She was smiling. She had always been smiling. Her hair was glistening, burgundy in the poor lighting. Her eyes – oh, her eyes – didn't bring pleasure anymore. They reminded him of – of the Potter brat – her son. They were jarring, familiar but not comforting.

The classroom on the third floor bid him unceasingly. He felt his dreams tormented by the thought of it – of her waiting. He would sneak through the castle – unaware, in a dream – until he found her.

The glass was cruel, a barrier. More than once he found his mind flitting – feverishly, uncontrollably – to the idea of shattering it, of setting her free and into his arms.

It was hard to be always so unselfish so there she would be, alive and happy with him.