For Neville was looking down gravely into the next bed along, at Harry ... whose form was motionless, his blank, staring eye pointed up at the ceiling with a glazed sort of disinterest. Neville's own expression was drawn, pale. Hermione could barely stand to look at it. She was reminded forcibly of that first morning, that wonderful first morning when Harry had come back to her life, when what struck her the most wasn't his hideous scar, or even his throbbing rage, that she would soon become intimately familiar with. It was his eye, turned to chilled steel and lacking all the vibrancy she knew and loved. It had lost all idea of hope or warmth ... in much the same way as Neville's eyes had now.