When it was over, Hermione lay on the solitary bench of a small park only a turning from her home, gazing up at the first rays of sunlight to pierce the darkness above. Crookshanks rumbled steadily from his perch atop her chest, fastidiously washing his paws while she mindlessly smoothed the fur on his back.
Her plan had gone well, all things considered. The Knight Bus had travelled faster to London than anticipated, and Hermione had been forced to loiter in the bathroom of the Leaky Cauldron for nearly half an hour until the Polyjuice wore off. Serendipitous, really, seeing as she'd needed to sick up again after riding that horrible contraption on a mostly empty stomach. At least she hadn't shown up looking like Crookshanks's cousin after the potion this time. That had to count for something.
The taxi ride home had cost her nearly two hundred quid, though. Hermione would need to find a bank soon to empty the rest of her savings. She hadn't wanted to take much from the safe at home; her parents would need it more. Even with the documents she'd already altered, Wendell and Monica Wilkins would have a lot of paperwork to do in the coming days before their move to Australia.
Hermione shifted, a knot in the wood digging into her back, as Crookshanks protested the movement by sinking his claws through her jacket. Another large bag sat on top of her trunk now, full of her Muggle clothing and a few other possessions she hadn't wanted to leave behind. The rest of her things would be going to Australia with her parents.
That was one benefit of the single, last-minute change she'd made to her plan. While the Wilkins's didn't realise they had a biological daughter, they did remember an adopted daughter, and Jean Wilkins was studying at University in America for the foreseeable future. Hermione had updated the family photographs to resemble herself with the transformations she'd practised for leaving Hogwarts before finding the dose of Polyjuice Potion.
The significantly greater benefit was that even if she couldn't lift the enchantment later, at least her parents would still see her as a daughter. It made the situation nearly bearable.
The only thing left to decide was where to go now. Back when she'd first drawn up the plan, Hermione had assumed she'd spend a few days at a hotel near the city, eventually ending up at the Burrow. Now, she wasn't so sure. It wasn't as if the Weasleys would turn her away, but something in Hermione protested at the idea of spending the next two months there. She would be imposing upon Mrs. Weasley, who was already acting strangely cold towards her for some unknown reason. Then there was Ron. Hermione still hadn't been able to forgive him entirely for what he'd said to her in the broom closet, and his subsequent half-hearted apology.
Lost in her thoughts, Hermione was caught unaware by an unexpected voice for the second time tonight.
"Good evening, Miss Granger."
She scrambled up off of the bench, wand in hand, while Crookshanks glared reproachfully up from where he'd been deposited on her bag. Albus Dumbledore stood calmly in front of her, resplendent in purple spangled robes with his hands folded at his waist.
Dumbledore smiled kindly. "Or should I say good morning? I've never been able to determine at precisely what time the evening transforms into the morning."
"Professor—" Hermione breathed, her pulse thudding loudly in her ears. "What are you— How did you find me?"
Dumbledore strode forward and took a seat on the bench, gesturing for her to do the same. Crookshanks immediately hopped up and settled himself on Dumbledore's robes, throwing her what could only be called a smug look.
"You see," Dumbledore began, scratching Crookshanks behind the ears, "I was in my office enjoying a spot of tea, as I occasionally do when I have trouble sleeping, when I felt a most curious sensation. One of the school governors, it seemed, had come calling at Hogwarts."
Hermione swallowed heavily.
"Naturally, I expected something quite urgent given the hour, but when I arrived, there was no one waiting for me. By a happy accident, I arrived just in time to see yourself departing on the Knight Bus. Or rather, Septima Vector departing on the Knight Bus." Dumbledore's blue eyes twinkled as he surveyed her over his half-moon spectacles.
Hermione twisted her hands in her lap. "Professor, I'm sorry, I wouldn't have gone if it wasn't urgent—"
Dumbledore held up a hand. "Be at ease, Miss Granger. I am not here to chastise you, although I could wish that you had come to me for help sooner. As it is, I only wish to offer you my sincerest condolences for the burden put upon you, and to ask how I can be of assistance at present."
"You know what I did?" Hermione asked in a trembling voice.
"I do," Dumbledore confirmed, dipping his head solemnly.
Questions began forming faster than she could sort through them. "Why didn't you stop me?" was the one that slipped out.
