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She looked younger than she'd been in decades, laying there, content. It seemed to wash the years away in a calm tightness, skin pulled slightly taught by a smile. It was this, more than anything, that suddenly made eighty years feel like an insurmountably long time.
It wasn't, not really, but once you start to measure life with the same feeling of listlessness you experienced in Professor Binn's classes at the age of twelve, the time seems to stretch forever. He had to impose that feeling, comit to thinking that thought because it wasn't how he truly felt. Warmth had settled in his chest, he couldn't pinpoint when, but it refused to chill, and it left him with a smile too.
He wondered if it also made him look young, the same expression adorning his face as when he was seventeen with the world ahead of him and a clean slate. Now, it was filled with colours and names. A mural made of shards of his life. It was pretty, he thought, and so was she.
Harry clutched Ginny's hand in his own and finally fell asleep.