Draw this scene from Harry Potter's Grimmauld Place:
You walk to the end of the hall, your footsteps silent on the runner. The windowpane is cool against your forehead as you peer out. The walled garden is small, a rectangle of patchy grass bordered by soot-stained brick. A single, gnarled apple tree stands in one corner, its branches bare. There’s no sign of Sirius. Instead, you see a plump, ginger cat—Mrs Figg’s Tibbles, perhaps, or a lookalike—sunning itself on a flat stone, utterly unconcerned by the dark magic saturating the house.
The sight is so normal it’s almost jarring. Beyond the high wall, the tops of London’s rooftops are visible, chimneys smoking against the grey sky. The world is still turning out there, people going about their days, completely unaware of the whispered plans and ancient logbooks just feet away. You watch the cat stretch, yawn, and begin meticulously washing its paw. For a minute, you just watch, letting the simple, mindless act anchor you.
