Hermione collapsing in his arms was . . . horrible. Because he understood exactly how she felt. Hadn't he spent the past few years cutting himself off from even thinking about his family, in the hope that somehow convincing himself that they couldn't be used as a weapon against him would make it true. But he'd been kidding himself. He'd sunk as low as he could, tried to shut off all feeling, and it hadn't worked. That was the problem, their weakness . . . we care about people, and Voldemort doesn't.
Except that was also Voldemort's weakness, that he would never understand the lengths people wold go to spare even the slightest pain to the ones they loved. Because what chance on earth did a Dark Lord and all of his Horcruxes have against a young man in love? . . . or, well, against a young man in love who just happened to have a lot of grenades at his disposal?
"No. Hermione . . . Harry? Can you . . . do you still feel that son of a bitch?"