11. Within the circle
A paper aeroplane glided noiselessly onto Hermione's desk and came to a halt a few inches from her hand. She finished composing her sentence then glanced over at the memo that had just arrived. She had low expectations of it containing anything of interest. The memo fluttered slightly, sensing her glance. When she reached out and touched it, it leapt into the air and unfurled itself in front of her eyes. To her surprise, the text was nothing more than a series of random numbers and letters, as if the message was encrypted, or simply the product of a malfunctioning charm. She was about to dismiss the message when the page set itself alight, the paper burning itself away to reveal a second message hidden beneath it. The handwriting was Harry's.
I know you said let's not speak, but I had to tell you this one thing: Belhaine's claims about an imminent threat to the wizarding world come from a single, mysterious source, which he sees as very reliable. He said that this source had knowledge of something he called 'dark, remote powers' that he knew very little about and which genuinely seemed to scare him. If I understood him rightly, these dark powers are not the threat itself, but rather are 'allowing' it to happen. That rang a bell for me, and probably will for you too.
By the way, if you're holding this in your hand, mind your fingers as it's about to self-destruct.
H
True to its word, within moments the message promptly turned to cinders before shrivelling and disappearing. Hermione stood up swiftly and began to pace her office. Harry's memo posed far more questions than it answered. But if Lillian Herrick was pulling the Citadel's strings as well, it would surely be campaigning on too many fronts, and increased the chances that the Ministry would start taking her plan more seriously. At the same time, it created divisions in the wizarding world, divisions that would amuse her. But if it wasn't Lillian, who other than her and her group knew about a threat to wizarding society? Could there be an informer within the coven?
She stopped her pacing and went back to her desk. Neatly folded at one end of it, partly concealed under Ministry papers, were the two maps she had recently acquired. She took out the ordnance survey map and unfolded it on the desk. Pencil markings now crowded one section of the map, indicating the relative positions of Hogsmead, the Witches' March and Pendle House. She scrutinised the markings once again, trying her best to memorise them. Then she walked quickly out of her office, making for the nearest entrance to the flue network.
Her first point of call was an alleyway behind Turnmill Street. As it was invariably deserted, it made a good halfway house whenever she left the Ministry. She paused there no longer than a few seconds before disapparating.
The farmhouse looked as dilapidated as the last time she had seen it, surrounded on three sides by overgrown trees whose branches almost reached the upstairs windows, and whose roots surely extended beneath the foundations. The house was not quite derelict, but there was no outward sign of habitation. She took out her wand and walked slowly towards the front door, looking around her to make sure that she had come to the right place. But she had no doubt that this was Pendle House, or 'Pendall's Farm', as she had seen it marked on one map. She paused before the front door, wondering whether she should do something so mundane as knock on it. Why have I even come here? I have to do something.
Deciding that she might as well use her wand to open the door, she lifted it to the keyhole and whispered Alohomora. The door swung open instantly onto a narrow hallway with dust-covered flagstones on the floor and bare walls last painted decades earlier. A single light was shining in the hall. The hall had two closed doors, one to the left and one to the right, then continued in increasing darkness until it opened out into a stairwell and a battered staircase leading to the upper floor.
She tried the door to her right: it was unlocked and yielded easily. Fading afternoon light lit the room but left much of it in shadow. The room was some kind of parlour, furnished with an old, faded three-piece suite. It was smaller than she had expected and showed little sign of use. A large painting hung on the back wall, free of dust and seemingly much more recent than the rest of the room's furniture. She approached the painting, using wand light to illuminate it. The painting, which was disproportionately large, had a dark, varnished wood frame that gleamed beneath her wand light. The style was that of an Old Master, and seemed to depict a scene from antiquity, something like the sacking of a temple by what looked like Roman soldiers wielding swords and burning torches. Drapes had been set alight, statues smashed, and most of all, bodies lay piled in every direction, while the soldiers relentlessly massacred whoever was in their path and looted sacral objects of gold and silver. The cruelty in the eyes of the soldiers and the terror in the eyes of their victims were depicted in the clearest of detail. She found it hard to look at the painting for long, and her eyes fell to the bottom of the frame. There the apparent title of the picture had been attached on a small brass plaque: The purging of the witches.
