Haunted

Hermione woke to the soft glow of dawn filtering through heavy green curtains, the faint warmth of a crackling fire filling the room. Her mind felt clearer than it had the night before; the fog the party’s punch had given her was replaced by a serene stillness. She became aware of the warmth at her back—a steady, grounding presence. Draco.

The realization didn’t unsettle her. In fact, it felt... natural.

She shifted carefully, turning to face him. Her movement was slow, deliberate, not wanting to wake him. Her dress from the party had been transfigured into a green nightshirt that skimmed her thighs, the silk soft against her skin. The thoughtfulness of the gesture made her smile.

For the first time, she allowed herself to really study him.

Draco’s face was relaxed in sleep, free of the guarded tension he usually carried. His features were strikingly youthful like this, his pale lashes brushing against his cheeks, his lips slightly parted. He looked so... peaceful.

Hermione felt her chest tighten, a strange mix of wonder and tenderness settling over her. How was it possible that the same man who could frustrate her to no end also looked like this—so utterly human, so unguarded?

“Granger,” he murmured, his voice rough with sleep as his eyes fluttered open. A small smile curved his lips as he met her gaze. “If you wanted to stare, you could’ve just said so.”

Hermione’s cheeks flushed, but she smiled back. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

Draco chuckled softly, his voice still thick with sleep. “There are worse views to wake up to.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t fight the warmth spreading through her. “I wanted to say... I’m sorry about last night.”

His expression shifted, softening. “Don’t apologize,” he said firmly, cutting her off before she could continue. “You’re allowed to cut loose, Granger. To enjoy yourself. And you should know—” His voice dropped slightly, his tone steady and sincere. “I’ll always be there to watch out for you.”

Her breath caught, and for a moment, she was speechless. “Thank you,” she said finally, her voice barely above a whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me,” Draco replied, his eyes searching hers.

“I do,” Hermione insisted, her fingers brushing his arm lightly. “It could’ve been a disaster last night. And you stayed. You didn’t have to, but you did.”

“I’d stay every time,” Draco said, his voice so soft it felt like a promise. “No matter what.”

Something shifted between them, an unspoken understanding settling in the space they shared. Hermione leaned in, her lips brushing his in a kiss that was warm and unhurried. When she pulled back, her cheeks were flushed, but she smiled.

“We should probably get up,” she said, her voice soft but practical.

Draco smirked, his arm tightening around her waist as he pulled her closer, his head dipping into the crook of her neck. “Yeah,” he murmured, his breath warm against her skin. “But not yet.”

Hermione laughed, the sound light and genuine. “Maybe next time.”

Draco let her go reluctantly, his eyes following her as she sat up and swung her legs over the side of the bed. “I’ll hold you to that, Granger,” he said, his smirk softening into something warmer.

As she glanced over her shoulder, the faint smile tugging at her lips mirrored his. For the first time in a while, she truly felt taken care of.

The weeks that followed settled into a rhythm neither Draco nor Hermione had anticipated. Study sessions, once focused solely on coursework, became an avenue to learn more about each other. Hermione often found herself smiling at Draco’s dry, often scathing humor, and though she’d never admit it aloud, she appreciated how he made even the most tedious topics feel engaging.

Draco, in turn, grew more comfortable letting his guard down, surprising even himself with his openness. He shared glimpses of his childhood, his frustrations with his parents' expectations, and his quiet dreams of forging a life beyond their shadow. Hermione reciprocated, revealing her own fears of never quite fitting in and her relentless drive to prove herself. Together, their conversations wove a tapestry of understanding, deepening the foundation of their unexpected bond.

It wasn’t confined to the library. Their partnership in Potions proved they were a force to be reckoned with, consistently outshining not only their classmates but even their past performances. Draco was always there to walk her to breakfast, and her hand would instinctively reach for his. Even in fleeting moments—passing each other in the hall, sharing a smirk or a wink—the unspoken connection between them lingered. Each small exchange was a quiet affirmation that they were on each other’s minds, the kind of heady, all-encompassing intensity that only young, blossoming love can bring.

