Hermione had turned twenty-six in September, and life, well, it had moved on. It was dinner on Sunday evenings with her parents, drinks after work with Harry and Ron at the Leaky Cauldron, cheering Ginny on at Holyhead Harpies matches, and finally rediscovering the part of herself that she thought she’d lost entirely to the war. Hermione was  happy,  actually. And mornings like this, mornings that were lazy and cozy, these were her favorite because life was slow now. It was simple, finally. 