The Seven-Pointed Circle

by flee the light

Non-canon post-Hogwarts trilogy with Hermione as the protagonist. Hermione has never got over how Harry went into the forest to face his death without her. Several years on from that night, a shadowy figure with a mysterious power draws the two of them into a twisted and subversive game she intends to play with the wizarding world. [Harry/Hermione] (eventually)

27. The vigilance of Hermione Granger - Ch 5

5. Begin the circle

The garden was catching the last rays of sun before the dusk; the house was already in shadow. Hermione made her way noiselessly up the drive; no lights were on in the house. Once the sweep of trees was at her back, shielding her from the road, she took out her wand and began to mutter a series of incantations under her breath. As she finished the last of them, the front door of the house swung silently open and she walked up the steps. It was a 1930s house, pebble-dashed and double-fronted, with a garage at one end and a further room built over the top of it.

The light was faint inside the house but she didn't pause to turn on any lights. She went straight up the stairs and turned right onto the landing, passing a series of closed doors before stopping in front of the last of them, where the landing reached a dead end. The distance from any window made the lack of light there even more palpable. Her wand long since stowed in her inside pocket, she reached out her hand and laid it against the door, her fingertips pressed against its surface. She whispered another incantation and the door opened.

She switched the light on and rapidly crossed the room, throwing her bag down on the sofa bed propped up against the far wall. She frequently left the curtains half-closed, so that even in full daylight there was only a rather anaemic light in the room. Her cheeks burned suddenly at the memory of the day: Ron's father's apparent interest in her studies, her total failure to refute any of Mortimer Knott's arguments, the press conference … the press conference especially, the way those wizards treated her, the looks on their faces … the look on Harry's face.

Her office, as it was called, was situated at the end of the landing, above the garage in which Ron hoped one day to have his own car, but which in the meantime had become a storeroom for all manner of objects that he had acquired either from his father or from charity shops and car boot sales, all part of his efforts to educate himself in the ways of the Muggles, as he put it. Hermione rarely entered the garage, since she already knew full well the names and uses of all the objects stored there. Instead she had occupied the room above it. Her reasoning had been that as it was set apart from the other rooms on the upstairs floor, she would be less of a disturbance in there. She had scarcely left her mark on the rest of the house, which seemed to function largely as Ron's domain.

She looked up at the wall, where she had pinned up a large rendering of the Seven-Pointed Circle that she had drawn herself, based on several versions of it she had found over two years of research. It hung there like a large black spider's web. For all his pomposity, Mortimer Knott wasn't wrong: meanings had shifted and been erased from translation to translation. From the original Urartian to old Armenian, to ancient Greek, to Latin and finally into English, the text had passed between languages whose very structures varied greatly from one to another and which themselves had changed over the centuries and millennia.

There were two main difficulties she had had to deal with: moving from the symbolism in the text to actual incantations, and making sure that the text was accurate, and not based on mistranslations or misprints. She had had access to the English copy of The Testament of Sie kept in Armin's bookshop, but that wasn't enough on its own. She couldn't master all the languages through which the text had passed, so she had had to track down commentaries written along the centuries by those that had dabbled in or sought to enter the Circle. This had meant long journeys to various muggle and wizarding libraries, long hours pouring over their manuscripts, and even longer hours of work in her office, working out the correct incantations, memorising and practising them, and starting again when they went wrong. Needless to say, no one really saw the merit in all this work, least of all Ron. And of course there was no one with whom she could discuss her interpretations and doubts, apart from Lilian Herrick herself. Knott's warning was genuine: a wrong turn in the incantations, or speaking them in the wrong state of mind, could lead to dark and dangerous places. And even a supposed master of the technique, like Lillian Herrick, was hardly sane.

She opened her bag and took out the well-worn stack of papers from within. Taking off her coat, she sat down on the floor in the centre of the room. The office was in its usual state of semi-disorder. The disorder was of a kind that manifested itself in spite of repeated attempts at tidying: books, papers and other objects cluttered nearly every surface, all recently put into neat piles, but already skewed and overflowing. I've got used to living in shadow. Like her. Running her hand through her hair and taking a couple of deep breaths to try to shake off the tiredness of the day, she laid the pages out in an arc around her on the floor, first a series of dense texts called The Seven Dreams, and then closest to her a shorter fragment of text known as The Seven Symbols. Last of all, under the middle page of the arc, she laid down a blank page.

