(A/N: This one's from EndlessChains!)
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He always tried to play it off, pretend like it was no big deal. When she confronted him in the mornings, he'd pass them off as "bad dreams". Like they didn't matter.
But during the night, when the shudders would grip him and his muscles would spasm as though he were in a fight, she knew it was worse than bad dreams, much worse.
Sometimes it would be the war, and the final battle, and she knew he was seeing the dead bodies of their friends splayed on the Hogwarts steps, mangled and glassy eyed. Sometimes it would be the ministry, and Sirius's last horrible moments, or flashbacks from Voldemor's memory. A few times he was locked back in the airless cupboard under his uncle's stairs, choking on dust and a bloody nose, cold and alone.
Sometimes it would be the maze, dark and endless, or even the old ones of his parent's death, green light and screaming voices.
Hermione held him though them all, murmuring his name while he shook and cried and clutched at her, kissing his swollen scar and lending him her strength until the sun returned.