A/N: I own nothing but this so-called plot
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He returned Metamorphosis with the post-it still inside, but her words had been scratched out. Under it, he had written, Granger eats broken bottles and wears barbed wire next to the skin.
He returned The Trial with a slip of parchment that read, Granger has a carrying voice... If all other sources of income failed, she could make a good living calling the cattle home across the Sands of Dee.
She returned his potions book with nine post-its plastered across the title page –
Thou
sodden-witted
lord!
Thou hast
no more
brain
than
I have in mine
elbows.
Hermione woke up at dawn, and she was twenty years old.
Twenty, for heaven's sake.
She sat up in bed and hugged her knees. With a flowing wave of her arm, she moved the curtains aside and looked out at the gold-tipped hill. The flutterby bush in the balcony was dark and subtly shimmering like an oil spill.
Leaping out of bed, she stood before her mirror looking exactly as she had the night before, as a nineteen-year-old. It wasn't that she actually expected to see any visible difference; she just hoped to see something that would've made the idea that she was twenty a bit less unfathomable.
But she looked like a child in the too-large tshirt and the shorts that barely peaked out from under it.
She moved on quickly – stretching her arms behind her back – to prepare for her morning run.
Who could say that her appreciation of the early morning air wasn't more refined, or that she didn't spot more than the usual number of metaphors in the sky and the winding path of the park?
She ran for long. She ran fast and unforgivably. She ran till her muscles were awash with the sweet pain of exertion, till sweat coated the back of her neck, till she was forced to lie back on the grass, panting.
Pink clouds in an azure sky: An expanse of jewel tones. Candyfloss in the ocean. Pink sheep in a blue meadow. As far as childish idioms and big girl metaphors went, she could only find suspiciously positive ones. On a more literal note, the sky presented all indications of culminating into a warm day for mid-September.
Twenty deep breaths later, she stood up and ambled home.
She showered for long, too. She washed her hair and smothered it with conditioner. She scrubbed, buffed, and shaved. She sloughed away the dead skin of a nineteen-year-old.
She emerged amid a cloud of steam, with skin as pink as the clouds outside had been.
As she pulled on (what else but) dad's Genisis tshirt, she had a realisation that brought a lump to her throat – she hadn't had a birthday with her parents since she'd turned eleven. That was nine years since she had last been woken up by mum plopping down on her bed with a present. Nine years since dad last served her strawberries and eggy bread for breakfast. Nine years since she'd gone on a meticulously planned, Granger birthday expedition.
On her eighth birthday, they had taken her to the Science Museum. On her nineth birthday, to Warwick Castle. Her tenth birthday was spent at the V&A. On her eleventh birthday they had taken her to Canterbury, because she'd been reading Chaucer (helpfully annotated by mum). There was a photograph in their attic, of her standing in front of St. Augustine's Abbey, all thick pigtails and enormous front teeth, grinning like the world was hers to take.
That certainly put the whole 'being twenty' thing in perspective. 1990 was so long ago. Years and years and castles and wars and devastating agony ago.
Such thoughts leant a plodding heaviness to the steps that carried her to the living room, completely at odds with how clean and light she ought to have been feeling.
There were far too many owls sat on her window sill. They glared at her reproachfully as she lurched forward to attend to them. The burden of the enormous package from mum and dad had to be shared by two owls. There were also parcels from Mr and Mrs Weasley, and Neville.
Her gloom conceded that presents were certainly welcome, even hinting at decampment.
She opened the last first. Dear Neville had sent her six freshly-sprouted saplings in colourful pots – her own little magical herb garden. She carried them out to her balcony and arranged them in a line along the railing.
There was a book of recipes from Mrs. Weasley, (One Minute Meals – Its Magic!) and an umbrella from Mr. Weasley, (lime green and imbued with an impervious charm.)
Before she unwrapped her parents' gifts, she read their letter; another lovely, rambling conversational missive, with both writing over each other, both uncharacteristically mawkish. She couldn't blame them for she felt the same way. She settled into an armchair and sniffled as she read, wishing so badly that she was with them.
Twenty, sweetheart, so definitely grown up... Your father is sobbing, Hermione... Your mother has covered all the walls and surfaces of the house with photographs of you, what else can I do...
She wiped her eyes as she stared, for many minutes, at the Love forever, mum and dad at the bottom of the letter.
