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If she added up all the birthday cards and gift she’d received for birthdays one through eighteen, she wouldn’t come close to the total number of cards she’s received today for her nineteenth. She stares at the mailbag she’d dragged up to the Common Room, knowing that the only one she wanted was inside there, somewhere, buried beneath all the ones from total strangers. It was a very strange sensation.
“Perils of being a celebrity, huh?” Ginny said, appearing suddenly and moving an enormous stack off the armchair so she could take a seat.
“Harry didn’t receive this many cards for his birthday! He didn’t get any from people who weren’t close friends or family. Why have I got so many?” she asked, throwing up her hands after opening another which contained best wishes from all at the Society for the Protection of Unicorns. At least this one was educational—she hadn’t known there was such a society until just now.
“He did, but they mostly went to the Ministry because no one knew he was staying with us. Everyone knows your current address is Hogwarts, so they’re writing to you. Like I say, perils of being a celebrity. Oh! What’s this?” Before Hermione could stop her, she’d pulled a card out that was stuffed behind the cushion of the chair. When she opened it, a fanfare went off at such volume that Hermione was almost sure she felt the windows of Gryffindor Tower shake. Ginny merely raised an eyebrow, closed the card, and sat on it. “Makes my card look kind of boring, huh?”
“Yours is more special than any of these,” Hermione said truthfully. “And more memorable, too. I’ll be washing glitter out of my bedsheets until at least Christmas.”
“I love crafting,” said Ginny. “Oh, how sweet!” she added as Hermione showed her the card she’d just opened which contained a lovely message from Benjy from Basildon, aged five and three quarters, who thanked her for helping to save the ‘wurld’.
“It is,” Hermione said, then sighed. “I should be more grateful, I suppose. But Ron said that because he can’t get leave from Auror Training to take me out in Hogsmeade tonight, he’d send me something nice instead. How am I supposed to find his amongst all of these?” Just as she’d said this, two rather red in the face third years appeared before them.
“Professor McGonagall asked us to bring this up to you,” one of them said apologetically. “It’s all the post that’s arrived between lunchtime and the start of last period.”
Hermione closed her eyes for a long moment, then plastered a cheery smile on her face. “Thank you so much,” she said. “It’s Jack, isn’t it?”
Jack blushed, then nodded. “And, um, manyhappyreturnsoftheday,” he said in a rush, “I think you’re really great.” He turned and ran off, his friend shoving him and snickering as they went. Hermione deliberately didn’t look at Ginny.
“Someone has a cru-ush,” she teased. Hermione ignored this, too, and Ginny followed her gaze to the enormous stack of letters and cards in the bag. “Not to put too much of a downer on things, but do you remember the last time you got loads of post? All the Bubotuber Pus, courtesy of Skeeter? Are we sure these aren’t cursed?”
“Professor McGonagall has been having them screened,” Hermione said. “She told me so earlier, so at least I know they’re all safe.”
“Gosh, I hope Ron hasn’t sent anything too x-rated, then,” Ginny grinned, but Hermione just sighed.
“Even if he has, I’ll never find it.”
Ginny reached over and patted her arm. “I’ll go through the bags for you,” she said. “I won’t open the cards, obviously, but I can recognise Ron’s handwriting. I’ll find it for you, whilst you go and see Hagrid.”
“Hagrid?”
“Yes, you know, big chap, lives down by the Forest...” Ginny looked up from the pile of envelopes she was already flipping through. “Go and see him! I caught him earlier; he said he wanted you to come down to his hut right about now. He’s wants to wish you happy birthday. If you’re really lucky, he’ll have some rock buns for you. I’ll prepare the tooth-regrowing potions...”
“Well, I suppose...”
“You have to go!” Ginny insisted. “He told me he’s waiting for you. Go, go!”
“Alright, alright,” Hermione said, standing up and reaching for her cloak before she could start pushing her out of the portrait hole. “I’ll go and see him—I haven’t for a while, so it should be nice.”
