Disclaimer: I, by no means, claim to own anything remotely related to the Harry Potter Universe. No copyright infringement intended.

Chapter One

Hermione Granger practically growled with irritation. How many times did she have to tell him to drop the seat on the toilet? Honestly, how difficult was it to remember something so simple? Staring down at the toilet, contemplating how desperate she actually was to use it, Hermione's thoughts started to drift. Why was she awake in the middle of the night? It wasn't as if she actually needed to go to the toilet.

Out of habit, Hermione made a move to flush and just managed to catch herself before the noise echoed through the house. The last thing she wanted was to wake him up; not when it had taken hours for him to finally fall asleep. Hermione, again out of habit, washed her hands and dried them on her pale blue pyjama shorts. She stepped out of the bathroom into the dark passage, her eyes taking a moment to adjust to the new light.

Before she returned to her bed, she stopped to think about the real reason she was awake once more. It wasn't because she'd had a nightmare. No. Surprisingly, tonight, she'd slept peacefully. Well, it wasn't that surprising really, seeing as she had him in her bed, his presence enough to calm her even in her subconscious. So that definitely wasn't it. What was it?

Admitting defeat, Hermione padded across the carpet of the passage until she reached her bedroom. She slipped through the open door and had to evade several items of clothing - some of which were actually his - to get back to her bed. Even though it was the middle of summer, she could feel an undeniable chill in the air. She was certain it had nothing to do with the actual weather though. Something made her wake up from her reverie and she was quite certain she wouldn't be able to fall back asleep until she figured it out.

Thankfully, though, he was still asleep. He did, however, look troubled, which was particularly alarming. From his position on one side of her bed, Hermione could see that he was restless. Just in the time she'd been in the bathroom, he'd managed to tangle himself up in the sheets, his arms snaking under several pillows and his t-shirt riding up to reveal the muscles of his back. And his scars.

Hermione didn't want to look but she couldn't help it. In the dim light of the moon shining through her window, he looked almost angelic. If it were not for his furrowed brow and the dark circles under his eyes, she might have thought the sight before her wasn't real. Even some few weeks into their living arrangements, she couldn't quite wrap her head around the fact that he was indeed in her bed.

She yawned silently, which prompted her to climb back into bed, careful not to upset the firm mattress too much. Waking him up was not an option. Thankfully, he didn't stir as she shifted and settled into position, her back to him. Sometimes, she wished he would drape a hand over her and pull her towards him, just for the human contact while they both slept. She didn't want to admit that it was the type of comfort she needed. Not when he was also recovering the only way he knew how.

Even so, he usually remained on his side of the bed, whether they were in her bedroom or in the room in which he slept. Every night since his arrival, without fail, one of them found his or her way to the other's bed. It was just an understanding that they had. At least until the nightmares stopped. If they ever did.

Hermione heard him shift and she desperately tried to clear her mind as if her thoughts were too loud for him. What an absurd thought! She almost chuckled at how ridiculous she was being. Of course he would shift. He was restless. Remember, Hermione, it has nothing to do with you.

She tried, once more, to recall the reason she had woken up. There was no dream that she remembered and she was not about to chalk it down to sheer coincidence. She was tired. She could feel it, not only in her body but also in her entire existence. It just felt like so much work having to exist now that the war was over. Now she had decisions to make and people to consider. And, somehow, she had to become a normal human being once more. If she'd ever been one.

As it stood, she was failing dismally. Well, so was he. But that would have been expected. Hermione's atrocities seemed minimal compared to his and she wouldn't for a second try to understand what he went through. Though, it really was comforting knowing that she wasn't alone in the struggle to find her place in the world once more, or ever.

Hermione closed her eyes, trying to will herself to sleep. She had to get some rest. They had a full day waiting for them when the sun came up and the last thing he needed was for her to be tired and irritable, which, still, was considerable better than feeling empty. That was what he said he sometimes felt, which usually broke her heart before she conceded that she sometimes felt the same way.

A mental healer from St Mungo's even mentioned his concern at the fact that two recovering PTSD patients were living together, completely away from the magical world, but neither cared. They would survive with each other, as they had done for the previous seven years. The healer had to understand that.

