Fish and Chips

One day, Harry Potter saw a large, barn owl fly through his window. His heart leapt, for he recognised it as Hermione's. The owl alighted on his desk and he tore the message off it's leg. It read Dear Harry,

Do you want to come and have an informal dinner with me? My fish and chips shop gave me an extra portion on fish and chips for being their one thousandth customer! Have you ever heard the like? And well, I thought of you. Do you want to come over and share it? Just apparate over if you want to.

Love Hermione

Harry grinned widely. There was nothing, in fact, he'd like more, than sharing Hermione's fish and chips, for as long as she wanted him to. He apparated immediately, leaving the all important report that was due in the next day, for when he got back.

There was a rather greasy smell when he arrived in Hermione's flat. She was there in front of him, leaning against the side of the oven, wearing a dirty floral apron and with greasy smudges on her pink cheeks. The heating of the room was over all far too hot and the windows were all steamed up. Hermione's hair was loosely tied back, but it looked like it had not been brushed all day.

Harry's heart turned over. With one of those shocking revelations that only happen once or twice in a life time, Harry realised that he did not feel like he was going out for supper. On the contrary, he felt he was coming home. The sight he saw in front of him was the one he wanted to see every day. It was the sight of pure domesticity, that which he had missed out on as a child. It was the sight of family, and he wanted to be part of it. And not just with anyone. He wanted to be part of it with Hermione. With his dearest, closest friend. With the woman he loved dearer than life itself.

He thought she looked beautiful. Far more beautiful than she had appeared when his jaw had dropped at her metamorphis from ugly duckling to swan at the Yule Ball. He was no Viktor Krum. Hermione did not have to cover her hair with Sleakeasy's when she was with him. Her's was the grace of natural, inner beauty.

He found himself tongue-tied for the first time in front of her. She smiled when she saw him.

"You did come! I felt sure you would. It's all ready. I'll put it on the table. Do sit down."

Harry followed her gaze and saw she had set out a narrow card table to eat on. There were two glasses, a bottle of beer and the salt dispenser, but surprisingly nothing else.

The first thing Harry said that evening, and he thought it seemed very inappropriate, was, "Hermione, don't you need some plates and what about some cutlery?"

She laughed. "Oh no, Harry! We don't need them for fish and chips. Why, have you never had them?"

Harry shrugged and sat down. "We had fish and chips sometimes with the Dursleys, but we always used plates."

"Ah! You did not eat them the traditional way, then? Now's your chance. Call yourself British and you've never eaten fish and chips out of a newspaper!"

She opened the oven door and pulled out a tray, on which was two large pieces of crispy, battered cod and a mountain of thick, golden chips. "I put them in the oven to keep warm," she explained. She then put them on a newspaper that was lying ready on a kitchen surface and carried them to the table. The smell was intoxicating. Harry's mouth began to water. Hermione fetched two small, plastic coloured forks from the sideboard and then sat down opposite him. "Now we eat!"

"With these?" asked Harry incredulously holding up his flimsy red fork.

"Of course! What else? Tuck in or it will go cold!"

Harry shrugged and speared a chip. The taste in his mouth was gorgeous; warm and soft and flavoursome. He speared another. The grease was soaking through the newspaper, and the bit of fish Hermione had torn off seemed to have a slightly inky appearance.

Still, however hard he tried he could not concentrate solely on the meal, delicious as it was. He kept glancing up at Hermione, watching her sillouette eat. He thought it better than the seven wonders of the world put together.

At one point they both speared the same chip. They looked at each other and Hermione went rather red. "You have it," she said.

"No, you have it," Harry insisted. "Really, I mean it."

Hermione smiled wryly and then laughed. "Let's share it, shall we?"

Harry nodded and removed his fork. Hermione lifted up the chip and held it out to him. "Eat it!" she commanded.

He leaned forward and bit half the chip off her fork. As he chewed it he became suddenly aware of how close they were. Hermione seemed to have frozen. She was gazing right into his eyes, her cheeks were flushed and her lips were slightly parted. The fork she held in her hand was forgotten, as was the half eaten chip on the end of it. As he looked into her eyes, he felt himself loose control. He stopped chewing the chip and just stared at her, into her, seeing right through her.

He leaned across the table as if in a dream, to take the hand still suspended in mid-air. As he did so he knocked over the beer bottle with a loud clunk. The brown liquid spread all over the table and soaked through the newspaper. Hermione jerked back and covered her mouth with her hands.

"I'm so sorry!" cried Harry jumping up to get a cloth.

"No, it was my fault!" she said breathlessly. She removed her hands from her mouth. Her face was bright red. "Really, it was all my fault. Please, please don't get up."

"Well, what shall we do?"

"Leave it! They taste just as nice with beer on them!" She shrugged and carried on eating, not meeting his eyes.

Harry found that he prefered the chips without beer as it happened, but he did not feel able to tell Hermione that.

It was agony to sit there and watch her. He wanted to kiss her, and he felt sure he recognised the look that had been on her face as one of someone who definitely wanted to kiss him. Could she love him too? What if he took the chance?

He carefully and deliberately laid down his fork and stared hard at her face. "Hermione," he said eventually. "You've got something on your cheek.

She looked up surprised. Her hand went to her cheek. "Do I? Where?"

"There," said Harry pointing. "It looks like grease."

"It will be," she explained. "I was mending my bycicle; the brakes were going. Where is it again?"

"There!" he repeated. "Let me show you." He leaned over the narrow table and gently took her hand and moved it to the appropriate position.

"There?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Yes." Slowly, he removed her finger from the spot and started to rub her cheek. She trembled a little. "How big is it?" she asked, hardly able to keep her voice steady.

"Not too big," he replied, and then he appeared to consider the matter again. "About this big." He leaned even more forward. She drew back a little; her eyes were very round. He rested his other hand on her shoulder to steady her.

He kissed the smudge and let his lips linger there before sitting back and looking closely at her. Her cheeks were pinker than ever. Their eyes met again.

"Harry," she whispered, "What are you doing?"

He looked solemnly at her and then replied, in the same tone, "I'm kissing you, Hermione." And then he did just that.