"Your birthday present, of course," she said and gave him a little, nervous smile, as if she was afraid he wouldn't like the gift. He took it – obviously a book – and flashed her faint but genuine smile, feeling slightly stunned. Bemused. He hadn't had a birthday this nice in years. He hadn't had anyone love him with this sort of quiet, certain, loyalty in years – not even his mother. Her love was intense and clinging, but in the end had proved a fair-weather friend. Hermione's love was something entirely different to anything Draco had ever experienced and sometimes – like now – he still didn't know what the fuck to do with it.