She couldn't picture Harry's face anymore. When she conjured the image of him in her mind, he was a blur of dark hair, bottle-green eyes, and a scar. Ron was a blur of red hair and freckles in her mind's eye. Neither had defined features. It was as though she'd only ever known the two of them in passing. She still felt the pain of their loss, still curled into herself at night to cry over the crippling feelings of loneliness that threatened to choke her, wrapping her in cold, dispassionate darkness.