Dumbledore scratched Crookshanks under the chin as he considered. "In my many years as a professor, and now as Headmaster, I've often found that when it comes to matters near to heart, those involved usually know best, even if they would very much like not to. Your solution was as good as or better than anything I could have offered, but most importantly, it was the choice you could live with."
She nodded slowly.
"Not to worry about Mister Malfoy, either," Dumbledore said, and Hermione gave a small start. "He will not face any repercussions for his actions in assisting your departure tonight. In fact, it did not appear he realised that I was aware of his presence. I really must ask Sirius and Remus how they went about creating that Map…"
Hermione tilted her head in thought, wondering why she, Harry, and Ron had never thought to ask that of Lupin or Sirius before.
Dumbledore continued, sweeping a hand out to gesture vaguely to the park surrounding them. "A lovely area, I'm sure, but may I ask where your plans lead next?"
Hermione bit her lip. "Um… well, I'm not certain of that, yet."
Dumbledore smiled knowingly. "In that case, I may have a few suggestions, if you'll allow?" She nodded, smoothing her skirt with both hands. "If you should like," he continued, "I can bring you back to Hogwarts while we decide further arrangements, and everyone else will be none the wiser."
Hermione shook her head slowly. "Unfortunately, Professor, it would require too many explanations if I went back now."
"I see," he said, not unkindly. "The Burrow in a few days, perhaps? There are a few restrictions, I'll admit, as the Weasley family finds themselves in a similar predicament to your own, but you would have a home there."
Hermione opened her mouth to respond, but closed it again, struggling to find the words to explain.
Dumbledore seemed to sense her hesitation. "As it happens, I've just struck upon one other, rather better idea, I think," he said. He looked down at Crookshanks, who was shamelessly chasing Dumbledore's hand with his squashed nose to demand further petting. Dumbledore obliged the insatiable cat before continuing.
"If you and this fine specimen here are not averse to a little more feline companionship, I have a dear friend who would quite enjoy your company for the summer. She is semi-retired and lives alone in a nearby London suburb. If it suits you, I think it would be a very fine option, indeed."
Hermione considered this, tapping her fingers on the bench under her legs. On one hand, it would be rather uncomfortable to impose upon someone she'd never met before, no matter what Dumbledore seemed to think the woman's reaction would be to having her as a guest. On the other, Hermione could use a fresh start after the events of the evening. Somewhere where she wouldn't need to explain herself, and could take the summer to recover before facing the inevitable fallout from Voldemort's return. If it didn't work out, the Burrow was always a back-up option.
"That sounds lovely," she said, managing a weak smile. "Thank you."
Dumbledore clapped his hands together. "Wonderful. I shall inform her immediately and we will be on our way. It is a good thing I happen to know that she is an early riser," Dumbledore said, studying the sky with a smile that creased the corners of his eyes. The burgeoning sunrise now painted the heavens with soft pink hues.
With fascination, she watched as Dumbledore once again conjured his phoenix Patronus, giving it a message that it carried swiftly up into the dawn. How did it work? The implications for such means of communication were endless, especially considering the way the wizarding world spurned developing Muggle technology. Firstly, though, she'd need to work out the Patronus Charm for herself.
One side-along Apparition later, Hermione stood next to Dumbledore in a tidy little Muggle neighbourhood, filled with row upon row of identical-looking houses. She resisted the urge to vomit for the third time in under a day; she suspected the sensation of Apparition would take some getting used to. At least it was faster than the Knight Bus.
Hermione carried Crookshanks in her arms as they approached one of the few houses with lights already peeking out behind drawn curtains. Her bags were waiting on the porch.
A small, elderly woman wearing a dressing gown and tartan carpet slippers answered the door with a smile. A distinct cabbage-like smell wafted out through the open door, and Hermione tried very hard not to wrinkle her nose. Instead, she smiled tentatively back at the woman.
"Miss Granger," Dumbledore said, gesturing to the woman. "May I introduce Arabella Figg?"
Hermione shifted Crookshanks to one arm and held her hand out to the woman. "Hermione Granger. A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Figg. Thank you for giving me houseroom for the summer."
Moving forward with surprising agility, Mrs. Figg bypassed Hermione's hand to envelop her in a hug. "The pleasure is all mine, my dear. Please, call me Arabella."