Ginny waved her off, and she walked down through the school and its grounds in the direction of Hagrid’s house. Almost everyone who passed her wished her happy birthday, as they had been doing all day. It had been quite a nice birthday—between the greetings, the rather overwhelming amount of cards, and the thoughtfully chosen gifts from people she really knew, like Ginny and Luna and her parents, who’d snuck her something into her trunk before she’d left for school, she’d had a lovely day. Professor Flitwick had even delightedly informed her that she could take the night off from homework, if she wanted, which she supposed was a nice gesture even if it she wouldn’t end up doing so.
But it was hard to shake the feeling that the day wasn’t complete without Ron being there. She missed him so much sometimes it was like a physical ache, and even though she was genuinely happy, and knew she had been so lucky to receive so many other presents and cards, she still would have traded it all for the opportunity to spend the day with him. He had planned to come up to the school and take her out to Hogsmeade for dinner once her lessons were over—she’d even asked Professor McGonagall for special permission, and the Headmistress had agreed, as long as she kept quiet about it—but Auror Training had got in the way, and the miserly Gwain Robards had refused to allow him even a couple of hours off to come up and see her.
I’m starting to wonder if being an Auror is all it’s cracked up to be, Ron had written to her earlier that week. But he said that if I come up to see you, I’ll get fired for desertion. And being thrown out in my first month might be a new record...
She’d written back to him, telling him not to be so silly and of course she knew his career had to come first. It was a shame, and she’d miss him, but they’d have plenty of other birthdays together, and he was not to throw the opportunity away just for her.
Which was all still true, but it didn’t make it any easier.
She’d reached Hagrid’s now, though, so she plastered a smile on her face and knocked on the door. There was no response. She frowned, then knocked again and, when she couldn’t even hear Fang barking, walked over to the window and peered in. The place was empty.
“Strange...” she said, walking around the little cabin in case Hagrid had hidden himself in the garden (unlikely). She was sure Ginny had said that he was waiting for her, that he’d specifically requested she come down to see him...
“Looking for someone?” called a voice.
“Yes,” she said, turning around. “I thought Hagrid—” Then she realised who had spoken, shrieked, and leapt into his arms.
“Argh!” cried Ron, as the two of them toppled over backwards.
“Oh my goodness,” Hermione cried, kissing him quickly, then sitting up slightly. “Are you hurt? Where does it hurt? Show me,” she added, “and I’ll kiss it better.”
“Everywhere,” he replied. “It hurts everywhere.”
She smirked, and then, in full view of anyone who might happen to look down from the castle, laid down on top of him and kissed him and kissed him and kissed him.
“Happy birthday,” he said faintly, when they finally broke apart.
A thought occurred to her. “Why are you here? I thought you weren’t allowed the time off? Are you going to get in trouble for seeing me?”
His expression turned smug. “I’m outsmarting the Head of the Auror Department,” he said. “Well, Harry is. He’s distracting him—don’t ask me how, I think it’s probably best I don’t find out, plausible deniability and all—so I can come up to say hi. He says he owes us both. Can’t imagine what for...”
“Harry’s distracting him?” she repeated, a sudden rush of fierce affection for him building inside her.
“Yep,” Ron nodded. “We concocted the plan the other day—Ginny’s in on it, too. Once we knew it was going to work, I sent her a patronus, and she said she’d ensure you were here to meet me at the designated time. I apparated up to Hogsmeade, and Hagrid let me in the gates.”
Sometimes, she can’t believe how lucky she is to have so many wonderful friends who will do these things for her.
“How long have we got left?” she asked Ron now, and he looked at his watch.
“Nineteen minutes,” he replied. She made a noise of sheer horror, and he kissed her quickly. “Nineteen! Like you! That’s a good sign, isn’t it?”
“Not long enough,” she said firmly, and kissed him again, but he pulled back.
