The light, at first, was warm and calming, but with her growing fatigue it soon became a nuisance. The brightness pricked her eyelids and filtered through them in a reddened haze, and it truly disturbed her to think it reminded her of blood. It was only some time afterwards that she began to think of its origins.

She had been living in the Ward for several weeks. Leaving the room only when her clothes began to stratch or the acids in her stomach began to dissolve the walls of her intestines and rumble in protest. Even then she would never leave for longer than a few hours at a time. She made sure too, in the meantime, that he would not be alone if he woke up. She spent so much time in there even the healers agreed to put in a more comfortable chair for her. Ron pointed out it wouldn't do them any good if she, in turn, fell unconscious just because she didn't get enough sleep.

So she slept in the Ward, and almost practically lived there. Sometimes she was content enough to stare at his face, undisturbed, smiling mischeviously as her finger traced the lines of his jaw and touched his lips. Other times she would slump back against her chair and reminisce, or fantasize about them together. Whatever it was, she was never able to get him out fo her mind. Even her dreams were of great flashes of light and screams and her own tears as he smiled and told her it was over.

Sometimes she dreamt of the Ward, too. She would dream of the empty hall and the row of doors and walls and count and find all the numbers started from a thousand. So she counted down the numbers as she ran and practically collapsed against the door. Only to see him lying on the bed, eyes open, mouth agape, his torso torn, innards spilt and blood dripping off the edge of the bed. And she'd scream and wake up, and much to her relief she would find him peacefully unconscious on that damned hospital bed. She spent so much time in the Ward that she could recall every part of it with eyes closed.

For one, there was no brighter light than the blue hourglass. And, afterall, the light was blue.

But the light forcing itself through her eyelids felt roughly like sunlight.

There are no windows in the Sixth Ward.

Her eyes quickly fluttered open, and the light cast on the painfully sterile, but ornately carved, gold-panelled furnishings was definitely sunlight. She lifted her head slowly, wincing at the soft crick from her stiff neck. Her numbed hands had padded her head, carefully placed on the bed so that she could stare at his face and sing herself to sleep (making-believe he would hear her and her hopes and her dreams and her wishes so he would wake up). She spread out her fingers to try get some blood back into them. Meanwhile, she raised her eyes to the opposite wall on the other side of the bed. On the usually empty stretch of wall were windows. With white-painted wood panelling to match the bare white walls and clear glass panes that opened up to the bright sky that never rained. Right at that moment, though, she couldn't care less of the drought that swept the skies and the fields outside the glass.

How?

Her head quickly snapped to gaze at the form on the bed. He was breathing ever serenely, head turned to the side and the sun shone on his face so she could not see it. But she could see the green eyes, paler now that the sun burned into them like blessed light from heaven. They were beautiful in their pale shade—and they blinked.

She blinked as well, in disbelief.

"Harry?" her voice was soft, hoarse and whimpering. The syllables rolled out of her mouth like an ancient spell, like a breath of spring that had just risen after winter's retreat.

He turned, face still shining under the sun like an ethereal beauty, frail, yes, but powerful and gallant in his own way, locking deep green eyes with her silver ones and gracing his tired features with a smile.

He's alive.

She found she could not breathe, could not think, could not cry, could not speak. Instead she laughed and fell into his open arms, her head resting against his chest, pressing her ear against his gloriously beating heart and relishing the feel of his breath on her head. He laughed too, a weak, soft chuckle. The happiness came out of his heart as genuine feelings and he held her closer than never before, battle-worn arms encircling her and gripping her as tightly as his unused muscles would allow him. He blinked through tears and pressed a kiss to her forehead, lowering his head and laying his cheek against hers. She smiled wide, allowing her pent up tears to fall unchecked down her pale cheeks and let go the silenced sobs she'd kept to herself for so long.

"Good morning, Luna."

Don't give up hope, they said to each other, don't you ever give up on me.

Whatever happens, regardless of the trials, we'll make it through. They promised. He gave her a world of peace, gave them a wonderful world to live in. She gave him someone to come home to, gave them both hope. They gave each other love and clung on through everything. And they had made it through.

She gasped for breath through her sobs and looked up at him, at his eyes and knew he could see her now. He could see what she had become, could see what he had made her into. Silver and green locked in an almost eternal gaze, and she smiled back up at him.

It's always darkest before dawn.

"Good morning, Harry."

They had just made it through.