For the Reviews Lounge "Birthdays" Challenge for the month of April . . .

The prompt is Birthdays, and the story focuses on one character. This is a new style and type of writing for me, and I would love feedback.

I own nothing, but I do own thanks to stella8h8chang for her help with reviewing this work, and JKR for creating this fantastic world.

Please enjoy.

Ten Birthdays

1979

It is her child's first day into the world. All she can see for a while is white . . . stars and spots and streamers in her eyes. She turns to her right and feels a pressure on her hand. In the distance, a blurry object smoothes the wet hair away from her face.

"She's here, Helen . . . you did it . . . she's beautiful . . ."

A gurgle escapes from her throat, and she smiles as her head lolls toward her left. A man in blue holds a wrapped bundle that cries and screams and keeps . . . screaming and crying!

Do they always cry like that?

She takes the bundle in her limp arms and brings her close to her breast and the little creature's cries grow softer and softer and Helen suddenly finds her inner strength and holds her as tight as she dares.

"What do we name her, Helen?" he asks with soft voice and bated breath. There is a beat. He squeezes her hand. "Love?"

She swallows and smiles at this sweet little girl, nestling in her arms and in her bosom. The tiny creature reaches up as if to grasp at the hair that falls far past Helen's shoulders in great brown waves.

She remembers an old Shakespeare play her own father and mother used to read to her.

She remembers a name, so unusual and so pretty and it falls from her brain to her tongue and floats out of her mouth.

She knows it is the right name for her because this little girl is so different from anything she has ever seen and touched and held and the name that she wants to give her is so different from anything she has ever heard. . . .

"Hermione . . ." she whispers into the baby's soft and new head and the baby knows she is saying something because the baby reaches up and touches her mouth as she murmurs the name.

1991

It is her twelfth birthday and it is the first one where she is alone. Feverishly attacking her parchment, she is desperate to master the Switching Spell before tomorrow and to go over once again over the Potions essay because Professor Snape will surely be looking for the answer that includes the various uses of belladonna and the strength in each of its forms — powder, liquid, and its untouched and undiluted natural state. . . .

"Harry!"

She huffs as that insufferable red headed boy, the one who rolls his eyes at her as she walks by him and his best friend, Harry Potter . . . that redheaded boy insists on playing some game involving the common room's couch cushions and Exploding Snap cards and a mess of downy feathers that make her sneeze.

"Excuse me," she tries in her most polite voice, "there are some of us who are trying to study here. If you don't mind."

"If you DON'T mind!" the redhead says back to her in a mocking voice. "Harry, this one over here thinks the common room only belongs to her!"

"Eh whatever . . . c'mon Ron! Over here!" Harry shouts to his friend.

She turns back around as she shakes her head and reaches out to touch the old leather-bound copy of A Winter's Tale that her Mum and Dad sent to her for her gift.

She misses them and thinks that it would be wonderful if her Mum was eleven or twelve years old and a witch because they could go to school together and be best friends and she would not be alone today.

But then she realizes the impossibility of that wish, since it would mean she would never have been born.

She is happy that she was born today twelve years ago and she smiles . . . even as her eyes water.

1987

It is her seventh birthday and she is crying as she waits for her parents to pick her up from school.

When they come, her mum asks, "You've got something hard and pink in your hair, Hermione . . . Hermione, sweetheart, what's wrong?"

She sniffs. "C-claudia Hitchens t-took the cupcake y-you gave me today f-for lunch and shoved it in my hair and m-my hair got messed up and s-some of the icing got st-stuck in m-my h-hair be-be-because it's so b-bushy—"

And she stops talking suddenly because she's crying so hard and because her mum's birthday cupcakes are so good and she does not get to eat them every day. She gets them only on very special occasions because her mum is a dentist and her mum always says her birthdays are so special so she makes sure that she gets a cupcake on that day . . . most times it's more than one. There are other days through the year that she gets them but the birthday cupcakes are special because she's the only one who gets them that day.

No one else.

Her mum pulls her into an embrace and smells of berries and cake and a subtle scent that reminds her of a . . . garden, perhaps?

She thinks that her mum must have been outside or there must be a rosebush around them somewhere. But she can't stop crying . . . and she really wants to.