She lowered her wand and turned away from the picture. This was put here to taunt me. She had not expected her visit to pass unnoticed, and now she had no doubt that she was being watched, and that certain surprises had been put in place for her benefit. She exited the room and went back into the hall, following it as it led away from the front door. At the far end of the hallway lay the kitchen. It had cracked, scuffed flagstones on the floor and a large, rectangular wooden table in the middle of it. She noted that there was plenty of room for seven people to sit around the table. A kettle was plugged into a power point on the work surface, suggesting that the kitchen had been used recently. She went over to the kettle and opened it. A quantity of murky water sloshed around in the bottom of it. On the same wall as the work surface, she noticed another door. It was smaller and more unobtrusive, and rotten at the bottom. When she touched the door, she felt a slight shudder run through her. This place has been waiting for me. The stairwell was narrow and dark, but she could make out walls of bare stone arching down over the steps as they rounded a corner and continued down into darkness. She followed the steps down, holding her wand out in front of her, until they opened out into the level below.
The room stretched out in front of her under a vaulted stone ceiling, illuminated only by her wand light. To her disappointment, no one awaited her in the lower chamber.
She cast her light around the room, illuminating a large table, this time circular, with seven high-backed chairs arranged around it. Carved onto the table was an image that was only too familiar to her: the Seven-Pointed Circle.
'What am I supposed to do now?' she caught herself saying, but her voice simply reverberated off the basement walls and the silence offered no reply. She went noiselessly over to the table and instinctively touched it: the scoured wooden surface was almost warm to the touch. She looked up at the chair nearest to her, and noted that the number 6 was etched into the wood just above the headrest. She glanced around at the other chairs, each marked in the same way with a number following a descending sequence. She followed the numbers down to the last chair, only to find that between 2 and 7 there was no 1. She straightened herself and made her way slowly to the unmarked chair, logically the chair of Lillian Herrick herself. The place above the headrest where the other chairs were marked was empty. She moved closer to the chair, pointing her wand directly at it. Where a moment before there had been nothing, a question mark appeared. It lingered for a few moments before vanishing, only to be replaced by the letter H, which rapidly changed to He and then Her. Then the Her disappeared, replaced instead by Ha. The Ha faded away slowly, but this time it was replaced with another Ha, then a third. When the third Ha faded, it was replaced only by blank wood.
She continued to stare at the same spot, but the chair conveyed no more messages. She knew what she was being invited to do. She reached out and touched the back of the chair then slid down on it. Nothing. She stood up again and took a couple of steps away from the table, just to be certain that she could, then sat down again. Still nothing. There was only one thing left to try. Under her breath she began to recite the incantations, struggling at first to recall them exactly. The dimly lit basement room soon faded to complete darkness, and remained so until the incantations were complete. Now the room presented itself to her again, seemingly just as it had been before.
'Give me two this time,' she said to the silent room. 'I'll pay for them in full.'
Footsteps could be heard echoing down the stairs. Then out of the shadows a young man stepped forward and sat down at the table, at the seat just across from her. He was tall and good-looking, with close cropped blonde hair and a trim goatee beard. His expression was utterly inscrutable, but his pale eyes examined her with cold curiosity from behind dark-rimmed spectacles.
'She always said we would see you sitting here,' he said at last, in a voice that seemed to express disappointment. 'Do you like it?'
'Not particularly,' replied Hermione. 'So you're number two, are you?'
'This is just a table,' he replied nonchalantly. 'I sit wherever I want.'
'How nice for you,' she replied in as cool a tone as she could manage.
