A/N: I'm so grateful for all the comments on my recent one shots and Zephyr too! This is another prompt, and I actually like how it turned out, so hopefully you all will too!

The room is dark when she wakes, Hermione's soft snores sound from the camp bed tucked just beneath the single window, her face calm in sleep beneath the pale moonlight. Must be Ginny's turn for night terrors then. After a quick stop in the loo to throw chilly water on her face and re-braid her hair, Ginny pads down the stairs, avoiding the creaky spots with expert accuracy until she reaches the ground floor.

There's a dim glow coming from the kitchen and she expects Molly to be puttering around the space when she enters, which is why Harry slumped at the table looking like a ghost is a bit of a surprise. She helps herself to the leftover tea and perches on one of the mismatched chairs crowded around the table. Ginny's voice is still groggy with sleep when she speaks, "Fancy meeting you here."

Harry startles, grasping his wand with white knuckles, until his eyes shoot open, hand dropping to the tabletop when he realizes it's Ginny. They sit for a moment, drinking each other in, until Ginny takes a gulp of her lukewarm tea and levels him with a searching look. "You look like shite."

He snorts. "Thanks."

Ginny gestures toward her sweaty hair and shadowed eyes, "Didn't say it was only you."

"Look great to me," Harry murmurs with a blush.

Grinning, Ginny rises from her seat and circles behind him, "Can't say the shaggy hair look is working." Liar, she chides herself internally, but doesn't speak it. If she were honest, it's more what the hair and sparse stubbly beard remind her of – the months apart, the Carrows, him.

Harry's thumb rubs across her cheekbone gently, like a memory of some sunlit day but with knowing, dark eyes. Still, when he speaks, his voice is light, "I was going for grungy rebel," he laughs, "Can't believe your mum hasn't cornered me yet."

His hand drops awkwardly, and Ginny can't help but feel bereft. A grin manages to cross her lips, "Even Molly Weasley respects the Savior of the Wizarding World." She actually laughs as Harry glares dramatically at the day old paper where his half-shadowed face frowns up at them.

After tossing the paper aside, Harry smirks at Ginny. "She didn't have any qualms when she saw the state of my jeans."

Once her answering laughter fades, they fall into silence as the house settles with creaks and groans around them until Ginny's fingers are knit through his tangled locks. Harry's eyes fall closed and she hears a breath, like a sigh, leave his parted lips.

Ginny clears her throat, "I- I could cut it. Then mum won't go scissor happy, yeah?"

Harry's hand grasps hers where it's fallen to his shoulder, and he murmurs, "Would- would you mind?

Then she's striding across the kitchen, bustling around as she searches for the shears Molly always uses. "Well I wouldn't have offered if I did, would I?"
"Avoiding my question, Weasley."

Ginny clicks the shears threateningly as she nears the table. "Don't make me angry Potter."

"I have special hair growing abilities," Harry answers lightly, unconcerned with the shiny blades so close to his face.

"Oh really?"

His brows wriggle in mock flirtatiousness. "I once grew a full head of hair overnight."

She rounds on him, hands on her slim hips, "And how did that come about?"

Shrugging, Harry tilts his head back so he can look up into her eyes, "Petunia never did favor my Potter genes."

Ginny frowns but sets the scissors down on the table carefully, mindful of the late hour, then disappears without a word and returns with a worn towel, which she fastens around his neck gently. And if her fingers linger on his neck longer than necessary, she'll deny it. "Well there'll be no head shaving tonight. I'll make you a right fox."

And then her fingers are in his hair, and she doesn't even want to take them out, and actually wonders how long she can continue her ministrations before Harry catches on to the strangeness. In the process of her ruminations, she can't help but recall a more mutually pleasant experience involving fingers in Harry's hurricane hair and a sunny bank by the Great Lake…but she said she'd cut it and she will.

Soon enough, pieces are falling away beneath her cuts, and it's as if the heavy cloud that was hanging over both of them since the Battle is dissipating with each confident snip. Before she knows it, they're chatting away comfortably about light topics, and she feels like she hasn't felt since those blissful weeks that might as well have been ages ago.

By the time she's put the finishing touches on his hair, Harry's eyes are drooping sleepily. Ginny's flicking her wand with easy grace to tidy the room when she turns her attention to Harry. "Off to bed with you, I'll clean up this – "

As she passes, Harry grabs her hand with such desperation she's caught off guard. If she hadn't been by his actions, his voice, cracking and quiet, would've done the job, "Or we could," he tilts his head toward the sitting room, eyes pleading.

Ginny squeezes his hand, and she doesn't even have to think about it. "I'll be over in a minute – switch on the wireless? It gets spooky down here at night."

He looks boyish when he smiles, all toothy and drowsy, so she finishes cleaning up pretty quickly. Once she's dimmed the lamps in the kitchen and padded into the cozy sitting room, Harry has a small fire going to stave off the spring time chill, along with a pile of artfully arranged cushions and blankets in front of the blaze.

She quirks a brow, lingering in the doorway, pushing down the rush of emotion that rises at the sight of Harry here – alive – after everything, and grins, small but real. "Are you wooing me sir?"

Harry messes his newly shorn hair awkwardly, the raven strands sticking up even more as they settle into the new cut. "I –"

Unable to help her mischievous nature, Ginny lets him flounder for a handful of moments before she closes the distance between them and presses a her lips to his forehead, short and sweet. Not waiting for a response – either a reciprocation or a rejection would be too much – she snuggles into pile, heart warm and full with possibility and the endless future before them, and pulls Harry down behind her.