            Stockings, Hermione thought bitterly. It’s the year 1998, magic exists, and every witch in the Ministry of Magic is expected to wear stockings like it’s the hallmark of Wizarding professionalism. Harry and Ron and every bloody man in the Ministry gets away with perfectly comfortable trousers, while I’m stuck with itchy, hot, inexcusably easy to tear—Hermione snagged the nylon on her fingernail and ripped upwards. The hole split open, disappearing beneath the hem of her grey robes.