He’s won the war, but lost the peace, and he’s going to lose himself now, in this Muggle club, full of young, hot bodies smelling of sweat and liquor and sex.
Kate is deadly, the kind of woman men fight for, die for, while she walks through the wreckage untouched -- untouchable -- almost inhuman in her beauty.
He should be used to wandering forlornly through empty rooms, trailing his fingers over undusted furniture, looking for answers in the way the dust resettles after he's disturbed it, semaphores of some truth he can't understand.