Midnight Snack

It was around three in the morning when Harry's stomach woke him with a resounding growl. The sandwiches he'd devoured with Hermione, Ginny and Ron earlier in the evening had left him sated and relaxed, but all the meals he'd missed since the attack on Mr. Weasley wouldn't be countered in only one evening.

His stomach gave another loud rumble, audible even over Ron's snores.

Exhausted as he was, Harry knew his hunger would keep him from sleeping well the rest of the night. He swung his tired legs out of bed and eased himself onto his feet. Yawning widely, he paused to stretch, looking around what he could see of the room in the dim moonlight.

Ron, deep in his slumber, appeared as a sloppy sprawl of oversized limbs overhanging the sides of his bed. Harry smiled at his sleeping best mate, then padded around him toward the door.

He was only somewhat surprised, on approaching the kitchen, to see a light glowing from beneath the door. In a house this full of agitated, worried people, it was almost inevitable that at least one more of them would have trouble sleeping.

Hermione looked up sharply when he pushed the door open. Her hand flew to her chest, while her wide eyes stared at him. It took a second for her breathing to slow and her mouth to smile.

"You startled me!" she told him with a sheepish grin as she marked her place and closed her book.

"What are you doing out of bed?" they asked each other simultaneously, then laughed.

Harry kept an eye on her while he searched the cupboards for some bread and cheese, waiting for her response. It didn't come. He thought she coloured a bit, but it was hard to tell in the dim lamplight.

When he realised she wasn't going to speak, he took up a bread knife and gestured toward the supplies he'd found. "Hungry," he told her simply.

He set to making himself a sandwich from a split-open hunk of bread, a few slices of cheese, and some strong, spicy mustard. His stomach gave an appreciative gurgle as he surveyed his work.

He grabbed a Butterbeer from the icebox, took his plate in his other hand, and turned to join Hermione at the table. She glanced away the moment his eyes met hers, and he noticed to his surprise that she had not reopened her book.

The lamplight really was making her look flushed. Harry was slightly unnerved to realise that he thought it suited her.

The kitchen was surprisingly warm, for the middle of a midwinter's night.

"So," he said with a smile as he sat down, "you never answered my question."

Hermione looked faintly alarmed, so Harry clarified: "What is keeping you out of bed, I mean."

"Oh." Her left hand fluttered absently at her book. "Just, you know. Couldn't sleep." Her eyes danced about the room, alighting everywhere but on his face.

Harry wondered whether she might rather have been left alone. He scooted himself quietly toward the other end of the heavy, wooden table before tucking in.

They were still sitting in silence several minutes later, when Harry finished his sandwich. Hermione was fidgeting with her book, opening it for a second or two, flipping a few pages, then closing it again, then starting the process over. He raised his eyes slowly in her direction, observing while trying not to stare. Her forehead was crinkled and her lips twisted in an expression of mild vexation. It reminded him of the look she'd worn while asking him about his kiss with Cho.

Thinking about Cho made the bottom drop out of Harry's middle. He had a strong feeling - mostly due to Hermione's response - that he'd muddled up that situation. He wanted to set things right with her, but there were so many more important things happening right now; he didn't have energy to spare to try and find out what he should do.

A sneaky little voice in the back of his mind told him he wasn't so bothered about Cho anyway, but mostly only wanted her not to think he was a complete git. The voice also suggested that maybe he actually was a complete git, and shouldn't expect anyone to think otherwise.

Hermione was glancing up at him again.

Was she disappointed with him over how he'd handled himself with Cho? She certainly had seemed to be at the time.

"Hermione, look," he began, and her eyes snapped up to his expectantly. "It's only ... you seemed really annoyed with me the night that Cho and I ... well, you know. D'you really think I messed it all up?"

She straightened up in her seat, her face turning to an impassive mask. "I imagine she still likes you, if that's what you mean," she told him coldly. "I'm sure if you want to see her again when you get back to school, then all you have to do is ask."

She sniffed quietly, and picked up her book. Harry watched her with bewilderment.

"Then what am I doing wrong?" he asked her.

Hermione's shoulders looked drawn up and tense. "Just talk to her, Harry. She likes you, don't worry about that." She was examining the binding of her book, as if for damages.

Harry waited, staring at her, but she didn't meet his eyes.

"Hermione? Are you angry with me?"

One of her shoulders raised itself a few millimeters higher in an almost-imperceptible shrug.

"Why would I be angry?" she asked, but before he could answer, she stood up and said, "I'm sleepy now, finally, so I think I'll head up to bed."

Harry's mind reeled. Hermione was stalking off, not looking the slightest bit sleepy; she seemed, rather, to be extremely annoyed. He stumbled to his feet and ran the few strides to catch up with her in the doorway, before she could leave.

He caught her arm, turning her to look him in the eye. Her face was lit warmly by the lamps in the room when it tilted up to meet his gaze. He hadn't noticed before that he'd got taller than she, and was somehow arrested by the sight.

Harry was about to open his mouth to press the question when he saw her eyes flick upward to the doorway above them. He followed the glance to notice a sprig of grey-green leaves, speckled with pale grey berries and tied with a thin, red velvet ribbon. In his zeal for the holiday, Sirius must have decided a little mistletoe would liven the festivities.

When his eyes returned to Hermione's, the flicker of hope he saw there triggered a blinding flash of understanding. He thought back on Hermione's whole demeanour the night he'd kissed Cho, and remembered her brisk questions and frowning responses, and suddenly knew what he'd done to make her so angry: he'd kissed the wrong girl.

"Um, Hermione?" he asked, still holding her upper arm loosely in his hand. "There's, um - Sirius hung up some - er."

The corners of Hermione's mouth were curling ever so slightly upward. Her eyes had turned two shades lighter and the wrinkles were smoothing out of her forehead completely. Harry didn't know much about girls, but he knew a little about this one, and he knew enough to recognise happiness on her face.

At least she wasn't crying.

He leaned forward, a little stiffly, and pressed his lips softly and awkwardly onto hers. Hermione slipped her arms quickly around his waist and pressed her lips back against his, and he could feel her smiling into the kiss.

When he pulled back, her eyes were shining, and not from tears. It made for a nice change.

For a long moment, he could only look at her. He hadn't the slightest idea what to say or do next.

Hermione smiled and stood on tiptoe to kiss him on the cheek. "Happy Christmas, Harry," she said softly into his ear.

Before he could answer, she slipped out of his arms and headed for the stairs. She glanced back once from the landing, smiling broadly, before she disappeared from sight.

Harry didn't even notice the stupid grin on his face until Phineas Nigellus mocked him for it, when he got back to the room. For once, the portrait's taunts didn't bother him at all.