“Don’t you want to know about your present?” he asked. Truthfully, she couldn’t care less about a card or a gift, wanting instead to spend the brief time they had left pressed up against him, but she could tell it was important to him, by the hopeful expression on his face, so she agreed that she did, and unwrapped a very carefully presented package.
“It’s...a calendar?” she asked, when the paper had been removed. It wasn’t that she was disappointed—Ron had only received his first paycheck last month, so she wasn’t expecting riches—but she was confused. He’d been with her when she’d lovingly picked out her diary for the new academic year; why would he get her a calendar after all that?
He smiled. “Watch,” he said, and pulled out the exact same calendar from his cloak pocket. Although the calendar wasn’t that large—six months of the year fitted on one side of a parchment scroll, and the other six on the opposite side—he’d clearly been practising the same charm she’d used on the purple bag all last year, and it made her smile. He drew out a quill, too, then found today’s date in the September column and wrote, very carefully, Happy Birthday Hermione!
She didn’t understand the significance until she looked at the calendar he’d got her; there, mirrored exactly, were his words, his writing. It took her a whole second to work it out. “They’re synced?” she asked. “Anything you write appears on mine, and anything I write appears on yours?” She began searching around for a quill of her own.
He placed a hand on top of hers. “Write to me later,” he said, pulling her gently back towards him. “I know there’s hardly any space in the boxes, but I thought we could use them to let each other know when we were free, or not free, and then try to meet up in Hogsmeade. You know, for last minute things when we don’t have time to wait for an owl to get through.” She nodded—given that they didn’t have access to a floo connection, and that sending patronuses that might burst in in the middle of important classes or meetings wouldn’t work, there was no better way for them to keep in touch to arrange last minute rendezvous.
“Or you could just write me a good morning every day,” he smiled. “I’d like that, too.”
“I’ll come up with something,” she promised, kissing him.
“I knew you would,” he mumbled back, and she groaned. Their incredibly brief time together—all half an hour of it—was almost, almost, worse than no time at all. She wanted to talk to him and kiss him and talk and kiss all at once, and there wasn’t enough time to even do one of those things and it wasn’t fair.
But it was better than nothing.
“Thank you so much,” she said, pressing herself to him. “It is a wonderful, wonderful present, and I love it. I will love it, every day I’m here and you’re there. But you didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I’m your boyfriend,” he shrugged, and then they both laughed shyly, because no matter how many times it was repeated, it still sounded strange. Grown up. Serious. Exciting.
“I just meant that you, being here, would be enough,” she said. “You didn’t have to get me a present as well.”
“Really?” he asked, between kisses. “Because I do not think that we have enough. Time, I mean.”
“Me either,” she said, pulling at the buttons on his shirt.
He stopped her. “If you do this, I will never, ever go back to work,” he said. “And I really do have to.”
Later, she’ll wonder whatever possessed her, Hermione Granger, the woman for whom nothing is as important as school and work and deadlines, to look him straight in the eye, flutter her lashes and bite her lip and half sigh, “Do you?”. She’ll wonder how she managed to keep up this act when Ron looks genuinely torn in two at what was in front of him now and what might be in front of him later; she’ll wonder, too, how come she didn’t just jump him there and then.
But now, he simply said, “I do,” and, when she looked imploringly at him, added, “I do. I need to earn a living if I’m ever going to be with you.” And when she’d opened her mouth to contradict him, to scoff at the idea that he would think she was the sort of person who’d need to be kept, who’d care about how much money he did or didn’t have, he just laughed.
“Really, I do. I’m hoping by Christmas to at least be able to afford to buy you the matching diary. Bigger boxes for the dates, you know. You can write more in ’em. And I have a lot to say to you, Hermione Granger.”
“Can you start now?” she asked.
“We only have ten minutes,” he replied.
“Well,” she said. “We’d better make the most of them, then.”