“H-H-Harry?”

That was the only words she could muster. For a few moments, she stood at the door, hands clasped over her mouth, which had formed an ‘o’ in shock. She stared, and stared, and stared some more. It was like comprehension was foreign to her – she didn’t; no, couldn’t believe it – and very soon, she was shivering and her face had gone pale as chalk. It was as though she’d just encountered a ghost. She reached out a quivering hand and ran her fingers over his cheeks and jaw. The stubble that dotted his face seemed unfamiliar – she had never seen him look this rough before. Her thumb traced over his cracked, bloodied lips and she hastily drew her hand back in a gasp. So they were real – the scars were real; he was real.

“Hermione,” he tried to smile, but it hurt his face. Before he knew it, however, her arms were flung around him, clutching him in a tight embrace. They stood locked like this, the only sounds coming from the wind in the trees. The moon hung high over their heads in a crescent, and the curtains of mist and cloud were drawing back.

“Come inside,” Hermione spoke after awhile, and wrapped his hand in hers as she led him to her living room. She sat him on her sofa and started fussing over him, still in a state of shock. “Goodness, look at you. I thought… I mean, I- Ron, he… It’s been four years…”

She couldn’t find the words in her to speak coherently. Collapsing at Harry’s feet, she burst into tears. She pressed her palm to her mouth to keep herself from screaming out loud. Very soon, Harry was on his knees next to her, wrapping her up in a warm hug that seemed like a distant memory to Hermione, or rather, a dream – a beautiful, comfortable dream.

They pulled from their embrace long enough to look at each other. Harry could feel Hermione’s hot breath dance on the sweat that coated his neck and felt tears of his own well up. He reached up to her head and ran his fingers through her curly – not longer unruly – hair. She was biting onto her lower lip, which trembled, and her eyes still swam in tears. Pulling her to his chest once more, Harry placed his chin on the head while his hands rubbed her back in circles.

“You have no idea how good it feels to come home, Hermione,” he whispered into her hair. “How good it feels to hold you again.”

“He’s gone,” Harry murmured as Hermione set a mug of tea in his hand before sitting next to him, absently brushing his hair back. “Voldemort, he’s-”

They were back on the couch at this point. Hermione had gotten a fire and tea going, and the house glowed warmly, even though Harry still felt far-away and cold on the inside. It would take awhile to get used to this.

“Shh,” she whispered. Her eyes were still very puffy and she sniffed. “Don’t talk about that now. If it’s over, it’s over.”

Harry laced his fingers through Hermione’s, giving her hand a small squeeze. He knew that she was right. Whatever pain and suffering he had experienced over the past twenty years was gone; done; finished. He didn’t have to burden anybody – even himself – about it anymore. He looked over at her and smiled genuinely – the first time he’d done it in four years, in fact. It had taken him that long to eradicate every single one of Voldemort’s followers and eventually, Voldemort himself. He gave Hermione’s now-rosy cheeks a soft pinch, causing her to smile back at him.

“Come on, let’s go to bed,” she said softly. “It’s really late.”

“And you still stayed up?” Harry couldn’t help asking, his glee long gone. He looked at her seriously. It was three in the morning, and if she wasn’t asleep by then…

“I’ve been up till this late and later every day for the past four years,” Hermione whispered. “I was just so worried. I’d hoped you’d be home sooner.”

Harry felt like a dagger had sliced through his heart as he imagined Hermione, bleary-eyed and shaking on the settee, waiting up for him every single night, only sleeping for a few hours before waking at the crack of dawn to go to work. For she had to make a living too; she couldn’t possibly spend four years without a job. His grip tightened around her hand as he stood up and led her to the bedroom.

“You’re not going to work tomorrow,” he said firmly as she lay next to him on the bed. “You’re going to catch up on some well-deserved rest and that’s final.”

It was dark, and she couldn’t see the tears form in his eyes.

Sleep evaded Harry as he thought of everything that had occurred. It seemed surreal that it was all over – that he no longer had to deal with his scar hurting for the rest of his life. He no longer had to be vexed that there was somebody out there wanting to kill him. It was obviously a good thing that he was not hunted anymore, but at the same time, he felt like he’d lost too much.

He’d lost Sirius, then Dumbledore, then Moody, and Hedwig, and Fred, Lupin, Tonks… even Ron. Harry’s heart ached further at the thought of Ron. He glanced over at the sleeping Hermione next to him – she looked like an angel. He wondered for a moment whether she could see Ron in her dreams. He knew that she must want to see him again; he couldn’t imagine how hurt she must have been when she’d found out. A horrible picture of Hermione, Ginny and Mrs Weasley crying in the Burrow’s living room invaded his mind, as much as he tried to push the thought away.

Still, Harry wouldn’t question the fact that so many people in his life had died. It was an unspoken rule when you associated yourself with Harry Potter – most of the time, people were killed and that was that. It sounded cruel to say, but it was the truth; the cold, ugly truth that he had been forced to accept.

Harry rolled over on his side and closed his eyes, conceding that at least he still had friends, and that not everybody had left him just yet. He still had Mr and Mrs Weasley, Ginny, George, Neville, Luna, and most importantly Hermione. Kingsley was even Minister for Magic now, and there was so much to be thankful for.

