He was dead.
Hermione Granger was curled upon his reading chair, alone, next to a fire that gave off no warmth. She was reading his favorite book How Brew Evil Things Evilly (at least she thought it was). And if she concentrated hard enough she could even smell his distinct cologne (a kind of burning wood smell). A tear slipped down her cheek. I'll never be able to say even the simplest good morning to him ("There is nothing good about this morning Miss Granger"), never be able to touch him ("Please take your hand off my person Miss Granger"), speak to him("You're excessive prattle is making my ears bleed Miss Granger"). And the saddest of all, I never got to say I Love You.