I saw seven circles, one within the other ever inwards, till the last was silence

Seven spokes has the wheel, seven points on seven circles

Six voices spoke to me, then silence divided into seven

I dreamed of seven gifts, of great noise and fragile melody

I sung seven songs: the words walked and dissonance faded

Seven words remained: six inscribed on my heart, the seventh unknowable

When the seventh is known, the circle is closed.

She redirected the light from the light bulb above her head so that it illuminated the Seven-Pointed Circle on the wall, throwing the rest of the room into semi-darkness. She closed her eyes, while fixing her gaze on the words in the outermost circle.

You are the night I am opening

The words began to swirl and rotate, until the ending closed over the beginning, forming a single, repeating incantation until the passing of time was no longer perceptible. Through her closed eyes she could still see the circle, which seemed almost to glow white in the darkness. The day's humiliation and the tiredness in her limbs faded, until all that remained was the syncopation of the words in the darkness and the circle on the wall, which rotated incessantly in front of her, sometimes slowly, sometimes with great speed. While her eyes remained fixed on the circle, her unseeing gaze focused on the dense text of the first of the seven dreams, so that the words seemed as if they were superimposed on her eyes. At last, the first words began to fall from the page. One by one they fell, until only one word remained: helpless.

At once she shifted her gaze to the next circle inwards, and the words of the incantation glided seamlessly into the next:

You are the flesh that unmakes me

Round and round in the dark went the incantation, until the words began to fall from the second page. By now she was no longer even aware of her limbs: it was as if they were completely numb, or not there at all.

The last word left on the page was: before.

She descended another level, passing within the next circle.

My cruel heart is your light unseen

Now everything seemed to move more quickly: the words succeeded each other faster, the circle whirled on, and her mind seemed to retreat further from the waking world. When for the third time the words began to fall it was as if almost no time had elapsed. The page was already half empty.

Then the door opened and artificial light flooded the darkness where she was sitting. As she was flung back out through the outer circles, all the worries, frustrations, fears and humiliations of her waking days reoccupied the empty terrain. She heard herself shout, but her lips were numb and the shout fell silent. She was filled with rage at the harsh light that had flooded the room, chasing away the clarity of the darkness. The magic that had fallen silent in the dark was back at her fingertips and scorching the palms of her hands. In her anger she flung a dagger of fire across the room at the source of the light.

'Owwwww!' howled Ron Weasley, who was suddenly hopping about in the doorway, putting out the fire that had started in his hair. Her hands were no longer burning and she could see clearly again. Ron had evidently dropped his wand, which lay on the carpet next to where he stood.

'Merlin's beard! What are you playing at?' shouted Ron in a voice hoarse with surprise. As part of his attempts to blend in with Muggles, Ron usually was at pains not to use wizarding language. I must really have shocked him. Her head reeling, she swayed to her feet.

'Ron, I'm sorry,' she said in a thin voice, her mouth dry. 'That was inexcusable.'

'Too right it was!' he replied. Now she noticed the smell of burnt hair. Slowly she crossed to the doorway where he was still standing.

'I thought the house was empty,' he said. 'No lights on, no sign of life. No light under your office door either. Then I felt something weird. It was like the wind was blowing through an open window, only there was no window. I thought someone had broken in. I suppose I should've known it was you.'

'I'm sorry,' she repeated in a low voice. She reached out and touched his arm but he stepped away. 'I was … I think I was really close to a breakthrough. You gave me a shock.'

'I gave you a shock?' said Ron, touching the singed ends of his hair. 'You could've blinded me.'

'I know,' said Hermione contritely, reaching out again and rubbing his arm. 'I'm really sorry. The light bursting in like that sort of unhinged me. I suppose it's a bit like waking a sleepwalker.'

Ron shot her a rather confused glare.

'Unhinged you …' he repeated in a low voice. They stared at each other for a few moments.

'Are you coming then?' he said in a slightly sulky tone.

'Coming where?' she replied.

'Out of here, out of the circle, or wherever it is you are this evening.'

She looked at him with a pained expression.

'Ron, I'm so close,' she said softly.

'Close to what? Close to going completely round the twist? Close to killing me in my sleep? Close to disappearing into this circle you're so fond of?'

She said nothing in reply.

'Even if what you're doing is worth it in some way, are you sure you can control this thing?' he continued.