Hermione noticed the way Draco took care of her—how he always ensured she had the more comfortable seat by the fire or quietly returned her books to the shelf when she forgot. It wasn’t just the actions themselves but the way they contrasted with her past experiences. She wasn’t used to someone else picking up the slack, noticing the little things she didn’t have the time or energy to address. For someone who once seemed to thrive on grandeur, his small, thoughtful gestures were surprisingly endearing. And Draco, for his part, was captivated by Hermione’s unrelenting determination and the passion she brought to everything she touched.

Their growing closeness didn’t go unnoticed, especially by those who knew them best.

“Careful, Draco,” Blaise teased one evening as the two sat close in the library, Hermione engrossed in her notes. “If you keep looking at Granger like that, people might actually start believing you’re smitten.”

Draco’s smirk was slow and deliberate as he leaned back in his chair, completely unfazed. “And? Let them think what they want.”

Hermione’s quill paused for the briefest moment, her cheeks warming as she pretended not to notice. Blaise raised an eyebrow, his expression torn between amusement and curiosity, though the glint in his eyes promised this wasn’t the last Draco would hear of it.

Pansy, on the other hand, was far less subtle. Her smirks grew wider each time she caught Hermione leaving the Slytherin common room after a study session. Once, as Hermione passed by, Pansy leaned in with a wicked grin. “Merlin, Granger, you sure are dedicated to your studies these days. I didn’t realize Draco was such a thorough... tutor.”

Hermione froze mid-step, her cheeks flaming as she turned to gape at Pansy. Before she could form a response, Draco stepped in smoothly, his tone laced with mock seriousness. “Have you met her before, Parkinson? Of course, she’s dedicated to her studies—and as you might imagine, she excels in all areas.”

Hermione’s gasp of indignation was drowned out by Pansy’s burst of laughter, her voice echoing down the hall. “Well, I’ll just leave you two to... your academic pursuits,” Pansy teased, sauntering off with a mischievous wave.

Hermione groaned, hiding her face in her hands. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.”

Draco smirked, his voice low and amused. “You wound me, Granger. I thought you’d appreciate my defense of your... talents.”

Even Harry had begun to notice the changes in Hermione, though their communication was limited to letters. In one particularly heartfelt note, he wrote:

You sound... lighter, happier. That’s all I’ve ever wanted for you, Hermione. Just promise me you’re taking care of yourself and staying true to who you are. That’s all that matters.

Hermione reread the letter more than once before showing it to Draco. He scanned it quickly, one eyebrow arching in mock shock. “Potter approves of me? Merlin, Granger, I think I might swoon.”

Hermione swatted his arm, rolling her eyes. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Draco’s smirk was unapologetic. “Too late.”

For Hermione and Draco, the world outside their growing connection faded into the background.

Hermione found herself watching Draco more often, noting the way he seemed to come alive during their conversations or how his laughter softened the sharp edges of his face. She wasn’t sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, he’d become so important to her.

Draco leaned back in his chair, his quill tapping idly against the edge of the desk as he regarded Hermione with a thoughtful expression. “So,” he began, “this Thanksgiving—what’s the point? It sounds like a feast, but if Muggle Studies is making us research it, surely there’s more to it.”

Hermione, sitting cross-legged on the chair with her notes scattered around her, looked up. “Well, the modern version is about gratitude—family and friends coming together to reflect on what they’re thankful for.”

Draco raised a single eyebrow, his skepticism almost palpable. “That’s it? Gratitude? Sounds suspiciously dull for a holiday.”

“It’s more complex than that,” Hermione said, setting her quill down. “The holiday stems from the early interactions between the Pilgrims and Native Americans. The first Thanksgiving was supposedly a shared feast, but what followed... well, it was much darker.”

Draco’s quill stilled as he turned to face her. “How so?”

Hermione’s tone turned thoughtful, her gaze distant as she began explaining. “The Native Americans helped the Pilgrims survive their first winter,” she began. “They taught them how to grow crops and find food, things they wouldn’t have managed on their own. But instead of fostering peace, the settlers grew greedy.” She sighed, her expression tightening. “They expanded their territory, broke treaties, and... well, conflicts escalated into unimaginable suffering for the Native peoples.”

Draco scowled, his lips pressing into a thin line. “So the settlers repay kindness with greed, violence, and betrayal—and they still celebrate it?”