A hamper filled with a variety of biscuits and a tin of flapjacks was the first thing she pulled out from their bundle, followed by a biography of Sir Edward Coke, and a pair of small dangling amethyst earrings. Finally – and for a moment puzzlingly – they had sent her her entire tape collection, along with a small cassette player. There was a note with it, from dad, that said – I've disconnected the mechanism, and removed the batteries. If you can make a gramophone work, you can make this work.
He was right. All it took was a locomotion charm and a sonorous charm. She put the player on the coffee table and dug through her collection till she found the Pink Floyd tape gifted by dad on her eleventh birthday. It was fitting because Wish You Were Here was all she was thinking.
As the slow, enchanting overture to Shine on you Crazy Diamond filled the room, she went to the kitchen and returned with a bowl of strawberries. She sat on the rug, right in front of the speakers, and the music changed to potent, chasmal electric guitars and drums.
You were caught in the cross fire of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze.
Come on you target for faraway laughter.
Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr, and shine!
She ate strawberries and listened.
XXX
By half past noon, she had successfully completed a number of tasks.
She had whisked over to Mabel's bakery and picked up the chocolate cake that would make Theo's day. She bought cheese straws, a few packets of crisps, and some bottles of Ribena.
After a quick stop at a phone box at Tranquil Vale to hear mum and dad's voices, she returned to Starthistle hill and bought pumpkin juice. She stopped by the Hungry Zowou and placed a sizable order that was to be delivered in the evening. While passing by the florist, she couldn't stop herself from buying bunches of white lilies and stalks of indigo, purple, and pink larkspurs.
With all that stuff, she barrelled into her home and sighed once she'd deposited the load on the dining table.
She conjured a few serviceable vases, and arranged the flowers while thinking about mum's book about Ikebana. Once she had achieved things of no artistic significance whatsoever, she put one vase on the mantel, one on the sideboard, and one on the coffee table.
She moved back to the packets and –
Pop!
"Happy birthday!"
She swivelled around to the fireplace with a giant grin.
"Ginny!"
The head floating amid embers grinned back at her.
"So, this is the new place, eh?" she noted, casting an eye around the room.
"This is it," Hermione affirmed, moving quickly to crouch in front of the fire, "My god, it's good to see you."
Her nose was a bit sunburnt, her freckles were abundant, and she was downright glowing.
"Been ages, hasn't it?" she sighed.
"You cut your hair again."
"Yeah." She tossed the locks that fell just under her chin. "So much easier to manage this way."
"How are you?" Hermione urged, "You got my owl? Will you come in the evening then? There'll be a game of quidditch before, but I don't think you'll mind missing that, will you, considering that's all you do now. How is your training going? And–"
"Herms, dearest, can you ask your questions one at a time?"
She snapped her mouth shut and huffed, and gestured for Ginny to speak.
"How am I? That was the first one, wasn't it?"
Hermione rolled her eyes.
"I'm alright," she chuckled, "Really good, actually. But as for this evening... I'm sorry, Hermione. Kippler has me flying well into the night these days, making me chase in the dark and all. She's got someone from Magical Maintenance to come make it rain and storm. I barely have time to breathe, honestly. Even now... lunch break will be over in half an hour and I'll have to go practice formations."
"But it's Sunday," Hermione moaned, "Surely you get one day off?"
Ginny sucked in her cheeks and her eyes gleamed. Hermione would have to be blind to not notice the blatant excitement her question triggered.
"Normally, yes. But... Well. After Griffiths ran off to Puddlemere, things have been very unstable. They've not used the same chaser twice since... nobody's been the right fit... Until now. Both Kippler and Gwenog seem to think I'll be ready by the next season..."
"That's amazing!"
"I know!" she squealed, "I was so sure I'd be stuck in the reserves for at least a year or two, and... Merlin."
"Gosh, Ginny, what absolutely brilliant news! I'm so thrilled for you!"
"It certainly makes waking up at the crack of dawn and spending nearly nine hours a day on a broom worth it. Not to mention all the physical training. Why didn't you tell me running in the morning was so bloody awful? And you do it for fun?"
Hermione laughed and shrugged. "It's a vital part of my day now. I love it. But anyway, nine hours on a broom? What's the average week like?"
She listened raptly as Ginny elaborated on her schedule. It was inflexible and gruelling, but it was also clear to see that Ginny found it irrefutably rewarding. She was blossoming under the pressure; she was being encouraged, honed, and prepped to fulfil her highest potential.
