Summary: A middle-aged Harry Potter still bears the psychological scars of a war long over. After experiencing yet another nightmare, he turns to his wife Ginny for guidance. My first fanfic.

Disclaimer: The rights to Harry Potter and any associated characters, themes, etc. belong to J.K. Rowling and Warner Bros. I do not own this world. I merely write in it.

Pain. An eternal scream. It was a feeling of utter rawness, as if he was fresh meat ready to devour. Harry Potter felt vulnerable.

The only clothes he had for the event were dress robes. In all of the commotion of the last few months he hadn't had time to buy anything else, yet he felt that black would have been better for the occasion.

It would have been better if he was not there for the occasion at all.

It all felt wrong, somehow, standing over a grave of a brother that was not his. The memorial made sense. Every living soul in the wizarding world seemed to have been there. But this was too private, he thought, as he watched Molly Weasley wailing for her lost son while Arthur held her, both inconsolable in their grief. Bill simply held his wife's hand. Charlie wept silently, as did Percy, who seemed to be ensuring that George did not collapse. Harry wished that George would cry, but he simply stood, motionless, numb to the world. He wondered if George would ever smile again.

Harry stole an uncomfortable glance with Hermione as a tear slid down her cheek. He could tell that she, too, felt like an intruder on the family grief, some shadow of Death that lurked in the corner; not quite harming, not quite helping. The both of them occasionally caressed the heads of the heaving forms at their feet: Ron and Ginny, the babies of the family, who had seen much too much, much too soon. After the burial they had since dug their knees into the earth, letting the dirt stain their clothes. They were both so brave. There was Ginny, his valiant love who had led Dumbledore's Army in his absence, and Ron, his best mate who had helped him defeat the darkest wizard in history. But now they kneeled, utterly broken, and their cries cut his heart like knives. How could they be happy again?

How could he?

Harry Potter woke with a start, blinking in the dark. He had relived that moment many times. Sometimes it would be a different one. Sometimes he would see Hermione's almost lifeless form being dragged by Bellatrix. Other times he would see Sirius disappear behind the veil. The night terrors were not always real memories. He remembered a particularly bad one that included a group of Death Eaters, faceless and taunting. That night he had woken up in a cold sweat with his heart in his throat.

He fingered the wand under his pillow, as he was prone to do after one of these episodes, but instead of taking it out, he picked up his glasses from his bedside table, put them on, and sat up in bed.

The dreams puzzled him. It had been more than two decades since they had buried Fred. With time, the Weasleys had healed. George had most certainly smiled again, and Ron and Ginny had had many happy moments since. Even as he sat, Ginny had a small smile on her face, snoring softly beside him. Harry was not to experience that luxury tonight. The dream still gripped his chest like dark talons. He started to think that maybe the ordeal was of his own doing. Had he done anything during the previous day to trigger this? Unless departmental paperwork was somehow a trigger, he would have to give a resounding 'no'.

Employees of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement were occasionally sent to the resident counselor, and Harry was no exception. In one of their sessions, Healer Daly had said that trauma during childhood and adolescence could leave psychological scars, but this didn't explain why he could relive his brother-in-law's burial years after he had come to terms with it, after having a brilliantly banal day at the office.

Harry grabbed his wand and slipped out of bed, being careful not to wake his wife. Once he had padded downstairs, he lit his wand and opened the corner door of the pantry. He had locked it by magic to ensure that his mischievous teenagers couldn't steal the bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky inside. Now he snatched it and poured some for himself as he sat in the silent kitchen. He relished the burning sensation as the drink slid down his throat, warming his insides.

Nobody could tell that Harry Potter was a wealthy man by looking at his kitchen. It was a quaint little space. The small pile of dishes in the sink would have been enough to make Aunt Petunia scream. So, too, would the messy old photo album with its dog-eared pages, splayed across the table where he sat. Ginny had taken to organizing it, and it was open to a picture of four teenagers: He, Ron, Hermione, and Ginny on a beach in Australia shortly after the War. They still looked vulnerable, their smiles not entirely reaching their eyes. They had something to smile for, though, as they had found Hermione's parents and restored their memories just a day before the photograph was taken. Indeed, it had been Mr. Granger who had aimed the camera at them and said jovially, "Say cheese!" Harry sighed. Even on a sunny beach in paradise, with everything to be happy for, the War had followed him around.

