Merlin. It  was  her birthday. "Oh," Hermione said, and shook her head. "Well. Thank you, I suppose." She was eighteen now, and she felt forty. Had she ever really felt young? Birthdays always came as such an inconvenience—a day she wished would hurry up and be done with, a date no-one really remembered. She liked to pretend like it didn’t matter, rolling her eyes whenever Harry or Ron made a fuss, but secretly she wished they would try harder, impress her with something sweet or thoughtful. They never did, and dutifully, Hermione pretended like she was never disappointed. 