He remembered the room being dark, dark as night. It made sense, since it
had been very night when he had fallen asleep. But now there was a light,
something glowing in front of him. It was like a flashlight. No,
flashlights were back in the Muggle world, back in the Muggle world where
he had left them. Was it a point of wand light? Was it a candle? Was it a
star come down from the heavens to shine over him?
"Hermione?" he asked suddenly. He sat up quickly.
"Yes. It's me, Harry."
"What are you doing here?" he whispered.
"I came to see you," she said, setting her candle in its holder down on his bedside table. So it was a candle.
"Okay," he said. He wasn't sure what else to say. There wasn't much else to say. "What," he began. "Um. What's up?"
"Nothing really," she said vaguely. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him curiously.
Except she wasn't the curious one. He was. He was curious as to why she was sitting on his bed in the middle of the night with no apparent need to explain her presence there.
"Hermione, what are you doing here?" he asked again.
"Why, do you want me to go?"
"No!" he said. "I, no. No, you can stay if you like."
"I like," she said.
He stared at her. What was she doing here? He wondered if this was a dream. He had had dreams like this before. Well, to be honest, not quite like this, but somewhat similar. If you counted similar as meaning both dreams had women in the dark with him in his dormitory at a late hour.
But this dream had Hermione in it. It was different than a dream, though. Because normally in these dreams, he wasn't confused as to why the woman was there. It was very obvious to both of them why she was there. And in his dreams, she was never patient and quiet. And he was never nervous and jumpy and bewildered and self-conscious. What a stupid dream, he thought wildly. I had better wake up soon. Move onto the good dreams.
He cleared his throat. "Hermione," he started.
"Harry," she said. He wondered why he shivered when she said his name.
"Yeah."
She crawled on her hands and knees across the bed towards him. His head was spinning. What was this now? This wasn't supposed to happen with Hermione. They were friends, and friends didn't have strangely enticing dreams about friends. It just wasn't done.
But here it was, being done, and in his own bedroom!
"Hermione," he said. He felt distantly annoyed that his voice seemed to have chosen this moment to rocket up several octaves. What a dream. First the wrong girl, and then prepubescent voice cracking. This was turning into a real nightmare. All that was lacking was a guest star performance by Lord Voldemort.
"Hermione, what are you doing here?" He was fascinated that this was the only thing he seemed capable of asking her. And he suddenly realized that it didn't really matter to him why she was there, because he didn't really want her to leave.
"I told you," she said, and he was surprised that there was no annoyance in her voice, as was custom of her when repeatedly asked the same question, "I came to see you."
"Ah."
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No," he said. "Not really."
"Then I can stay?"
"If that's what you want."
"Yes."
"'Yes' what," he asked.
"Yes, I want it," she replied.
He felt himself turning red. "Well, I'm so glad we've cleared all that up." He cleared his throat again. "Do you, er...want some tea," he asked lamely.
She raised her eyebrows at him. "Have you got any tea?"
"No," he said. "Not really."
"Ah."
What ensued was possibly one of the most awkward parts of his life that Harry could remember. He was starting fixedly at anything that was not Hermione, and Hermione, he knew from the way her gaze was boring into him, was starting just as fixedly at him.
"Why won't you look at me?" she asked him lightly.
He looked up and said, meekly, "It hurts." He realized, weakly, that it was true. It hurt to look at her. He couldn't possibly fathom why, but there it was.
He could still feel himself burning, quite unsure of why. His whole head seemed to have been inundated with very thick, mind-numbing water. Truth to tell, however, his mind had just been flooded with many realizations that he had never thought he'd come to.
He looked up suddenly, and just as suddenly, he had another realization. And it was this: it no longer hurt to look at Hermione. Now nothing hurt. And he couldn't stop looking at her either. He opened his eyes wide to take in as much of her as possible.
"What," she asked. A faint pink glow dusted her cheeks. About time, he thought absently. This dream just wouldn't be fair unless she got to be self-conscious as well.
"I." And he found he didn't know what.
She nodded. "I know."
What she knew he was sure he didn't know, and what was supremely annoying to him was that he wanted to know. Desperately.
"You do? Tell me."
"I'll show you," she said.
"Oh..." he began.
