Hermione herself is tucked into an armchair in the corner of the room, and has found her mind wandering as she watches the mantle clock above the fireplace. It happens more often now than Hermione likes, now that the war is over. Before it, her mind was cemented down, bricked in—its foundation immovable. Now it feels as though an errant thought or memory will pull her away, fray her awareness, and it takes something to bring her down again. Even now, the ticking of the mantle clock has cut the tether that held her in the room, and she is awash with memories of her father—of sliding her feet into his massive leather shoes at the entryway, of sitting on his shoulders at the village parade, of watching him tinker in the garage.