AN: my first Harry Potter fic, yay me! Takes place immediately after DH but pre epilogue. Epilogues are stupid. I wanted to write a series of what happens after the final battle and my first idea was the trio finally getting some much needed sleep. Probably won't continue with that idea.

...

The bed was too soft. Or too big. Or perhaps too high off of the ground. Suffice to say, it was 'too' something, or 'too' many things, but most importantly all of these many things that it most certainly was reiterated exactly what it was not: his cot. Oh, and the covers were too thick; they made his skin prickle with sweat. Without them he felt exposed. With them he felt safe, not unlike a child hiding under the covers from the monster under the bed. But he was sweaty, he did not want to be sweaty. He wanted to be asleep.

With a sigh Harry threw the covers off of his chest. He was so very tired, but his mind would not stop wandering. He closed his eyes and tried to pretend that he was sleeping. Maybe if he learned that occu-thingy with Snape better he would be able to trick his mind into being asleep. Did that even make sense? Sure it did. But not really. Please stop thinking now.

No birds. Chirping, crowing, hooting. Or wind. Making the leaves and grass sing. The room was too quiet. The very things that kept him awake months ago were denying him sleep with their absence.

And the dorm smelled funny. Mostly like it always smelled, but just different enough to bother him, like a memory that differs only slightly from the actual event, but enough to itch at one's brain as they try to pinpoint the change. He missed the smell of dirt. Of dew. Of rain. Of musty tent and worn cot and Hermione. Missed the sound of her breathing, steady, rhythmic. Or the scrape and brush of a turning page. The occasional 'hmm' at the discovery of an interesting fact.

Harry had spent every night for months missing this bed, this room, these smells and this silence, and now that he was here all he wanted was his tent and his forest and, after finally, finally, being alone, the company of his friends.

His arms ached. And his legs. His toes and fingers would not stop twitching. Exhausted nerves, he knew. Every breath felt heavy and strained as his chest stretched, almost in protest to his diaphram, which also hurt. His neck was stiff. His eyes burned. Every hair on his head tingled. And his brain... he could not form a coherent thought when he tried. Doubted that he could form a complete sentence if he needed to speak. But, as Harry lay staring at the ceiling, it would not shut up. He did not want to be thinking about dirt and birds and beds being 'too...' things. He wanted to be sleeping. If he earned nothing else, he had earned that, right? Right brain?

His eyelids drooped closed, heavy, slow, lethargic. His muscles relaxed, his breathing slowed.

A high pitched scream jolted him awake, his hand wrapping around his wand as he sat up. The covers tangled around his legs and he struggled desperately to kick them off; feet scraping and pulling and tearing, before he finally sent them flying across the room and into the wall with his wand. Laughter filled his ears as he watched them fall, helplessly defeated, to the floor.

More sounds filtered in through the window, yells and screams that, hours ago, were filled with pain and despair, now filled with pure joy. Harry put on his glasses and stood up, his nerves and muscles protesting as they sent sharp pain signals to his wrecked brain, the protests increasing as he stepped gingerly to the window.

The celebrations had expanded from the great hall to the grounds where dozens of figures were playing games or picnicing or walking. He could not bring himself to care all that much. All that he knew was that he was awake. Again.

Hands rubbed cheeks and eyes as Harry gave up sleep and wandered down the staircase to the common room.

He was not sure if he expected the room to be packed or deserted, but found that it was neither. A few people were scattered about, some he did not recognize, but, surprisingly, no one came up to bother him.

"Harry!"

"Luna. What are you doing in here?" Harry immediately realized that he was being rude, but Luna remained as unfazed an uninsulted as ever as she stood from the couch to greet him.

"Just talking with Neville."

"Where are..." Harry looked around.

"Ron and Ginny are with their family and Hermione's in her room. Sleeping, I would think."

Harry nodded. They stood in silence, Neville sitting on the couch, but there was no awkwardness between them. Luna, despite how she was treated, seemed to float above the very concept.

"Would you like me to go get her?"

"No. No, let her sleep."

Luna headed toward the staircase anyway. "She won't mind."