With her hands on Hermione's shoulders, Mrs. Figg stepped back to admire Crookshanks. "And who might this handsome gentleman be? A part-Kneazle, if I'm not mistaken, at least a second generation, if not a first generation outright. And I am considered somewhat of an expert on these matters," she added with a wink. Dumbledore chuckled genially.
Hermione introduced Crookshanks, who preened under the additional attention. Mrs. Figg, as it turned out, had four part-Kneazles of her own. While Hermione was busily selecting the mismatched chair with the least offensive crocheted cover in the sitting room, Crookshanks made his own introductions to each of Mrs. Figg's cats. It involved a great deal of sniffing and side-eyeing all around. Toying with the scrap of silk still residing in her jacket pocket, Hermione waited patiently while Mrs. Figg and Dumbledore exchanged a few quiet words in the kitchen.
"Well then," Dumbledore said cheerfully when they returned to the sitting room, "I shall leave you to get acquainted. I'm afraid I will be very busy for the foreseeable future — among other things, I have yet another speech to compose for our end-of-year feast this evening — so I shall be in contact when I can," he said, looking to Mrs. Figg. Then he turned to Hermione. "I trust that you will find all you need here, Miss Granger, but please do not hesitate to reach out if I can be of further assistance. A very good morning to you both."
With an incline of his head to each of them, Dumbledore let himself out. Through the front window, Hermione watched him turn on the spot and vanish with a resounding crack.
"Come, dear, you must be exhausted," Mrs. Figg said, shepherding Hermione down the narrow hallway adjacent to the sitting room and up a flight of stairs.
At the top, a small bedroom awaited, looking as if it had sat untouched for many years. The room was sparsely furnished, containing a single chest of drawers and a bed pushed up against the far wall, complete with an old-fashioned crocheted coverlet. Hermione thanked Mrs. Figg again, assuring her the room was perfect, before Mrs. Figg left her on her own to get settled.
Hermione crossed the room to peek out of the window. She had a lovely view of the garden out back, and from her vantage point, she could see a small conservatory leading off from behind the kitchen. She was unpacking slowly, fighting another yawn, when Crookshanks ambled in to inspect their quarters.
"What do you think, Crooks?" she said quietly, stroking the top of his head. "A nice place to spend the summer?"
For answer, he curled up on the foot of her bed, purring loudly. Hermione smiled fondly and lay next to him on top of the covers. With her belongings now stowed and organised, she was beginning to feel a bit more at home. Not her home, of course, but a home. Almost habitually, she ran her thumb across the embroidered initials on the bit of silk in her pocket once more. Basking in the quiet, Hermione let her eyelids flutter shut.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Hermione opened her eyes to find that she had drifted off for an unknown length of time. It took her a moment to recall her unfamiliar surroundings as she sat up slowly, rubbing her eyes with loose fists. The room was still awash in warm sunlight. Checking her watch, she found it was barely past noon.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Head swivelling for the source of the sound, Hermione spotted a large tawny owl perched on the sill outside of her window. Crookshanks cracked one yellow eye open, then promptly closed it again, evidently deciding that the new arrival was no more than a minor interruption to his nap.
Hermione strode across the room and, after a brief struggle, managed to force the window open. The owl flew in to perch on her dresser, remaining dutifully still while she unknotted the parcel from around its leg. Free of its burden, it soared back through the window and out of sight.
Stomach swooping with anticipation, Hermione turned over the envelope to inspect the red wax seal — it bore the Hogwarts insignia. She frowned, unsure why she should feel a little let down. Had Dumbledore forgotten to tell her something? She broke the seal with a finger and unfolded the letter.
Scanning the contents, Hermione experienced another moment of painful clarity. Exam results. Of course. How had she ever thought her absence today would go unnoticed? At least she didn't have to worry about that, now. Not after Dumbledore's intervention.
Her embarrassment at being found out so easily couldn't quite diminish her pleasure at receiving top marks in all of her classes, though. In a marginally better mood, Hermione decided to follow her nose downstairs from where the delicious smells of cooking were steadily emanating.
Hermione couldn't help but smile back as a beaming Mrs. Figg steered her into a chair and began to totter about, setting several steaming dishes on the table. Famished from her poor diet the past few days, Hermione ate ravenously, helping herself to seconds and thirds, which made Mrs. Figg smile even more widely. Crookshanks eventually sauntered in to devour a plate of roasted chicken for himself.
