Grateful, Barty entered the suburban home. He had only seen glimpses of it in the past. Hermione had always met him in the garden. It was nice, he had to admit, utterly average but clean, and it smelled good, like roses and peppermint. Shaking his head, remembering the task his master had set him upon, Barty explained, "Today is Hermione's 17th birthday." You don't say, the eyes of her parent's told him, and he had to admit that it was a somewhat weak start. "Your daughter has told you about the trace?"