'So you said you want to see two,' he continued after a short pause. 'You think you can handle the blood loss.' There was no trace of a question in the remark, only cold observation.
'That's my problem, not yours.'
'Fine by me.'
'Can I at least know your name?' she asked.
'No,' he replied, 'I suppose you'll find out what it is when you finally give in and join us.' There was a note of derision in his voice.
'I'll find out anyway,' she countered.
'Oh will you?' he replied, unimpressed.
They looked at each other for a few moments in the dimly lit basement. She tried to discern some emotion beyond the sardonic contempt he had shown her so far.
'Give me your arm,' he said brusquely, shattering the silence. She hesitated for a moment, then relented and stretched it out.
A muscular, tattooed arm reached out and seized her by the forearm with unexpected violence. Then the other arm shot out and roughly pulled up her sleeve. She expected the hands to be cold, but they were hot, almost feverishly so. As he attached the tourniquet he shot her a look that almost seemed to express hunger. She looked away when he took out the needle, and he laughed silently before driving it into her skin and drawing out the blood. She closed her eyes and waited for it to be over.
The next thing she knew was that someone was shaking her to wake her up. Her eyes flashed open. The man was still sitting just across from her, two blood bags in his hand.
'This is what your blood looks like,' he remarked, holding up one of the bags and sullenly examining it. 'It's interesting to see it outside the confines of your body, don't you think?'
She said nothing.
'I'm surprised I managed to get a whole two pints out of you,' he continued. 'You're a scrawny little thing. The Circle might consume you. You wouldn't be the first.'
She ignored the remark. Knowing that she would feel the after-effects later on, she got quickly to her feet.
'Shall we?' she said coolly.
He stood up abruptly and looked contemptuously at her.
'Follow me,' he said, before turning around and heading back up the basement stairs. When he pushed open the door, it opened not onto the kitchen, but out into the open air. Rows of gravestones lay on either side of them, filling a vast cemetery that sprawled over the side of a hill, beneath a leaden grey sky. Down the slope, in the valley below, Hermione could see row upon row of terraced houses climbing a distant hillside, while above them clouds of steam soared from a single concrete chimney.
'Where are we?' she asked.
'Oh, some shit hole of a town,' was the reply. Without another word he led the way down the hill, past the assembled masses of graves to the point where a low stone wall meandering down the slope blocked their path. They turned left and followed the wall until they came to a rusted iron gate. The man gave the gate a powerful wrench and it scraped open. Beyond the wall there were yet more graves, but arranged more sparsely and clearly less tended. Here the grass grew much longer and wilder, and their progress through it was slower. Soon another, even lower wall came into view, and beyond it Hermione could make out a muddy pasture grazed by a handful of forlorn horses.
'There,' said the man, pointing to a weather-worn solitary grave that protruded out of the grass, not far from the back wall. Hermione said nothing and approached the grave, crouching before it to read the inscription. It said only:
Louisa Kilham. Born 1886. Died 1913.
'Who was she?' she asked, looking up.
'She was one of yours,' the man replied with a bored air.
'I suppose you mean she was a witch,' said Hermione.
'That's why she's buried in the part of the cemetery reserved for undesirables,' he replied. 'She died in a mental asylum, put there by her own family. They took a dim view of people with supernatural abilities.'
Hermione looked back at the grave. Assuming that the account of Louisa Kilham given to her was true, she could well imagine what a terrible fate the woman had suffered. She felt like she ought to say something to her, but could only bow her head slightly.
'Paying your respects? How touching.'
She looked up and scowled at him, but said nothing.
'They say that after she was buried, a strange light used to hang over the grave,' he continued. 'Might have been superstition or hysteria. Then again could have been some remnant of her power.'
'And this is the gateway?'
'Yes.'
'What, through the grave?'
'Don't ask me how it works — you paid to see the place, nothing more.' There was impatience in his voice.
