The River of Lathe

“For he feigneth that at the end of the thread or web of every man’s life there was a little medal containing the person’s name, and that Time waited upon the shears, and as soon as the thread was cut caught the medals, and carried them to the river of lathe." –Plato Brave New World, after Voldemort’s victory, but Hermione survives. Warning: Character deaths.

This will be a great start for the new Magical Arts and Culture page in the Sunday Prophet. I only hope no one sees.

“Here we go,” she murmured collecting the letters and sending the owls back on their way.

After it was all over, when the ragged band, all that remained of the resistance, struggled into Hermione’s cottage seeking sanctuary, they found Lord Voldemort’s last letter where it had been dropped, next to a puddle of wax and a cold mug of Darjeeling tea.

The laughter which followed that statement chilled Hermione almost as much as the feeling of a wand pressed discretely against her back. Silently, she turned and allowed herself to be led away, but not before dropping one of her business cards onto the damp stones. It was a thin hope but maybe...

As the negations left the Ministry in silence, rumors of war spread.

The world is made of stone. He told me so. He says I am like a child with all my questions. What I cannot understand is how I do not know these things. Everyone else seems to know them.

That I would feature prominently in her nightmares does not surprise me but what should I make of her seeming acceptance of the nightmare?

“Well, it seems the boy came to save you, my dear. And tell me, Hermione, do you need saving?”

The curtain falls, time passes as time is wont to do.