Sometimes she thought back to the days of being alone with him in the tent. She'd remember back to the days when they would both stare for hours at a locket that held so many secrets and revealed no answers. The days when they were both miserable in a situation they couldn't change.
That was back when it was dangerous to voice aloud any thoughts for fear of being overheard by the wrong person. When it was too dangerous to look anyone in the eye, for fear they might recognize you and turn you in to save their own skins.
But that was many years ago. They had grown up, moved on. At least, that's what they had told themselves. Even when eyes closed and lights turned out, the darkness of those days crept back across the mind and never truly went away. No longer did they have to fear Voldemort, but his memory lived on. Perhaps that was the truest ultimate weapon, the fear of waiting for him to return.
Hermione blinked and realized that she was back in her kitchen, waiting for the kettle to finish heating. She was doing it the Muggle way because she missed the old ways of a simple task. She had decided long ago that the simpler way was comforting somehow.
Harry thought the same way about the simpler things.
She smiled when she heard his footstep hit the creaky floorboard right on the other side of the kitchen door. He entered the room and moved immediately to her side. His arm came round her waist and he kissed her cheek softly.
He didn't speak and neither did she. Hermione simply leaned back into his chest and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of his close proximity.
The overwhelming fear had gone, faded into the past in a whisper of a memory. They had grown up, changed and matured further. Perhaps that's what the war had done to them. But this? Having Harry hold her close and their warmth could be shared so neither of them ever felt cold again?
That would never change. For that, Hermione would forever be grateful.