'I have to try,' she replied in the same gentle, sad voice. 'You know why.'

'Yes, I know why,' he replied, and they looked at one another in silence.

'Is this a good time to remind you that two years have gone by and nothing's happened?'

A slightly ironic look slipped out onto her face.

'I suppose you mean that Lillian Herrick has realised she can't beat the Ministry and has just given up.'

'I don't say she's given up,' said Ron, 'she presumably is barking after all. But she's overestimated her abilities.'

'I don't think so,' Hermione retorted. 'I almost wonder whether she's waiting for me to be ready.'

'Well in that case, why are you even trying? You do nothing and she'll do nothing.'

'It won't work like that. The threat is just as real, whenever it gets put into action.'

'If we're on the subject of threats to the wizarding world, what did happen after the press conference this afternoon? You seemed to disappear very quickly. And why were you sitting right up the back?'

She was rather grateful to him for changing the subject. Talking about Lillian Herrick always had them going round in circles, which was quite possibly a bad joke on her part.

'Oh I arrived late,' she replied, answering the easiest question first.

'What did Elias Rathbone and that other one … what's his name … want?'

'Dunsmore Weaver.'

'Yes, that's him.'

'Oh, just the usual,' she replied. 'To get me to confess to being a Citadel sympathiser.'

'And you told him you're not, I suppose …'

'I don't think they were very interested in hearing my actual opinions.'

He frowned.

'Why didn't you just tell them straight out?'

'I wasn't particularly interested in talking to them.'

'If you won't tell idiots like Rathbone and Weaver, then it's no wonder that some people think you are a sympathiser. Otherwise they just think of …'

Here we are, back on this …

'… Of my feeble attempts to convince the wizarding world that there's a threat out there that doesn't come from other wizards?'

Ron shrugged his shoulders vaguely.

'We got rid of a real threat to the Ministry, and to the wizarding world in general.'

'Well, I suppose everything's going to be fine then.' She didn't try to reign in the sarcasm in her voice.

'For a while, yes,' he replied. 'The Auror Office does its job so everyone else can go about their business in peace, and spend their time criticising and belittling us if they want.'

'The Auror Office is very good at catching wizards,' said Hermione, fixing Ron with a sharp glance. 'You do help wizards to sleep better in their beds. But it's all based on the assumption that the greatest threat to wizards comes from other wizards.'

'Can we change the subject?' said Ron.

That was quick.

'Anyway, please tell me you don't really support Belhaine,' he continued.

'Of course I don't!' she exclaimed. 'I find his agenda loathsome. And I've told Tobias Destrument myself. But it doesn't stop me being worried about …'

'Tobias Destrument was the one who tried to curse Harry in that house in Ostend,' Ron exclaimed, suddenly half-shaking his fist. 'Smarmy, arrogant git. And a psychopath as well as it turns out.'

'I think psychopath's taking it a bit far, Ron.'

'Do you? What if a Death Eater had just tried to murder Harry? You wouldn't think I was going too far then.'

'Not every Death Eater was a psychopath. Far from it. You'd be surprised how easy it was for people to get sucked into it.'

'And the same goes for the Citadel too. They're the biggest threat we've faced since the Death Eaters.'

'Maybe they will turn out to be. But they aren't there yet.'

'Hermione, what are you on? They tried to assassinate the Minister of Magic.'

'Wasn't it a rather feeble attempt at an assassination? Was it more a demonstration of something rather than a genuine attempt to kill Kingsley? I don't exactly know what it was, and I'm not sure anyone else does exactly. But I know it's not the same as slaughtering goodness knows how many innocent people, wizards and non-wizards.'

Ron shook his head.

'I think I'll mention this to Harry. See what he has to say about it.'

'Do what you like. I don't care all that much,' retorted Hermione. Ron's eyes widened in surprise. Even she was surprised by the petulance of her reply. 'What I mean is, I'm afraid he's getting too much of a politician. He may not be able to give a non-political answer.'

Ron studied her critically.

'Why does his success bother you?' he asked. 'Why does the success of the Auror Office annoy you?'

'It's not that exactly.'

'Why don't you want to be part of this generation, after you did so much to make it what it is today? Why aren't you on our side anymore?'

'I am on your side.'

