War leaves scars. Sometimes you can see them and sometimes you can't, but they're best seen at night - and getting past them doesn't make it all right, but it doesn't have to be.
And Ginny's hand will close over his; she'll put her face near his and whisper, "Lumos," against his lips and the room will flood with white light that reflects in his frighteningly dark eyes.
"I'm here," she'll whisper, and his head will bend into the crook of her neck. "You're here. We're alive. Wake up."
And that's all she'll say, never "it's just a nightmare" because it isn't and never "it's all right" because it never really will be.
With a huge shudder, Harry will clutch her tight until he's breathing normally again and drop a kiss onto her collarbone and say, "Nox."
All goes dark, but they will sleep peacefully.
Then there are nights when Ginny will writhe and twist so that she gets caught in the sheets, choking on a scream in the depths of her throat, clawing at the still-pink lines along her arms, holding back whimpers and arching her back against the Carrows' torture.
The only thing Harry can do is pull her to him, curl his body around her, and let his fingers dance across her back and the welts there.
"One," he'll murmur, not even having to look. Ginny's fists will pound against his chest as he moves to the next one ("Two") and the next ("Three"); and she'll give up fighting, pressing her palm to his heart, trembling against him.
Painstakingly he'll count each and every scar, more tentative at the one just above the back of her knee, making sure she feels him on her ribs until he makes it all the way to "Twenty-six."
They'll both try not to cry and the blackness will overtake them.
And then -
Then there are the nights when a bottle of wine will play the part of third wheel and they'll discover that it's easier than it looks to drown their sorrows when they're sitting against the wall and laughing until they cry, and the numbness they feel isn't physical so much as emotional.
It's just completely mental, all of this - the tiny flames flickering in midair, giving just enough luminance to see each other's faces, Ginny's legs dangling over Harry's lap as they collapse into random laughter for the eighth time in half an hour. Ginny'll flop backwards onto the floor and Harry'll accidentally bang his head against the wall: He'll spit out some curses while Ginny slaps her hands over her face and laughs harder still.
They won't have a chance to catch their breath. Harry will pry Ginny's arms apart and up, and she won't flinch at his touch; slowly, she'll sit up, her eyes never once leaving his, and he'll tug her legs further over his lap, towards him.
It's not all right, but it doesn't need to be.