"More apple crumble, dear?" Mrs. Figg asked, proffering the dish under Hermione's nose.
Hermione laughed, patting her stomach. "I would love to, but I simply cannot eat another bite. Everything was wonderful. I can't thank you enough. As soon as I can, I'll make a trip to the bank, that way I can pay you back—"
"Nonsense," Mrs. Figg interrupted, waving a hand dismissively. "Your company is enough, and I will not accept a single Sickle more."
"Thank you, Mrs. Figg," Hermione said in a small voice, unable to fully express her gratitude for the woman in front of her.
"Arabella," Mrs. Figg corrected with another warm smile. "I insist."
Over the next several weeks, Hermione fell into an effortless pattern with her new living arrangements. She found Arabella to be wonderfully pleasant company, and conversely, Arabella seemed truly delighted to have Hermione as a houseguest. Even out of practice, Arabella had the same matronly air about her that Hermione generally associated with Molly Weasley. Hermione grew so comfortable, in fact, that she sometimes suffered unexpected pangs of guilt, as if by finding a measure of contentment in her current circumstances, she was betraying her own parents.
Hermione's favourite room soon became the conservatory. She spent many an afternoon with the door cracked open and a book from Arabella's small collection open on her lap, enjoying a combination of fresh air from outside with the shade provided by neighbouring sycamores. When Hermione wasn't spending time in the conservatory, she could pass the time watching programs on the telly or practising her knitting, which was unfortunately disastrous without magic. Arabella had even dug an old radio out from storage somewhere for Hermione to use. As a Squib, Arabella was proficient with most things Muggle out of necessity, and Hermione found her life now not so dissimilar to how she'd spent her summers previously.
On several occasions, Hermione helped Arabella whip up some of her choice recipes, until Hermione often prepared dinners entirely on her own. Arabella also taught her a great deal about Kneazles and part-Kneazles; it turned out she was an occasional dealer of cross-bred magical felines, which explained her expert knowledge on the subject. In return, Hermione listened attentively to stories about Arabella's life before moving to Surrey. She and Henry, her husband of nearly seventy years, previously lived and owned a small garden centre in Dorset.
On the whole, neither Hermione nor Arabella strayed out of the house much; this summer had proven to be dreadfully hot, even warranting a ban on hosepipes due to the resulting drought. Hermione insisted on running the few necessary errands for the both of them, whether it was to the local market for the shopping or to the nearby bank to cash cheques and make withdrawals. She didn't doubt Arabella's ability to manage on her own, but Hermione felt it was the least she could do in exchange for free houseroom.
Arabella had the occasional caller, a different person seemingly every time. They always took their conversations privately in the sitting room, but Hermione never tried to pry, assuming it was to talk business. Only when she noticed that several of the visitors made repeat appearances did she take an interest. Over the weeks, there seemed to be some kind of pattern to it all. Arabella never brought the subject up herself, though, and Hermione felt it would be impolite to ask.
Hermione exchanged a handful of letters with Harry and Ron (and one rather lengthy letter with Viktor). Harry's were mostly about his growing frustration with Dumbledore, wanting to know if she had any information about what was going on with the anti-Voldemort efforts. Hermione informed him several times that she wasn't privy to any relevant information, but Harry seemed doubtful. She could almost understand why — Ron's letters were mysteriously and maddeningly vague. He often claimed to be very busy with something important, but in the same line, would moan about not being allowed to help in any significant capacity. He also kept alluding to secrets that he wasn't allowed to share via letter in case the letters went astray. She could understand the reasons behind that — if Dumbledore was gathering a force to oppose Voldemort, he wouldn't risk any important information falling into the wrong hands — but it was still irritating to be on the outs.
Several times, Hermione found herself wondering how Malfoy and Theo were spending their summer. Were they safe? Did she dare write to them to find out? Arabella kept a small barn owl for such purposes, but Hermione wasn't sure it was wise. Theo said the whole point of their Occlumency lessons from Snape was because of their involvement with her, and by extension, Harry. No matter how minimal that involvement might have been. If they really were going to be near Voldemort in any sort of capacity, she wouldn't do them any favours by writing.
On another blazing afternoon on the last day of July, Hermione was taking elevenses with Arabella in the kitchen when she remembered something.
