"But everything he did to us. To you,” Ron argued. “How can you just forget all that?”
She hesitated and rubbed her lips together, contemplating how she should even begin to rationalise her reasoning to Ron. She stretched across the table to grasp his hands again, and the words that settled on her tongue felt bizarre and a little heavy, but they were falling out of her mouth before she could attempt to stop them.
"Draco’s like…snow," said Hermione quietly, her gaze absent and distracted. "It’s cold and cruel to begin with, but it’s somehow beautiful, and you miss it when it’s not there. And if you hold it in your hands close enough and long enough, it changes. It melts."
She inhaled, and the sound of it snatched her from her trance. Lifting her head, she caught Ron’s puzzled eyes, and her cheeks began to burn with embarrassment. Even in the company of the people who knew her best, she didn’t like losing her usual control and logic, but the wistful metaphor had been so persistent. She was preparing what to say next, planning to regain her composure and appropriate prudence for their discussion, but Ron beat her to it.
"You really love him, don’t you?" he asked. "I mean, you really do."
"Yes, I do," she replied, trying to stifle a smile. "I think this might be it for me.”
- Isolation, Chapter 37