as a way to figure things out, and remind herself along the way.

"You know, Draco," she says, suddenly, "sometimes we don't get the golden snitch." He furrows his brows, unsure whether she's referring to her own widowhood or his new marriage. "But we get pretty close. And that's good enough, isn't it?" He twirls her around, and nods, throat tight with something soft and heavy all at once.