Dreams are funny things.
They never quite end up the way you think they will. Or at least, the way you achieve your dreams is far from the way you imagined.
You see, he always knew what he wanted once it was all over. Once he was done saving the world and being the Boy-Who-Lived, once he could simple be 'Just Harry.'
It was a dream cooked up in desperate times- in lonely times. Not the sort of dream a normal boy would have - with fame, glory, glamour and gore.
He knew all too well of that nightmare.
No, his dreams were of a modest house in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by rolling green hills and clear blue skies. It was yellow too, the house. He doesn't know why he made it yellow when he looks back, but in that moment that was all he wanted. Sunshine yellow. Happy yellow.
Hopeful yellow, perhaps?
In this little yellow house he would be free. Free from everything that chained him down, weighed him down. No one would ever call him useless, stupid or worthless. No one would ever write that he was a liar, a cheater, a fake. No one would look at him with haunted eyes or plead his name with such desperateness it broke his heart. No one would make a sound.
And it would be lovely. And he would be happy. And he would be safe.
So, when the war ended he took his first step towards the long awaited dream; he never grew out of since he always seemed to be in desperate circumstances- in lonely circumstances.
He bought the yellow house.
Yet, all of his problems didn't just vanish like he hoped they would. Dark memories of the dead still followed him and visions of the people he couldn't save periodically flashed before his eyes. All the screaming and terror and nightmares still haunted him…and he didn't understand why.
But then Hermione moved in and started to do what she did best.
Fixing him.
She was there for him when he woke up screaming in the night, lulling him back to sleep with her sweet lullabies and not leaving until he woke up the next morning to complain her elbow was poking him in the stomach. She showed him paintings by Monet and Picasso; introduced him to Bach and Mozart. She cooked him Indian, Thai and Chinese. They watched old muggle movies.
She made him see colour in his life again, she made his ears remember music and made his tongue forget the awful taste survival.
But it was more than just superficial beauty that she brought. She showed him that even though they would never forget what happened, they could allow themselves to move on.
With her came the joy that the house had been missing. Even with the yellow walls (although they were quite awesome according to Teddy who frequently wore his hair the exact same color) because she understood. She too had seen the effects of war and lived through those terrible times. She too understood the sacrifice that he gave, that theygave, that shegave. Every time she looked at her arm she remembered... But she wasn't one to let her past control her future, and she wasn't one to let him do it either.
That wasn't to say she was perfect either, she had her bad days just like the rest. Days when she wouldn't leave the house without double checking the inventory of her beaded bad or nights when Harry had to be the one to hold her tight and recite from Hogwarts's A History just to calm her down (he practically had the whole thing memorized by now).
But eventually and together, they moved on.
Together, they rediscovered how to live, not just stay alive.
Together they fell in love.
And when they did, something magical happened to him. The house came alive. It became filled with the noise he thought he never wanted. It became filled with the noise he never dreamed of hearing. It was the kind that you can always feel, but never really see. Where every nook and cranny in the house became be filled with the echoes of laughter and tiny giggles whizzed around each room. The kind where whispers of love floated through the house like a passing breeze, softly touching everyone there. And in the darkest hours of the day, deep sighs would resound through the house - sighs filled with content exhaustion.
His little yellow house became the safe haven he always imagined. Filled with scattered pages of books, leftover socks and the scent of fresh ink. The bottle of fire whiskey which caused Hermione so much ire left upon the highest shelf to collect dust. Even Hermione's little beaded bag was in due course thrown into some old closet under piles of Harry's ratty old hand-me-downs from a childhood better forgotten.
And he realised what was missing from his dream from so long ago. He was missing the mass of curly brown hair he now woke up to every morning, those quiet Sunday morning with her where they both silently drank their coffee and those chocolate brown eyes secretly gazing at him during the day while silently watching over him in the night. He was missing those evening walks under the starlight with only the sound of crickets to fill the empty spaces. (Hermione, as usual was right, silence followed by stolen kisses and playful looks was so much better than cackles and curses).
But really , when it came down to it, he was missing her.
So many years later as he lies in bed with one arm wrapped around her waist he reminisces that dreams were funny things. They never end up the way you thought they would- or at least the way you achieved them is never the way you imagined.
But in the end they were true. (His were true. She was true).
In fact, she helped him repaint the walls every summer.