Morning.

Tuesday, Sept. 17

“What’s your favourite colour?” Harry asked as they headed down to The Great Hall for breakfast on Tuesday morning.

Hermione blinked at the abruptness of the question.

“What?”

“Your favourite colour,” Harry repeated. “What is it?”

“Well... I like purple. Purple and green,” she decided. “Why do you ask?”

Harry shrugged. “It’s your birthday on Thursday, right?”

“Yes, it is,” Hermione answered, after taking a second to think about it.

It wasn’t that she’d forgotten per se, simply that, with everything else that had occurred over the last few days, a detail like her birthday coming up soon had easily slipped back to the more disused portions of her mind.

“What does that have to do with my favourite colour?” Hermione said staring at the boy. “Wait, you’re not planning some big party, are you?”

Because it wouldn’t really be a surprise if he was. Really, Hermione loved Harry, but that didn’t make her blind to the fact that the boy really liked attention.

Harry’s response to Hermione’s question was to ask one of his own in return: “Do you want a big party?”

Hermione took a moment to think about that, then she shook her head. “Not really,” she said.

Back home, with her family, birthdays were quiet celebrations. Sure, there was cake and presents and a birthday song, and sometimes the family did something, or went somewhere special to celebrate whoever’s birthday it was, but no one ever put up banners or threw a party.

No one ever invited the neighbourhood over and put up balloons and wore funny hats.

And while some people might find this strange and bizarre, and maybe even a little sad, it was simply how The Grangers celebrated, and Hermione herself had never had any problems with it.

In fact, for her eleventh birthday, her parents had offered to throw her a party if she wanted, but Hermione had decided that the thought of dozens of people (many of whom she would, no doubt, be unacquainted with) celebrating her birthday was a little odd, and somewhat intimidating.

While she thought, Harry was instead nodding at her refusal for a big party.

“Okay. How about a small party then? With just our friends?” the boy asked, then, after a moment, stared at her suspiciously: “Or are you one of those weirdos who don’t celebrate birthdays?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Everyone celebrates their birthday, Harry. What kind of person doesn’t celebrate birthdays?”

“Lots of people,” Harry said.

“Name one,” Hermione demanded.

Harry opened his mouth to speak, only to come up blank as he realized that he didn’t, in fact, know any such person.

Never one to admit defeat however, the boy quickly changed tack.

“Just because I can’t say any offhand, doesn’t mean they don’t exist. After all, if flat-earthers can exist then I’m pretty sure that there’s at least one weirdo somewhere in the world who doesn’t celebrate birthdays.”

Deciding to move on from Harry’s rather terrible attempt to pull her leg, Hermione focused on something else the boy had said.

“What are flat-earthers?”

Intuition told Hermione that this was one of those things Harry said that she might regret inquiring about, but curiosity drove her to ask all the same.

“Oh, those guys? They’re a bunch of weirdos who think the earth is flat,” Harry replied.

Hermione looked at him; he clearly wasn’t joking.

“But it isn’t,” the girl said in confusion. “There are pictures.”

“Pish! Those are fake,” Harry said. “Doctor Who released those pictures so that humans wouldn’t know that the earth is really a disk being carried by a turtle that’s sitting on an octopus that’s riding a skateboard. Duh.”

It took Hermione an embarrassingly long time to realise that Harry was simply messing with her again, and when she did, she swatted him on the arm.

Despite the boy’s joking around though, he hadn’t been lying about the flat-earthers, and it made Hermione wonder, and not for the first time, how strange a place the future must be.

—❈—​

Evening.

Wednesday, Sept. 18

During dinner on Wednesday, there were two new people sitting at the staff’s table in The Great Hall.

Hermione recognized one of them immediately, seeing as the heavily scarred wizard had the most memorable eye she’d ever seen in her young life, but the other was an old, fat man, with a shiny, bald head and an enormous walrus moustache that Hermione didn’t know.

Dumbledore introduced both men; Alastor Moody and Horace Slughorn, the replacements for the positions of Defence and Potions professors respectively.

Harry wasn’t exactly unhappy with the turn of events (in fact, he had expected it to an extent), but he wasn’t completely happy with it either.

As far as the boy was concerned, while both men were good teachers who might even be willing to help them with “extra curricular” work if they ever needed it, they both came with their fair share of problems. For Moody (well, Prof. Moody now, Hermione supposed, strange as it was to call him that) it was his paranoia and general oddness, while for Prof. Slughorn, it was his interest in Harry and her.

Hermione hadn’t thought it would be too bad at first, not until when, at different points during dinner, Prof. Moody and Prof. Slughorn had stared right at her.

Slughorn had raised a cup in greeting; Moody had smiled.

Harry had sighed, and Hermione and almost joined him.

—❈—

Morning.

Thursday, Sept. 19

For most, the morning of Hermione’s twelfth birthday dawned like any other, but for her it was very different, because on that morning, Hermione Granger woke to a group of voices singing.

“Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday, happy birthday, happy birthday to you.”

“Harry?” Hermione asked, staring at the smiling boy standing in front of her dormmates before her bed. “How did you get in here?”

