The first time he came she was surprised. Surprised that the child she had heard so much about - the boy who lived, the saviour of the wizarding world - could look so vulnerable, so lost.

The second time he came she was angry. Angry that his supposed "family" could care so little about one of their own - especially such a sweet child - that he never knew any love, any form of comfort, so prejudiced that they couldn't even find it in their hearts to make the boy happy.

The third time he came she was sad. She was sad, because she knew that - if the boy were to continue visiting her - then she would have to treat him the same. If she wanted to have any part in his life, she would have to make the visits as unpleasant as possible, so that he was allowed to return.

And then, when the boy came no more - when the child no longer needed a baby sitter, and instead sat, locked in his room on his own - she was lost. Because there was no longer any boy; there was only a man.

A man that - for whatever reason - had never truly had a chance to be just a boy.