Her mum takes hold of the hair with the pink icing and gently removes it and she cries into her mum's chest. She doesn't even feel her mum picking at her hair because she is so gentle and because she hums softly to her while she does it.

After her mum finishes cleaning her up, her mum kisses her on the top of her head and promises as many cupcakes as she wants when she gets home.

1994

It is her fifteenth birthday and before she makes her way downstairs to the common room, she looks at her new necklace in the mirror. Parvati sighs with approval. "Oh Hermione! It's beautiful."

"It's my mum's," she responds as she touches the antique gold locket with a gold rose on the front. "She promised it to me on my fifteenth birthday. She got it on her fifteenth birthday and my grandmother got it on hers and my grandmother's mother got it on hers . . ."

"Tradition, huh?"

She nods and waves goodbye to Parvati.

The moment she sees Harry and Ron, they run over to her and their arms are filled with enough Honeydukes sweets to give indigestion to Hagrid . . . which certainly says a lot.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione!" they say in perfect unison and she has to push her fingers to her lips to stop her chin from trembling, which is the first sign of potential tears in a Granger woman.

"My parents would have a fit if they saw me anywhere near these sweets."

Ron shrugs and looks left and right. "I don't see them around. What they don't know and all . . ." and he smiles a lopsided grin at her and she's not sure why her stomach does an odd swoop but she chalks it up to looking at the sickly sweet pile in her two best friends' arms.

"C'mon then," Harry nudges toward the couch. "Hermione, we'll help you get through this. Well, we know Ron will at least!" and smiles warmly to her and she sits in between them with a pile of sweets all for her.

She pretends to not notice Ron's face growing red because she accidentally touches his arm but she continues to touch his arm because it makes interesting things happen in her tummy.

1989

It is her tenth birthday. She hears her dad and mum talking about the declining economy and she speaks, "But shouldn't we like our Prime Minister? Shouldn't we support her because she's a lady, like Mum and me?"

Her dad and mum look at each other and raise their eyebrows and grin and she decides she likes those little lopsided grins because they always seem much deeper than a broad smile.

"Hermione, dear. There are many reasons to think ill of Margaret Thatcher. We don't like her policies or how she's led Britain's economy all these years or what she says about what we should do overseas. But absolutely none of this is because she's a woman."

"But shouldn't we encourage more women to come forward and be leaders like her?"

"Hermione, come here," and her dad pats the couch cushion next to him and puts his arm around her shoulders. "I agree with you, one-hundred percent. Just remember, anyone who puts himself or herself into a powerful position should avail themselves to criticism of their leadership. I would be saying the exact same things about Prime Minister Thatcher if she were Michael Thatcher, and not Margaret."

She nods because she understands.

"Hermione, I'm so proud of you, you do know that, right?"

She raises her eyebrow at her dad. "Why?"

"Because you ask us all these questions and you make us think. You are very inquisitive, darling."

"When I grow up, I want to be a Prime Minister too. Or I want to work in politics or do something that's good. I think there are many ways to make this world better."

Her dad chuckles. "I think you can do it, too! I've no doubt that you are meant for big things, sweetheart. You've got this mind of yours that never stops working."

She looks down at her small hands. "Sometimes I think only you and mum think I'm smart."

"Oh darling, your teachers think you're smart. The other kids think you're smart too."

She looks back up at him and he's smiling at her, but it is a smile with so much love and admiration and it's not shallow but deep just like her love for him and her mum. "Sweetheart, don't you worry about other people. You need to celebrate your own intelligence . . . your brains. You are so very smart, Hermione. And you're going to find others that will respect your brilliance. And you will call them your friends. You just make darn sure that your friends appreciate you for what's in here," and he points to her head, "as well as what's in here," and he points to her chest. "And you make twice as sure that the special bloke in your life appreciates both one-hundred fold."

And she hugs him and he hugs her as he whispers, "Happy Birthday, my special girl," into her bushy hair.

1997

It is her eighteenth birthday and she is without her family. For the past six years, she has been away from her mum and dad for her birthday.

But this time, her mum and dad do not even know her.

She can remember their faces, their voices, their scents . . . and they don't even know that they have a daughter.

It is necessary, though.

It is necessary because their lives are in danger.

It is necessary because they must find the bits and pieces of a shattered soul to end the suffering.