She crawled towards him. He was right above him now, but she wasn't touching him. He wasn't quite sure how, and some part of him deep inside seemed to have forgotten the new world he lived in, because he was wondering if it was magic that made her so real and yet so not at the same time. She put a hand along either side of his waist, and still didn't touch him.
Their faces were so close, he could just sort of...lean closer...and kiss her lips...couldn't he?
But he found he couldn't. He was stuck, frozen in time, unable to move.
She could move, though. And she was. Their lips were almost touching. He could feel red-hot burning anticipation building and boiling inside of him. Just a bit closer, just a bit, now, and---
Sudden, dazzling, blinding light surrounded him.
"Harry, wake up, you've been sleeping forever!"
Harry blinked for a few moments and then slid his glasses onto his nose. "Have I?" he asked. His voice was slightly bitter, like someone who had been woken from an, er, extraordinary dream.
"Yeah, all morning, almost. Are you coming down for presents or what?"
"Presents. Oh—Christmas presents?"
"'Course, mate. I said you've been sleeping long, but it's not like I'd let you sleep through Christmas!"
"No, no, I know. Gimme a minute to get ready."
"Right, I'll be downstairs with Hermione." As Ron left the room, Harry swung his legs around so they were dangling over the side of the bed. Perhaps it had been a good thing that he had been woken before he and Hermione had kissed. How would he have been able to look at her, knowing that he had dreamt about her that way?
As he walked from his bed through the open door into the corridor, he tried to rid his mind of all memories of the dream. He padded down the corridor and down the spiral stairs. He stopped a few steps before he reached the bottom of the staircase and gazed into the Common Room. Hermione looked up and saw him. Her whole face lit up a she smiled at him, and he was fairly sure that she was blushing, just a little. Just like the Dream-Hermione. Except this Hermione was real. And she still blushed at the sight of him. Of course, he decided a moment later, this could be because his pajama pants were sagging a bit.
He hitched up his pants and started down the remaining stairs. No, he told himself decidedly. He could not forget that almost-kiss. He couldn't forget it. He had to know what it would feel like. He caught sight of a sprig of mistletoe out of the corner of his eye. He would ask to talk to her tonight. And he would get his kiss.
"Merry Christmas, Harry!"
"Hermione?" he asked suddenly. He sat up quickly.
"Yes. It's me, Harry."
"What are you doing here?" he whispered.
"I came to see you," she said, setting her candle in its holder down on his bedside table. So it was a candle.
"Okay," he said. He wasn't sure what else to say. There wasn't much else to say. "What," he began. "Um. What's up?"
"Nothing really," she said vaguely. She was sitting on the edge of his bed, watching him curiously.
Except she wasn't the curious one. He was. He was curious as to why she was sitting on his bed in the middle of the night with no apparent need to explain her presence there.
"Hermione, what are you doing here?" he asked again.
"Why, do you want me to go?"
"No!" he said. "I, no. No, you can stay if you like."
"I like," she said.
He stared at her. What was she doing here? He wondered if this was a dream. He had had dreams like this before. Well, to be honest, not quite like this, but somewhat similar. If you counted similar as meaning both dreams had women in the dark with him in his dormitory at a late hour.
But this dream had Hermione in it. It was different than a dream, though. Because normally in these dreams, he wasn't confused as to why the woman was there. It was very obvious to both of them why she was there. And in his dreams, she was never patient and quiet. And he was never nervous and jumpy and bewildered and self-conscious. What a stupid dream, he thought wildly. I had better wake up soon. Move onto the good dreams.
He cleared his throat. "Hermione," he started.
"Harry," she said. He wondered why he shivered when she said his name.
"Yeah."
She crawled on her hands and knees across the bed towards him. His head was spinning. What was this now? This wasn't supposed to happen with Hermione. They were friends, and friends didn't have strangely enticing dreams about friends. It just wasn't done.
But here it was, being done, and in his own bedroom!
"Hermione," he said. He felt distantly annoyed that his voice seemed to have chosen this moment to rocket up several octaves. What a dream. First the wrong girl, and then prepubescent voice cracking. This was turning into a real nightmare. All that was lacking was a guest star performance by Lord Voldemort.
