"Oh, my," Hermione whispered, eyes wide. She stretched her hands up high: standing on her tiptoes, her fingers could brush the ceiling. It gained height toward the centre of the room, then tipped back down on the other side. The room contained: a low, narrow bedframe; the remains of some sort of circular rug; a countertop with an inset sink basin; and, in the corner, a low table with its single chair, a candle standing squat and proud in the centre. On the opposite wall was another door, flanked by simple windows. She couldn’t help smiling to herself: it reminded her of her own home, the simple cottage by the river she’d bought. She imagined someone else standing here, a long-ago kindred spirit, making a house of their own in the heart of the woods. But how long ago? She inspected the simple furniture: it had a kind of timelessness to it. It could be ten years or a hundred years old.