She refuses to grieve at first, convinced that allowing herself the extent of this pain will shatter her.
The first time she sets one too many places at the table, there is only uncomfortable and loaded silence, punctuated by awkward and ill-hidden sniffling.
When she accidentally knits his Christmas sweater that year, she presses it on Kreacher surreptitiously, hastily wiping away secret, shameful tears.
She braves many months of forgotten trick wands and painful half-finished jokes, each an aching reminder that tears at the jagged hole in her heart.
But 20 years of habit is hard to break, and when she calls the wrong name for the umpteenth time, she breaks down on the worn kitchen floor, begging whoever's listening for her baby boy back.