DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything, apart from some chocolate in a drawer in my room. You can't have any, by the way, because it's MINE.
Hermione stared at the roof of the tent, only the slight, irregular bulges and wrinkles showing it to be cloth rather than plaster. Ron was keeping watch and Hermione could hear him pacing back and forth, along with Harry's quiet snoring and the strange, mournful sound of wind rushing through leaves and branches.
A loud thump and a muttered curse from outside interrupted her musings. Employing a few choice words of her own as she got out of bed (Merlin, that floor was cold!) she put on her slippers and padded out to see what was wrong.
Ron was clutching his ankle and rubbing it, his face whiter than normal. Hermione ran over. "Ron, what is it? What happened?"
"Slipped," he grumbled. "Over there," he added, gesturing to a patch of mud with visible mark. "I just twisted my ankle, that's all, don't worry about it."
Straightening, he looked at Hermione, noting the shadows under her eyes and the paleness of her face. "'Mione, what are you doing up? It's almost three in the morning!" he said, checking his watch.
She shrugged. "I couldn't sleep." She paused. "I haven't been sleeping very well for a while, really."
Ron smiled at her, and then quickly ran into the tent. "Muffliato!" Hermione heard from inside.
"What'd you do that for?" asked Hermione when he came back out.
"Well, we don't want Harry to wake up, do we? It's bad enough that you're a chronic insomniac, he doesn't need to be one too," he teased.
She grinned, but before she could think of a suitable retort, she noticed something else. "Ron, your trousers are filthy!"
"Oh. Are they?" he asked, looking at them. "Scourgify!" A little bit of the mud vanished. "Well, that's a bit better," he said, grumpily. Hermione giggled to herself.