It’s a lazy Saturday afternoon two years after the end of the war, in the master bedroom she converted into a library with a copy of The Odyssey in her hands when Hermione pins down the hovering feeling with the proper word – it’s been a long time since she’s felt anything like at peace (though Spinoza, she notes absently, would say peace was not a feeling, but a virtue in itself). But the war is over, and reconstruction is either complete or nearing it, she doesn’t need to start revising for her exam in Cambridge’s social anthropology program for magical students (under Professor Stanton) until at least 7pm, her parents have invited her around for tea on Tuesday, and Ron and Harry are gone all weekend to some Quidditch playoff.

She lets out a pleased breath, quickly spelling the tea on the table next to her ever-warm, before opening to her book-marked page. She adjusts, leaning back in her seat.

For a few hours, at least, she can let herself be at ease.