"Arabella, might I borrow Owlbus today?" Hermione asked, grinning inwardly at the mental picture of the owl with Dumbledore's half-moon spectacles perched on its beak. If there was any fault to be found in Arabella, it was her eccentric taste in pet names, both past and present (see: Tibbles, Snowy, Mr. Tibbies, Mr. Paws, and Tufty), and possibly her obsession with crocheted furnishings. "You see, it's one of my best friend's birthdays today. From Hogwarts."
"Of course, dear, who might that be?" Arabella asked, gently clinking her teaspoon on the side of her cup to add a lump of sugar. She and Hermione hadn't discussed Hogwarts much, if at all. Hermione hadn't wanted to be insensitive to her magical restriction.
"Harry Potter, actually," Hermione said with a sheepish smile, raising a steaming cup to her lips.
Arabella froze with her teaspoon mid-swirl, surprise flitting across her features. She raised her head slowly, a few extra furrows knitting her already-wrinkled brow. She seemed to consider something for a moment, then surprised Hermione by patting her arm and chuckling.
"How about you tell him yourself? I suppose it can't make much of a difference now…." she trailed off, muttering something else unintelligible and shaking her head slowly, so that a few strands of grey escaped her crocheted hairnet. Hermione sipped from her cup slowly, privately hoping Arabella hadn't chosen now to lose her marbles.
Arabella finally looked at her. "Why, he lives just two streets over that way. Number four, Privet Drive." she said, nodding towards the front side of the house.
Hermione choked on her tea. "Harry lives… Harry lives here?" she spluttered.
"Last I checked," Arabella said with a small smile.
Hermione unceremoniously crammed the rest of a biscuit into her mouth, promising she would be back in time to help with dinner.
"Take your time, dear," Arabella said good-naturedly. "But do have a care with the Dursleys. Poor boy takes enough poppycock from the likes of them without them knowing about me."
Stunned, Hermione could only nod her agreement. In no time at all, she found herself standing outside of a near-identical home two streets over, sweat trickling down her back as she stared at the large number four emblazoned on the front door. She took a deep breath and knocked firmly.
The door swung open to reveal a boy about her age. A very large, very brawny, and very blonde boy (nothing on Malfoy, of course). This must be Dudley. She'd only caught a brief glimpse of him once when the Dursleys came to King's Cross to collect Harry at the end of first year, but she was certain. He looked her up and down once before speaking.
"Can I help you?" he asked, a slow smile spreading across his face.
"Um… yes. Hello," she said in a small voice. "I'm actually looking for… Harry?" It came out as a question.
The smirk dropped off of Dudley's face. "Sorry, think you've got the wrong place. Can't say I've heard of 'im. But if I had, what might you be wanting with 'im anyway?"
Hermione scowled at him. "I'm a friend. From school."
At that, Dudley's eyes went round, and he took an involuntary step backwards. Before he had a chance to work up a reply, Hermione's attention was drawn to the far corner of the house, where a large hydrangea bush had begun to rustle in earnest. Harry's head popped out of it, followed immediately by the rest of him.
"Hermione?" Harry said incredulously, brushing twigs and leaves off of his baggy t-shirt and ripped jeans as he came to stand in front of her. His eyebrows were hiked halfway up his forehead. "What are you doing here?"
Flustered, Hermione shot back a question of her own. "Harry, were you lying in a bush?"
"Oh. Er… I was listening to the news," he answered, rubbing the back of his neck with a hand.
A woman's voice floated through the open doorway where Dudley seemed to have frozen, watching Hermione warily.
"Duddy, who's at the door?"
Harry looked at Dudley and tensed, obviously expecting the worst. Dudley looked back and forth between Harry and Hermione once more before giving himself a small shake.
"Uh… s'nothing, mum," he called over his shoulder. "Just another salesperson." Seeming hesitant to come any closer, Dudley began to nudge the door shut with a foot.
"Those people again," the woman's voice scoffed. "Can't they leave respectable, decent, hard-working people such as—" The voice muffled indistinguishably as the door shut in Hermione's face.
Blinking several times, Hermione finally turned to Harry. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"
"Er… yeah," he said slowly, wiping his glasses and replacing them on his nose as he looked her over. "This way."
Hermione followed Harry a short distance to a small play park, deserted with the sweltering heat of high noon. She'd passed it once before on her way to the market. They sat in the parched, yellowing grass under the meagre shade of a metal slide.