Hermione nodded slowly. “Pretty much. That’s why it’s such a complicated holiday for some. The nostalgia and tradition make it feel warm and familiar, but the truth of its origins... it’s hard to ignore once you know it.”

Draco leaned back, arms crossed, his expression unusually thoughtful. After a moment, he said quietly, “That’s horrible, but the idea of pausing to reflect and give thanks... that part makes sense.”

Hermione glanced at him, caught off guard by his candor. “Yes,” she said after a pause, her tone softer. “That’s why some people choose to focus on the present meaning rather than the past. It’s about gratitude, not erasing history.”

Draco smirked faintly, tilting his head as though trying to picture it. “So, what exactly do they do? Sit around, stuff themselves silly, and recite what they’re thankful for? Sounds awfully... indulgent.”

“More or less,” Hermione replied. “There’s a big meal—turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, cranberry sauce, and pumpkin pie. It’s cozy and chaotic all at once.”

“Pumpkin pie?” Draco repeated, his brows furrowing. “You can’t possibly expect me to believe that’s edible. It sounds like something you’d serve as a prank.”

“It’s actually better than it sounds,” Hermione said, grinning. “Trust me, Malfoy—you’d love it.”

“Wait, isn’t this an American holiday? How do you know so much about it?” Draco asked, leaning forward with a curious tilt of his head.

“Because I’m all-knowing,” Hermione replied with a smirk, her tone teasing. “Well, actually, growing up, I had a friend from the States. One year, his family invited mine over for the holiday.”

“A friend, you say?” Draco interjected, his tone laced with playful possessiveness.

Hermione rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress a smile. “Yes, a friend. We were around ten, so unless you think I was orchestrating some grand romance back then, I promise, there’s nothing to be jealous of.”

Draco leaned back with a mock-relieved sigh. “Alright, alright, I’d hate to think I had competition from a childhood sweetheart with superior knowledge of pie.”

After a moment of silence, Draco asked, “What about this... Black Friday thing? I saw it mentioned in one of the books. Some kind of ritual?”

Hermione groaned, burying her face in her hands. “Oh, Merlin, no. Black Friday isn’t a ritual—it’s capitalism gone mad. It’s the day after Thanksgiving when shops offer massive sales. People line up for hours, sometimes overnight, to get discounts on things they probably don’t even need.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, his quill hovering mid-air. “So... it’s a battle for discounted goods?”

Hermione couldn’t help but laugh. “Pretty much. There are stories every year about people fighting over televisions or trampling each other for the latest gadget.”

Draco’s lips twitched, his expression hovering between disbelief and amusement. “So let me get this straight. Muggles spend a day giving thanks for what they have, only to spend the next day fighting each other over... a slightly cheaper toaster?”

Hermione snorted, unable to hold back a grin. “When you put it like that, it does sound ridiculous.”

Draco leaned back, his smirk softening into a look of genuine curiosity. “It’s fascinating, though, how they can hold such contrasting traditions back-to-back. Gratitude one day, chaos the next.”

Hermione tilted her head, smiling thoughtfully. “It is a bit of a contradiction, isn’t it? But I suppose it’s just human nature—balancing sentimentality with practicality... or, in this case, impulsiveness.”

Draco chuckled. “Still, the image of people battling over toasters is going to haunt me for days.”

Hermione laughed, the sound light. “It’s absurd, really. But every world has its quirks. How do you think I feel, straddling both?”

Draco tilted his head, considering this. “Fair point. Both worlds have their fair share of... peculiarities. But at least in the wizarding world, I don’t have to queue up overnight to risk life and limb for a kettle.”

Hermione smirked. “We’ve got our own battles, Malfoy. Not everything here is pumpkin pasties and Quidditch.”

Draco leaned back, his expression thoughtful. “Touche. The idea of gratitude, though—I can get behind that. I like it. But I think I’ll pass on the Black Friday madness.”

Hermione grinned. “Good choice.”

His smirk softened, something genuine flickering in his expression. “But I wouldn’t mind experiencing a proper Thanksgiving—the food, the gathering... the tradition. Provided no one gets trampled, of course.”

“Of course,” Hermione replied, her laugh soft and warm. She looked down at her notes as a quiet idea began to form.

