Chapter 1
The kitchen was quiet in the way that made sound feel misplaced.
Light leaked through the half-cracked window above the sink—grey morning light, soft-edged and indifferent. The faint scent of yesterday’s coffee clung to the air, mingling with the metallic trace of a recently cooled kettle. On the counter sat a cake box, the corner of its lid caved in slightly, as if someone had dropped it and smoothed it over with a palm.
Hermione stood barefoot in the doorway, her arms crossed loosely, cardigan sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her eyes found the box at once. She didn’t move toward it. She didn’t need to.
She already knew what was inside.
After a minute—perhaps two—she stepped forward. The soles of her feet made no sound against the floorboards. She lifted the lid.
The frosting was a sugary lavender. Too bright for the hour. Too cheerful for the room.
Herminie, it read, in looping, careless script. The second i dotted with a tiny heart. A heart. Because nothing says "deep marital awareness" like infantilized typography.
Hermione stared at the mistake with sheer observation. The kind of thing she used to correct. The kind of thing she now expected. McGonagall would have deducted five points for spelling alone.
There was no card. No candle. No sign of when it had been bought or where from. But it was charm-sealed—likely purchased late, kept fresh through spellwork, the effort just enough to feign intention.
She closed the box with care, as if sudden movement might ruin the illusion of effort. The frosting smelled faintly of artificial vanilla and regret. Then she filled the kettle, set it on the burner, and waited.
The kitchen clock ticked in long, patient intervals.
Outside, the street was still. A delivery owl cut across the morning sky, wings taut in the wind. Inside, the silence was the kind that made a person feel not alone, but unaccounted for.
The kettle hissed, then clicked. She poured, stirred, and waited for the leaves to settle. She didn’t cry. That had stopped years ago. Instead, she sipped her tea and stared at the crooked cake box.
It was her thirty-seventh birthday.
There’d been a time when she thought birthdays were supposed to feel like opening a door. Now they felt like walking into the same room, just older. Just colder.
The light shifted against the table. She moved to pull the curtain, then didn’t.
She sat instead—mug in hand, cardigan sleeves bunching at her wrists—and let the silence fill the space where a voice might have been.
The cake stayed unopened.
The mistake in her name stayed uncorrected.
And somewhere in the quiet between sips, Hermione Granger-Weasley let the morning pass like a slow, unmarked page.
By late afternoon, the house had settled into the kind of stillness that made even the ticking clock sound intrusive. Hermione hadn’t changed out of her Ministry robes—her wand tucked into the waistband, her sleeves faintly wrinkled, the faint scent of old parchment still clinging to the fabric.
She was rinsing out her mug when the knock came. Not loud, not urgent. Just two short raps and a pause.
She already knew.
She opened the door to find Ginny standing there in a soft green jumper and wind-reddened cheeks, a bottle of elderflower wine in one hand and a flat, homemade envelope in the other.
“Happy birthday,” Ginny said. Her smile was bright but not expectant.
Hermione stepped aside wordlessly. Ginny breezed in like she always had—as if this were just one in a long line of familiar visits, which it was. But today, her presence carried more weight.
“I didn’t mean to intrude,” Ginny added, setting the wine down on the table. “But I brought a card. And this.” She unhooked the bottle with a practiced flick. “We celebrate ourselves when no one else does, remember?”
Hermione gave the closest thing to a smile she could manage. “You always remember.”
“That’s why I’m everyone’s favorite,” Ginny said breezily. Then, spotting the cake box still on the counter, she paused. “Is this—?”
“Yes,” Hermione said. “From this morning.”
Ginny opened it carefully. Read the name. Didn’t comment. She reached into a drawer and pulled out a knife, slicing the cake with more precision than it required.
“You know,” she said, settling across from Hermione, “you could’ve at least unwrapped the sad part before I got here.”
Hermione laughed. A soft, surprised sound. She didn’t answer. Just took the plate Ginny offered her.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. The kind of silence that felt chosen, not awkward. A rhythm between them. The light in the kitchen had shifted—thinner now, more golden. The shadows longer, gentler.
“It’s just another day,” Hermione said eventually, fork resting against the plate.
Ginny looked at her, not unkindly. “It is. But you deserve better than just another day.”
Hermione didn’t respond. Not with words. Her fingers tightened slightly on the mug in her hand.
“So,” she said instead, “how are the kids?”
Ginny took the shift in stride. “James broke three wands trying to enchant his Quidditch socks. Al swore off magic for ten minutes after failing a basic shield charm. Lily’s reading the entire Standard Book of Spells just to prove she can.”
Hermione smiled into her cup. “And Harry?”
“Still buried under three different subcommittee reorganizations. But he’s trying.” A pause. Then, more softly: “We both are.”
Hermione nodded. Asked nothing else.
The conversation drifted after that—weather, garden wards, a new transfiguration journal Ginny thought Hermione might like. All of it real. All of it, somehow, a little sideways.
But through it all, Hermione could feel Ginny watching her—not intrusively, not even with concern. Just... seeing.
That was what unnerved her the most.
That was also what made her feel less alone.
When Ginny finally stood to go, she didn’t press. She only leaned in, kissed Hermione lightly on the cheek, and said, “Next time, you make the cake.”
Hermione nodded. “Next time.”
And when the door clicked shut behind her, the house felt fuller than it had that morning.
And somehow quieter, too.
The house felt heavier after Ginny left.
Hermione didn’t light any new lamps. The kitchen glowed with a single charmed orb, dimmed to a soft yellow that cast long shadows over the countertop. The wine bottle remained unopened.
She stood in front of the cake box for a long time. The lid was closed again, neat as she’d found it, the frosting already smudging—as if even it had second thoughts.
She opened it, lifted the knife Ginny had used, and carved off another slice. Not out of hunger. Not out of tradition. Just to finish the motion. She ate standing at the counter, her eyes fixed on a crack in the tile beneath the sink. The fork against the plate sounded too loud. Each scrape sharp in the quiet.
Hermione finished the cake. She didn’t taste it.She rinsed the plate. Set it in the rack with the others.
Ron still wasn’t home. She didn’t check the clock. She turned off the kitchen lamp. The room was swallowed in shadow. Only the faintest spill of light came from the hall.
Barefoot, she walked upstairs in the dark. Each step light. Deliberate.
This birthday would join the others—the ones not ruined, just unmarked.
Unremembered, except by her.
She closed the bedroom door behind her and stood there for a moment, fingers resting on the handle as if to say something to the silence before letting it go.
Some birthdays aren’t forgotten.
They’re just quietly erased.