September 16.
The cool September breeze gently lifted the almost-sheer curtains of Hermione's bedroom in her fourth floor flat. Birds were chirping, the traffic below was thrumming softly in a Capra-esque way; idealized urbanity.
She stretched in her bed- ivory colored sheets, sensible e navy blue coverlet- and smiled before opening her eyes to the beautiful day ahead of her.
Her twenty-fifth birthday.
The alarm set for 8 am had not gone off yet, so Hermione allowed her face to burrow into the downiness of her pillow and think, her head not yet cleared of its hazy optimism.
Harry and Ron would be in the kitchen of their shared flat when she woke. They'd still be in their pajamas, but it was early still for the bartender and his best friend the Strategy Consultant. The eggs, Ron's job, would be over- or under- cooked, but Hermione would love them regardless. Harry would have done the rest of the work beautifully- bacon, sausage, toast, fresh orange or grapefruit juice and kippers.
Today would be a wonderful day.
Regretfully, when the alarm did go off, she breezed into her bathroom, the only private en-suite bathroom in the flat, which was her stipulation for moving in with her two bachelor best mates. It took a moment for the shower to warm up and after she took her clothes off, she cheerfully moved through her bedroom towards her closet.
A quite ungainly racket came from her bedroom door, startling and almost shattering Hermione's dreamlike state.
Ron Weasley bellowed from the other side of the white, paneled door. "Aaurgh, 'Ermione! Up and out of bed, you…erm…lazy bones!"
"I'm quite awake now, Ron, if I wasn't before," she replied. "Don't come in."
"Aye, m'lady. What be-eth your plans for the dusky night?" Harry yelled, joining the chorus of oddly phrased voices from the other side of the door.
Hermione was now perplexed and irritated- her shower would go cold. "Why are you talking like that?"
"It's ye lucky day, lass," started Harry.
Ron finished for him. "It be Talk Like a Pirate Day."
"What?" Hermione replied, pulling on her dressing gown and yanking open the door.
Harry and Ron stood before her door, predictably, in pajamas, although Ron did have quite a rakish eye-patch as well.
"Well?" She demanded, curbing her urge to stamp her foot.
"It, err, be talk like a pirate day." Harry replied lamely.
Ron, still in the game, quipped, "And they be having a bottle of run and fun night at the Hog's Head. Join us after work- there will be lots of surprises."
"Everyone from school is coming- Parv and Lavender," Harry started, getting his courage back in the face of a morning 'Mione, "Seamus, Dean, Neville and Luna, Gins and the Twins and I think Charlie will be there. We're going after breakfast to help Aberforth set up. Come, please. I think everyone is getting there around six."
Her mood instantly brightened. Of course, she though, a surprise twenty-fifth birthday.
"Of course. I'll be off at five," she said, kissing each one of her favorite boys' cheeks, to their bewilderment, "and I'll come right over after I've done the grocery shopping and have changed my clothes. You'll owe me probably thirty quid each after this trip."
And happily she shut the door right in their faces to get into the shower.
It was cold.
That couldn't bring Hermione down today, though, even with transit issues. The tube was crowded, she didn't see that the Central line was temporarily closed between Oxford Circus and Tottenham Court Road, so she had to take a totally twisted way to Piccadilly to her office.
Which really wasn't much to talk about, as far as offices go. Hermione was sandwiched into a broom closet with Petula Peabody, a messy and quite neurotic former Playwizard Playmate, circa 1935.
When Hermione had started on at the little referred to Department of Antiquities, she had been lured in with the promise of growth, good pay and exciting work. What she got was eye strain from staring at the tiny inscriptions of suspicious pieces of jewelry and a bit of lumbago from bending over to assess the natural or faux state of mummies belonging to the British collection. Petula's job was as recorder, so technically she was Hermione's secretary- the one who jotted all of the notes and put them into order (which Miss Peabody didn't do so swimmingly) for Hermione's perusal and easy access.
This day was no different. She walked into the office at 9:07, to be greeted by the receptionist with a cackle of, "You be late. Time now to walk the plank!" and made her way up the rickety stairs to the third floor to see her supervisor, Simon Gellworthy.
But Simon as usual was not available. The Simon that was available had used some sort of charm to extend his usually blondish and well groomed beard down his chest and had made use of a Georgian Tricorne hat which Hermione was sure that she had authenticated last month.