'Are you? It's as if it doesn't matter to you anymore that you were part of the Order of the Phoenix, that you were part of why Voldemort was defeated. You helped to rebuild the Ministry, together with Kingsley, and Harry, and Ginny, and me, even. Aren't you proud of that?'

'I am,' she replied. 'But it's sort of ancient history now.'

He sighed. She noticed how dark the circles around his eyes were.

'You should get some rest,' she said more gently. 'What time was it when you got back? Three o'clock?'

'Yeah, about then,' he replied, smiling ruefully.

He looked at her in silence.

'You're not coming, are you?' he added after a few moments.

She shook her head sombrely.

'I can't. Not now.'

Sighing, she switched the light on and went back into the room. She wasn't sure if she had the strength to step back into the circle. But to lie down and rest would be impossible. She opened a desk drawer, lifted up a stack of papers that had been jammed inside and slid out a sheet of paper from among them. It was an A5 size tract. At the top of the tract, printed in red letters, were the words: Does a witch live next door to you? Below them was a series of photographs. One showed a house with a series of runes carved above the door in red. The runes read: Sacrifice taken. The next image showed a dog that had been strung from a tree. The third showed a patch of ground scattered with feathers, bones, scorch marks and what looked like blood stains in the dirt. The last image was a picture of her. She had no idea where the image had come from, but she had to admit that they had done a good job of making her look strange and vaguely menacing. She was standing on a bleak piece of waste ground and a strange light seemed to be emanating from one of her hands. She turned over the sheet. The text on the back of it read: Forget the stereotypical image of a witch. They don't stand around cauldrons, cackling and mixing potions: they look like ordinary people, and they're living within our communities, even next door to us. They quietly go about their business, safe in the knowledge that if anyone gets in their way, they have the power to dispose of them. If you have one living next door to you, you should be worried. If you're suspicious about a neighbour and want to know what signs to look for, you can find out more at our website. We have evidence of wizards and witches at work up and down Britain. We will take your suspicions seriously.

It had been a particularly unpleasant surprise when Isaac Edwards had handed her the tract. A contact of his in witchfinding circles had passed it on to him. Hermione had used the most powerful summoning spell she could produce in order to find and gather in every copy of the tract, wherever they were located. When she had gathered a substantial pile of them, she had burned them in her back garden, deliberately using magically created fire to burn them. It was largely pointless, she had to admit, since the tract could easily be found on the internet, but the sight of the smouldering ashes had given her a perverse pleasure. Even so, the question of how the witchfinders had obtained a picture of her, and the idea that someone from within the wizarding world might have given it to them, had gnawed at her for months. Even then, as she turned the sheet over in her hand, unease enveloped her again. She laid the tract in the bottom of the drawer and turned away. She raised the hand that had thrown the burning dagger at Ron, tracing the lines in the palm of her hand and examining her slender fingers. They looked like normal hands, but the power they concealed couldn't always be kept in check. Many wizards led comfortable, middle-class lives in neat homes, their jobs in the Ministry of Magic mirroring the lives of people in the Muggle world. But in reality wizards were different, each harbouring a power that they didn't quite understand, burning inside them. In a way Mr Morley was right. In a way she wanted to see him again. With the same hand she extinguished the light and resumed her place in the centre of the room, beginning again the incantation of the outermost circle.

Her mind emptied more easily, the sense of time and place slipped away quicker. She moved inwards, from circle to circle.

The fire soars so I may descend

The ashes scatter so I may burn

The circle constricts so I may breathe

Once she had reached the sixth and penultimate circle, the incantation no longer had any words of its own. It was instead a silence that repeated and rotated, full of meaning and clearly distinguishable from the empty silence that surrounded it. It works. Even in that final silent incantation, she could see the words before her, falling from the page.

Now at last, she turned to the final page, the page that from the beginning had been blank. But this time seven words were visible: Helpless before the pain of the other.

It didn't occur to her to think what they meant. She saw only the strange, individual characters on the white page, and marvelled at how when taken together they formed words. When she looked up from the page the circle was no longer before her. Now there was only darkness, but it was a darkness that she could fill with whatever she chose. She had only to reach out her hand and fill the emptiness. She stood up and walked with unfaltering steps across the room to where the door must be, even though there was no line of light running along the bottom of it to show her the way. If she wanted to see the landing of her house beyond the door that was what she would see. She threw the door open and cold air rushed in. Beneath her feet the ground was hard and far above her rose a baleful red sky.