Author's Note:

Hello wonderful readers! Thanks for checking out my new one-shot! This was written for round 6 of the Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition, and the theme this round was "Month by Month" where each team chose a month and had to write about one character whose birthday is in that month. I am Chaser 1 for the Wimbourne Wasps, so we were writing characters with September birthdays. Within this list, I chose Hermione Granger! I also used some optional prompts that are available for the chasers to use: (dialogue) "If I hear anyone say 'Happy Birthday', one more time…", (word) refreshed, and (object) banana. Hope you enjoy!

My heart is shattered. It feels as though it is crumbling within me, falling to a heap of dust at my feet, leaving me empty and devastated.

I stare at the door to my flat, my travel bags held in white-knuckled fists at my sides.

Keep it together. Keep it together. I repeat the words like a mantra as I build the courage to enter my home.

My home.

I bought the place after the war ended. I couldn't go back to where I grew up, the memories hurt too much, so I had to move forward. I never really considered the flat to be my home as long as my parents were still gone, trapped in a happy haze of forgotten memories.

Now, this marks the end of my journey, the end of my failure. I'm giving up.

Home.

I take a deep breath, concentrating on the way the cool air of the air-conditioned hall fills my lungs. They seem to be shrinking and suffocating me. Every breath feels like glue seeping inside the organs that keep me alive. I'm choking, dying.

Yet I stand, frozen to the spot, jaw tight. I will not cry when I open the door. I will not break down, even though my world is falling apart.

I know what awaits me when I walk inside, and as much as I dread facing the nightmare of joyous wishes, I can't just stand out in the hall forever.

With a final breath of determination, I set one bag on the floor, pull my keys from the depths of my purse, and with trembling fingers, insert the key into the lock. I blink away the tears that are threatening to escape as I pick up my bag and push open the door with my hip.

I am met with a flood of overwhelming grief as I stare at the room of scattered letters and packages. Ginny has been here periodically to accept them, but now, I wish she'd burned the damn reminders of what today means.

Today is the nineteenth of September, my birthday. And what a horrid day it is.

Why did I have to return today, of all days, when the only thing I want is to hide away and sob?

Australia was a complete disaster, and every last bit of hope I had for getting my parents back has been snatched away from me.

I failed.

Me, Hermione Granger. I failed at the most important task I had faced since the war, maybe even greater.

They don't remember me. They never will. I never existed.

Now, I come back without them knowing who I am, unable to return the memories of their only daughter, on the day I was born.

I stiffly place my bags down in the middle of my sitting room, as though too much movement could trigger a break down, and cringe as I hear the tap tap tap of an owl carrying another note from an unknown sender.

Swallowing the thick saliva coating my mouth, I slowly make my way to the window and push open the glass. Giving the owl one of the treats I store there for the messengers, I stare at the cream-coloured envelope. I don't want to open it. If I do, that means I have to fully acknowledge the fact that my parents aren't coming back, that they won't ever celebrate another birthday with me.

They're the ones who always made it special, who thought it was such a big deal. They were so proud of me. It was at this time of year that they brought up my biggest achievements, said that this was the day to celebrate all the ways I had made the world better, and look to all the wonderful things I would one day do. Things they would never see, now. Things they would never remember. They were proud of my abilities, of my heart, of me, and it became tradition on my birthday to show that pride with a banana split. Oh, how I long for just one more year with them.

They were proud of me, and I failed them.

I wipe away a stray tear with the palm of my hand and tear into the envelope.

Happy Birthday, Hermione! Hope you have a good one! – Pat Smith.

I don't even know who that is. Everyone wants to pretend they know me, little Miss war hero. Scanning the room around me, I realize that I probably know maybe a quarter of these people, and I hate it.

I'm shaking. I can't handle this. Not this year, not now.

Placing the letter carefully on the coffee table beside all the unopened envelopes, I hurry from the room. I can't look at it. I feel my cheeks becoming wet with tears I just can't hold back any longer, and all I want is to be alone.

When I hear the fireplace roar to life with a floo call and Ron's voice call out from the flames, I quickly brush away the watery substance from my face and take several deep breaths to calm my racing heart and blazing emotions. Pasting a fake smile across my lips, I turn and make my way back to sitting room, kneeling beside the fireplace.

"Happy Birthday 'Mione!" Ron shouts, unaware of everything I'm facing. "Wish I could be there!"

"Thanks, Ron," I say. He's sweet, just a little oblivious sometimes. "How's Spain?" He's been on a Quidditch trip for about a month now.

"It's great! You'd love it here," he tells me, going on to list all the wonderful things he's been able to do there.

I just nod.

Finished with his spiel, an awkward silence spreads between us, and I can tell Ron is a bit fidgety. I really just don't want to talk right now. I don't want to explain myself or my failure in Australia.

Ron doesn't ask. I'm grateful, but I do think he may have forgotten I went there to search for my parents. He has a lot going on. Maybe I'd be more frustrated if I'd wanted to share the experience. Perhaps I will be when I'm back to my real self again. It really isn't acceptable. But for now, I'm just grateful.

"I, um, I just wanted to wish you a Happy Birthday. We'll be back in a few weeks, so I'll see you then," he adds before his face disappears from the flames.

My fake smile drops. Sighing, I continue sitting on the floor, unable to gather the will to stand.

All the negative thoughts come sweeping back with a vengeance.

You weren't good enough.

You failed.

You're such a disappointment.

Did all the learning and the research help at all?

Useless, all useless!

A knock on the door captures my attention, pulling me out of my sinking self-judgement. There's only one person who would actually bother to use the door rather than flooing.

Harry.

