In the basement, Hermione’s mind would often wander to what it was like outside. It’d been the middle of fall when she’d been captured and after three months of being transported from one place to another, all Hermione could do was close her eyes and try to picture the cold nipping at her cheek, the white, white snow making her squint. She imagined threading her fingers along the snow banks and thought of herself leaning back into the ground and creating delicate angels until the snow seeped into her skin.   