“The stairs,” he said casually, coming to sit on her bed. “How else would I get in?”

“He used a broomstick to fly over them,” Lavender explained.

“Come on, Lav, I’m trying to be mysterious,” Harry whined playfully. “Anyway, first present of the day.”

Harry reached into one of the pockets in his robe and handed the sheet of folded parchment he pulled out to Hermione.

“What is it?” she asked, even as she unfolded it to take a look.

“It’s a list of spells that are useful for studying,” Harry said. “I got it from Flitwick.

“Look,” the boy said scooting closer, “this one helps you write notes anywhere you want that only appear when you want them to. While this one helps you copy any passage from any book you want onto parchment.

“This one can read any passage you want aloud in any voice you want, and this one can search an entire book for any word or sentence you want and mark the pages for you. It’s like Google.”

As Harry spoke, he got more and more excited, and to be fair, Hermione was too. With every new spell on the list, her mind near exploded with the thought of how much studying could improve with proper use of these spells.

“Harry, these spells are amazing,” the girl said finally.

“So, you like it?” Harry asked, looking happy.

“I love it, Harry. Thank you.” She hugged him.

Harry hugged her back, and when they separated he had a big, smug smile on his face.

“Okay,” he said, rising. “Present number two.”

Harry pulled her out of bed, and Hermione got her first clear look of her room.

Before now, the room had been done in Gryffindor colours, red and gold, but apparently, sometime before he woke her up, Harry had redone the room in purple and green.

Hermione looked around the room, completely awed. All around the room, everything that had once been in Gryffindor colours were now purple and green.

“It’s your day,” Harry said, “so I thought that everything should have your colours. I wanted to do the whole castle, but—”

“This one room took all of us almost an hour, Harry,” Faye said, genuine heat in her tone. “We’re not painting the whole castle with you.”

“—that,” Harry finished. “Anyway, what do you think?”

The room looked good. It really did. They’d used light shades of purple and soft greens, making the colours blend better together, and it was obvious that someone with an eye for art (read: Lavender) had directed them in placing the colours.

So, yes, the room looked lovely, but Hermione didn’t pay attention to it overmuch, because, as she looked at Harry, she felt this... bubble swell in her chest, and it expanded to the point where she felt like she might either burst, or simply float away.

In the end, neither of those happened, so Hermione simply smiled, widely enough that her cheeks hurt, and when Harry smiled back, her heart just about skipped a beat.

—❈—

As fun as it was to sit and play in her dorm with her friends, the fact remained that they had classes to attend, so, eventually, they left for breakfast, and then classes.

Transfiguration, the first class of the day, was rather routine, with Hermione succeeding in earning Gryffindor a neat six points for answering a few questions correctly.

After that however, was Defence Against the Dark Arts, and while Prof. Moody was undoubtedly an improvement over the stuttering Quirrelmort (as Harry called him), Hermione still wasn’t sure what kind of teacher the man would be.

Harry had an idea, but he wasn’t certain, not just because the example he had was of when the man was being impersonated by a Death Eater, but also because, after the news of Sirius’ death, the boy had become a tad wary of placing too much weight on information from the books.

Hermione understood, but she did think that with everything that had happened so far, it was a bit late for that.

In the end, Prof. Moody was both like and unlike what Hermione had expected.

When Hermione walked into the Defence classroom with Harry, it was clean and bright, and the strong smell of garlic that she’d come to associate with the class was gone.

Moody was also absent.

Hermione and Harry picked a seat in front, and they waited and watched as their classmates arrived.

At 12:00 PM on the dot, the door swung closed quietly, locking a boy outside before he could rush through.

Eerily enough, Hermione neither heard the boy’s calls nor his knocks, even though she was sure that he must have been doing both.

Before she could think about that however, Prof. Moody walked out of the front wall of the classroom.

Some students screamed.

Hermione and Harry made abortive attempts towards their wands.

Prof. Moody stood before the class, magical eye spinning madly as he stared at the unsettled students.

“Congratulations,” the scarred wizard said, “you’re all dead.”

In a flash, the man pulled out his wand and cast: “Expecto Patronum,” and a huge, silver bear burst out of it and let out a bone-shaking roar.

More students screamed, many rising from their seats in fear.

“Shut up and sit down,” Prof. Moody commanded, and slowly, the class settled.

“Who can tell me what this spell is?” Prof. Moody asked, gesturing at the polar bear he’d conjured, which was now thankfully placid after its initial display.

“Granger,” the professor said, calling on her to speak since she’d raised her hand.

“It’s The Patronus Charm, sir,” Hermione said. “The only spell known to have an effect on dementors. It uses joy to counter the feelings of despair and misery they cause.”

Prof. Moody grunted in agreement, looking unimpressed even though Hermione had just casually answered a N.E.W.T. level question.

Granted, she only knew the answer because of Harry, but the point remained.

“This,” Moody said, still pointing at the bear, “is a N.E.W.T. level spell, and it’s one of the most important spells you can know, because if you ever find yourself needing it when you can’t cast it; you die.

