A diary, a cup, a diadem, a ring, and a locket were laid out on the dry grass in front of them. Ron Weasley lit a match, and the husks burned like all of them were made of paper. The flame whiped and hissed like it was Fiendfire, crackled and blinked like it was a domestic hearth filled with Floo powder. The grass didn’t burn. The executioners didn’t speak.