KINDA SORTA "DEATHLY HALLOWS" SPOILERS!! (but only in the sense that the book does NOT end like this...)
Disclaimer: uh, no. If I did, this would be the REAL ending to the book and not a fan fiction! Hello!
A/N: Yeah, I know I said that I would back off on the H/Hr because I appreciated their friendship. Well, you know what? I DO appreciate their friendship but I still can't understand the other ships, so SCREW THAT!!! Here is another piece of H/Hr goodness, and as much as I liked "Deathly Hallows" (which was in fact a great, great deal), I'm switching the ending around, and I'm adding "The End", which JK, for some reason, oddly neglected (I would've, at the end of such a long series). Plus, this way it actually ends in the word "scar"...which it should've anyway. And by the way, for some odd reason, I've had this idea ever since I heard that JK was going to end the seventh book with "scar", and I guess I always assumed by killing Voldemort the scar would disappear. So that's the really random thought I worked from, alright? Alright.
A/N the second: My muse seems to be on overdrive. It's almost frightening. Anyway...I present the Harmonious epilogue: read, enjoy, and review!!!!
Ending in a Scar
No sounds cut through the silence, no lights lanced across his eyelids, no sudden movements jerked in the shadow-draped room in the modest London flat, but Harry slipped awake anyway. He blinked, as if that would sharpen the blurry edges of the world he stared at, and raised one hand to his face, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Slowly lifting his head from his somewhat squashed pillow, he glanced into the darkness to discover the cause of his abrupt awakening.
Nothing stirred except himself, but by now he was too alert to fall back asleep easily. He propped himself on one elbow and fumbled on his nightstand for his glasses, which he swiftly slid onto his face. The room cleared, and he glanced around again, as if he had missed something the first time, but he failed to find anything remotely guilty of rousing him. The silence was only broken by the wind rustling the leaves beyond the sliver-opened window and the steady rhythm of Hermione's quiet breathing.
Harry gazed at her, drinking in the sight of his young wife. He never tired of waking up and finding her next to him, a reassuring presence. Even though he almost always slept in later than she did, she never left the bed until he had woken, and he often rolled over to see her turning the pages of some book, one of the dozens that littered every possible shelf-like surface in their room. She would smile and tell him good morning and only then would she rise, as if she understood that he needed to find her there, as if she were aware of that prickling fear in the back of his mind that he would lose her one day like he had lost so many others.
He smiled to himself. Of course she understood that. She was Hermione, after all, and she had always understood him like no one else ever had or would.
Completely serene in sleep, she lay curled beneath the blanket, her forehead unmarred by its usual thoughtful furrows, her lips barely parted, and he appreciated her beauty like he never had before. She wasn't a traditional beauty and she never had been, but something about the way the shadows accented her features made her breathtaking, more so than usual from Harry's perspective, for he had always found her beautiful.
He traced a finger lightly down the curve of her cheek, careful not to disturb her but wanting to feel the smooth softness of her skin, to feel that she was there and that he wasn't merely dreaming a fantasy. And once again he was reassured of her presence, and he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead before he rolled nimbly from their bed.
The wooden floor was cold to his bare feet, but he made no exclamation of surprise; instead, he silently padded to the bathroom, stepping over Hermione's original copy of Hogwarts, A History as he did so. She had told him to read it more times than he could count, and she had only ceased when he had remarked that if he read it, then he would no longer be able to look to her for answers, and did she really want that anyway. Harry smiled as his feet graced cold tiles instead of cold planks: she had replied very, very swiftly, and since then he had made it a habit to ask her questions more frequently, as she so delighted in giving answers and, more than that, of being needed. Little did she know—or perhaps she did—that he needed her whether she had all the answers or not.
The faucet gushed loudly in the stillness as he filled a small paper cup with water; he might as well do something as long as he was up, and drinking some water seemed to fit the bill nicely. He swallowed the liquid in one gulp and replaced the cup on the sink next to his toothbrush. A yawn escaped him, and he absently ran one hand through his ever-messy jet black hair and glanced at his reflection in the mirror.
And as he removed his fringe from his forehead, a small, content smile quirked his lips while his eyes lingered on the patch of smooth skin which once had borne a lightning-shaped scar.