“And I will bet every galleon in my vault, that most of your parents can’t cast this spell.”

Prof. Moody looked around the room, his gaze leaving many students scared and unsettled.

“Most of your parents can’t apparate either; probably can’t even manage a Shield Charm.”

There was another long, drawn-out silence as Prof. Moody’s lips curled; he seemed genuinely upset by that fact.

“For most people, leaving Hogwarts is the last time they truly practice magic, as soon as they graduate, they relax and they let their magical skills rot away, until many can’t even manage spells that they could cast as fourth-years.

“They do this because they think that there’s no need. They think that they’re safe. But as the Gryffindors among you have recently learned, you are never safe.”

Prof. Moody’s patronus disappeared.

“Bring out your textbooks,” he said.

—❈—

Despite his initial speech and overall attitude, Hermione was surprised to find that Prof. Moody was actually not a bad teacher; he explained things clearly and completely, gave good, practical examples when necessary, and even encouraged students to ask questions when they had them.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t enough to counter the wizard’s gruff and intimidating presence, so many of their classmates were only too eager to leave when the class ended.

That evening, the Gryffindor first-years didn’t go down to The Great Hall for dinner.

Harry had discussed it with Prof. McGonagall beforehand, making her aware that they would be skipping, so, while others went down to eat, the Gryffindor first-years filed up to the boys’ room (which had also been recoloured purple and green like the girls’) where they held a little party for Hermione.

Harry had also arranged for food to be brought up for them from the kitchens, and for the first time ever, Hermione got to meet elves.

The girl wasn’t really sure what she had expected when she’d thought of elves, but, somehow, the neat creatures with big, expressive eyes and rather adorable, bat-like ears weren’t it.

They were all unfailingly nice and polite, and when she and Harry thanked them for their help, they just about blushed.

A big part of her wanted to question the elves about how they were treated, and if they were happy with practically being enslaved, but Hermione didn’t want to risk ruining the party Harry had gone through so much trouble to throw for her, so she held back.

Though she did make a mental note to talk to them some other time.

There was cake, of course, a big one with twelve candles, and Hermione blew them out, wishing that she and Harry would never have to meet Voldemort again.

After eating, Harry set up some musical instruments, which had been enchanted to play along to whatever song was being sung.

It was apparently a relatively common find at wizarding parties, but Hermione had never heard of it before.

With the instruments out, everyone wanted a turn to sing their favourite song, but of course, Harry went first.

“This is a song by Bruno Mars; he’s a muggle singer,” the boy said, standing before the seated group, and Hermione wondered whether, considering Harry's unique circumstances, this Bruno Mars had even been born yet.

Harry continued: “The song’s called Count On Me.”

Among the magical instruments, the guitar’s strings started strumming; soft and melodious. It was nice. But then, staring right at her, like she was the only thing in the world, Harry started to sing.

If you ever find yourself stuck in the middle of the sea~

I’ll sail the world, to find you~

The song lasted minutes, but Hermione barely noticed, because as she watched Harry sing, that odd bubble in her chest swelled even larger than before, and the girl suspected that she really just might burst.

—❈—

Unfortunately, because they had Astronomy at midnight, the party had to end early.

Harry said that he’d tried convincing Prof. Sinistra to cancel classes for the night, but that he’d had no luck, because apparently, according to the professor, a birthday was no excuse to skip learning.

Hermione fully agreed, but she didn’t tell Harry that.

Harry walked with her to her stairs, and when he said goodnight, she hugged him, and, before she could think about it, kissed him on the cheek.

Hermione went upstairs right after, so she completely missed the big, goofy smile on Harry’s face as he went up to his dorm.

In her room, Hermione prepared for bed, and it was only after she was done, and pulled open her bed’s canopy to sleep, did she see the package sitting on her bed.

A note was stuck to it in Harry’s messy writing, “last present for the day.”

Hermione smiled and opened the box to find a box of cupcakes. Not just any cupcakes though; they were cupcakes like the ones her mother made.

Hermione took a bite; they were ones her mother made.

Under the box of cupcakes was an envelope, and Hermione opened it to reveal magical photographs of her parents at home, smiling and waving.

The sight of the pictures reminded Hermione that she hadn’t received anything from her parents today, and that she, in turn, had failed to contact them.

The girl stared at the picture, wondering how her parents had taken magical pictures and knowing that the only possible explanation was Harry.

There was one last item in the envelope; a small, flat piece of wood with the words ‘Say ‘RING’’ carved into it on one side.

“Ring,” Hermione said, smiling as she waited to talk to Harry.

Nothing happened for several seconds, then finally, to Hermione’s great surprise, her Mom’s voice came from the object. “Hermione? Is that you?”

The “phone” wasn’t to talk to Harry, Hermione realized. He’d made it so she could talk to her parents.

Her Dad’s voice came next. “Is it working? Hello?”

Throat tight and eyes stinging as she suddenly realised how much she’d missed hearing their voices, Hermione said; “I’m here, Daddy. It’s working.”

“Hermione,” her Dad said, and she could hear the happiness in his voice.

“Happy Birthday.”