"And what about you?" Ginny asked, "Taking the Ministry by storm?"
It was very hard to keep her face from falling.
"Oh, no," she laughed forcefully, "Just an underling, at the moment. Mostly shuffling parchment around and doing bits of token research that my colleagues indulge me with."
"Come now, I'm sure that's not true," Ginny refuted kindly, "Harry told me you skipped three steps and landed a position that's meant for someone far more–"
"It's painfully true," Hermione interjected, "Sure, I got the job, but I'm also being reminded that I'm not good enough every bloody second of the day."
"Oh."
"Yes."
"What's your boss like?"
"Snape," she lamented, pulling a face.
Ginny continued with a bracing smile, "I'm sure they're just testing you. Can't let Hermione Granger, heroine, with her armful of NEWTs know exactly how brilliant she is, right?"
"Right," the heroine muttered sulkily.
"Its' your birthday," Ginny pressed, "Cheer up. Here. Wear that today."
She tossed a present at her, wrapped in shiny paper.
"Thanks," Hermione said with a slightly grudging, slightly abashed smile, "Will you ever visit?"
"End October! I'll be back for ten days. It'll be a mad time at the Burrow... Charlie's finally going to introduce us to his boyfriend, mum will be turning fifty, Fleur's pregnancy hormones will probably be through the roof, and Percy–"
"Fleur's pregnant?!" Hermione sputtered.
"Yep."
"Since when?"
"Over a month, or so. Of course, she didn't break the news till two weeks ago. Harry and Ron didn't tell you?"
"No!"
"Cheese for brains, those two. But yes. There's going to be another venerated Weasley in our midst, next year. Let's just hope it gets Bill's personality – Ah, shit. Hermione..." She bit her lip regretfully.
"You have to go."
"It was damn good to see you again –"
"Seriously, I've missed talking to you so –"
"– try and catch up again soon. Fuck... yes, I'll be right there! …Happy birthday... Have a wonderful day..."
Ginny's disembodied head disappeared.
Hermione sighed and stood up. She flipped the tape in the player and opened Ginny's present to Have A Cigar.
XXX
Ginny's present was a corduroy skirt, short and fitted, with buttons down the front, and Hermione complied with her request, pairing it with a thin, fine-knit jumper, and just enough Sleekeazy to tame her fly-aways.
Her living room had really come to life with all the flowers. She brought the armchairs from the study and bedroom and placed them around the coffee table. She set the music paraphernalia on the sideboard.
At quarter past three, she filled a coolbox with juice and squash and went down to the park. Her guests were only going to arrive at four, but she liked the idea of sitting outside and diving into her new book.
It really was a pleasant day. The sky was bright, pink clouds had been replaced by white. Beyond the trees that were slowly turning yellow and the rickety fence, Hermione could see the heath stretch on for miles and miles. The grass looked soft and dry. She found a bench at the edge of the lawn, under a drooping tree, and after shooing away a flock of foul pigeons, she sat down serenely.
Alas, as it happened, she only got to read for ten minutes.
There was a startling crack! ...And Theo stood before her, beaming.
"You're early," she said, putting her book aside.
He didn't respond, but raised his arms expectantly. With a laugh, she hopped off the bench and let him squeeze her into a rib-crushing hug.
"Happy birthday, buddy."
"Ow."
He led her back to the seat and first handed her a tragically wrapped present which she slipped into her beaded bag, and then pulled out a hipflask from his pocket.
"Conjure two glasses, will you? We're going to have a toast before the hooligans arrive."
They threw back firewhiskey and talked, during which Hermione found herself quite taken aback by the frequency with which Theo and dad were corresponding. "You said I'm a Granger now, didn't you?" was Theo's only exposition, after which he begged her to tell him if Renovo mouthwashing potion (TM) contained fluoride, and who Arsène Wenger was and why he must be hated.
Then, the first of the hooligans arrived.
Harry and Ron, brooms and presents in hand, materialised into the park and clamoured over to wish her.
"Aren't you too old to be hanging around with teenagers?" Ron asked.
His question, most happily, corresponded with twenty-one-year-old George's arrival. He flew over with two beater's bats tucked under his arm, and promptly offered one to her with a pointed look at Ron.
Dean and Seamus came next. Then, Padma and Tracey, (a packaged deal, apparently.) Draco was the last to reach and he had two brooms with him. He sneered, hurling one at Theo.
