It's silly, but he always thought life would get better after Voldemort. He knows it was always just a dream and wonders who he would be if there was never any pain.
There is no place for a broken hero in a painless world, after all.
Still, he tries to understand why there are so many sentences left hanging. He thinks that maybe he should be the one to complete them, but even as he speaks he knows the words are wrong.
Her eyes are darker than they used to be, and her smile is more brief. She has an air about her, as though she was put on the shelf only halfway to fixed.
He sees her on Christmas morning, and he is reminded, briefly, of sunshine and laughter.
'You look beautiful,' he tells her. She says nothing, only smiles a little bit and shrugs. His compliment remains stagnant, suspended above her head, and for a moment he thinks he understands.
Life goes on, as it is wont to do, and each time he falls asleep he thinks that perhaps the night is getting darker. He tells her this and she laughs, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes.
He's grateful, in a way, that she is just as lost as he is. He sees her sobbing openly behind that plastered smile and thinks that maybe he'll be all right, after all.