I did call before leaving Australia but was hoping he'd be too busy to drop by today. I should have known he's too good of a friend to wait.

Why can't I just be alone?

There's a pause before he knocks a second time.

"Coming!" I call, hoping my voice doesn't betray my fragile state.

Slowly, I push myself to my feet and walk to the front entrance. It feels as though the world is moving in slow motion, and it takes forever to reach the door.

Once again, I swallow my emotions as I twist the knob and pull.

"Happy Birthday," Harry says, though slightly less enthusiastically than Ron. My eyes glance down to the rather large bowl he holds in his hands. "Wasn't sure how it'd go, you know, so I tried to make this. I'm not really the best at this sort of thing."

I can't help but smile at his creation, which I assume was an attempt at a banana split. The bananas are quite squished and a bit brown, the ice-cream, runny and melted.

He tried, and suddenly, I can't hold back the hurricane of emotions the dish brings. I feel it bubbling; I feel that dam breaking, and then it all pours out in heart-wrenching sobs.

Harry's small smile fades, and I step aside to let him in. Setting the bowl down on the wooden bench, he wraps his arms around me.

"I take it didn't go well," he murmurs.

I shake my head, melting into his embrace. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't fix it," I cry. "What did I do to them?"

"What you had to," he tells me softly.

I can tell he's a bit uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or say with me sobbing against him, but surprisingly, I'm really glad he's here.

"I should have found another way!" I weep.

He's quiet for a moment, searching for the right words. "You kept them alive. You know as well as I do they were a target."

I do know. I know they would have been killed, probably tortured to death, to get to me. It's just so hard, losing them again. They're alive, but it's almost worse than if they were dead. I feel horrible for thinking it, but having them not remember who I am is more heartbreaking, harder to handle, than nearly anything else. They've moved on, are leading new lives, and have no idea they have a daughter.

They're alive. They're happy. That should make me happy.

I should be happy. I should be happy.

I can't. So I cry, standing there in Harry's arms, in the front entrance of my flat, until his shirt is damp from my tears. I cry until my sobs become whimpers, until my stomach hurts to weep anymore.

Stepping back, I take a shaky breath, and look at the friend who has stood with me through my tears. I realize from the sniffle and slightly watery eyes that he had been crying as well.

"Maybe the banana split was a bad idea," he says, breaking the sniffly quiet.

I shake my head. "No. It's perfect."

Taking a deep breath, I realize how much I needed that cry. My weighted heart has somehow lightened. No matter how much I thought I wanted to be alone, I needed a friend. I needed someone to listen, to hold me, to share in my state of despair. With that, my heart is refreshed.

Looking over at the bowl Harry brought, I can't help but laugh. The ice-cream is now completely melted, a milky mess with squishy, brown bananas swimming inside.

"My parents used to make banana splits on my birthday," I tell him.

"I know," he says. "You told me a while back. That's why I made it. Or tried to, anyway."

"Thank you," I reply softly. "Come in?"

"Sure," he responds, following me into the next room. "Well, that doesn't help." He has seen the pile of letters and parcels.

"Ginny's been accepting them for me," I say. "To be honest, I don't know what to do with them all. If I hear anyone say 'Happy Birthday,' one more time, I'm going to lose it." I chuckle ruefully. "Again."

"Want me to get rid of them?" Harry asks.

I look at him. "Maybe put them in another room where I don't have to look at them? When I'm ready I'll go through them. At least some are from people I know, and I should give those a read, thank them for the gifts."

Pulling out his wand, he piles the envelopes together, gathers the brown paper packages, and levitates them over to a box of miscellaneous things I keep in my front closet.

"Hermione." Harry turns to me, his green eyes piercing into mine. "You can't give up."

"What do you mean?"

"You failed your first try. Most people do. If I could bring back my parents, or Sirius, I wouldn't stop after trying once, or even a third or fourth time," he tells me.

My heart sinks even farther. I've been crying to him about how I failed my parents because I couldn't give them back their memories, but they're still alive. He doesn't have that choice.

"I'm sorry, I-

"Don't, just." He pauses. "Try again. Go do what you do best. Research, talk to experienced people, and do it over."

He's right.

"You're Hermione Granger. I don't think there's much you can't do with a few extra trips to the library."

But the fear of failure and of disappointing the people I love comes creeping back. I did fail them, and I could fail them again.

"Could they forgive me?" I whisper, more to myself than to him. I realize what I've said and cringe. I'm not sure if I want to hear the answer.

"Of course they would," he replies without hesitation. "They're your parents. It's what they do."

I send him a faint smile. How did I ever manage to find a friend like him?

"I'm going to go see if I can re-freeze that ice-cream. Ice-cream just makes everything better," Harry announces, walking back to fetch the bowl he left sitting by the door.

I move over to the sofa and plunk down into its familiar softness.

"Well, now it's a frozen lake of ice-cream," Harry declares, coming to sit beside me and passing a frosty spoon my way. Apparently it had sunk to the bottom of the liquid, and he'd decided just to freeze the spoon too.

Somehow, Harry always has the ability to put my broken pieces back together. As I dig into the mess of banana split, I am filled with a new determination. I will try again. I may have failed the first time, but Hermione Granger doesn't give up. I'll keep trying until I get it right.

With a refreshed heart and a renewed resolve, I stab into the icy mess and pry out a creamy shard. It's not as great as my parents would make it, but it's ice-cream and not terrible tasting.

"How'd I do?" Harry jokes.

I look at my friend, a smile on my face. "Absolute perfection."

Thank-you so much to lun27, Carolare Scarletus, and tonberrys for beta'ing!