( ...knitting needles that —

Ah. Of course. Truly, all along, what was in delightful excess in the human arts was humanity itself. He shudders, at once unsurprised by the revelation that Hermione's sorcery has slowly but surely substituted the very life it seeks to assist —

And then stills in his step, knuckles tapping lightly the walls they pass by, less out of a seeming nervous tick than to signal their passage and draw out any wandering, listening ears.

Then Hermione explains the logic that led to their choice of path — and he pauses. )

We seek a place utmost hidden. Would it not be best guarded? ( In other words... swarming with life? )