As he approached her, the air around her felt irrationally warmer. He held out a present while she fought to overcome sudden, momentary memory loss involving her hands and their function.
"Thank you," she said upon accepting it.
"Happy birthday."
"Thank you," she said, again.
He turned away to watch the other broom-carriers discuss the rules of four-a-side quidditch.
After two weeks of sporadic sightings and one fleeting exchange, to see him up close, casually dressed and hair uncoiffed, was–
She was staring.
She spun around and returned to the safety of her bench, where Padma, too, had made herself comfortable. The rest split up into teams, (Harry-Ron-Dean-Seamus versus Theo-Draco-George-Tracey) and kicked off into the sky.
The game carried on for over half an hour. In no time at all, Hermione fell into a conversation with Padma, though she listened more than she spoke. And with every passing moment she felt a stab of regret for forgoing a career as a healer.
Which essentially meant that it fell into the growing list of things she wished she had gone for, over her current line of employment.
She used to be so patient and sedate. What the hell had happened?
Padma had, most tortuously... er, fortuitously, come under the wing of a visionary. She was horribly overworked, barely sleeping, completely desensitised to blood and infirmity, (whatever little sensitivity remained after the war, that is,) and was learning more and quicker than ever before. Her diagnostic spells were a tad sub-par, but her potion brewing and healing charms put her well above her peers.
Most importantly, her paper (their paper; Hermione had helped, damn it!) had made quite an impact on her supervisor. There were trials being carried out at that moment, to perfect the modern-medicine-traditional-potion hybrid.
All this information was delivered in a sort of dramatic monologue that would've won the approval of Robert Browning.
Bloody hell, Hermione was so unbelievably bitter. Happy birthday, you resentful bitch.
She pulled her lips back in a hard smile and said, "I knew this would happen. That paper's too brilliant to ignore."
"Thanks, Hermione," Padma beamed, "And, honestly... thanks. I couldn't have done it without you–"
(Well, no shit.)
"–But what about you? Must be so fantastic, working under Madam Barros."
Hermione opened her mouth and...
...She had never been gladder about half-time.
The commotion of eight pairs of feet hitting the ground with a thump, accompanied by a babel of old-fashioned, vainglorious slagging off, completely derailed their conversation.
Hermione leapt up and opened the coolbox, offering beverages to the spent and sweaty mass. With the exception of Dean, everyone was very intrigued by Ribena, resulting in the pumpkin juice remaining untouched. Jackets and jumpers were shed, and the grass was soon littered with discarded clothing and reclining bodies.
Perched on the edge of the bench, Hermione got utterly rivetted by the scene playing out in the periphery of her vision. She didn't dare look straight on, but...
Draco's drink floated next to him while he gripped the lapels of his black jacket. It was well-fitted, so he shrugged it off by rolling back those broad shoulders of his. The front of his tshirt lifted just a smidgen, revealing the teeniest, tiniest, barest hint of skin; just a shiny flash, like a willow-the-whisp. He reached out and grabbed his bottle, long fingers wrapping utterly around the neck, while the line of his neck came into full display as he tipped his head back to drink. He was obviously parched, chugging the drink, his throat was undulating –
Dear lord.
Some ruinous physiological force was urging her to find out what that motion might feel like, to touch. Fingers, lips; it wasn't fussy.
She had absolutely NOTHING going for her. Not a damn thing. That's why she was so disastrously addled. She skedaddled over to Theo and sat beside him, carefully curling her legs under her bum.
"What's the score?" she asked.
"You weren't watching?"
"Of course not."
"I wasn't watching either," he smiled blissfully, "And I'm the keeper. Do you think that's why my team is losing?"
"Perhaps," Hermione mused, "Also explains why Draco, George, and Tracey look like they want to skin you."
"Oh, right." Theo gave them a silly, poncy wave, getting three furious V-signs in return.
Not long after, there was another loud sound of apparation.
Everyone turned to watch Luna hurry across the lawn towards Hermione, the end of her long, floral frock fluttering wildly.
"I'm so sorry for being late!" she said, "I had to take daddy to Mungo's."
"Is everything alright?" Hermione asked.
"Oh, yes, he's fine," she smiled, "Just a routine check-up on his legs. Happy birthday, Hermione."
Hermione got up and left Theo and Luna to greet each other properly. The rest of his team was huddled together, scheming, while the opposing team was passing a quaffle around. She found herself, once again, on the bench next to Padma, and was quick to ensure she wouldn't pick up the thread of their previous conversation.
