Hermione

Caught between the gravestone and the fireplace Hermione slipped one finger into her ginger tea. A stray cat sat outside upon the coal bunker. Its tail curled and unfurled with rhythmic regularity. The face on the clock drifted the hours. Northfront, the butler hedge himself beside her thoughts.
“It isn’t the hour that is late,” he snorted, “just the carpet sleeping in. Does madam require anything?”
Her silence fed the room. Her face a study in blank rapture.
“I’ll be going then.” Said her manservant who slid out of the room with winged heels.
Gregarious and bold the fire lit the ceiling with red and orange hues. A beetle scuttled across the floor as a crumbs mounted on the sideboard. The sound of surf lapping gave birth to a sudden sigh as Hermione wept.
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