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Hermione’s father was more upset than she’d ever seen him.
Her train ride home had been smooth as always; the peace and quiet of her compartment short lived once the boys had joined her. She’d gotten some reading done, and even made her schedule for her studies over winter break. Priority One was to get all of her Potions project ingredients indexed. She had about a hundred samples to work through and test before deciding which were right for her potion.
Priority Two was to work her way through the current step to becoming an Animagi. She had completed the step with the Mandrake leave in October—Ron had loved that part—and had her little jar tucked away. She’d been doing her meditation every morning and evening and planned to continue until she had the perfect storm of an opportunity. Pun intended.
Unfortunately, her father was a helpful man. She’d barely crossed the threshold of their home and he’d taken her bags, directed her to help her mother in the den, and said he’d be happy to bring her stuff up to her room. Long years of this routine had taught her not to argue. This time, however, she couldn’t help but be reluctant to hand over the bag, and her senses had remained on high alert as she’d proceeded to the den, and he, up the stairs.
The sound of glass on hardwood rang out, and she rushed up the stairs to find all of her specimen jars rolling on the floor, her bag hanging broken from her father’s hand. The strap had broken.
As she bent to collect them, his face lingered in the corner of her vision. As the colors turned, she counted down in her head. 3…2…1…
“WHY HAVE YOU GOT ALL OF THIS MESS IN YOUR BAG?”
“Dad, it’s just-”
“These are disgusting, Hermione. What could you possibly want with all of this? Did that school send it home with you?”
“Dad, it’s not-”
“It’s all just a bunch of hocus pocus, that’s what it is!”
“DAD!”
He froze, eyes wide, mouth open.
“It’s my life . Magic is real . And I need you to finally understand that.” She glanced out the window as she heard a promising rumble. “You know what? Come with me.”
She turned and moved gently past her mom, heading down the stairs and not bothering to wait to see if they were following. Next, Hermione accio’d her now blood red potion from where it had been in a stasis pocket in her beaded back.
She went outside to see a storm had just broken. The perfect storm.
She walked to the center of the backyard, pointed her wand at her heart, said the memorized words, tossed the potion back just as her parents stepped outside, and waited.
The change was gradual, somehow both too fast and too slow, but her suspicions were right.
Where before had stood their daughter, honey eyes and curly brown hair, Mr. and Mrs. Granger now saw a large bird. Sharp, keen eyes and tufts on either side of its head. The bird stretched, then took to flight.
“Did she just-”
“Fly away? Yes, she did.”
“And she was-”
“A great horned owl? Yes. Yes, she was.”
Hermione gave a bird snort from where she had perched out of sight. She was never telling the boys.