A/N: Thunderstorm time again, although this one is significantly less intense. I'm just glad I got this edited before the internet has the chance to cut off again.

As usual, the night after visiting the cemetery is particularly tough for Harry. His slumber is riddled with nightmares and insomnia that he just can't shake, leaving him feeling like he's spending most of the night just staring at the wall opposite his bed. The dim light peaking its way in around the edges of the curtain illuminates the room just enough for him to make out the mementos and photographs that line his dressing table, so he fixes his gaze on the shadowed faces that smile back at him with the innocence of youth.

Eventually, he gives up on sleep entirely. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he slides out of bed with a groan and, after slipping on his glasses, stumbles out of his bedroom. The glare of the hallway lights prove too bright for his aching eyes, so he peers at his feet as he makes his way down the stairs, waiting for his corneas to adjust.

He regains vision just as he reaches the bottom of the flight of stairs and turns to enter the dining room. To his surprise, a thin rim of light borders the door. It takes a moment for his tired brain to register that that either means that someone else is awake or that Hermione forgot to turn the light off before bed.

Given her rather impressive memory, he suspects that it's the former.

The door swings open, and he almost runs headfirst into his best friend.

"Oh!" Hermione exclaims, clutching paperwork to her chest as she jumps back in shock. "Harry." She slips the wand that she drew like lightning back into her pocket. "Reflex," she explains, almost self-consciously.

"Understandable," he slurs out, sending an amused smile quirking across her lips. "'scuse me."

She moves back further to let him pass before following him back through into the kitchen. "You know, you're kind of adorable when you're tired. You look like an overgrown kid."

He eyes her, not sure whether to take that as a compliment or an insult, before heading over to pull a box of cereal from the cupboard. "I bet this doesn't help, does it?" he asks as he sets himself up at the table.

"Not really." Slipping into the chair next to him, she sighs and asks, "Another nightmare?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Not really."

"Would it help if I talked about something else?"

At his nod, she obligingly lurches into a description of the research she has been doing into how different legal systems approach the issue of werewolves and how she hopes to piece together an approach that will be accepted by wizarding Britain. His brain is too groggy to follow her detailed explanations, but her words give him something else to concentrate on, and he uses it to pull himself out of the abyss the nightmares so carelessly tossed him into.

"Thank you," he says when his snack is finished and her voice has faded into silence once more. "You really are the best, Hermione."

She smiles, tired but obviously grateful for his words. Her desire for external validation has faded as the years have gone on and she has learned to ignore the judgemental gazes of those around them, but, at times like these, he's reminded that she's still the same girl who once despaired over the idea of having a single professor dislike her. "Anytime, Harry. Are you going back to bed?"

"I might read for a bit first."

"Do you want any suggestions?" she asks, a little too eagerly.

He snickers. "Not unless you have any Quidditch books I don't know about."

She pulls a face at him, causing him to laugh harder. "Only one on the dangers of the sport to athletes' long term health."

"Right. I might just stick with my own bookshelf, then."

"That's probably for the best," she agrees.