But she rather thought the cap of curls suited her better. And she certainly did not miss the weight on her scalp.
The bell at the front door sounded just as Hermione finished rinsing out her mouth. She could only just hear it over the rain. It was a bit early for visitors. Hermione frowned as she pulled on a dressing gown over her pyjamas and socks and went to see who it was.
Ron was standing on her front step, holding a sodden brown paper bag. He looked extremely grave and extremely wet.
"Birthday greetings," he said, with a smile. This was followed by two quick sneezes.
"Ron, you're soaked through!"
"Yeah," he sniffed, shaking himself off like a wet dog. It was then that Hermione saw the broom he had strapped on to his back.
Hermione's eyebrows rose. "You flew in this?"
Ron nodded. "From the Burrow. And yes," he held up a forestalling hand, "mum did tell me so. She made you these, by the way." He handed her the brown paper bag. Hermione could smell cinnamon buns, even though they had transformed into sponges during the journey.
"Bloody water repelling spell wore off after the first kilometre," he said, with resignation.
Crookshanks came to the door to see who the visitor was. There had never been any love lost between Ron and the cat. They eyed each other beadily before a disinterested Crookshanks slinked back to the comfort of Hermione's yet unmade bed.
Hermione stood aside. "Come in, I was just about to make up a pot a tea."
**
She was taking the news too well, Ron decided.
He had told her as she fussed over making them breakfast, even though he insisted that his mother had already fed him up to his eyeballs. Still, for the sake of having something to do while he relayed the dreaded information, he managed to squeeze in two slices of toast with marmalade and shared the segmented grapefruit that Hermione had laid out.
Hermione preferred black, sweetened tea that was stewed to the point of being coffee, so he also took his time making his way to and from the fridge to top up his milk.
The rain continued to pound over the slate shingle roof, a fitting, tense background noise, Ron thought.
They were seated at the table in her small kitchen and the only outward reaction she was showing to the news was the fact that she'd been stirring her tea for the past five minutes. Half of it had left the cup and sloshed onto the saucer. She didn't seem to notice.
"Hermione," Ron started gently. Merlin, why did he have to be the messenger this time?
Because Harry had his hands tied and Ginny was a bloody chicken, was why. "Did you hear what-"
"I heard you very clearly, thank you," Hermione interrupted. She took a distracted sip from her tea cup. Her eyes were trained on the table top.
"You're taking this very well."
She shrugged. "So he was dead and now he's back."
Ron shifted in his chair. The only part of him that seemed to be dry was the seat of pants. His sodden shoes and socks were hovering over the laundry sink.
"That's just it. You never believed he died. No matter what Harry or I said, remember? Turns out you were right."
Hermione's jaw tensed. She tucked one of her short, springy curls behind her ear. "As far as Malfoy is concerned, I don't care, Ron. I really don't. He was lost to me a very long time ago. I've moved on."
"Of course you have," he said, probably too placatingly. "You' re only human, though. It's alright to admit that this is something of a big deal, Hermione."
Ron was not prepared for the fury in Hermione's expression. Her brown eyes bored into him as she jabbed her spoon in his direction.
"There is nothing between us! It was the beginning of the end the day I died in the Lake. The Fida Mia enchantment was dissolved and then he left. He left! End of story. Adventure story, love story, tragedy. Mistake. Whatever you want to call it, his returning means nothing other than a possible, swifter solution to the war!"
Ron said nothing, though he carefully got out of his seat and fetched a tea-towel from the sink. He handed this to Hermione.
Who then dabbed at the tea she had spilled across the table. "Thank you," she said, primly. "Having Bellatrix is a real score. Moody must be over the moon."