Minutes passed, time only counted by the crackling of the fire and the occasional movement of a portrait. Harry watched the fire without seeing it, hands in pockets. Neville leaned his head back against the cushion and closed his eyes.

"Harry." He turned to find Hermione at the bottom of the stairs. Neither managed a smile. "I though you were sleeping. You look awful."

"You too." And she did. She looked like anyone would after seeing their best friend's corpse only to have said best friend come back and destroy the wizarding world's representation of ultimate evil. Like anyone would after fighting for their life for hours, after carrying a piece of tainted soul, after camping.

These thoughts brought a deep ache to his chest; his heart. "I'm sorry, Hermione."

Her face was a mix of surprise and confusion; a look that Harry knew well. "For what?"

He thought for a moment, but thinking was difficult, and putting those thoughts into words was impossible. So he simply said "for everything."

Hermione rolled her eyes and walked briskly toward him, grabbing his hand and pulling him to the portrait hole. "Don't be."

...

He was about to ask where they were going, but he did not really care. The halls were familiar, memorized, her presence calming, their pace natural. She still held his hand as she led him and he intertwined their fingers. He remembered wondering once, when he was twelve or so, if they would still hold hands when they were seventeen. The idea had seemed impossibly silly at the time, but, as he felt her pulse against his palm, her soft skin brushing his rough, calloused hands, he realized that it still felt natural now. He gave her hand a squeeze, which she returned, and wondered if they would still hold hands at twenty five. The idea immediately seemed impossibly silly again.

"Hmm."

Hermione slowed and looked back at him. "What?"

"I was just thinking, I wonder if we'll still hold hands at twenty five." They both stopped walking and looked at their intertwined hands. After a moment he continued, "it's the first time in a long time I've ever thought about living to be twenty... anything." He nodded to himself. "A long time."

"Oh Harry." Hermione let go of his hand and pulled him into a fierce hug, a Hermione hug, of which there were many variations. Harry had his favorites, he knew, as he hugged her back, but he liked all of them. She grabbed his hand again. "Come on."

...

Harry found himself standing outside of the room of requirement, not entirely sure when or how he got there. He looked at his best friend. "Why are we here?"

"Open the door."

Without curiosity or excitement, he complied, and was pleasantly surprised. "Our tent. I don't remember it having a door, though."

A roll of the eyes. "Just go inside."

Harry stepped inside and closed his eyes. He took in a deep breath, stretching his sore lungs fully. It smelled of must and dew and earth. Of brewed tea and Hermione and Harry with a touch of Ron. He could hear the wind whistle through the trees and scrape against the tent, bird song carried on its heal. Crickets and other insects hummed in his ears, against his heart. He had forgotten about them.

He opened his eyes to find every detail perfect, as he knew he would. A drying shirt hung over the back of a chair, books were scattered about, used dishes sat on the table, shoes by the door. "Pretty close, Hermione."

"You're welcome."

"It's perfect, you know."

"I know. Now go lay down."

He stepped toward his cot, paused, looked back at her. "You coming?"

She nodded and followed him.

Harry collapsed onto his cot and let out a deep sigh. With more effort, and complaints from body parts, than he wanted, he managed to manuver himself under the covers and pulled them up to his chin. "I love these blankets. I love this pillow."

Hermione settled into her cot much more calmly, "that pillow's all lumps and those blankets smell horrible, Harry."

"I know." He set his glasses on the floor and looked at her. "You don't have to stay."

"...I couldn't sleep in the dorm, either. It felt... weird, in there. It's part of a different life now, I think."

Harry nodded. "This whole place is."

"Get some sleep, Harry, you've earned it."

"You too, Hermione."

...

Harry woke up half an hour later for reasons unknown, most likely another sound from somewhere inside of the castle, and opened his eyes. Hermione slept restlessly across from him, worry marring her face.

With a flick of his wrist her cot slid across the floor and settled next to his. Her eyes opened. "What're you doin', Harry?"

He grabbed her hand and she intertwined their fingers, her eyes drifting shut. "Nothing, go back to sleep."

...

They slept next to each other, separated by the metal frame of their cots, chastely, holding hands, for hours. Ron wandered in later, closer to sunset, and pulled his cot against the other side of Hermione's, neither offended or surprised when he found them.