One year ago today, Sera had been Woken Up from the imperius curse that had oppressed most of her adult life. One year later, she was — here. Still with Henry, still married, still the socialite she was born to be — it was almost as if nothing had changed. Oh, she'd developed a reading habit — she was certainly a better mother — she was feeling increasingly lonely. But it was almost like, despite the absence of the curse, nothing had changed.

She felt sick with herself. She'd spent most of the day wandering pockets of wizarding London, sweating into her dress from the extended exertion — she felt purposeless. She didn't even want to go to the bookstore, lest she say something she didn't mean — she didn't want to home, for the same reason.

She leaned against the brick wall of a house and exhaled loudly. (This street of Mayfair had mostly wizarding homes, Sera knew.) She wished for a cigarette, although she had never been a smoker. She wished her hair didn't poof up in humid air.

The gate of the home's walkway creaked open, and Sera saw a familiar woman leaving. "Oh," she said, "Is this your house?" (That would only make sense if Vera had married up, but it was not as if Seraphina would remember either way.)