Written for the Harmony & Co Lyric Llama.

This fic was inspired by the lyrics "Take it from me if you want a t-shirt to sleep in, it's my favourite but you can keep it. Looks good on you baby you should leave it hanging off your shoulders.", from the song, Take It from Me by Jordan Davis. I claim no ownership of it, I only used it as inspiration.

Harry woke with a start, his heart racing in his chest as the last vestiges of the nightmare drained from his mind and left only the adrenaline.

The war was over for the world, but in his mind, it still raged night after night.

He looked to his left and saw that he hadn't woken Hermione tonight. It had been a thankfully tame one compared to some he'd had recently.

He swung his legs over the side and placed his head in his hands, panting gently as he tried to get his heart rate to slow. The chill of the night air stung his sweaty naked torso and a shiver ran through him.

As he opened his eyes, he saw a piece of white cotton jutting out from the chaos below Hermione's bed. He quickly picked it up and saw it was a large t-shirt, quickly donned it as he stepped to the door.

Harry glanced back at the bed and Hermione still seemed unaware of his absence, so he continued to the kitchen, quickly pouring himself a tall glass of milk and sitting at the small table.

People still came up to him and congratulated or thanked him. It was as though all those who had died had been completely forgotten by them. Only the victory remained, and he was the one who gave it to them. As if he had stood alone against the waves of Voldemort and brushed them all aside. It made him sick every time he thought of the ones who were gone and forgotten by the world at large.

He shuddered and took another swig of the cool milk, which soothed his throat and soul as it descended. His heart rate was almost back to normal when he smelt it.

A small smile pulled at his lips as he felt her shoulder press against his own. He figured it had to be something left over from her short stint as a catgirl, but Hermione could move utterly silently when she chose to.

She said nothing as she sat in the other chair, her hand gently stroking his back as he drank again. Her very presence was more comforting than all the milk and cool air in the world, but he'd done it again. He'd run from their bed in fear and disgust with himself. The first time she had yelled. The second she quietly scolded. The third, she hugged. Now they just sat there in silence until he told her.

"The war. Nothing specific. Just faceless dead, those I failed to save."

A shadow passed over her face for a moment and he cringed. This had become routine a long time ago now. He would sit there feeling sorry for himself and blame himself for all the ills of the world. And she would sit there, comforting him until he realized that the weight of the world was not his to bare. That all that was bad in this world was not his fault. It was what truly comforted him.

The stroking stopped and he felt himself been pulled tighter against her. Her bosom pressing into his arm. No matter how many times she'd had to find him hiding in the kitchen, she never wavered in her love. She always helped him back. He turned to look at her face for the first time since she had entered and smiled at her.

"Thank you."

She smiled back and leant forward, pressing her slightly chapped lips to his own. It was as soothing as anything he knew, and he almost felt guilty that he kind of looked forward to her comfort when he woke panting and covered in sweat at night.

As they broke apart, her eyes drifted downward, and a quizzical look spread over her features. Harry raised his eyebrow in response, and she blushed slightly.

"Where did you find that?" She whispered.

He looked down and truly observed his covering for the first time in the low light of the kitchen. It was a white cotton shirt, but in the dark of the bedroom, he had assumed it covered in some design. Instead, it had a dark red uneven smudge in the bottom left corner and paint stains over most of the rest.

They weren't solid and scabby like on most of the old shirts he'd gotten from his relatives. The shirt was quite possibly the most comfortable he'd ever worn, as though it had seen many years of use, yet was treasured and loved as well. And it smelled deeply of Hermione.

"I… it was poking out from under your bed. I was sweaty and the air was cold… and, it smells like you. I didn't even realize it until right now. It helped. A lot."

Hermione smiled softly at him as he explained. He still got awkward at times when telling her how he felt. It had been an odyssey on her behalf to get him to confess his love, but they were truly happy together. Sometimes she just had to be a little bossy to break him from his old habits of bottling things up and wearing the weight of the world.

"I'm sorry. If it bothers you, I can take it off…"

She placed her fingers over his lips and followed them with a brief kiss. Looking down at her own chest she gently pulled out the fabric of her own night covering.