For so long, it hadn’t occurred to Harry how amazing a hot wash was. He’d spent nearly an hour relaxing in the bath the morning following his arrival at Hermione’s and when he got out, the water was stained grey and brown and looked terribly disgusting. Hermione had instructed him to help her change the bed sheets that day – sleeping on it without washing for weeks was absolutely revolting, she complained.

It had also been so long since he’d had a good, hot meal. Hermione reminded him forcefully of Mrs Weasley as she piled eggs, bacon and sausages on his plate at breakfast. She’d even cooked porridge for him. She promised all his favourites for lunch, dinner and even dessert.

“You look worse than you ever did, Harry,” she gently chided. “And I think all those years on the road caused you to forget your table manners.”

Indeed, Harry ate with miserable etiquette, but it wasn’t as though Hermione was truly bothered by it. She had a huge smile painted across her face the entire morning and grabbed every chance to peck Harry on the cheek. He was glad that she was making light out of unpleasantness too.

“By the way, Harry,” she spoke as she brought the dishes to the sink. “I emptied your sweatshirt and jeans pockets earlier this morning and found lots of scraps of parchment in them. The ink’s all run out. What are those anyway?”

“The letters you sent,” Harry replied simply, smiling at Hermione’s surprised expression as she turned to stare at him. “You didn’t think I got them?”

“I-” Hermione sat herself in a chair next to Harry, covering his hand with hers. “I-I didn’t think the owls could have found you.”

“But you wrote anyway. Every week.”

“It was the one way I knew to feel like I had contact with you,” she admitted, giving his hand a squeeze. She looked a bit self-conscious. “Even if I knew you simply couldn’t reply. Seems a bit pathetic, now that you think about it, eh?”

“No, no,” Harry shook his head. The roles were reversed and it was his hand over hers. “You know what? And this is going to sound very cheesy, but, those letters, they got me through everything that happened. Every night before I went to bed, I read at least one of them. They…they kept me warm…somehow. I guess I kind of felt the same way you did.”

Harry’s cheeks here tinged pink with embarrassment at his brutally honest statement. But he had to admit it to her, because it was true. There was always a connection between them; even though it had always been Harry, Ron and Hermione, there was something special between the bespectacled, marked hero and the bushy-haired know-it-all, even before they began seeing each other romantically. It was mutual understanding.

Hermione’s expression brightened considerably after hearing that and she got up and gave him a hug. She planted a soft kiss on his lips as he stood and they went to the sofa, arms linked. Hermione laid with her head on Harry’s lap and he playfully pinched cheeks and tickled her, making her erupt in gales of laughter. She sat up and grabbed a cushion from the opposite end of the couch and whacked him with it. They were soon engaged in a full-blown pillow fight. The living area was soon covered with feathers and fluff.

Nothing needed to be said; it was explained through action.

The night saw Harry and Hermione curled up in bed, their empty hot chocolate mugs on the bedside table and the hearth roaring. Hermione was nodding off to sleep against Harry’s chest, the scent of his shampoo wafting around her.

Harry’s head was propped up on the headboard of the bed, his hand stroking Hermione’s hair idly. The scene was indeed too dreamlike for him to believe. Who would have even known that just yesterday, he had been stumbling along on the streets in the dark, helplessly trying to find Hermione’s house; desperate to tell her that he’d won. It seemed like he took his big battle as a game of Quidditch or something equally inappropriate. He knew that he could have died. Even if the prophecy had been fulfilled, it still played out in his mind: …either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives…

Harry found himself tightening his grip on Hermione’s shoulders as he thought of the flipside of things. He felt her shift against him and saw her head turned up to look at him. She studied him for a minute or two.

“You’re bothered by something,” It wasn’t a question, but rather, a statement. Hermione slowly sat up, her eyes fraught with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Harry didn’t reply. Instead, he got out of bed and walked towards the window that overlooked the backyard. The stars that hung against the black velvet sky seemed to sparkle and shine brighter than they had before.

He turned back to face Hermione. She had her back against the headboard, with the quilt drawn up to her shoulders as she watched him anxiously. The moonlight and starlight that streamed through the windows graced her flawless features, sharpening them.

As with the night before, he saw her as an angel. Although Hermione had seen her fair share of fighting, war and death, she had virtue in her blood that simply couldn’t be taken away. Harry walked towards the bed, leaning over her and placing his palm against her cheek. He watched as she exhaled slowly at his touch, running his fingers down to her neck. He closed his eyes and his lips found hers in a few moments. His hand supported the back of her neck as they continued to kiss, his tongue weaving around hers.

When Harry finally pulled back, he noticed that Hermione looked more confused than apprehensive. She cocked her head to the side in question. He shook his head.

“It’s nothing, ‘Mione. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

A/N: Inspired by Avenged Sevenfold’s beautiful song Gunslinger, this story follows the plot of the song very closely. It’s basically lyrics transposed into writing. I’ve been meaning to do another A7X song-fiction (the first one was Afterlife, under the name “A Little Piece of Heaven”) for a long time, but never got around to. So this is what I came up.