The air was crisp and cool as Hermione and Draco strolled through Hogsmeade. The village buzzed with life, students darting in and out of shops with laughter and chatter echoing down the cobblestone streets. Draco walked beside her, hands tucked into his pockets, his expression a mix of curiosity and contentment.

“So,” Draco said, glancing at the bag of books Hermione had already acquired, “any more shops you want to conquer? Or are we done stimulating the Hogsmeade economy?”

Hermione smirked. “Just one more stop. Harry mentioned he might stop by the Three Broomsticks, so I thought we could pop in and see if he’s there.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Potter’s making house calls now?”

She shot him a look, her tone teasing. “You’ll survive five minutes of his company, Malfoy.”

When they entered the Three Broomsticks, the warm, inviting hum of the pub surrounded them. Rosmerta greeted them with her usual cheer.

“Looking for Harry, are you?” she said, wiping her hands on a towel. “He’s in the back room.”

Draco frowned slightly. “The back room?”

Hermione looped her arm through his and tugged him gently toward the door. “Come on.”

As they stepped into the private room, a burst of voices rang out.

“Happy Thanksgiving!”

Everyone was gathered around a long table laden with food—turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, pumpkin pie, and dishes Draco couldn’t even name. The group’s grins ranged from Blaise’s suave smirk to Neville’s wide, slightly nervous smile.

Luna tilted her head dreamily and said, “May gratitude bathe your soul and renew you.”

Draco blinked, momentarily stunned. He turned to Hermione, his voice low. “You didn’t.”

Hermione grinned, her eyes sparkling. “Of course I did. You can’t understand Thanksgiving without experiencing the food—and the company.”

They were soon seated around the table, Draco unable to decide what to try first.

As the meal progressed, Hermione turned to Luna. “Luna, have you ever celebrated Thanksgiving before?”

Luna shook her head, her earrings jingling softly. “Not this kind, but my family gives thanks every full moon. It’s an ancient tradition from our ancestors.”

Blaise leaned in, curiosity gleaming in his eyes. “And how exactly do you give thanks?”

Luna smiled serenely. “We go into the woods, light a fire, chant and dance around it naked. How else would it be done?”

Draco choked on his drink, coughing into his napkin as Harry gave an approving nod, his expression suspiciously serious.

Pansy’s grin widened. “Luna, my dear, that sounds enlightening. Something I would absolutely love to witness someday.”

Neville froze mid-chew, his eyes darting between Luna and Pansy.

Ginny burst into laughter, while Theo raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching with suppressed amusement. Blaise leaned back, shaking his head in mock chagrin. “Of course, Lovegood. How silly of me to ask.”

The table dissolved into laughter, the easy camaraderie weaving a warmth that was almost tangible.

As the plates emptied and the room quieted, Hermione stood, her cheeks slightly pink. “Keeping true to Thanksgiving tradition, I thought it would be nice if we all shared what we’re most thankful for this year.”

She turned to Luna first, who beamed. “I’m thankful for friends, both old and new.”

Blaise raised his goblet with a mischievous glint. “Full moons,” he said, earning groans and another round of laughter.

Ginny grinned. “Laughter. Merlin knows we could all use more of it.”

Pansy twirled her glass of wine, her lips curling into a smirk. “Elf-made wine, obviously.”

Neville paused, his brow furrowing thoughtfully. “Sunshine,” he said finally, his voice soft but steady. The simplicity of it drew murmurs of agreement around the table.

Theo leaned back, his smirk widening. “Motorcycles. My new one’s a bloody masterpiece.”

Harry glanced around the table, his gaze lingering on each face before softening. “Friends—old and new,” he said, echoing Luna.

Draco hesitated briefly, his expression unusually serious as he looked down at his empty plate. When he finally spoke, his voice was low but steady. “Second chances,” he said simply, his words heavy with meaning. Then, with a faint smirk, he added, “And full moons.”

The group burst into laughter, their camaraderie filling the room. Hermione joined in, her gaze lingering on Draco as she added with a warm smile, “Unexpected surprises.”

As the gathering wound down, the group said their goodbyes, lingering just long enough to share a few final laughs and knowing smiles. The soft hum of camaraderie followed Hermione and Draco as they stepped out into the crisp evening air, the warmth of the celebration still cocooned around them.

