Hermione walked with a tilted gait, brushing a lock from her forehead. In her hand was the stem that had snapped off her high heel. It was an easy fix but she had left her wand at her flat. Ten blocks away.
A sweet buttery scent rolled out of a nearby cafe. If she had been in a cartoon, a wispy trail would have caressed her cheeks and drawn her closer. Her wallet, however, was buried under a mess of clothes at Ron's new flat. Three blocks away.
"Last time I make that mistake," she murmured, clutching her rain coat closer, unsure if 'mistake' meant losing her wallet or...
A bus careened past, sweeping her hair into the updraft. As she attempted to pat it all down, a page of newspaper smacked her leg. Hermione held it up and the words shifted. The Daily Prophet had a clever cloaking device that could transform from a bland auto advert to its daily news.
ONE YEAR AFTER WAR, FAMILIES STILL SEEK ANSWERS
Hermione crumbled the paper. Aurors had been less successful than previously expected. Ron and Harry talked endlessly about their work and remaining Deatheaters. It was growing intolerable.
She arrived at Ron's apartment and buzzed. No response. How bloody typical. Pressing her forehead against the buzzer and groaning loudly, the sky cracked open and a deluge of rain poured. Hermione stuck her hands into her rain coat for warmth. Her fingers brushed something. It was her wallet. Rage consumed her.