Rose sat quietly with her group of chattering friends. She was never very talkative, but she was less inclined to be so when the subject of children came up. Her friends pitied her, assuming Rose's silence was due to some particular defect in her teenage daughter. "Of course the girl seems perfectly normal," her friends would say to one another outside of Rose's hearing, "but nowadays, well one never knows, does one?" They would cast knowing looks at one another and when Rose returned from the powder room they would smile sweetly at her, smug in the knowledge that their precious son or daughter was near perfection, and resume cataloging the virtues of their respective children.

Rose never knew her friends pitied her, and she would have been rather irritated had she even suspected it. She would have loved to contribute to these conversations, but as she was never sure how much she could say without revealing too much, she erred on the side of caution and said nothing at all.

Truth be told, though, she was tremendously proud of her daughter—her brilliant child with top marks at her boarding school. Rose thought her girl was lovely with her thick, naturally curly hair—her girl didn't like it much, though, no matter how often Rose assured her, wistfully as she considered her own mousy-brown fine hair, that plenty of girls would love such abundant healthy hair. She was sweet, too, and courageous. Hadn't she been grouped with bravest and brightest of her peers at school? She had an insatiable curiosity which Rose encouraged as much as possible.

Rose often wondered about her daughter's life at school. Her girl spoke of her studies with such enthusiasm that Rose sometimes wished she'd been blessed with her daughter's abilities to comprehend such mysterious subjects. Rose, perfectly able to assess her patients' needs in a dental chair and meet those needs more than satisfactorily, was stumped at the concepts her brilliant daughter seemed to soak in naturally. And Rose, ever shy with strangers, was delighted that her daughter seemed to have made so many close friends.

She'd have liked to tell all that to her friends, but what if they asked questions? What would Rose say? The corner of Rose's mouth lifted up in a half-smile as she imagined her friends' reaction to a description of her daughter's peculiar talents. They'd probably chuck me in the loony bin and throw away the key! She wished sometimes that they knew, though, because then she could talk about the other things—the things that worried her. A mother just knows, sometimes, she thought. Knows when something's not right, and I know something isn't right.

She couldn't put her finger on it, exactly, but her girl had lately seemed tired and worried, much too much for a young girl of her age. She'd cut the summer holiday short and spent the remaining month with the family of one of her good friends in London. Rose hadn't wanted to let her go, but after extracting a promise from her daughter that Christmas would be spent at home, she'd finally relented. Rose thought she'd figured it out over the Christmas holiday-wasn't it always a boy? Her daughter didn't want to talk about it, and Rose didn't press it. She remembered the pangs and angst of teenage love. But underneath it all, Rose knew there was something else bothering her. Maybe something really bad.

"I say," exclaimed Maude suddenly, interrupting Rose's train of thought, "Is that an owl sitting on your car, Rose? It's quite odd. I don't believe I've ever seen an owl in the daytime. Or at all, come to think of it—outside the zoo anyway." The ladies all stared at the owl, quite interested.

Rose flushed strangely, affecting annoyance, and craned her neck to look through the window of the coffee shop where she'd parked her car. Sure enough a snowy white owl was perched atop her sedan. She stood up suddenly, shaking crumbs off her pantsuit. "It is odd, isn't it? Pardon me, ladies. That's a new car. I'll kill that silly bird if it ruins the finish." She walked past the register out the door, but instead of walking to her car, she crossed to a part of the lot not visible from the coffee shop window. The owl, as if reading her mind, glided to a spot in between two large oversized vehicles and waited for her patiently.

She'd never got used to this method of communication, but she rather liked birds and she especially liked this particular owl, who visited her on occasion. "Here you are, dear," she said, extending her hand to reveal a bit of blueberry scone she'd secreted away before leaving the table. The owl nibbled at the pastry while Rose untied the scroll from the owl's extended leg and opened it tentatively.

Dear Mum and Dad—

I know I promised to spend the summer holidays with you this year, but Ron's brother is getting married and I've promised I'll go. I know you understand. I'll be home as soon as I can. You mustn't worry.

Love,

Hermione

PS—Be careful

Rose got a sudden lump in her throat. The vague way Hermione had avoided giving a specific date of arrival, not to mention the PS. A mother just knows. Something's wrong.