Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter, or any of its related indicia.

Author's Note: I'm trying a new style in this one-shot, as seems to be my wont lately. I hope you enjoy. This was written for the Reviews Lounge's Birthday Project challenge.

I always wanted the best of both worlds. I still do. But I never get it.

Except with my birthday cake.

Nineteen lonely candles on a chocolate cake with vanilla frosting.

Every year, I always have the same cake. I've never deviated; even when I was a little girl, ever since I started getting asked what kind of cake I wanted for my birthday, I'd always ask for chocolate cake and vanilla frosting. And I always got it - the best of both worlds. Luscious chocolate and creamy vanilla. Of course, I had to share it, and I didn't mind that at all. I had my slice of the world. That's all that mattered, at the time.

But as another candle made its way into my paradise each year, I found myself being denied more and more things: baton-spinning classes; my own stationery; moving onto middle school with my primary school friends; getting into the same house as my new friend from the train, Hannah Abbott; Binky; love.

Staring out the window at the rainy streets of London.

I never loved Ron. Not even for an instant. I liked him - I still do - but I didn't love him. It was so incredibly obvious to everyone but him that he was in love with Hermione. And Hermione was too chicken to do something about it. For all the brains that girl has, she has a real problem just trusting herself sometimes and letting go.

So I decided to help her out a little bit. Nudge her in the right direction. A little jealousy always gets a girl scheming - and I knew I was in for it with Miss Hermione soon-to-be-Weasley Granger. It was fun while it lasted, and when it was over they were together and I was alone.

Raindrops hit the window like her tears hit the mahogany kitchen table.

Of course, nobody wanted to date me after the disgusting way I had to act with Ron - not that I had suitors lining up to ask me out of anything like that. But, still, it was another thing denied to me.

Everyone in my year had something they were known for, something that made them special. Dean was the artist, Seamus the joker, Neville the well-intentioned bumpkin, the trio the trio, and Parvati the fashionista. Yet for all of my talk about fashion and all of my clumsiness, my sarcasm, and my painting, I remained the normal one. The not-so-special one. Another thing I was denied.

An easel in the corner of the kitchen; an unfinished picture.

I don't think they really meant to alienate me so. And I really never felt like that while I was there. But every time I look back on those days, I get this way.

And today's the worst, because it used to be the best day: my birthday.

Today's date circled in red ink, like a red sun on the calendar on the wall behind the easel.

I never had any fancy galas or requested presents from my yearmates. But for some reason, every year at Hogwarts, when I came back from going down to the kitchens to get my cake, there would be a tawny owl waiting for me. Every year, there would be a funny little card in the owl's talons. It was never signed.

I never thought of him as my secret admirer - and what right had I to call him a 'him', anyway? (But I still did it, and I still do.)

And maybe it's foolish of me, but I was hoping that this year - my first year away from Hogwarts - my card-sender would come to the door of my flat with flowers and a smile and sweep me off my feet.

The electricity shuts off. The candles glow in the darkness: nineteen glimmers of hope.

I make my wish - it's so childish, so stupid - but I can't think of anything else.

And now I'm sitting in the darkness. I could use my wand to create some light, or try and fiddle with the fuse box, but I think I'll just wait for them to come back on; it never takes long. If there's one thing good about Muggles, it's that they won't live without their electricity for long - not if they can help it.

The streetlight shines through the rainy window and onto her face: a cone of light into her darkness.

The easel in the corner of the room is shrouded in darkness. If we could only see, we would see a painted hand holding a painted birthday card, opened to the bare white inside. In untidy black handwriting we see the words, "Happy 18th birthday, Lavender. Don't go too crazy with Trelawney's sherry."

And if, by chance, the owner of that hand had simply said some Latin and tapped her wand on that card, the final card she ever received, she would have seen the card suddenly awash in deep blue ink, with the same untidy handwriting.

It said: "I wonder if you'll ever figure this out. Figure me out. I like you, Lavender, so much. You're so pretty and you're so wonderful but I just can't tell you that in person. Something stops me every time, and it's sure not my Gryffindor spirit. I don't know what to do.

"But I hope you find these messages on all of these cards that I've been sending to you, because invisible ink is kind of expensive and I really, really don't want this to amount to nothing. I hope I make you laugh, Lavender. It's the best I can do for you these days. It's the best any of us can do for each other.

"Well, Lav, I'm running out of room so I'll stop now. I hope one day you find these, because I don't think I'll ever date anyone before I know for good if we can live happily ever after or not.

"As always, Lavender, I'm thinking of you.

"Your ever-watchful, ever-hoping, ever-waiting,

Seamus"

But she just sits there in the dark, waiting. Waiting to be given things instead of taking them.

And when the lights come back on, she praises herself for waiting.

Author's Note: Please review, and thanks for reading!