But she wishes that today she could have a cupcake or a sweet and hugs and kisses from her mum and dad . . .

"Knut for your thoughts?"

She hears Ron's deep voice and feels Ron sit beside her.

She smiles, but she is sad.

"You all right?"

She shrugs because it is easier than talking, but it does not stop the tears from forming in her eyes.

She sees Ron and can tell he's a bit scared at the thought of her crying but he remains right where he is. He seems more tired and moody lately, and she strongly suspects that the blasted locket has everything to do with it.

However, she notices he is not wearing it now. She notices his eyes are that brilliant and bright, steely blue that she loves so very much and his eyes dance in the moonlight.

It makes her so happy to watch his eyes, because it looks like he is laughing and he is happy again.

Ron reaches out and takes hold of her hand. This surprises her so much that she can't stop a small gasp! from escaping her mouth.

"Hap-happy birthday, Hermione."

She lets herself beam and her tears start to fall. "You remember?"

"'Course I remember. September nineteenth, just like every year." He smiles at her and she smiles back and she feels so warm.

"Hey, I didn't get you anything this year. Sorry."

She looks at him with wide and disbelieving eyes. "Sorry? Ron, we're on the run! The three of us are Public Enemy Number One. Just being alive right now is a gift I'm willing to take over anything else." She thinks for a moment. "Well, that and making sure our families are safe and sound." And she returns to looking out at the woods beyond them.

Ron smiles and nods. "Well, I was wondering. I'd still like give you something for today. I was sorta thinking I could tell you some of the good things I think about you."

She can't say a word. She knows she's staring at him, but she feels completely gobsmacked! "W-wh-what? What d'you mean, you, er . . . th-think about me?" And she curses her rapidly beating heart.

Ron is blushing and it is adorable but she sits in silence for a moment to wait for him to speak. "Well, y'know . . . we haven't always been on the best terms over the years, and I just, I wanted to . . . um . . . compliment you. As a gift for you . . . O-on your birthday."

She closes her mouth, which was gaping wide open and again sits still for a moment. Ron takes a deep breath and begins talking. "I think you're really cool." She stifles a laugh because she sees he is serious and is struggling with what he wants to say. "I-I mean . . . well, when I say you're cool . . . I really think that your brain is really pretty amazing. I sometimes give you grief about it, but I want you to know that it's cool you're . . . uh . . . yeah."

She sees Ron swallow and try to gather his thoughts again with a couple of breaths.

He licks his lips. "I like that you're smart, Hermione. I tease you about it and I like that you always have something to say back to me. You might have some crazy ideas about the world, but you're really enthusiastic about it and it's really you wanting to make things better and that's really cool."

Ron rubs his forehead and she notices his face is as red as his hair and she doesn't want to cry but — goddess! — her brain and heart are failing at stopping her tears.

"I really like your hair too." At this, he blushes violently. "W-wh-what I mean to say is that . . . I like it all down and crazy. Oh, Godric! This sucks." He pushes out his cheeks and shuts his eyes very tight. "I think I like your hair better like this, when you kind of let it all go. I like it when you pull it up, but it's better like this." He smiles awkwardly and she responds in kind and she hopes her smile is as warm and lovely as he is making her feel right now.

"I like how you're always worried about everyone else, especially me . . . er, Harry and me. I like how you get along with my family. I really like that you're into school and you help us with our work—"

She cocks her head and gives him and amused smirk. "I think there've been a couple of times that I've actually done your work for the two of you."

And Ron chuckles softly. "Yeah . . . I reckon you have." Ron swallows. "But I really do think that . . . I think you're . . . um . . ." And he looks at her and she looks at him and it's another moment that they are having right now and she wants him to draw closer to her and she wants to kiss him and him to kiss her—

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY, HERMIONE!"

And the moment is gone.

She looks over and sees Harry, holding three pieces of bread with strawberry jam smothered on top and a bunch of wildflowers in his hand.

She marvels at the roughly put-together birthday meal and presents and thought that she would never, in her entire life, know of two greater friends than Harry and Ron.

"Ron's idea, of course," Harry says with a roll of his eyes and a smile. He winked at Hermione. "Happy Birthday."

She chortles at Harry and she looks at her two friends and cries tears of total and complete happiness, because it is no matter that death may be approaching.