"What's Parvati up to these days?" she asked.
Padma launched into an account of her sister's misadventures as a junior marketing editor for the Prophet.
Once the game recommenced, Luna joined the two of them, and then, naturally, it was her turn. She spoke at length about the beauty of Swedish forests, the lovely group she had travelled with, the amazing efficacy of American equipment, but somehow, the main issue was not addressed.
And so, Hermione broached, "Did you find the elusive snorkack?"
"The crumple-horned snorkack," she amended.
"Yes, that one."
"Unfortunately, no. They're in hibernation."
"Already?"
"Yes. Crumple-horned snorkacks prefer the cold, see. They'll come out in November."
"Oh."
"But look," she cried excitedly, pulling a bunch of photographs out of her purse, "We found so many tracks."
Hermione and Padma avoided eye-contact.
"I'm writing an article about our expedition for next week's Quibbler."
"That's lovely," Padma said, "Will you go back in winter to continue your search?"
"Of course! Thanks to all these footprints, we know exactly where to look!"
The game finally ended at a quarter past six. The swarm once again descended, desperate for hydration and sustenance. For some more time, they all lay around in the park, (basking in their victory or nursing bruised egos, as applicable,) passing around crisps and cheese straws.
When Luna flounced off to show Dean her photographs in the hope of getting him to make an artist's impression of her crumpled beastie, Theo came up to Hermione and quietly asked, "What are they, actually? Deer tracks?"
"Probably elk," she told him, regretfully.
"Hm."
He crossed his arms and leant back on the bench, staring grumpily at the sky. All his good cheer from earlier had disappeared.
"What's wrong, Theo?" she asked tentatively.
He looked back at her and shrugged. After a second or so, he rallied and presented her with a mischievous, albeit forced grin.
"Probably just extreme sexual frustration," he leered, "Luna only got back yesterday morning, and she's been busy with Xeno since."
"I see." She fell into place next to him and jostled him with her shoulder. "You poor thing."
"Two weeks of celibacy is torture. Blimey... you must be in hell."
"Pff."
"You poor thing."
"Please shut up," she implored, fixing her sight on a distant tree.
"You gave the boot to Boot ages ago. And I know that he wasn't good, anyway–"
"Oh, did you sleep with him, too?"
"No, I have taste–"
"You know, it's my birthday and–"
"You want me to find you a strapping lad for a birthday shag? I do have someone in mind–"
"NO, you mastodonic troll!" she trilled, "I want to not have to listen to you whinge about being randy on my birthday."
Well, that had been unfortunately loud. Everyone stopped what they were doing to gawk at her. In the midst of that oppressive silence, Luna's voice piped up: "I'll take care of you tonight, Theo. Don't you worry."
Laughter exploded. Hermione fought against the swell in vain. Eventually, her shoulders caved, and she guffawed.
XXX
Her flat had never looked tinier. It simply was not made for eleven people.
The small dining table was laden with a variety of comestibles. Every single seat was occupied and chatter prevailed over low music. Dean, as always, was the self-proclaimed DJ, and had decided to treat the party to some Sonic Youth. Immediately after, he had beckoned Hermione over to her art wall, and treated her to a lecture on her own collection, which wasn't quite as intolerable as it should have been, considering he had respectable insight on the general subject matter. It was just that she would have much preferred to re-enact the perusal with Draco a hundred times over.
Seamus plucked lilies out of her coffee table arrangement and handed one to all the women in the room. George and Theo made Tracy (and Ron) shriek in an unearthly manner when a big hairy spider came crawling out of her mouth.
However, the main point was that Hermione's prediction had happily come true – there was no place for uncomfortable silence in a room where George, Theo, and Seamus existed together. Between tales of pranks gone awry and outlandish patrons, there wasn't a dull moment for the remainder of the evening. Occasionally, Ron interjected with insane anecdotes involving the stupidest of petty criminals. Padma divulged some of the more gruesome maladies she had encountered. Dean was still moaning about naked hags.
It was so much like being back in their "eighth year" common room.
Hermione barely spoke a word or two, sitting on one of the dining chairs that she had dragged to the other side of the room. She ate steamed dumplings, laughed a lot, and looked everywhere but at Draco.
Mostly.
She noticed he really seemed to like the sweet date wantons, and he stayed quiet, too.
And Harry. Harry was also taciturn.
Still; the world hadn't ended.