Minutes past and Hermione couldn't feel sleep coming to claim her. She felt caged, as if her own consciousness was trying to keep her awake so she could work through whatever reason there was for her being awake. She shut her eyes tighter, thinking back to the moment she did wake up. It hadn't been sudden. In fact, her eyes had fluttered open. That never happened. She normally woke with a start from some terrible nightmare or she was shaken awake by the owner of the body beside her.

Nevertheless, waking up wasn't easy for her. So what was so different about tonight? She worked her way back through the events of the night, picking at significant and insignificant moments, dissecting her interactions with him and her little chat with a lady at the grocery store in the afternoon. She had to know it was somehow linked to him. Wasn't it always?

Carefully, Hermione turned in her position so she could look at him. He looked older, like the war had aged him considerably, and there was no trace of the teenager he was supposed to be. The truth was she didn't feel much like a teenager either. They were more than that now. They were child soldiers who had managed, by some miracle, to survive.

She was tempted to reach out and touch him, just to make sure he really was there and it wasn't just her mind playing tricks on her. This was the boy whose entire existence currently mirrored her own. Losing him was not an option, as it had never been. She closed her eyes again, choosing rather to focus on the sound of him, the feel of him. He was breathing lightly, almost silently. She could also smell him. His scent was all over her bed, even swimming through the air of her bedroom.

Not that she minded. Everything about him managed to keep her calm.

Hermione forced herself not to think about the reason she was awake. Clearing her mind was something the mental healer from St Mungo's had recommended. The boy beside her had actually chuckled at the thought of Hermione Granger clearing her mind. He claimed it was impossible. Hermione hated to admit that it was true. So, she focused her mind on him. She thought about the trip they took as soon as the war was over. She thought about the devastation she felt at the truth of her parents, and she thought about the first night he'd held her until she fell asleep in his bed.

It was then that she realised that her recovery was tied to his. Somehow, they would make it through all of it, together. Somehow.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Hermione felt the sleep creeping up on her. She allowed it and, all at once, she fell into unconscious. The sleep was quiet, which was strange. She felt calm, as well as anxious. Very strange.

Before she knew it, her eyes were open again and the sunlight was shining in, merely a spotlight on the fact that she was alone. She knew he was probably somewhere in the house but it didn't stop the rising panic in her chest. She climbed out of bed, not even bothering to check herself in the mirror and went in search of him.

Hermione heard sounds coming from the kitchen and, for a split second, her mind thought that she would walk in to see her parents going about their normal morning rituals. She had to stop walking on the stairs, the remembrance of the truth of her life all too much for her. She caught her breath, thinking of something positive. Like the boy in the kitchen.

She found him standing with his back to her, his attention fully on the toaster on the counter in front of him. Hermione actually smiled at the sight of him almost willing the bread to toast that much faster.

"Hey," she sounded, sounding particularly breathless.

He turned sharply, his eyes settling on her and softening.

Hermione forced herself not to notice the way his hand tightened around the butter knife he was holding. It was never a good idea to surprise war veterans.

He gave her a halfhearted smile. "Sorry. Did I wake you?"

By being gone, yes. "No," she said, stepping towards him.

His eyes drifted over her body as if he was studying her, making sure nothing new had happened.

Hermione was used to it. He'd started doing it well before the war was over. It came from a place of pure love and worry, she was sure. And perhaps guilt. He had it in his mind that every terrible thing that happened to her was his fault, which she had to vehemently assure him wasn't actually the case. The boy could be stubborn.

"Do you want some toast?" he offered once he deemed her physical body to resemble that of the previous day. "Or I can make some eggs?"

Hermione knew this was how he kept himself occupied. Really, anything goes when you're trying not to think of the fallen. "If I recall correctly, I'm the one who's supposed to be offering you breakfast today of all days. Even in bed. You're just ruining it for me."

He smiled a real smile at her. "Well, you took too long. I'm starving."

Hermione felt quite relieved by that. He'd been quite subdued the night before, mentioning that he was dreading this day above all. She fully understood but it was heartening to see that he seemed to accept that the actual day was going to occur.

