Hermione Granger was seated in a red armchair in the back of the Knight
Bus.
Outside, the world tilted to the right or left as Ernie took the corners too fast. Hermione braced herself against the assault but nearly ended up on her head as the armchair decided to recline itself after a particularly harrowing turn. After returning the chair back to an upright position and wishing she had a safety belt, she sat back and tried to relax.
Only her brain wouldn't let her. Of course, the constant lurching of the bus was one cause, but there were other problems, other considerations.
Like the look on Mum's face when Hermione told her she'd been considering a job at the Ministry. Or when Dad launched into his "why, Hermione, you've spent five years at Hogwarts; you'll have to rejoin the real world" speech, and Hermione, who was normally quite rational, broke her dinner plate against the wall in a fit of pique afterward. It was not the first time she had heard those words from her father-that the wizarding world was make believe, a place of escaping responsibilities-and she longed to shout at him, at both of them, about death and blood and Voldemort and risk and dying for your friends. That was the real world, that was adult stuff, that was facing responsibility.
Instead she'd grabbed her things, slammed out of the house, and been shocked out of her reverie on the corner when the Knight Bus screeched to a stop in front of her.
And now she rode to the Burrow, a place of refuge before the coming storm.
Outside, the world tilted to the right or left as Ernie took the corners too fast. Hermione braced herself against the assault but nearly ended up on her head as the armchair decided to recline itself after a particularly harrowing turn. After returning the chair back to an upright position and wishing she had a safety belt, she sat back and tried to relax.
Only her brain wouldn't let her. Of course, the constant lurching of the bus was one cause, but there were other problems, other considerations.
Like the look on Mum's face when Hermione told her she'd been considering a job at the Ministry. Or when Dad launched into his "why, Hermione, you've spent five years at Hogwarts; you'll have to rejoin the real world" speech, and Hermione, who was normally quite rational, broke her dinner plate against the wall in a fit of pique afterward. It was not the first time she had heard those words from her father-that the wizarding world was make believe, a place of escaping responsibilities-and she longed to shout at him, at both of them, about death and blood and Voldemort and risk and dying for your friends. That was the real world, that was adult stuff, that was facing responsibility.
Instead she'd grabbed her things, slammed out of the house, and been shocked out of her reverie on the corner when the Knight Bus screeched to a stop in front of her.
And now she rode to the Burrow, a place of refuge before the coming storm.