"You left a message, sir?" Hermione asked, tugging self-consciously at the hem of her sensible tweed pencil skirt.
He lit his pipe, the smell of which made Hermione's eyes water furiously. "Aye. I'll have you and Petula over to the Bodleian and seeing Ramesses Clarke about a new Gutenberg."
"A new Gutenberg hasn't been found in a century!" Hermione exclaimed, "Is this under reasonable doubt to be a fake?"
He puffed. "Right through the heart, me lass. Seems to be of an apprentice's work. Twas found in a scurvy knave's old home."
"Mr. Gellworthy, I can't express how much this means to me- to be examining a forty-ninth Gutenberg."
He doffed his tricorne; Hermione was right, it was the same she had worked on. "Ye be the best, Miss Granger."
Hermione was too ecstatic to be working on the project to be irritated at Talk Like A Pirate Day.
She scurried down to her office on the second floor where Petula was waiting at her desk with a copy of the Quibbler on her lap, but she was sound asleep and snoring in her Windsor chair.
"Petula," Hermione said, receiving no response.
"Petula!" she tried, this time more forcefully.
Petula snorted and sat upright. "Oh, Hermione, I've just got the most awful headache, I was just waiting for you to get here so that I could go straight home. I just feel like I've a pelican inside my skull!"
Pelican, questioned Hermione to herself. Odd. "All right, Petula. Go home. I'll do the recording myself out at Oxford."
Her secretary scuttled out, forgetting her Quibbler.
She wrote a quick line to Ron, Aberforth and Harry mentioning that she had to go to Oxford, but she'd be able to make it back to get to Hogsmeade by seven.
This time when she left Piccadilly, it was a short and unhampered journey back to Kensington to the flat to pick up some of her forensic gear and a more sturdy set of clothing and to get in her little car and be headed out of town.
Hermione liked driving, especially when she could and it would cause no delays. The short drive up the M40 from Central London to Oxford only took a bit over an hour and Hermione had gotten four chapters into a new audio book.
Pulling out her mobile from her sturdy khaki cargo pants, Hermione dialed Ramesses Clarke at the Bodleian On Call phone.
A voice Hermione recognized answered. "Bodleian."
"Ramesses, its Hermione from Department of Antiquities. I've just gotten into Oxford."
If one could sound relieved from the other end of a cellular signal, Ramesses did. "I need backup. Soon. Little prat who brought the Bible's gone to lunch and will be back by noon."
"All right. It's eleven now. Is eleven thirty all right for me to meet you? I haven't picked up my lunch yet."
"Of course. But I want you to get a good look at my diagnostics before he gets back."
"Diagnostic work? Where's the Gutenberg?" Hermione asked, locking up the car and marching toward a familiar café.
"Swot took it with him. Won't let anyone touch it if he's not in the room."
Hermione understood the frustration. "Right. Well, I'll be over as soon as I've ordered. I'll look over your work over my sandwich."
"Right-o. See you soon, Hermione."
She sighed into the disconnected phone. "And happy birthday, Hermione."
A half an hour later revealed Hermione and a large, bronze skinned man with a gleaming bald head bending over a thick-hewn work table at waist height.
"All right, starting observations: It's a vellum paged book, with 8 leaf quinternions and the standard 36 line type." Ramesses began, "It's all in one volume, which for vellum is odd, due to the weight. Illuminations seem to be of French origin, as the ink is more highly alkaline than would be typical for Germany at that time. There have been eight quinternions added to the back of the bible, where family births and deaths along with marriages have been recorded."
Hermione chewed her ciabatta thoughtfully and wiped absently at her lips before speaking. "The extra pages- sixty four of them? Are they common? I know that they were prevalent in the sixteenth century, but usually in the front."
Ramesses chuckled wryly, his thick, dark brows arching sardonically. "A great deal of this book is held together magically. I've a suspicion that this is a piece done by one of the men in Gutenberg's studio; a wizard."
"There is one known wizarding copy, if I am correct, in Gottingen, in Germany."
Ramesses smiled, forgetting the difficult client and remembering with delirium the book. "Ah, but this specimen is far more rare. The illuminations are exquisite and the binding is nearly perfectly intact. We know the original owners dating to the middle of the fifteenth century. It would be England's national treasure."
"But it will remain in my family's possession," came a familiar drawl from the doorway to Ramesses study.
Hermione's blood didn't exactly go icy, but the bottom of her stomach did get a bit of a work out. She steeled herself and turned away from the table.