"Be a little hypocritical of me to ask that, yes?"

Harry looked at the dark red fabric of his old Quidditch jersey. He had gifted it to her years ago and she had confessed a few nights after their first time that she had worn it every night since. That it felt like he was holding her, and it has helped her through some of her worst nightmares since the war.

Hermione stood suddenly and grasped his hands, pulling him up from his chair. With a gentle smile, she clasped her hand in his own properly and turned to lead him from the room. He followed with a gentle wave over the glass, vanishing the remaining milk and cleaning it, before allowing himself to be led back to their bedroom.

He snuggled into Hermione's back and as his arms encircled her, he felt home once more. The nightmare forgotten and the war behind them as it should be. As his body settled into the covers and the soft rise and fall of the torso of the witch in his arms comforted him and worked as well as any lullaby, he found himself troubled by a stray thought. The type that gets in the way and refuses to leave.

"Hermione?"

She merely mumbled an affirmative response, clearly nearly asleep once more.

"Where is this shirt from? It's clearly far too big to be something you bought for yourself."

Hermione rolled over in his embrace and looked up into his eyes. She didn't look offended as he suddenly realized one way his question could be taken, and he was about to blurt out an apology for implying infidelity when she brushed her lips over his own.

"It was my father's." She fingered the fabric, sending pulses through Harry's body as they trailed over his chest. "He would wear it about the house whenever he was doing some DIY thing or cleaning out the garage. My mum spent a good month of her life I'm sure getting various stains out of it over the years."

Her fingers moved lower and came to rest against the reddish stain.

"Then he managed to cut himself on an engine he was rebuilding. This is his blood. Mum refused to clean it after that. But my dad could be stubborn. He refused to throw it away, and I'd just taken up painting as a hobby when they made me choose something other than books to pass the time. I was never any good, but he gave it to me as a smock. Said once there was a little paint mixed in, that mum would never be the wiser.

"The way he smiled at me when he gave it to me. It was like he was passing on a family heirloom. I treasured it, but I let myself be messy. I got paint all over it. But I think my mum has some latent magic because no matter how bad I got it, she always got it clean. The stains remained, but the fabric felt fresh and flexible. And for years it smelled like daddy."

She sniffled softly and Harry pulled her tighter against his chest, trapping her arms between them as she sobbed gently.

"He died a few years back, as you know, and I cried holding that shirt for hours. But it didn't smell like him anymore. It was my shirt now, and it smelt like all the others. It didn't comfort me like it used to. Now you do that for me."

"I'm sorry, Mione. I'll take it off."

Her hands held the shirt firmly and her eyes rose to match his own and despite the tear streaks, she looked happy as she softly shook her head.

"I love you, more than anything in this world, Harry. And I know every day that you feel the same about me. That's what brings me true comfort. And I have this," she indicated his jersey as she snuggled deeper into his arms, "which always makes me feel like I'm wrapped in your arms. That used to be my favourite nightshirt before you gave me this. But…"

Softly stroking her back, Harry waited for her to continue. "What, Hermione?"

She bit her lip as she averted her gaze, clearly a little embarrassed. He remained silent and continued his stroking. He knew she would tell him eventually.

Suddenly her voice broke the night. "It looks good on you."

Harry glanced down and saw her looking up at him again.

"You're about the same height now as he was. And almost the same build. It was big even on him, as he wanted it that way. I like the way it hangs a bit off your shoulder as you move. It's kind of…"

He smiled at her but didn't break the gaze. He knew what she wanted to say, but he still wanted to hear her say it.

She groaned before speaking again. "Kind of sexy."

She tucked her head into his chest again as he chuckled softly and she gave him a tiny slap, her arms too trapped to get any real force behind them.

"Thank you." He whispered as he kissed her hair. "You always make me feel a million galleons, Hermione."

"Keep it, please?"

"For you, anything."

The pair snuggled tightly together, and their breathing soon settled, both on the edge of oblivion.

Harry mumbled, near silent, "I'll treasure it forever."