By Night

Sometimes, I thought she over-worked herself.

Sometimes, I remembered just who she was.

"Hermione, wake up," I said, crouching across from her and tugging gently at her hair. Books everywhere - papers everywhere! Ancient Runes was her pillow of choice for the night, old and weathered, but with a thick binding of comfortable-looking pages. For a moment I could see the sort of beddy-bye allure it had were I in Hermione's shoes, but then my knees started to ache from kneeling on the hard common room ground that was quickly proving to be merciless a whole rather lot when it came to a skinny, wizard prat of a boy (me, of course). Though, come to think of it, the crackling fire nearly overruled all.

Still, I tried again, this time pulling earnestly at her sleeve. "Hermioneeee!"

I felt like such a child. The weird thing was, it felt kind of . . . refreshing? liberating? I was never all that great with words. That of course was what Hermione was for! I suppose what I'm simply trying to say is that, well, for the past couple of years I've had to grow up - fast. Danger around every corner, be it Malfoy, Snape, or Voldemort. Er, sorry - You-Know-Who. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named. Whatever those crazy kids are calling him these days. What I'm saying, though, is that sometimes, I found early on, it was tiny moments like these that made everything that happened in the past (and everything inevitably in the future) so . . . so worthwhile, you know?

I don't.

And suddenly, her hand was on mine, grasping it tightly as she raised her bushy head. Quick as it had happened, however, I let go, as if I had touched one of the fireplace's burning coals instead.

"Mmmwhat? What time is it?"

I watched as she rubbed both her eyes sleepily. When she finally lowered her fingers she looked at me, blinked, and let out a funny little shriek. "Harry!!"

Now pre-occupied with massaging my ears, I glanced sidelong at her with a wince. Her soft expression softened, her face now looking absolutely apologetic. "Sorry . . . but what are you doing here? At - at --" She stammered, squinted eyes looking wildly around for the time; she found it on the grandfather clock in the corner behind me. "Two-thirty-seven in the evening?"

"Morning, you mean," I corrected her, reaching over to bat her playfully on the side of the head. "And you ask me that question every time . . . except the time sort of fluctuates. Though, this proves my point rather nicely. You've been over-working yourself. What you need is sleep. Before you forget my name - or worse: yours."

She flushed, but folded her arms, stubborn as ever. "An honest mistake, Harry. I'm fine. Really," she added fervently at my look of obvious disbelief. "I've just got to finish this translation, that's all." She pulled a stack of parchments towards herself, but frowning, I stamped my hand firmly over the heading. Despite blanching under that murderous stare of hers, I gave myself a sort of mental pat on the back for keeping - and, no real pun really intended - the upper-hand of the situation.

I wrenched the papers from her hands, closing my eyes in a sort of silent prayer like those Muggle magicians Dudley fancied when he was little - the ones that pulled whole tablecloths from under magnificent dinner settings. Only, instead of hoping against hope that not everything crashed onto the floor, I crossed my toes and hoped to Merlin that this assignment of hers did not rip.

It was quiet, real quiet.

Inhaling deeply, I slowly opened my eyes.

Her parchments were still intact. I breathed again.

Rifling through them, I looked at her exasperatedly. "Do you really need Ancient Runes?"

Hermione (true to form) huffed. Casting me a lofty look as she plucked the papers from my fingers, she pursed her lips and snatched up her quill, scribbling away as she spoke. "Honestly, Harry, I don't know what you and Ron have against that subject. I on the other hand find it rather fascinating! Besides . . ." here she paused to stretch her arm across the table to dab her feather in the pot of ink, a noise in her throat that sounded dangerously like a growl emanating from her as for laughs I pushed the bottle just centimeters from comfortable reach. "Besides," she began again, clearly miffed as she stood to replenish her ink before plopping back down on her chair, "you, Harry, have been asking me that question every night, except Wednesday it was Muggle Studies because I am 'already a Muggle, after all;' Thursday it was Arithmancy, I mean, 'who needs it anyway,' right? And, Friday! Friday it was Astronomy, because 'it's not that much of a far cry from Divination,' is it?!"

Silently I wondered how many paces it would take for me to reach the boys' dormitory stairs. Darkly I knew I probably wouldn't even reach them in time.

But it seemed that saying nothing at all turned out to be the best route I could have possibly taken. Looking as if she'd literally swelled with sheer annoyance, every word Hermione said afterward appeared to deflate her . . . but judging by the sound of the fierce scratching of her quill, I was prepared to bet she was taking her anger out on her translations instead.

