            The door swung open at her touch, the wards shivering over her skin. The electric had been cut long ago, and darkness covered the entryway, save for what shafted through the windows. At least we’ll have water, from the well. Hermione ran her eyes slowly over the green-carpeted staircase, the archway to the sitting room with the cream couches her mother had loved so much. They were mid-century, from some designer’s rarest collection, and Jean Granger claimed to never see such delightful pieces in her whole life. As a child, Hermione thought her mother ridiculous.