Platinum blonde hair, cool, appraising eyes. Draco Malfoy.
Ramesses spoke first, "I trust your meal was acceptable."
"Acceptable, Dr. Clarke. Thank you. I see we've called in the authenticator from the Department of Antiquities?"
Did he not recognize her? It was true that she had barely seen him since that fatal final day of the war, and that her hair was much darker and much more in control and she'd gotten a bit of a tan and she wasn't wearing shapeless sacks for clothing anymore. But wouldn't Draco Malfoy notice swotty old Hermione Granger?
Could her birthday get any worse?
"I thought," Ramesses began, furrowing his brows, "that the two of you were in the same year at Hogwarts."
"We were," Hermione replied brusquely. She proffered her hand, slender and cool to the touch. "Dr. Hermione Granger, head of the Medieval and Renaissance Authentication Department."
It was Malfoy's turn to look aghast. Shocked, even. Floored.
"Granger? I mean, you don't look anything…" he trailed off, taking her hand in a handshake. Was the world ending? Was Malfoy an automaton?
"It's been eight years. I trust you've been well?" she asked politely, still stunned.
He laid the bible on the table. "As well as can be expected. I've just inherited the Bible."
"Strange," began Hermione. "I didn't expect the Malfoys to be religious. To own a muggle Bible."
"Huguenots, actually. You can see where the Malfait family left France in the late sixteenth century for Wiltshire."
He opened the book to the second page. "Here's where they began to assimilate the Malfoy name and use English for their entries."
"We would like to get on with our authentication processes, please, Mr. Malfoy." Ramesses interjected.
"Of course," Malfoy replied coolly. "I'll be right here."
"Malfoy," Hermione began on a whim, "You could sit at the other side of the table and watch, should you be interested."
"Draco, please."
Their eyes locked for probably the first time in almost a decade and an old rivalry was brought to the surface, although neither knew why, exactly. It was quashed, though, and Draco moved to pull up a stool and watch as Drs. Clarke and Granger ran their analyses.
After three and a half painstaking hours of carbon dating and ink, leather, glue, paper and thread analysis, it was confirmed.
The Bible was of Gutenberg Origin and was the work of a wizard, although who that wizard was is unknown.
The date was approximated to be between 1471 and 1486. The first entries in the front of the book were made by one hand, a south paw who wrote very softly, with an inherently feminine quality.
Guillame Malfait born 16 September, 1435
Married Meraude de Maurteil 1 January, 1465
Leonete Malfait born 12 August, 1466
Died 15 August, 1466
Guillame-Nicholas Malfait born August 3, 1467
In a totally different hand, this one from the right and likely masculine, thought by Hermione to be Guillame Malfait born in 1435, were the further descriptions.
Guillame-Nicholas Malfait married to Caudelie la Lyoness on 12 May, 1486
Colinet Nicole Malfait born 5 June, 1488
Died 1500
Lucienne Caudelie Malfait born 9 September 1489
"I think Mr. Gellworthy will be please to have this done," said Hermione as she began packing up her equipment.
Ramesses was pleased as well. "And thank you again, Mr. Malfoy, for bringing us this magnificent work."
"I wanted to make sure it was worthy of writing my father's death in," he replied, wrapping the book in linen.
Something made Hermione ask. "You're in London, right?"
Draco's interest piqued as well. "I am."
"I'd not like you to apparate or floo with that Bible. I'm driving back if I could give you a lift."
Something in Draco made him accept. They bid goodbye to Ramesses and headed out into the fresh September air. Students in their long robes and mortar boards milled about on the green for their afternoon tea break from three until four in the afternoon.
"I went to Oxford, you know." Draco commented idly.
Hermione was surprised. "Did you?"
"I was in classical literature. Keats, Joyce. The like."
"And now what are you doing?" asked Hermione, fishing for her car keys in her over large bag.
He chuckled wryly, as if she had told a funny joke. "I'm managing the estate. You know, my father died a few months back, and someone had to take care of the whole heap of things."
"I heard. I'm sorry."
He laughed again. "Don't be. I'm not."
She clicked the locks on the Renault Megane she owned and gestured for Malfoy to get into the passenger seat.
"Not the kind of car I would have expected the old Hermione Granger to drive," he commented, looking at the fairly modern styling of the two door coupe.
She put the keys into the ignition and the car started with a jolly whirr. "What did you expect?"