Harry wasted no time asking questions. "So, what's going on, Hermione? Did Dumbledore send you? Is anyone else here? What is Voldemort doing?"
"Well…" she began. "Actually…"
"Oh," Harry broke in, "Are you just coming to take me with you to Ron's? I assume he's still at the Burrow, despite how little he's letting on…"
"Actually, Harry," Hermione cut him off before he could think of another question, "I'm staying with Arabella."
That brought Harry up short. "Who?"
"Arabella Figg."
"Mrs. Figg," Harry said flatly, one of his brows lifting. "You're staying with Mrs. Figg."
"Yes, the very same," Hermione confirmed.
"But why—"
"With Voldemort back, my parents needed to go away for their own protection," she said, deciding that some form of honesty was probably the best course of action. "I imagine it's why Ron is being so cryptic, too. His family is likely being put under protection, since Crouch will be able to tell Voldemort all about us and our connection to you."
"Okay…" Harry said slowly, "but how does Mrs. Figg come into all of this?"
Hermione bit her lip. "Well, it's sort of a long story, but she's friends with Dumbledore—"
"Dumbledore!" Harry nearly shouted, his eyes popping. "Mrs. Figg knows Dumbledore?"
Hermione tilted her head, beginning to feel perplexed. "You didn't know? She's a Squib, Harry. Dumbledore even called her a 'dear friend'."
Harry looked as if he'd been hit with a hammer between the eyes. His mouth hung slightly open while he goggled at her. As the seconds passed, Hermione watched Harry's expression slowly transform from gobsmacked to outraged.
"So, all those times…" he began angrily, drawing a sharp breath, "...all of those those times the Dursleys left me with her to go on vacation, or that she insisted I come around for tea, or… she made me look at pictures of all of her sodding cats… it was all just so Dumbledore could have me watched?"
Hermione shook her head. "Harry, I don't know. I didn't realise… I thought you must know about her."
Harry made a low sound of frustration in the back of his throat. "No. I had no clue. But at least now I know that Dumbledore hasn't forgotten me. No, he just thinks I'm useless, leaving me here to rot with the Dursleys while everyone else sorts out Voldemort. He wouldn't have even known Voldemort was back if not for me!"
Hermione grabbed one of Harry's hands, holding it tightly in her own. With his chest heaving and nostrils flared, Harry didn't appear to notice. His hand clamped down hard in return anyway.
"I was the one who had to escape him!" Harry roared to the sky. "Who was tortured by him! Whose family was murdered by him!"
"I'm sorry, Harry. I'm so sorry," Hermione whispered. "I'd be furious if it was me."
Harry quivered on the verge of an explosion, a vein jumping steadily at his temple. Hermione squeezed his hand in reassurance, trying to offer the only support she could. Harry had been through so much, and yet Dumbledore still treated him as a child. Imagining herself in Harry's position, she really would be furious if she'd been left to cool her heels after the year that Harry had just endured.
Harry abruptly looked down at his hand, as if just realising it was enveloped in both of Hermione's. His grip loosened immediately and his shoulders slumped. With a grimace, Harry's entire demeanour deflated into something like resignation.
"How long have you been here?" he asked finally. "With Mrs. Figg?"
"A few weeks, now," she responded softly. "She didn't know we were friends. If I'd known you were here, though…"
He gave a short laugh. "That small detail must have slipped Dumbledore's mind, d'you reckon? Looks like he wanted you kept in the dark, too."
Hermione frowned, saying nothing. Why hadn't Dumbledore told her? That was a very large thing to forget. After their last encounter, Hermione had been under the impression that Dumbledore respected her decisions. Respected her. Now, she wasn't so sure. Was he just indulging her? For what purpose could he be leaving her and Harry so completely in the dark? Dumbledore, it seemed, doled out information on a whim, keeping a tight reign over who was privy to what.
Lost in thought, she and Harry sat together quietly for a time, until he released her hand with a final squeeze.
"I'm glad you're here, now," he said, breaking the silence. "Maybe a few more weeks with the Dursleys won't be so terrible after all."
Hermione gave him a weak smile, shrugging apologetically and gesturing to herself. "Happy Birthday, Harry."
Harry snorted so hard that his glasses slipped halfway down his nose.