Draco slid his hands into his pockets, his breath misting in the chill. “That was... unexpected,” he said, his voice quieter than usual, as though the moment demanded it.

“Good unexpected?” Hermione asked, glancing up at him. Her voice was light, but her eyes held a flicker of uncertainty.

He stopped walking, turning to face her fully. For a moment, he just looked at her, his expression unguarded. “Very good,” he said softly, his sincerity unmistakable.

Before Hermione could respond, Draco leaned in, his lips brushing hers in a kiss that was as much a thank-you as it was a promise.

When they pulled apart, the stars above seemed brighter, the silence between them rich with unspoken understanding. Draco smirked faintly as they began walking again, their steps falling into an easy rhythm.

“You didn’t have to go to all that trouble, you know,” Draco said, his tone lighter now.

Hermione smiled. “I wanted to. You deserved it.”

Draco’s hand brushed against hers before he took it, his grip firm and warm. “Thank you.”

They walked back to the castle together, the lights from its windows glowing softly against the night sky. Above them, the stars glittered—bright, steady, and full of quiet possibility.

Draco paused just outside the portrait of the Fat Lady, his hands slipping into his pockets as he turned to Hermione. The soft light of the corridor cast warm shadows across his face, making his usual sharp features look gentler. He inclined his head slightly. “Well, Granger, this is where I take my leave.”

Hermione hesitated, a small smile tugging at her lips. “You know,” she began, her tone teasing yet warm, “we always study in your room. If you’d like, you could come up to mine for a change. Just for a little while.”

Draco raised an eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curving into a smirk. “Are you inviting me into the sacred Gryffindor domain, Granger? What would your housemates think?”

She rolled her eyes, though the faint flush on her cheeks gave her away. “They’ll survive. Besides, it might give you the chance to confirm whether or not my dorm is completely overrun by the books you’ve been sending me.”

Draco chuckled, stepping closer. “Tempting,” he murmured. “And, for the record, I have been curious about that. Lead the way.”

Hermione turned toward the portrait hole, but as they climbed the final set of stairs leading to her dormitory, an uneasy feeling began to creep over her. It was subtle at first—just a faint prickling along the back of her neck. By the time they reached her door, the sensation had grown into a palpable tension, tightening her chest.

She stopped abruptly, holding out an arm to block Draco. Her voice was soft but firm. “Wait.”

Draco’s smirk vanished, replaced by a look of sharp focus. “What is it?” he asked, stepping closer to her side.

“Something’s not right,” Hermione murmured, her eyes scanning the door. Her wand was already in her hand, her grip tightening instinctively. Draco’s demeanor shifted immediately, his movements deliberate as he drew his own wand.

“Stay behind me,” he said, his voice low but commanding.

Hermione’s eyes flicked to his, and she nodded, though she didn’t move back. “Let’s go together,” she said quietly, her tone brooking no argument.

Draco gave her a small nod of acknowledgment, his wand raised as he took a step forward, his presence steady and protective by her side. The tension in the air seemed to thicken as they approached the door, every instinct in Hermione screaming that something was very, very wrong.

The door to Hermione’s dormitory creaked slightly as she pushed it open, the sound loud in the stillness of the corridor. Immediately, the smell of something acrid and faintly metallic hit them, like burnt parchment and overturned ink. Hermione’s heart sank as her eyes adjusted to the dim light filtering in from the window.

Her room was a disaster.

Books were strewn across the floor, their spines cracked and pages torn. The neat stacks of parchment on her desk had been shredded, ink splattered across the walls in erratic, angry streaks. Her chair was tipped over, and the cozy throw blanket she always kept on it was ripped to tatters. But the worst part was her desk itself.

The small tokens she’d collected—the pressed flower Draco had given her after a walk in the gardens, a neatly folded note he’d slipped into her book one day, and a delicate bookmark charmed to shimmer with green and silver—lay in ruins. The flower was crushed, its petals scattered across the desk like broken memories. The note was torn into jagged pieces, its once-carefully written words barely legible. The bookmark was snapped cleanly in two, its magic extinguished.

The weight of the destruction hit Hermione like a physical blow, her chest tightening painfully as her breath caught in her throat. Her wand trembled in her hand, her knuckles white from the strain.

