[ Her hand, which had been cruel before, is gentle now, absently reached out toward him to brush the hair back from his forehead. She makes a quiet noise of acknowledgment in response to his question, but the answer is too heavy to come right away. It sits in her chest a few moments, weighing there before she finally responds, low and rueful: ]

Nobody becomes as tired and wretched as me without being in love.

[ But there’s a small, sad little smile on her face as she says it. Like maybe she wishes she had the good sense to regret that more than she does. ]

I’ve loved more than was probably good for me. Recklessly. Even desperately. Until I thought it might be the thing that finally killed me. [ With a quiet wryness: ] That sound familiar to you, Harry?