As long as she is with them, she is alive and she is happy and she is whole.

2001

It is her twenty-second birthday and she feels Ron's arm around her waist as he guides her into the room.

She is in disbelief that the three of them could defeat a great evil and yet she is powerless to save her own mum.

Leaning over the bed, she kisses the sleeping form on her cold, slightly yellowed forehead.

Her mum wakes up.

"Her-hermione?"

"Hi mum." She reaches for her mum's now very thin hand and squeezes it gently.

"Hermione, it's your birthday—"

"Mum . . ." she says in a whispery voice. "There's nowhere I'd rather be."

Her mum shakes her hand a bit. "I'm afraid I didn't make you anything for today. Just . . . give . . . me . . . one . . . moment." Her mum speaks in between soft grunts, and she struggles to lift herself up off of her hospital bed currently occupying the small bedroom. She puts her arms gently on her mum's shoulders so the older woman cannot get up.

"Mum, really. I can make us all cupcakes. You should rest."

"This is all too much fuss. I don't need my pancreas to bake . . ."

"No, but your pancreas needs you to rest."

Her mum backs off and looks at her with a sad smile. "Hello Ron," she says while continuing to look at her daughter with that smile on her face.

"Hi, Mrs. Granger—"

"Ron, do not 'Mrs.' me . . . it's Helen, all right? Helen."

She hears Ron chuckle. "I'll . . . I'll try to remember, er . . . Helen."

"Or, you can call me 'Hells' . . . my nickname back in the day," her mum says to her with amusement and a wink. She smiles back.

Her mum raises her head a tiny bit. "I smell . . . flowers?"

She pulls out the bouquet. "Your favorite, Mum."

And her mum smiles a huge smile and it is a smile that fills her mum's thin face and illuminates the room. "Roses. Hermione, these are beautiful."

She nods. "Molly found an old Perma-Watering Vase in her attic last week. Thought it would look lovely here."

She lets her mum raise her hands to gently touch the roses and she watches her mum sniff the blossoms. She fancies that she can see their sweet, floral scent swirling in the air in curlicues all around the room and surrounding them with their perfume.

"Does that mean that I'll never have to put water in the vase?" her mum asks.

She nods.

"Well," her mum laughs, softly and sadly, "I guess that'll be good . . . for later, y'know."

And she knows that her mum means when her "medicine" makes her far too weak to walk.

And she blinks back tears and smiles and takes a seat by her mum and Ron takes a seat by her and they talk about an endless amount of everything.

1988

It is her ninth birthday and it is a Saturday. Although she is sad that she does not have school, she is happy because she can already smell the sweet scent of cake and she knows her mum is up and if she runs really fast downstairs, she'll get the first one right out of the oven. . . .

She stops just as she turns into the kitchen, and she hopes her mum and dad cannot see her. Because she knows she's intruding on a lovely, but private, moment between her parents.

She watches her mum taking a dollop of pink royal icing out of the bowl and her mum plops the glop right on her father's nose. He laughs and he pulls her toward him and wipes the frosting back onto her face. She laughs and it comes from her guts and it is loud and there is nothing dainty about it.

But it doesn't need to be because it is real and beautiful.

Her dad has his hands around her waist and he pulls her close to him. He places a rose behind her ear and kisses her right on her mouth.

She makes a birthday wish that, someday, she will marry a man that can make her as happy as her dad makes her mum.

2012

It is her thirty-third birthday, and—

"Rose! Do not. Put. The icing. On. Your. Brother."

"But M-u-u-u-m! He started it—"

"And I'm finishing it. Now, put down the spoon!"

She stares at Rose and Hugo, but mostly Rose as she is about to make a royal mess with the royal icing and she is trying desperately not to laugh because that would be an invitation for even more chaos.

She has her hands on her hips, and is patiently waiting . . .

And she sees Ron striding toward their two children. He swoops down and picks up both of them, one under each arm. Her daughter holds the wooden spoon limply, as if she is trying to distance herself from the incriminating object before she gets into any more trouble.

Ron stops right in front of her . . .

"Ron?" she asks cautiously, because Ron has that gleam in his eyes.

The same gleam that tells her he's about to—

"Now! Rose! Hugo!"