Taking a few quick strides, Hermione was able to crush him in one of her signature hugs, causing him to drop the knife he was holding. His arms slipped around her waist and she felt his body relax in her hold. This was what they did for each other.

"Happy birthday, Harry," she whispered in his ear, before she released him. From the slightly dazed look on his face, Hermione felt a bit embarrassed. She stepped back. "I'm going to get ready, okay? Save me some toast." She turned on her heel and started to leave.

He called her back, his green eyes never once leaving her face. "Thank you, Hermione."

With that, she disappeared from the kitchen, determined for him not to see her unexplained tears start to fall. No, Hermione, not on his birthday.

If Hermione were to be truthful, she probably dreaded Harry's birthday more than he did. It wasn't that she didn't want him to turn eighteen - in fact, she was relieved they were the same age again - it was what had to happen on said day.

As soon as Harry and Hermione arrived at the rebuilt Burrow, the quiet of their morning was quickly swallowed up by Molly's shriek at the sight of them. Hermione risked a look at Harry who was also looking at her. Right before her eyes, she watched as he forced the darkness from his eyes and plastered on a smile. At that, she was sure this whole get together would do more harm than good.

But Molly had insisted. And Harry had been unable to say no. He did make her promise it would be low-key, but even he had to know that there wasn't a low-key bone in the Weasley matriarch's body. Although, Hermione had to admit that the getup was considerably less vibrant than usual, which she supposed had something to do with that fact that the Weasley family had, in fact, suffered a devastating loss.

Hadn't they all?

Harry gave Hermione one last - almost pleading - look before he allowed himself to be dragged away by Molly. Hermione had to smile at the whole thing, even though she started to feel a bit anxious not having him at her side. It really wasn't healthy. Ever since he'd disappeared to the Forbidden Forest and emerged as a dead, limp body; she couldn't stand the thought of not knowing where he was for even more than a minute.

Swallowing her anxiety, Hermione did the rounds. She greeted the rest of the Weasleys, bar Charlie and Percy, who were in Romania and she-didn't-care respectively. Ron was lounging in a chair, nursing a glass of some liquid that closely resembled Firewhiskey. He looked surprisingly cheerful. Okay, not surprisingly. He appeared to be handling the aftermath of the war far better than the rest of the trio. He looked well, rested and even a bit tipsy. Maybe that was how he was dealing with it all? Hermione made a mental note to keep an eye on it. It was barely noon after all.

Ron stood to greet and hug her, before she moved on to Ginny, who still carried the look of devastation across her face. War tended to do that, no matter how strong you believed you were. Look at Harry and Hermione.

"I thought the two of you wouldn't come," Ginny admitted as she and Hermione moved to stand and face the small accumulated crowd huddled in the backyard of the Burrow.

"So did I."

Ginny regarded the witch for a moment. "How is he?" she asked, her care for her Harry rising to the surface.

Hermione wasn't sure what to say, without divulging the truth about their arrangements. She didn't think that the young redhead would appreciate knowing that her once boyfriend was a frequent visitor to her bed. Even if they didn't actually do anything, it was still not something Hermione wanted public knowledge. Their struggle was theirs and theirs alone.

"Hermione?" Ginny prompted.

"He's working on it," she finally said. "We both are."

Ginny let out a breath. "I suppose this little party isn't helping?"

Hermione shook her head. "No it isn't, but I can see its merit. It isn't really a birthday party. It's more like a survivors get together, really. A way of everyone seeing everyone, insuring that we're all surviving, somehow, right?"

Ginny just nodded.

Hermione turned to her. "How are you?"

Ginny shrugged. "I'd say that I actually can't wait to go back to school just to be away from the Burrow and a constant reminder that Fred is gone, but then I remember that school is at Hogwarts, which is where he d -" she stopped suddenly. "You get what I mean."

Hermione did.

"Are you going to go back?"

Hermione blinked a few times, searching for an answer. She desperately wanted to look at Harry but she didn't want to give Ginny the impression that her decision was based on him, which it really was. "I haven't yet decided," she finally said.