He was broken from his reverie not by a noise, but rather by a sense, a sense that took years of marriage to cultivate.

"You might drown yourself in that bottle," Ginny whispered from behind him.

"I won't."

"I trust you." He couldn't tell if that was a warning or a promise.

He didn't have to ask why she was awake. They had been through this before. He would leave, his side of the bed would get cold, she would wake. Sometimes she would leave him be, and other times, like tonight, she would seek him out. Though this was becoming less frequent, he didn't want to do this to her anymore, tossing and turning and worrying his wife over a war they had won when they were kids.

Does anyone truly win in war? a small voice asked him.

Harry looked up, hearing a chink of glass. Ginny poured some Ogden's for herself and sat opposite him, looking him over. She wouldn't ask questions, or try to get him to open up. She knew he would speak when ready.

A silence stretched over them, then- "Gin?"

"Hmm?"

"How do we know if we've won?" His voice came out in a hoarse whisper.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, how do we know if we've won the War?"

Ginny blinked and surveyed him as if sizing him up for the first time. "Harry, we did win. You killed Voldemort. We all saw it."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then I don't quite understand."

"Does anyone really win in a war?" The firewhisky had emboldened him, and that little voice came spewing into the foreground. "When a man still wakes from nightmares, hearing screams in his head, when he sees the faces of everyone he knows is dead and can't come back, when his brain is still at war, does it really matter that I killed him? Because all the terror he inflicted is still right here, here in my head. Playing all the time. You heard Healer Daly."

"Yes, she said you could heal-"

"She also said that I had lasting trauma, and I think that trauma's made me a burden on this family and on y-"

"Not this again!" Ginny slammed her glass on the table. "I'm not going to sit here and listen to you blame yourself! Don't you remember that I still hurt? Don't you remember that I lost people too, that my head sometimes plays tricks on me and threatens to drag me to hell with you?"

She slammed open one of the pages of the album, enraged and on the verge of tears. "You want proof that we've won?" she growled. "How about you ask them?" She shoved a picture of their three teenaged children on the table, all three of them smiling and laughing. They were at Hogwarts now. "How about you ask them, Harry?

"Because we won, we live in a world where teenagers can flirt with and fancy anyone they like, without worrying if that person will be murdered next year." She flicked a photo onto the table. It was James standing next to his girlfriend, Laura, on a Hogsmeade trip. They were holding hands and eating chocolate frogs.

"We live in a world where seventeen-year-olds don't have to get out of bed one morning to realize that they have to raise an orphan, because his parents aren't around to do it." Another picture met his eyes. It was he and Ginny, staring dotingly at baby Teddy, two children caring for a child.

"Lastly," she declared, "I know that we've won, because my children don't have to worry that their parents will be separated by the hands of death." She threw the picture at him this time. It was a family photo they had taken last year, including Teddy. Harry was holding Ginny tightly, grinning while he placed a kiss on her shoulder.

Ginny's voice was dangerously low now. "Winning war is not about having all the brilliant memories, or having everyone we lost. There will always be blood in our past, and nothing can bring back the dead. Winning war is about the people who stand with you through your nightmares, through the dread, through the mourning. We bought ourselves time with the people we love who are still here. I am facing today, Harry, and I am facing tomorrow, and I'll be damned if I can't do it with you." Angry tears slid down her face. She was panting as if she had run a marathon. And there was that blazing look that fell upon him and devoured his soul in one fell swoop of deep chocolate brown.

She rose from her chair and walked towards him, embracing him. Harry inhaled one breath of her flowery scent and claimed her lips in a kiss. He held her, leaning his head on her shoulder, knowing she was right. No words were needed, for moments of darkness did not take away days of happiness. She knew what he felt.

Love. Eternal comfort.

And he did his best to pay it back.

There you have it, folks! My first fanfic. Constructive criticism is always appreciated. In addition, if there is any dialogue that needs to be tweaked to fit the character dialect (I'm not from the UK), feel free to let me know!