But tonight... tonight, in the din of the Three Broomsticks, he did not look like a man on his way to happiness. Quite the opposite, in fact; try as she had, Hermione could not distract herself from the near-imperceptible slump in his shoulders, or the sheer force with which he’d gripped the bottle of Firewhiskey. She couldn’t help but notice the utter lack of happiness on his face, not even a feigned smile for the entirety of the night. His date, the beautifully aristocratic Astoria Greengrass, had abandoned him not ten minutes after their arrival. He sat alone for most of the night, and even across the bar Hermione could see the weariness in his usually vivid eyes. This did nothing to soothe her own mental anguish; if they were both so broken, why had he driven them there? Why couldn’t they have stayed in the warm cocoon of their love, him learning Muggle ways to cook her favorite meals, her combing her fingers through his hair as he laid across her? The sorrow of their combined heartbreak made no logical sense. If she could’ve had it her way, he’d have held her face in his hands rather than that nasty bottle of Firewhiskey, and she’d have kissed him as they Apparated to the privacy of their shared home. So why had they instead sat at opposite ends of a pub, stewing in their respective misery?