"Maybe a station wagon? Something infinitely serviceable and useful."
"I was quite a swot in school, wasn't I?" Hermione replied. "No, don't answer that."
"Didn't think I had to."
The first few minutes were mostly quiet, the two flipping quietly between stations on the wireless.
Hermione cleared her throat. "I'm glad you're not talking like a pirate."
Draco sputtered, then coughed. "Excuse me?"
"My boss, Mr. Gellworthy, and the secretary and Harry and Ron and everyone today has been talking like pirates."
"Are you mad, Granger?"
"Hermione," she replied. "And no. They said it was talk like a pirate day. And here I just thought it was my birthday."
"Well, is it your birthday?" Draco asked.
"Twenty-Five."
Draco smiled, a real smile. "Happy Birthday, Hermione."
"Thanks," she said softly. "You know you're the first person today to mention it."
"Thought you lived with Weasley and Potter," commented Draco.
Hermione glanced his way. "How'd you know that?"
"Lucky guess. Golden Trio- always together," Draco shrugged and gestured to the window. "Do you mind?"
"No, go ahead."
He rolled down the window, Hermione following suit. Draco's hair shone more brightly in the late afternoon sun, more golden that platinum. Hermione's, though, blew around her face in raucous waves.
"I've a clip in my glove box. Get it out, would you?" asked Hermione, brushing strands of hair out of her chapstick.
He retrieved it, a tortoiseshell colored claw and in a moment of inspiration, gently pulled the strands back from her face himself, fastening them low and tight by her left ear.
The shock of the brush of his warm fingers against the sensitive skin behind her ear, along her jaw and up her neck refused to cease. The tingling left seemed to go on and on forever.
Her voice came out more breathy than she would have wanted. "Thanks."
"You were driving," replied Draco smoothly, tucking a piece of his own shoulder-brushing hair behind his ear.
"Have you made a list, I mean, an external list of all the people listed in the front of the Bible?"
"I haven't as of yet," Draco said. "I wanted to verify the authenticity of the book, along with the ink that was written in the front. I did discover a few interesting tidbits in my minor research, though."
Hermione's interest was piqued. "Such as?"
"Anna Bullen, later and more commonly known as Anne Boleyn, was the maitresse en titre, or official mistress of Gabriel-Etienne Malfait."
"My God, when?" gasped Hermione, turning sharply to look at Draco.
Draco smiled. "Anne spent most of her early adulthood, at that time being from age 13-17 at the French court under Francois. During that time, she pledged herself to Gabriel-Etienne Malfait."
"Extraordinary. Just extraordinary." Hermione replied, flabbergasted. "I read in Medieval and Renaissance History at Cambridge."
"So you know all about old Anne?" questioned Draco.
Hermione chuckled; it had been quite a long time since she had conversed historically with a civilian, that being, someone not employed by the Ministry or the British Government. "I know plenty. I specialized in contextualizing the letters of Henry's six wives and his many mistresses."
"Then you'd like to know that Mary Boleyn had a son with Gabriel-Etienne's son, Raoul when he was just fifteen."
"And what happened to this son?" Hermione questioned. This wasn't in the texts!
Draco almost wanted to withhold the tantalizing nugget of information- watch Hermione squirm as she was put in more and more suspense.
"Died, almost eight months after birth," he replied. "Named Thomas. He was born nine months before Mary was taken back to England to marry William Carey."
"You don't think…" gasped Hermione.
"I think Boleyn and Howard spies might have killed Thomas. It wasn't in their favor to have pretty Mary Boleyn married to a second son of French Viscounts."
Shocked silence held over the car for a moment, then a jolt, pop, sputter in quick unison.
Hermione swore under her breath as she limped the car to the side of the M40.
"We've a flat," she told Draco cautiously.
"Bollocks," he replied. "You know the charm?"
Hermione's face flew abruptly from mere anxiety to full fledged panic. "No. Hoped you would."
They opened their door and surveyed the damage. Definitely a flat.
Hermione kicked at the tire with her boot. "Damn. Why isn't there a Google for incantations? With a mobile app?"
Draco looked at her bewilderedly. "Excuse me?"
"Muggle thing. Which is how we're going to have to change this tire."
"Excuse me?"
Hermione popped the boot of the Megane. "Roll up your sleeves, pretty boy. I can't do this all by myself."
Draco stood shining in the sunlight, the rays glinting of his hair, his watch, his shining cuff links and even his very skin. Very clean. Very, very clean.