"Hermione, what are you doing here?" He was fascinated that this was the only thing he seemed capable of asking her. And he suddenly realized that it didn't really matter to him why she was there, because he didn't really want her to leave.
"I told you," she said, and he was surprised that there was no annoyance in her voice, as was custom of her when repeatedly asked the same question, "I came to see you."
"Ah."
"Do you want me to leave?"
"No," he said. "Not really."
"Then I can stay?"
"If that's what you want."
"Yes."
"'Yes' what," he asked.
"Yes, I want it," she replied.
He felt himself turning red. "Well, I'm so glad we've cleared all that up." He cleared his throat again. "Do you, er...want some tea," he asked lamely.
She raised her eyebrows at him. "Have you got any tea?"
"No," he said. "Not really."
"Ah."
What ensued was possibly one of the most awkward parts of his life that Harry could remember. He was starting fixedly at anything that was not Hermione, and Hermione, he knew from the way her gaze was boring into him, was starting just as fixedly at him.
"Why won't you look at me?" she asked him lightly.
He looked up and said, meekly, "It hurts." He realized, weakly, that it was true. It hurt to look at her. He couldn't possibly fathom why, but there it was.
He could still feel himself burning, quite unsure of why. His whole head seemed to have been inundated with very thick, mind-numbing water. Truth to tell, however, his mind had just been flooded with many realizations that he had never thought he'd come to.
He looked up suddenly, and just as suddenly, he had another realization. And it was this: it no longer hurt to look at Hermione. Now nothing hurt. And he couldn't stop looking at her either. He opened his eyes wide to take in as much of her as possible.
"What," she asked. A faint pink glow dusted her cheeks. About time, he thought absently. This dream just wouldn't be fair unless she got to be self-conscious as well.
"I." And he found he didn't know what.
She nodded. "I know."
What she knew he was sure he didn't know, and what was supremely annoying to him was that he wanted to know. Desperately.
"You do? Tell me."
"I'll show you," she said.
"Oh..." he began.
She crawled towards him. He was right above him now, but she wasn't touching him. He wasn't quite sure how, and some part of him deep inside seemed to have forgotten the new world he lived in, because he was wondering if it was magic that made her so real and yet so not at the same time. She put a hand along either side of his waist, and still didn't touch him.
Their faces were so close, he could just sort of...lean closer...and kiss her lips...couldn't he?
But he found he couldn't. He was stuck, frozen in time, unable to move.
She could move, though. And she was. Their lips were almost touching. He could feel red-hot burning anticipation building and boiling inside of him. Just a bit closer, just a bit, now, and---
Sudden, dazzling, blinding light surrounded him.
"Harry, wake up, you've been sleeping forever!"
Harry blinked for a few moments and then slid his glasses onto his nose. "Have I?" he asked. His voice was slightly bitter, like someone who had been woken from an, er, extraordinary dream.
"Yeah, all morning, almost. Are you coming down for presents or what?"
"Presents. Oh—Christmas presents?"
"'Course, mate. I said you've been sleeping long, but it's not like I'd let you sleep through Christmas!"
"No, no, I know. Gimme a minute to get ready."
"Right, I'll be downstairs with Hermione." As Ron left the room, Harry swung his legs around so they were dangling over the side of the bed. Perhaps it had been a good thing that he had been woken before he and Hermione had kissed. How would he have been able to look at her, knowing that he had dreamt about her that way?
As he walked from his bed through the open door into the corridor, he tried to rid his mind of all memories of the dream. He padded down the corridor and down the spiral stairs. He stopped a few steps before he reached the bottom of the staircase and gazed into the Common Room. Hermione looked up and saw him. Her whole face lit up a she smiled at him, and he was fairly sure that she was blushing, just a little. Just like the Dream-Hermione. Except this Hermione was real. And she still blushed at the sight of him. Of course, he decided a moment later, this could be because his pajama pants were sagging a bit.
He hitched up his pants and started down the remaining stairs. No, he told himself decidedly. He could not forget that almost-kiss. He couldn't forget it. He had to know what it would feel like. He caught sight of a sprig of mistletoe out of the corner of his eye. He would ask to talk to her tonight. And he would get his kiss.
"Merry Christmas, Harry!"