When the time came, Theo insisted on twenty candles on her cake. She rolled her eyes and, with a snap of her fingers, conjured twenty little flames to hover an inch over the frosting.
"Show off," he grinned.
The cake was supposed to be sufficient for up to twenty-five people, but by the time her friends were done with it, less than one-fourth was left. Theo's expected enthusiasm, mirrored by Ron, made the biggest dent.
While the vultures circled, Hermione stole a quiet couple of seconds with Harry.
"Are you alright?"
"Yeah," he replied with a faint smile, "Cake's good."
"Isn't it?"
They both ate a bite to sample the proof in their pudding.
"I had a chat with Ginny this afternoon. She'll be visiting in October."
Harry nodded, "Fucking finally."
"I know. Feels like forever. And incidentally, thanks for telling me about Fleur."
"Oh, right," Harry nodded again, "She's pregnant."
"Yes, Harry."
He grinned proper at that, and Ron popped over in time to catch the end of what was said. That led to him and George giving a detailed recountal of Mrs. Weasley's reaction to the (delayed) revelation.
Eventually, a silent collective sigh was heaved, signalling the beginning of the postlude.
Padma had a five AM shift the next morning, so she and Tracey were the first to leave.
A while later, George took a wooden top out of his pocket and spun it on the coffee table. It bounced on the surface, took off, and gyred and hovered mid-air... innocuously for a bit... and then it squirted a huge jet of bright purple ink, which splashed across the entire room – and its occupants – like a blood spatter.
"GEORGE!" Hermione bellowed, glaring aghast at the mess on her jumper.
Similar wails of horror echoed around her.
"Now hold on, hold on," George placated, raising an ink smeared hand, "Five... four... three... two... one... et voilà!"
The ink disappeared; every last drop of it.
"Alright, good people. Don't be shy. Please applaud."
A series of departures commenced. Within the next half hour, only Theo, Luna, and Draco remained.
Hermione stood on the tips of her toes and stretched, then aimed a finite at the stereo. She moved to the table to clear it up and Draco followed her, not to help of course, but to cut himself another slice of cake.
"One for the road," he smirked. It seemed like it took him some effort to do so.
"Go ahead," she smiled, and quickly blinked away.
"Good idea. Cut us a slice as well," Theo called.
"No. Wanker."
"Excuse me?"
"You asked to be keeper. No, you insisted!"
"Are you seriously still on about that?!"
Hermione levitated the dishes into the kitchen, and busied herself in the business of putting away leftovers and cleaning up. Peeved voices carried in from the next room.
When she returned, the two blokes were sitting at the table, glaring and murdering their respective slices of cake. She took a seat across from them, exchanging a bemused look with Luna, who was watching from the sofa.
"I'm going to Berne on Tuesday," Draco grumbled suddenly.
"How come?" Hermione asked at the same time that Theo said, "'the fuck for?"
"Some business about acquiring Time-turners from the Swiss Ministry," Draco replied, addressing his mauled cake, "Kenny and I and a bunch of sodding Unspeakables."
She truly had never seen anyone eat chocolate cake with such petulance, but there they both were, sitting side by side, shovelling it into their mouths like it was dirt.
"You could say hello to Neville and Hannah," Hermione said.
"No time," he replied, with not a jot of regret, "Only going to be there for two days."
Hermione looked down and traced the woodgrain with her fingernail.
They left after that. Both Theo and Luna hugged and plied her with final birthday wishes. Draco bequeathed a curt wave from the fireplace.
XXX
She was alone. On her sofa. Listening to the same song on repeat.
I've come to wish you an unhappy birthday
'Cause you're evil
It was past midnight, and no longer her birthday. Shut the fuck up, Morrissey. The music stopped.
Twenty and alone: A sliver of cake to mark the glory of such a thing.
With the lamps in the living room doused, she carried the plate to the bedroom and set it on the nightstand. She shimmied out of her skirt, pulled off her jumper, and once back in worn, loose clothes, she sat cross-legged in the middle of the bed with her beaded bag.
It was time to open her presents.
She sought out Theo's gift first, smiling at the way he'd swaddled it in crumpled paper. He was so appallingly shabby. It fell apart to reveal a small box, inside which was a beautiful iridescent porcelain ornament. He had finally got her a unicorn.