She turned back to the grave, looking for some sign or trace of magic. After nearly a century it was hard to imagine that there would be anything left. She felt helpless standing before the grave of a woman who had seemingly never even come into contact with the wizarding world, yet had left some sort of interconnection between the two worlds when she died.
'Sure you can take two at once?' came the mocking voice at her back.
Hermione turned from the grave for the last time.
'I'm sure,' she said, and they were gone.
When her vision cleared, Hermione found herself looking at a place all too familiar to her. They were in Ottery St Catchpole, in front of the expanse of wasteland where she had seen the graffiti write itself. It was evening and darkness had fallen, if darkness could ever be said to fall within the Circle.
'Here?' said Hermione.
The tone of alarm in her voice seemed to please the man.
'A concentration of wizards live round here, don't they?' he said. His face still wore the same sullen expression, but there was a hint of amusement in his voice.
'So the messages on the wall were yours?'
'Messages?' he said. 'Oh yes, I remember seeing them. We didn't put them there. Why would we write on a wall?'
'Oh, so it's a coincidence then?' Hermione remarked drily.
'I can't say I care one way or the other,' replied the man. 'Wizards live nearby. People who don't like wizards know this and left them some friendly messages.'
'And you didn't lead them here?'
The man glanced towards the substation with a bored air.
'We have better things to do. They do their own research I suppose. And they're drawn to you. Your secret places aren't so secret anymore.'
Hermione shuddered, a fact that the man noted with satisfaction.
'And the gateway is here?' she asked.
He stretched out his arm, the beginning of a jagged scar just visible at the edge of his sleeve.
'It goes through that yew tree growing over the substation.'
The wizened tree hung mockingly over the dilapidated brickwork of the substation building. Suddenly she heard a multitude of footsteps on the lane at her back. She whirled around: a mob was marching down the lane, heading for the wizarding suburb of the village. Some bore burning torches, and others held wands in their hands. And leading the mob she recognised Robert Marchelow, a look of frenzied rapture on his face, his eyes fixed on his target, the wizarding houses that lay beyond. The marchers surged past Hermione without even glancing at her. She watched as a line of torches passed down and up the contours that cut across the lane, advancing silently and incessantly. Finally a great fire was lit in the distance, in the quarter of the village where the Burrow and other wizarding houses stood. The flames rose higher, buffeted by a swirling wind that blew up from nowhere.
'You've had your merchandise,' said the voice at her side. As she looked in the direction of the voice, the outline of the man was already blurred and fading away. 'Enjoy the come down.'
When she opened her eyes she was back at Lillian Herrick's table, the dreary basement room before her. She half expected the mocking faces of the coven to be around her, but the other seats at the table were as empty as ever.
The dizziness hit her as soon as she stood up. She staggered forward a couple of steps, pins and needles shooting up through her feet. If I don't get out of here quick, I'm going to pass out. Standing on the bottom step, she decided to try disapparating. To her surprise it worked, and she found herself back in the alleyway behind Turnmill Street. The feeling of lightheadedness intensified, together with cramps in her legs and a throbbing pain in her arm where the needle had gone in.
Once back in her office in the Ministry, all she could do was lay her head down on her desk and wait to see if she felt any better. Suddenly, a knock on the door made her jolt upright. The door opened and Harold Hawkwell walked briskly in:
'Hermione, I wonder if you could …' his sentence trailed off and he stopped dead in the middle of her office.
'Yes Harold, sorry, I was just...' she replied, her words leaking out through a fog.
'Are you feeling well?'
'Umm … not great,' she replied, reaching about her desk in an attempt to locate a compact.
'You're as white as a sheet. I don't think I've ever seen someone looking so pale.'
'Yes, I'm sorry, I really don't feel well,' said Hermione. Honesty seemed the best policy in the case in point.