He contrasted starkly with Hermione's earthly beauty. Her hair was curling in the humidity and trailing down her back over a brown shirt with khaki cargo pants. Freckled dusted her shoulders and cheekbones.
"Excuse me? Let's go, Malfoy."
He reminded her. "Draco."
"Draco," she affirmed.
Together, they painted a beautiful roadside picture: man and woman struggling with a jack.
"Have you ever done this before?" asked Draco, panting in the sun as he primed the jack.
Hermione shrugged. "Once. When I was twelve, with my Da."
He shrugged out of his blazer and threw it in the boot before taking the full size spare out of the under storage. "First time for me."
Hermione cackled. "A virgin."
The lug nuts came of easily enough. It was getting them on again around the spare that was tricky. Hermione and Draco ended up pressed up against each other, shoulder to shoulder, Hermione holding the nuts and bolts in place and Draco, sweating, wrenching them (literally and metaphorically) into place.
By now it was half past six in the evening and Hermione was definitely going to be late for her own birthday party.
Her mobile rang, spilling out the first sixteen bars of "Don't Stop Believin'".
She flipped it open, putting a bolt between her teeth. "Harry."
The noise was loud in the back ground- gritty Irish drinking songs. "Oy, 'Ermione! We be going to get another bottle o' rum. Ye be close?"
She sighed, then smiled. Trying to find out where she was so they could bring out the cake.
"I'm a bit waylaid, Harry. I've had a flat on the M40 on the way back from Oxford. I'll ring, though, when I'm back at the flat and ready to floo over."
Harry yelled into the receiver, over the shouts, "All right then. We'll see you soon. Does that mean you don't want the rum yet?"
"No, Harry, no rum yet."
She flipped the receiver shut with a laugh.
"Give me that bolt, would you?" asked Draco.
Hermione obliged. "Of course."
"So you're running late, I suppose?"
With a sigh, Hermione replied. "Yes. A bit. I'm ruining Harry and Ron's surprise party for me."
Draco heaved himself off the ground, bushing the roadside grit from his trousers. "So you go on ahead. Apparate. If you want."
"And what about my car?" she asked, looking around as if to look for a place to store it.
Shrugging, he said, "I'll drive it back to your flat, if you want."
"But Draco, we're still an hour outside of London. That's too much to ask you. And then how would you get home?"
"I live in Chelsea. I'll take the underground," he offered, not exactly meeting her eyes.
She laughed, her eyes meeting his purposefully. "A priceless Gutenberg on the underground."
"They'll never know," he replied, flashing her a smile, a genuine smile.
She looked around for a moment and then down at her clothes. They were acceptable- for a bar on the edge of Hogsmeade. "The address is in the GPS under 'home'. Thanks, Draco. I hope you'll let me repay you sometime soon?"
"Of course. Be off with you," he said, still smiling at her. He moved toward her and smoothed a bit of stray hair from her forehead and left his hand to linger a moment. Hermione's eyes drifted closed as if in a dream. Was Draco going to kiss her?
He cleared his throat, looking noticeably flustered, but happy.
"I'll be off, then," she whispered. She gave him the keys and with a final look around, she disappeared from sight.
Night was closer to falling high into Scotland than it was in Southern England. The dusk was settling, the crickets beginning to chirp. After her call to Harry was made, Hermione walked slowly through the town, feeling a sense of peace and happiness that she hadn't felt in a while.
She was attracted to Draco. He was kind, polite, fascinating and, of course, loaded. But Hermione actually didn't care about that as much as one would think. She had a large trust fund and quite a sizable salary of her own. But really, she was definitely attracted to him.
Tomorrow she'd owl him.
Tonight was her birthday, though, and so far had been a good one. She couldn't wait to see Harry and Ron and what they had cooked up.
The outer door opened easily, the thick and warped planks doing their job well after a hundred years or so of use. She stood in the antechamber of the pub for a moment, listening to the noise inside.
The shouts that she had expected when she pushed through the second door never came. People were milling about the bar, sitting at the tables and dancing to the band that was playing in the far corner. The back patio doors were open and the green glow of enchanted cigarettes lit the darkness outside.
Where was her surprise birthday party? She was twenty-five, wasn't she? It was September 16th, wasn't it? She checked her watch. Yep, it was the 16th.
"Hey! Hermione!" Came a voice to her right through a throng of people. "You made it!"