Muttering. She was muttering. And quiet as she tried to keep herself, the phrase "prejudiced against 'A'-words" somehow ran itself through one of my ears and out the other. Only this time, I didn't miss them. This time it was my turn to fold my arms.

"I am not prejudiced against 'A'-words!!" I blurted out indignantly.

She slammed her quill down and looked at me coolly. "Really, Harry? Arithmancy, Astronomy, Ancient Runes." Her eyes narrowed as she leaned forward, and I followed suit, meeting her halfway across the table. We were nearly forehead to forehead, nose to nose. The next thing she said was a dare, a challenge, before her mouth formed one tight-lipped line even McGonagall would be proud of. "Name one thing you like that begins with an 'A.'"

I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Something that begins with an 'A' . . .

I opened my mouth again, then closed it.

My miserable mind panicked, but would not accept defeat. No, she would not stump me.

She wouldn't.

I furrowed my brows at her. Stared daggers. She was looking maddeningly triumphant already . . . and that only incensed me further.

Finally, it came. A single stroke of genius.

"'Agrid," I said confidently, tilting my head upward and deliberately staring down my nose at her. If only Phlegm - er, Fleur - could see me now. Or, was the person I'm channeling really Madame Maxime? I contented myself with thinking it was definitely a mixture of both.

Again, silence. That is, until -

Until she burst out laughing.

Bewildered, I gaped at her, just watching her go through the throes of late-night delirium. Seemed like the proper, chivalrous thing to do, anyway. And for all the disruption I had caused her in a clean sweep of twelve or so minutes, I owed her at least one moment she could have to herself. Nevertheless, nothing could stop the silly grin that had found its way across my face as with sudden realization, it hit me: I'd just made Hermione Granger laugh.

Wasn't this, well, Ron's bit of territory?

But Ron wasn't here; instead, he was snoring like a stupid git upstairs, like he did every night when I'd wake up, creep downstairs, and find her sleeping there, safe and sound in her fortress of schoolbooks. I don't know why I do it -- wake up in the dead of night just to wake her up, I mean. I suppose it all started Tuesday night when I couldn't sleep and had gone down to the common room . . . just to think, you know? That was the first time I discovered her there, work-exhausted and hunched over sheaves of parchment and thick, library volumes. Ever since it's been routine; my eyes just snap open within the very same hour I'd first found her and I'll peek over the banister and there she'll be.

I guess I just feel like . . . I don't know. That I should take care of her, I suppose. And after a while, you sort of start to notice that she hasn't smiled in so long. Or laughed.

Unless you were Ron, of course.

(Yes, this is how I justify my motiv--)

"Wow. Thanks, Harry," she was saying at last, ever so rudely interrupting my thoughts. But she was smiling now, so I let this little cutoff slide. "I really needed that."

"Bed," was what I replied with before I could stop myself. Way to be stern, eh? At her drooping pout of a mouth, I put on another grin, albeit a very, very tired one. "Come on, Hermione - it's the weekend. The only break you ever have these days. You can pick up on these again when you get up, all right?"

I matched her ever-increasing frown with my own rendition of the puppy-dog eyes. And victoriously, I watched her crumble.

"Okay," she replied, a yawn stretching out that single word as she nodded and got up. For a lack of better things to do, I followed suit and stood up, too.

"Goodnight, Harry!" she exclaimed, and next thing I knew, she was giving me a bloody hug.

She really was small, now that I thought about it. Either that or I had shot up a couple more inches last summer as well. But both reasons factoring in seemed a likely bet as well.

"'Night, Hermione," I muttered, but by then her bushy brown hair was just whipping out of sight, leaving me alone in the emptiness of the common room. Slowly, I padded my way back up to the dormitory, pushing tiredly through the door and landing face-forward onto my four-poster with a flop. My arms wound their way around my pillow, but I realized in an instant that sleep wouldn't be coming any time soon. Too awake. Too . . . distracted? Preoccupied?

She really needed it.

So had I, for that matter. I had to admit I felt remarkably . . . whatsit . . . lighter. But - and oh, was this rich! -- was it less of an 'it' and more of a 'her'?

Don't be stupid, I told myself, shaking my head. But the notion, the idea (the fact?) kept resurfacing in the back of my mind, no matter how hard I tried to block it out. Stubborn and persistent, reminiscent of the very Hermione I'd sent to bed, to her room. Like a goddamn parent.

I couldn't help but think. Perhaps I was just being ridiculous, as per usual? Maybe the time of day - erm, night - had to be taken into consideration. Maybe I was being all too rash.

But maybe I needed Hermione the way Ron so desperately wanted her.