Harold Hawkwell promptly sent her straight home, for which she was grateful, and so within a few minutes she was back in her home. For a moment she hesitated on the landing, wondering whether she should record what she had seen, but gave up almost straight away and went to bed, not noticing the drops of blood she left in her wake.
Ron apparated in his living room. The house was silent, the afternoon overcast and dank. He was tired and hungry, and the house felt cold. The interviews with Lashburn and Belhaine had been less productive than he had hoped. At least Harry was going to write the report.
'Hermione!' he called out, but there was no reply. This did not strike him as unusual, so he rummaged through the kitchen cupboard and took out a cake tin containing the remains of a Madeira cake baked by his mother and cut himself a slice. Then he flicked the switch on the kettle and sat down in the kitchen, finishing the cake before the kettle had boiled. He decided nevertheless to ask Hermione if she wanted a cup of tea, and called out her name again. When there was no reply, he trudged up the stairs.
The upstairs of the house lay silent in semi-darkness. Ron squinted in the direction of Hermione's office for the thin line of light that could usually be seen under the door, but it was dark there too. Deciding that perhaps she wasn't home after all, he flicked on the light switch without thinking. He was about to head back down the stairs when he noticed splashes of blood on the landing carpet, continuing in an uneven trail to the door of their bedroom. He made his way noiselessly to the bedroom and went in. Through the half-light he could make out Hermione lying fully clothed on the bed, asleep or unconscious. The splashes of blood continued across the bedroom floor, and there was a bloody smear on the bed, next to her outstretched arm. He reached out and touched her arm, which was cold and clammy. Suddenly his heart started beating faster and he fumbled to check her pulse. He located it at the fourth attempt.
He switched on the bedside lamp, which caused her pupils to flutter beneath closed eyelids. Her face was almost yellow in the lamplight. He shook her gently by the arm and she opened her eyes. She looked up at him vacantly then raised her head slightly. After a few moments, her eyes showed recognition.
'Have you been at the Burrow?' she said. Her voice was clear, but her pupils were dilated and her gaze seemed directed in a different direction.
'No,' he replied, a little confused by the question. 'Why would I have been?'
'Go,' she said, 'Go there now.'
'Why?' he replied, confusion giving way to concern.
'To make sure it's still there,' she replied in the same strangely composed tone.
'What are you talking about?' he exclaimed. She half-glared at him and sat upright, now seemingly fully awake.
'They're coming to burn it,' she replied 'They're going to burn every wizard's house.'
'Who are?'
'The witch-hunters.'
Ron dropped down onto his side.
'What are you talking about?' he repeated, the fear starting to give way to irritation. 'Are you delirious or something? You don't look well at all.'
His tone of voice seemed to make her focus. Slowly she pulled herself semi-upright, her head propped up by the bedstead.
'That's three ways into our world I've seen now,' she said, looking straight at him with a clear expression. 'Three gates that can be thrown open to the outside world. And one of them is in Ottery St Catchpole.'
He looked down at the bloody smear on the bed and then across at her arm. There were now two messy incisions from where her blood had been taken.
'Stop doing this,' he said suddenly, grabbing her by the arm. 'Nothing's worth this madness.'
'Do you think I'm doing this for fun?' she replied, wrenching her arm free. 'Tell me what you're going to do about the gateway in Ottery St Catchpole!'
Ron sighed.
'You'd better show it to me,' he said.
'All right, I will,' said Hermione, already pulling herself up off the bed. But as soon as she was on her feet her legs gave way and she toppled onto the bed.
'I'll show you a bit later,' she said in a restrained voice.
Hermione was unable to get out of bed all day. To her dismay, Ron called his mother over to examine her. Mrs Weasley performed a series of charms over her, all the time looking disapprovingly at her as she lay in bed.