Hermione placed the figurine on the palm of her hand. It shook its shimmering mane, clopped a front hoof against her hand, and closed its eyes appreciatively when she gently stroked its smooth neck with her index finger. It allowed her to pet him thus for a while, before very gracefully leaping off her palm and trotting across the bed to a corner, (all the while, its colours shifted hypnotically,) whereupon it curled up and promptly went to sleep.
She finished the rest of her cake while watching it sleep.
Harry got her an impressive set of swan feather quills and colourful inks. Ron got her a pair of tall, vanilla and magnolia scented candles. She lit one and levitated it onto the dressing table.
George's present was one of his own creations. A Patented Daydream Charm... but of course. Fred had been so chuffed when she had complimented them. She felt a pang of sorrow, which turned into a choked laugh when she saw the cover. Love in the Library – A sweltering, swotty romance. Exclusively designed for Hermione Granger ONLY.
From Seamus, she got booze. She hadn't been expecting anything else, but it was nice to see elderflower wine instead of firewhiskey.
Vanilla and magnolia had spread softly through the room.
Dean's gift, wrapped in thick brown paper, had her intrigued. It was the shape and the size of a small tea tray. She quickly realised after the first tear that it was a painting, and after the final tear saw that it was a painting of her.
Specifically, Hermione rendered in pastels, reading by a window on the Hogwarts Express. Her hair was loose and tumbling all over the place and her focus was held obdurately by her book. There was very little motion in the painting – just a continuing shift in the verdant blur whizzing across the window, and Hermione turning a page every few minutes. It wasn't a masterpiece, but it was scenic and captivating.
She slipped out of bed and returned to the living room to hang it under Degas' ballet dancers.
The mattress jostled with she hopped back into bed with a leap. The motion woke up the unicorn.
"Sorry," Hermione whispered.
It shook its mane disapprovingly before going right back to sleep.
Padma and Tracey even bought gifts together. Hermione eyed the envelope they'd given suspiciously, but was extremely mollified to find that it contained a subscription to the Journal of Advances in Modern Arithmancy. She sent an apologetic current towards the two... wherever they were.
Luna got her a pair of fuzzy bunny slippers. Except, they weren't really bunnies, were they? Bunnies did not have tusks. But besides those abominations, the slippers were sinfully soft and warm and would do perfectly for winter.
She sat back with Draco's present, leaning into pillows propped up against the headboard. It felt incredibly, unbelievably momentous to be opening a birthday gift from Draco Malfoy. It was a 'down the rabbit hole, through the looking glass, op art, magical land in the wardrobe, Prisoners of the Lost Universe' kind of momentous mindfuck that was making her despicably happy.
It was wrapped in the same paper as Theo's gift, but done up in a much neater way. Definitely a book; a heavy, thick, hard-bound book.
She opened it slowly while calamitous things carried on inside her chest.
The book was leather bound and ornately gilded, with a light green tassel hanging out of the spine.
The Complete Memoirs of Fedelm Bedelia Beetlerot,
Leader of the Dæg Guild of Druidesses.
A Meticulous Account of Insular Celtic Magic, Healing, and Divination
There had been a passing mention of this guild in one of the more advanced books on ancient runes at the Hogwarts library. Due to the lack of elaboration and further references, she had assumed that it'd offered nothing of great significance to the course of medieval magic.
But this was a fat bloody tome and she felt like an absolute twit for not digging deeper back then. Afterall, it certainly would not be the first time history had dismissed and forgotten the contribution of women.
With the utmost, reverential care and anticipation bubbling through her body, she lifted the cover.
Would she even be capable of fully appreciating a book now, if it didn't come with an insulting jibe on the very first page?
The bubbles of anticipation burst and emitted asinine giggles.
She hath more hair than wit, and more faults than hairs.
Happy birthday.
God damn it. She really, really liked him.
She could allow herself one final indulgence, couldn't she... just to end the day on a canty, giddy note? From the drawer of her nightstand, she shuffled through a stack of photographs till she found the one she was looking for.
She tried to picture that glorious grin blossoming in front of her eyes again, following the most unconventional of compliments, paired with a happy birthday...
...If she could somehow isolate the feeling of clinging onto him away from the overwhelming terror of the Fiendfyre experience...
Bah. She'd mucked up her own high.
The little unicorn trotted back up the bed to settle on the pillow next to her. She ran a finger down its mane and back.
Looking at its prismatic surface, it should have been easy to come up with flowery lines about phantasms and the chimeric nature of happiness that would befit the imagination of a twenty-year-old bookworm. But she suddenly found herself intractably sleepy.