Hermione sighed, her eyes starting to prick with the stinging of imminent tears, "Hi Ron."
"What is it, Hermione?" he slurred, setting his drink down on the window ledge beside her.
She stared at him miserably, then gave a great shuddering sniff. "Nothing, Ron. Where's Harry?"
He looked at her stupidly, then comprehended. "Last I saw he was in the kitchen with Susan Bones."
"Kitchen?" she confirmed. He nodded and she made her way through the bar and behind to the swinging doors of the kitchen.
Harry and Susan were standing side by side at the food prep tables, hurriedly putting together trays of appetizers to go to Katie Bell to be served.
"Hi Hermione!" Harry called. "Sure could have used your help about an hour ago!"
Her worst fears were confirmed. Her two best friends in the whole world had forgotten her birthday. "You wanted me to help?"
"Yeah, Marguerite called in sick, so we're a server short."
Hermione scoffed. "All of this for that stupid Talk Like a Pirate Day?"
"Yeah," piped up Susan. "Isn't it great? Everyone's been having so much fun with it."
Out of nowhere, a nearly inhuman wail came from Hermione, from deep in her throat. Hot, large tears spilt down her face in little rivulets and she sunk down onto a stool, burying her head in her hands.
"What's wrong, 'Mione?" Harry asked, rushing to her with a look of deep compassion on his face.
Through the sobs, Hermione managed to choke out, "I'm twenty five today, Harry!"
The next bit seemed distant to Hermione, probably because she was crying too hard, but she heard Harry send Susan to go get Ron.
"Oh, I'm so sorry," Harry murmured, petting her back soothingly. She was just about to look up and forgive him when the doors opened again, letting in both a wave of loud music and Ron.
"Oy, what's going on in here?" he asked.
Harry spoke for Hermione. "We've forgotten her birthday, mate."
Hermione pulled her head up, her face blotched and puffy.
"What's a birthday anyway? She should come join the party. It's fun!" replied Ron
Hermione shrieked. "What is wrong with you, Ronald Weasley? I planned that big dinner for your twenty-fifth. You don't even remember or care about mine. At least Harry's sorry!"
"Listen, it's just not a big deal, compared with Talk Like a-"
Ron was cut off by a hundred and twenty pounds of woman slamming into him and knocking him to the hard floor.
"What the hell is your problem?" Ron yelled.
Harry had his hands on Hermione's shoulders, "Come on, 'Mione. Up you go."
"You're a despicable, conceited bastard, Ronald!"
Ron had the audacity to look offended, "Hey, I'm a nice guy."
"You're kayleyed, mate," offered Harry. "I'd shut up."
"I'm out of here," Hermione stated plainly, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. With that, she marched out of the back door and into the alley, where the turned quickly and apparated home.
When she landed in the Apparation room of her flat's building, she realized that her keys to unlock the door were with Draco. Bugger, Bugger, Bugger.
She'd just have to wait for him outside. There was a nice little park, of course, called Kensington Square, across the street with a nicely situated bench for her to be able to watch for Draco. She settled herself onto it, cross legged, and began to wait. In an effort not to think about the embarrassment that had just happened, she tried to recite the Magna Carta, then translate it from English back to its native Latin.
She made it through to clause eleven of thirty seven when she heard the Megane pull up to a bit of metered parking on the street. She was up and out of her seat in moments, hoping that her appearance wasn't too disheveled.
"Hey!" she yelled to Draco.
He turned from where he was walking toward the train station.
"What are you doing here?" he asked.
"Well, it's quite a long story, involving my best friends forgetting my birthday and then realizing I had given you my house key."
"Why didn't you just use alohamora?" Draco inquired.
"It's a wizarding complex, you see, and the keys are enchanted for the bearer," she explained. "A simple locking spell won't work."
Draco considered. "I see."
"So, I need my keys for my flat so that I can go in and just lie in bed and die of embarrassment."
He bristled. "Why should you be embarrassed?"
"I'm mortified!"
"They should be the ones who are sorry. They forgot your birthday." The gas lamps clicked on, illuminating their faces. Draco was struck with an idea. "Why don't we go see a film?"
"You want to take me to the Cinema on my birthday? Like a date?" she asked, almost warily.
He smiled easily. "Yes. Like a date. And if you're good, I'll take you to get dessert afterwards."
Hermione Granger's twenty fifth year was off to a wonderful, miraculous start.