'She should be on her feet by tomorrow,' she said to Ron as she left the bedroom, casting a last worried look at Hermione. Mrs Weasley evidently went to see Ginny on her way home to vent her unhappiness at the situation and to encourage her to try and help Hermione 'for your brother's sake if for nothing else'. As a result, that afternoon Ginny arrived in Chase End with Harry in tow. Ginny sat by Hermione's bedside, preferring to ply her with the latest gossip on the Ministry and their shared acquaintance rather than confront her over her night-time activities. Harry lingered a short distance behind her, before moving around the bed and sitting in silence on a chair in the corner of the room. Hermione was grateful for Ginny's approach and tried to participate as much as possible in conversation, as she couldn't bear to have yet another person begging her to stop. Finally Ginny seemed to exhaust all safe topics of conversation. After a few moments of silence, she took Hermione's hand and squeezed it, while looking into her eyes with a friendly but stern expression.
'You know what I think,' Ginny began. 'So I'm not going to repeat what everyone else has said. There's no one here who's cleverer than you, so please think very carefully as to whether this is the best course of action.'
She had neither the strength nor the will to argue with her. She groped around for a reply.
'Believe me,' she replied at last. 'If I could avoid all this, I would.'
Ginny said nothing, but the hint of a frown appeared on her lips.
'You know, I hope I'm wrong too,' Hermione added. 'The best thing to happen would be for all this to be in my head.'
'Hermione, that would be worse,' Ginny replied gently, the concern visible in her voice. Then she turned to Harry.
'What do you think about this?' she said in a low voice.
Harry stood up and walked to Hermione's bedside.
He looked down intently at her, not smiling or frowning.
'Hermione,' he said, 'are you sure you're not letting Lillian Herrick win?'
She raised her head, all the time returning his gaze.
'Maybe that's the point of the game,' she replied. 'Maybe I'm supposed to lose.'
Then she let her head sink back down into her pillow.
'Hermione, you're bleeding,' said Ginny suddenly, pointing to a stain that had appeared on the eiderdown. Quickly she pulled back the cover, revealing a narrow trail of blood running horizontally along Hermione's abdomen, a little below her rib cage. Ginny quickly spoke a series of charms and the blood withdrew, leaving Hermione's pyjamas and the eiderdown free of any trace of blood. Ginny said nothing for a few moments. Then she stood up.
'I think you should rest now,' she said gently, turning and heading towards the door.
Hermione nodded.
'Take care Hermione,' said Harry in an odd voice, making his way awkwardly around the room and following Ginny out onto the landing.
'Here?' said Ron, squinting at the overgrown electricity substation. He had walked past the expanse of waste ground a thousand times in his childhood and it always looked the same. He had no idea whether the substation had ever even worked, and as a child of a wizarding family, he had had little contact with electricity until he moved into a house originally furbished for Muggles.
'Over there,' said Hermione, pointing at the yew tree that formed a jagged wreath over the top of the substation. She did not look much healthier, but her strength had returned, and with it a kind of nervous defiance that put him on edge too.
Ron stepped into the uneven grass and pushed his way towards the tree.
'And you say you had a vision where a load of people came marching down the lane with torches, on their way to burn down the Burrow?'
'I suppose you could call it a vision,' said Hermione, who was carving her own path through the foliage. 'Though I don't know whether it's what will happen or what might happen. In fact I don't think I would call it a vision after all.'
'I'm glad we cleared that up,' said Ron, using his wand to push aside overhanging branches.
'I doubt we're going to see anything on this side,' said Hermione, looking nervously over his shoulder.
'Then why are we here?' said Ron. He peered into the gap between the substation and the yew tree. There was an open space between the yew tree and the concrete wall that ran behind the substation. A handful of cigarette butts and an upended bottle of spirits lay on the ground.
'Do you reckon the witchfinders had a party here?' he said, looking up at Hermione and shooting her a withering look.
'It's obviously just local teenagers,' she replied crossly.
'Do you think they knew they were hanging out on the border between the magical and non-magical worlds?'