Ginny accepted that and the pair fell into silence. Hermione used it to excuse herself and greet more of the guests. There were several Order members present, including the new Minister of Magic, Kingsley Shacklebolt. Hermione greeted some of her professors, who all said that they looked forward to seeing her in September. It merely added to her anxiety. What if she wasn't able to be just a student anymore?

Neville, Dean and Seamus were also hanging around, each looking more uncomfortable than the other. Hermione didn't know what it was exactly but she suspected that it had something to do with the fact that they hadn't actually seen anyone else since the final day at the Battle of Hogwarts. Even at all the funerals, the Golden Trio had stuck together, arms linked. Hermione didn't know if she could have survived it any other way.

But then things had changed. Ron decided that he wanted to forget the whole thing and move on. He didn't want to be around the sadness anymore, and so he stopped attending the funerals with them. Harry offered Hermione the option to stop as well, but she insisted she could handle it, which was a desperate lie. That same night, Hermione moved back into her parents' house, needing to be away. She didn't want Harry to see how hard it all was. For the next few funerals, Harry and Hermione attended them together. Then, when Hermione mentioned that she was going to Australia to find her parents, Harry insisted on going with her. Even though Hermione told him he didn't have to, she was so relieved that she didn't have to do it alone.

And, when she learned that the memory charm she'd set on her parents was irreversible, she was mightily glad Harry was with her. He'd held her while she cried and cried, gingerly taking her thoughts back to those days with just the two of them in the tent. And, while he held her and she finally slept, she did not have a nightmare. For the first time in she didn't even know how long, she had a dreamless sleep, and that was that. The mental healer from St Mungo's had blatantly refused to give her more than a few doses of Dreamless Sleep Potion, which was probably wise, Hermione had to admit. The desperation in her eyes must have been alarming.

Somehow, Harry managed to get her back to England, in her painful fugue state of utter disbelief, and he had moved into the room down the hall from hers in the very house in which she had grown up. He couldn't leave her alone. He'd made the decision himself, without even consulting her. Not that she'd even cared at the time.

That first night, after her first nightmare awoke her, she'd crawled into his bed and he'd let her. He'd held her that night, the same way it usually started. He'd hold her until she fell asleep. Then, at some point, he'd end up on one side of the bed and she on the other, like a barrier of some sort went up once the deed was done. Like rocking a baby to sleep and then leaving them in their crib.

While Hermione talked to Neville, Dean and Seamus, the hairs of the back of her neck began to prickle. Something was about to happen. She turned around just in time to hear George set off some kind of firework that had her cowering. Almost on instinct, Hermione ducked behind a chair, desperate to evade the red and green light as they shot out. Her wand was already in her hand, the muscle memory from endless battling kicking in. Her eyes immediately searched for Harry. And, when she spotted him, slightly hidden behind a table, she rushed to get to him. He was the only thing on her mind.

"Oh, Harry," she sounded, coming to kneel by his side as he rocked back and forth, his eyes staring into nothing. She was made vaguely aware of a crowd gathering around them.

"Sorry," George said, sounding quite distressed. "I didn't mean to."

Hermione put her arms around Harry, feeling his shaking body as he was hit with flashback after flashback. He was so stiff and the tension in his shoulders was painfully hard to touch. As she held him, Hermione searched the crowd for Molly's face. "He's not ready," she said to the woman, even though everyone could hear her. "Just give us time. And space. Please." Then, with a pop, they were gone, arriving at Hermione's destination in an instant.

Harry curled into a ball on the carpet of Hermione's bedroom. He was trembling, and Hermione held onto him, desperate to hold him together. If he couldn't do it, then she would do it for him.

"It's okay," she soothed, her hands running over his arms and back. "We're going to be okay. Space will make it better, and time will make it heal. It's going to get easier." She said the words to convince him, but she was really trying to convince herself.

Hermione wasn't sure how long they lay there, comforting each other in silence, but even grieving human beings had to eat. At the first sound of Harry's stomach growling, he sat up, pulling her up with him. He enclosed her in his arms one last time, even kissing her forehead.