And she squeaks and shouts because Rose takes the icing off the spoon and smears it all over her face in a sweet, pink mess. Hugo takes the batter and the icing still being mixed and gets it all in her hair and the blouse she wears and Ron . . . of course, Ronald would do this . . . Ron smears even more batter into her face and laughs and laughs and laughs.

So, of course, she does the only thing she can do . . .

She takes a huge handful of batter and icing and, silently praising herself for having the foresight to have bought extra ingredients, she throws the gloop directly at Ron's face.

His shocked expression delights her. She stares at him with mischievous eyes and a mischievous grin.

"Oh! O-o-oh-h-ohohoho!" he chortles. "You're in for it now, Mrs. Weasley!"

"I can take all three of you, you do know that, right?" And she waves her wand and, immediately, three globs of batter and icing Hover in the air.

"Run kids! Save yourselves!" Ron yells out in mock terror. And Rose and Hugo are screaming in delight as they scurry away from her "Batter Bombs".

And they are yelling and screaming and laughing so loud, that they don't even hear—

'When we said we wanted cupcakes for your birthday, Hermione, we didn't mean for you lot to be wearing 'em!"

And Harry and Ginny and their kids barely miss the onslaught of uncooked cake and icing hurtling in their general direction.

2006

It is her twenty-seventh birthday, and she is huge!

Big.

Gin-or-mous.

Whale-like.

She is relaxing because it is a weekend and even though she's got a million files to organise, she just doesn't want to get up. Instead, she puts her hand on her belly and she can feel a couple of little kicks.

She smiles. She smiles as big as her belly.

"How's she doing?" She hears her husband's voice, bright and happy and inquisitive. Ever since they found out, he always makes a point to ask how she is doing.

"She's quite active today. Somebody must've told her there's a marathon or something."

"How're you doing?"

"I'm just . . . ready." It's really the only thing she can say that's appropriate.

Ron brings over a tray of breakfast goodies and pumpkin juice (fortified specifically for pregnant witches), and he lies down next to her, the food on the table next to her side of the bed. They each have a pastry and he puts his head gently on her tummy and munches away with a smile on his face.

She runs her hand through his hair and hums pleasantly.

"Happy Birthday, Hermione."

She grins. "Thank you. I plan . . . on doing absolutely nothing today."

"Hear hear," Ron adds, lazily. He stretches out his long legs and wraps his arms around her waist.

There is a pleasant lull, where no words pass between them and time pauses. This is the one thing she loves about being married to Ron; sometimes, no sense of urgency is a good thing.

He certainly makes sure that she feels no stress at all . . . or as little stress as possible.

After a few moments, though, the thoughts she had been having for a while now returns. And, suddenly, she feels the need to talk about it . . .

"I've been thinking—" she starts.

"What? You? Really?!"

Prat.

"Yes, I have," she says primly, ignoring his amused snorting. She grins. "I've been thinking about names."

Ron sits up and looks at her and his blue eyes are sparkling and happy, but he keeps his face very calm. "Really?"

She nods. "And, I think I'd like to name her . . . w-well, I mean, you should agree too . . . It's . . . it's a huge decision for the both of us to make . . . I don't want you thinking—"

"Hermione," Ron says firmly and he holds a hand up to quiet her and he smiles. "What would you like to name her?" he asks her quietly.

She looks at him, and a small smile plays on her lips. "Rose."

Ron looks at her for a moment and shows no response. "It's . . . was . . . her favorite flower, wasn't it?"

She nods and she can, once again, feel tears welling up in he eyes.

"I-I mean . . . it would feel like she's still here . . . Honestly, she never really liked the name 'Helen'." She looks at Ron and a couple of tears trickle down her face. "She loves . . . loved," she corrects herself, and her husband has his arm around her in a comforting embrace, "she loved the flower so much. . . . Thought it had the prettiest bloom, the sweetest fragrance . . . she said it was the queen of all the flowers . . . that there're none better or brighter."

Ron kisses her forehead. "Rose . . . Rose," he says with a languid voice. "Rose Weasley . . . I like it . . ." he whispers into her hair, "It's brilliant."

And she falls more into his comforting embrace and she lets herself cry just a little bit longer but no more than a few minutes.

And she thinks her mum would be . . . is . . . watching this . . . the two of them . . . almost three . . . together . . . And she is smiling.