Standing there in the bushes, with nothing but the remains of the substation and a rotting concrete wall in front of them, the idea of a border between the two worlds struck even her as faintly absurd.
'Did you come here just to make fun of me?' she said after a short pause. Her tone was more subdued.
'No,' Ron replied, 'but is it possible that someone else is making fun of you?'. He stood up to his full height, put his hands on his hips and looked at her with a sad expression.
She looked again at the yew tree and the substation and sighed. The wall where threats to wizards had once appeared before her was bare, apart from the occasional scribbled graffiti tag.
'I have to admit that there wasn't much chance of seeing anything here today,' she said, almost to herself.
'Well, I don't think the Auror Office can spare anyone to stand guard here just in case any witchfinders climb out of the tree or climb over the back wall,' said Ron.
'No, I'm sure it can't,' said Hermione coolly.
'Who would put a gate here anyway?' Ron remarked.
'No one deliberately put a gate here. It's more like a hole.'
'Well, if there's a hole, can't it just be sealed up?'
'Can you find it, first of all?' Hermione asked quietly.
'No, but I thought you said it was here?'
'I'm sure it is here. But that isn't quite the point. Let's say we could actually see it. Do you know any charm that could seal up a hole in the separation between the non-magical and magical worlds?'
'No, I don't. But you're the expert on obscure charms.'
She shook her head, more to herself than to him.
'I've looked. I've really looked. It just hasn't really come up before.'
'What, you mean there have never been any holes before?'
'Maybe not.'
Ron looked blankly at the tree.
'Well, if this is a hole then I suppose there could be holes anywhere.'
'Exactly,' Hermione exclaimed. 'Exactly, Ron. There aren't seven gates,' she continued, now speaking as if to herself. 'There could be any number of them. And more and more could appear.'
'What are you talking about?' said Ron. He was getting tired of using the expression.
'Maybe the Separation is breaking up of its own accord,' she replied, her expression transported.
'Now you've lost me.'
'You know what the Separation is, don't you?'
'Umm, what separates the magical world from the non-magical world?'
'Yes, that's right.'
'And that's a real thing, is it? A real piece of magic?'
'Not exactly. It's more theoretical.'
Ron screwed up his face.
'Theoretical?'
'There are plenty of people who believe it's a real thing. But it's not a piece of magic. It's more an amalgamation of different forces, the most important of which is … well, basically the combined effect of all magic cast. Only no one's ever proven its existence.'
Ron's expression had worked its way into a scowl.
'So this gate that's not a gate,' he remarked, waving his hand in the direction of the yew tree, 'might not exist at all?'
She looked rather despairingly at him.
'Ron, let's not get into a philosophical discussion about this.'
'No, let's not,' he agreed.
'It's a bit complicated to explain. I should discuss it with Isaac Edwards.'
He scowled again.
'If you think that'll help …'
'It might do.'
'He believes in such things, I suppose?'
'We've spoken about the Separation before,' she replied quickly, her enthusiasm getting the better of her. A quick glance at Ron showed that he didn't really share it.
'Are you staying here?' she asked.
'Well, you said you want to discuss this with Isaac Edwards.'
'Yes.'
'And I take it you want to do that now?'
'I ought to.'
She waited for a few moments, as if she was trying to puzzle out what Ron would actually do. He was showing no signs of moving.
'What are you going to do then?' she asked after what seemed like a lengthy silence, interrupted only by a burst of rather maudlin birdsong coming from the yew tree.
'Since we're in Ottery, I think I'll call in on Mum and Dad,' Ron eventually replied. 'Perhaps you'd like to say hello to them.'
'I do want to say hello to them,' she replied in an altered tone. 'I want to say thank you to your mother for her healing charms. I'm feeling much better now.'
He studied her. Not much colour had returned to her cheeks, but her eyes had regained their usual intensity.
'Are you coming then?'
She glanced down the lane in the general direction of the Burrow then back at the yew tree. Finally she nodded stiffly to him.