She had watched him and thought about how peaceful he looked when he was sleeping without the nightmares prowling the halls of his mind. How young he looked, how oddly innocent. He was eighteen now and only barely a man by Muggle standards, and if when he was awake he looked immeasurably older, now, sleeping, the weight of his burdens had lifted off his shoulders and he was someone else entirely. He still had the bruised shadows around his eyes and he was still too thin, and his maimed arm was drawn up so the stump rested beneath his chin – a stark reminder that they could never forget the war entirely – but he was gentle and serene looking in a way he rarely was, when awake.