"Thank you," he whispered, before he rose to his feet.

Hermione put out her hands, and he automatically pulled her up. They both stretched, even yawning simultaneously, which made them each let out a light laugh.

"Food," Harry said.

Hermione nodded. "I feel like pizza."

He smiled. "You always feel like pizza," he pointed out. "I was thinking I could whip up some kind of soup or something. Is that okay?"

Hermione nodded vigorously. "Yes please."

Still smiling, he took hold of her hand and led the way down the stairs to the kitchen. He released her hand to start with whatever he was going to do and Hermione went to turn on the television.

"What do you feel like watching?" she asked.

"Do you think you could turn on the radio instead?" he asked kindly, his eyes desperate.

Hermione made quick work of turning one noise-producing device off just to turn on another. She searched through the stations until she found a song she recognised. She then made her way towards the kitchen counter, sat down on a stool and waited. She watched Harry work in complete silence. She was actually quite mesmerised by and jealous of the ease of his movements in the kitchen. She absolutely loved it when he cooked for them. It was like he was letting her in on another beautiful piece of him.

"Can I help?" she asked, her hand fidgeting.

Harry gave her a sideways look, his eyes glinting with something. Mischief? Could it be? Without a word, he set a small chopping board in front of her. He picked out a few vegetables from his own pile and placed them on the chopping board. When he handed her the knife, he said, "Chop those. And please don't cut yourself."

"I'm not entirely hopeless in the kitchen, you know," she pointed out as she got to work on a potato.

Harry didn't respond as he busied himself with an onion. They worked in silence for a while, the comfort of it too enticing, but Hermione promised him that they would make each other face it all whether they liked it or not.

So, clearing her throat, she asked the question: "What happened today, Harry?"

Harry's hands paused for a moment, more shocked by the sound of her voice than the actual question she asked. He waited while he thought about what had actually happened. "I saw the lights," he admitted. "I didn't, umm. I thought, umm, we were back there. And I just knew I had to get down. Then, once I was behind the table, I remembered that the war was over." He looked at her. "But it isn't, is it? It still lives inside of me, and I can't help feeling like whoever I was is slipping away from me. Who I want to be again is getting away from me."

Hermione stopped what she was doing and got up to hug him. He let her. They smelt so much like each other that Hermione was convinced they would end up defining their own, mutual scent. It was quite a pleasant thought as she kept her arms wrapped around his shoulders, tears threatening to fall.

When Harry released her, he looked considerably calmer. "Now finish up with my ingredients," he said, eyes glinting once more. "I need them in that pot before the water starts to boil."

The two of them worked quietly and efficiently until Harry was dishing out the wonderfully smelling soup into two separate bowls. Hermione was just finishing with the toast and carried the plate to the dining table. Harry set the bowls down on the table before rushing back to the kitchen to get some salt and pepper. Not that he thought they'd need it.

Hermione had to admit that the whole thing felt so normal. She'd never actually lived alone with anyone before Harry, and she wasn't counting the tent during the Horcrux hunt. She refused to count that as living. So she'd never expected living with Harry now to be so pleasant. Despite the whole toilet seat problem, of course.

While they ate, Harry started to talk about the song that was playing, and how it reminded him of a day at the Dursleys before he'd even started at Hogwarts. He mentioned it fondly, which worried her for a moment. He talked about being sent out into the backyard to do some gardening or something, and he could hear music coming from the neighbour's. In light of everything that was happening in his life, he clung onto that sound, using it to keep going.

When Harry looked at her, she was quite certain there were tears in her eyes. He reached across with his napkin and dabbed at them. "We're going to be okay, Hermione," he said softly. "You'll see. You and me. We can do anything."

His words did little to help with her already erupting emotions. And when he asked her to dance, she all but lost the fight to hold back her tears. She was such a mess. Had been since she'd cried at the sight of his dead, unmoving body. Hermione leaned into him, resting her head where his chest met his shoulder. She could feel his heart beating; probably the greatest reassurance there ever was. He was here with her; he was alive.

And, somehow, between the two of them, they would find some way to keep on living.