Hermione looked at him, eyeing the scar that disappeared into his blond hair. A head injury, then. He’d disappeared in the fray of the final battle; she’d searched for him for days, months afterwards. She wouldn’t stop, couldn’t, not until she was presented with proof that he was gone. As the years drew on–one, two, three, then four–she’d make coffee, go to work, and pretend to be in love with being alive, and looking for him everywhere.