Draco moved forward with a deliberate, measured stride, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. He crouched beside the desk, his expression darkening as he surveyed the wreckage. “Whoever did this,” he said quietly, his voice a dangerous murmur, “knew exactly how to get past your wards—and exactly how to hurt you.”

Hermione stepped closer, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. “And it wasn’t random,” she said, her voice tight with controlled fury. “They targeted... everything you gave me.”

Draco straightened abruptly, his gaze snapping to hers. For a moment, his usual composure faltered. “You kept everything?”

She nodded, her throat tightening as she tried to find the words. “Of course I did,” she whispered, her voice breaking slightly. “They’re not just... things. They’re pieces of our story.”

Draco’s hardened expression softened, the sharp lines of his face easing into something almost tender. For a brief moment, his gaze flickered with surprise, then something deeper—something raw and unspoken. “I’ll replace them,” he said firmly, taking a step closer. “Every last one. I swear.”

Hermione shook her head, a tear slipping down her cheek before she could stop it. “You don’t understand,” she said, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. “They’re not just things, Draco. They’re memories. They’re... irreplaceable.”

Draco hesitated for a moment before reaching out, his thumb brushing away the tear trailing down her cheek. His touch was light, almost reverent. “I do understand,” he said softly, his voice steady despite the simmering anger beneath it. “But Granger, these things—they’re just echoes of something deeper. Whoever did this… they can’t touch what we’ve built.”

Hermione swallowed hard, his words grounding her even as the ache in her chest refused to ease. She nodded, though her voice trembled. “You’re right. I know you’re right. But it still hurts.”

Draco stepped back, his wand still drawn as his sharp eyes swept over the wreckage again. His jaw tightened, the dangerous glint returning to his gaze. “We’ll find out who did this,” he said, his tone dark and resolute. “And I promise you—they’ll regret it.”

Hermione moved toward her desk, her hand hovering over the scattered remnants of torn parchment and broken keepsakes. Her fingers brushed over the crushed flower and the shattered bookmark before something caught her eye. Amidst the chaos, a single piece of folded parchment lay at the center of the mess, untouched and deliberate in its placement.

Her heart skipped a beat, her breath catching in her throat. Slowly, she picked it up, her fingers trembling as she unfolded it. The room seemed to hold its breath as she read the words scrawled across the page.

Did you really think I would ever let a Death Eater inside your heart? For fuck’s sake.

It wasn’t signed.

Her breath hitched, the weight of the words pressing down on her chest. Slowly, she turned to Draco, her wide eyes meeting his. Wordlessly, she handed him the note, her hand trembling.

Draco took it, his sharp eyes scanning the hateful message. His jaw tightened, and his expression darkened as realization dawned on both of them.

“Ron,” Hermione whispered, her voice barely audible. It wasn’t a question.

Draco’s face hardened further, his grip on his wand tightening. “It fits,” he said flatly, his tone edged with bitterness. “His temper, his... history. He’d have motive.”

Hermione swallowed hard, her emotions churning between anger and heartbreak. “But this?” She gestured helplessly to the destruction around her. “Even for him, this feels... cruel.”

Draco stepped closer, his voice low and firm. “Who else would hold this kind of grudge? The words—‘Death Eater’—it’s personal. And they had to know how to get to you.”

Hermione’s eyes filled with unshed tears, and she shook her head, torn between disbelief and reluctant acknowledgment. “If it is him, then he’s gone too far.”

Draco reached out, brushing a trembling strand of hair from her face, his touch steady and grounding. “Whoever did this,” he said, his voice deadly calm, “will regret it. I’ll make sure of it.”

Hermione’s eyes softened momentarily as she looked at him, her voice quiet but firm. “Draco, I don’t want revenge. I just want to understand why.”

Draco’s jaw tightened, his gaze flicking back to the chaos around them. “Sometimes understanding doesn’t change anything. But whoever it was—they don’t get to do this to you.”

As Hermione moved toward the desk, her eyes lingered on the destruction once more. The betrayal felt tangible, the jagged edges of the note a cruel reminder. But beneath the pain, a flicker of determination burned. She knew that whoever did this was trying to break her, to scare her, to intimidate her, and they would be disappointed. She would not be so easily broken.