The war had clearly aged him, taking a toll on the man. His face seemed tired, perhaps permanently so. Green eyes sparkled like emeralds from behind round framed glasses. His nose was slightly crooked at the bridge; could he not fix that? Or did he not wish to? His raven hair was tousled, as if he had carded his fingers through it continuously. In her world, it would be considered attractive in how careless it appeared. The famous scar above his forehead was also far different than was depicted in the movies; it wasn’t some silly lightning bolt as a child might draw, but an actual bolt of lightning that raked across the sky. Jagged, uneven lines that marred his skin. 