The River of Lathe

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; and about the bank there were many birds flying up and down, that would get the medals and carry them in their beak a little while, and then let them fall into the river. Only there were a few swans, which if they got a name would carry it to a temple where it was consecrate. And although many men, more mortal in their affections than in their bodies, do esteem desire of name and memory but as a vanity and ventosity."

- Plato

**

The Last Moon

The room looked bad. Well, he supposed, it always looked bad, but this was particularly trashed. If he was around tomorrow, he would have a long day cleaning up the remains of his temper. If.

Try as he might, he could not forget that he was, ever so discretely, chained to the wall. The weight of the ankle cuff nagged at him like an unreachable itch or a scab begging to be picked. It was always in the back of his mind and held there only by a supreme effort of will. He felt madness and despair as almost physical entities, and they were very close to him now.

Tonks had wept when the lock clicked home and protested violently when he had forced the key upon her. This really was the best way. If he was lucky he would die here.

"My boggart always turned into the full moon," he told the empty air, relishing the human sound of his voice. "I never was quite able to laugh it away. But I am laughing now. I sure am laughing now." And he was, but bitterly. They had always known it was a risk, a gamble at best. Only no one stopped to consider just how high the stakes could go. Well, he thought, Dumbledore probably would have, maybe even did. With a sigh, he sat on the only remaining chair.

At first, he had not felt the call, at least not strongly. The other werewolves did, of course. Slowly, one by one they disappeared, slinking off into the night, answering the call of darkness. But he had remained human. "Pride, that is one of the seven deadly sins, isn't? Gods, I was so proud," he murmured, "maybe I was deluding myself all along. I had been so proud of my human heart. I had conquered the best." In frustration, he kicked at the table, causing the chain to strain violently at the wall bolts and the table leg to splinter, sending a storm of paper and dust into the air. It will be a night for the books outside the Shrieking Shack if I keep this up, he thought with a slight smile.

A night for the books, but nothing like the night of the cat. That one really is documented in a few haunted history books. I should have been suspicious when Sirius arrived late to Potions that afternoon. But really, I never guessed he would have stolen one of that second year Slytherin's kittens...and then smuggled her into the tunnel. The poor thing had the fright of her life when we three came charging down that path in animal form. She was so small, she seemed to simply disappear but we sure did tear up the place looking for her.

The pull of the chain brought him out of the memory. Unconsciously, he began to pace the small square of space his restraints allowed. "I certainly have fallen this time. Pacing a locked room like a caged animal." But that is exactly what I am. The moon will be up in less than an hour and there is no use pretending that lock will hold. He is calling the dark beasts and the beast within me will answer. No matter what the man believes. No amount of wolfsbane will hold me tonight.

With an animalistic roar, the man threw himself down into the corner. How many will I infect before the end? How many will I condemn? "If I was a decent man I would just end it now. And I think I would, if not for Tonks. She made me promise to live, to give it a chance, to hope." Tonks...

It was late, he was sure the house would be asleep and so was sneaking around in the dark. He didn't see the shadows move until too late. With the force of a small army, she threw herself into his arms, knocking them both into the side table. For an instant, he swore the lamp hovered in mid-air contemplating the merits of falling or returning back onto the table. It fell.

"Well!" Sheepishly they both turned to face a very annoyed Molly Weasley. "Decent people are trying to sleep you know."

"I love you, Tonks," whispered the man, then the room was silent.

A cloud rolled away and the wolf jumped up. Screaming into the night, he raced off through the door trailing an ankle cuff and chain behind him. Somewhere there was a battle to be joined.

**

When the battle finally came it was nothing like she thought it would be. There was no order, no neat lines, no clear loyalties. Causes were betrayed, friendships double-crossed and new alliances formed in the space of a second. By far, the worst was that it was impossible to keep track of anyone in the turmoil. She fought without knowing who was dead. She fought because in that moment, there was nothing else in the world.

In the first moments of the fighting, she was sure she had seen Lupin; not the tired kindly man, but the wolf, the monster. And she had watched him rip out the throat of a wizard not old enough to be out of Hogwarts. Turning away in disgust, she prayed Tonks never had to see. She could not have known that Tonks had already fallen.

The Death Eaters had acted quickly and quietly when they finally made their move. Ron had been taken. She did not know why he went into the Forbidden Forest alone, but something had broken in her the day the ransom note arrived. Ron's life for Harry's her lover for her best friend; how could she wake up for the nightmare? She had no conception of time from that moment until now. Mad-Eye Moody, Lupin, and Harry locked themselves in a room; she and Molly cleaned the kitchen, repeatedly.

It was decided they would arrange for the switch and that it would end there. Ron would surely be lost but no one really expected to see him alive again now. Harry would be used as bait, and then they would attack. Standing on the battlefield, surrounded by bodies and screams, she knew this was exactly what Voldemort had wanted.

Snape lay dead in the dust behind them, slain by the curse Bellatrix Lestrange had aimed for Harry's heart. With a grim satisfaction, Harry then slew the murder of Sirius. Harry's voice, pronouncing the unforgivable curse, chilled Hermione. She had known this was what Mad-Eye and Lupin were teaching him, but no seventeen-year-old boy should sound so confident or experienced.

Turning away from the gloating Harry, she saw Molly Weasley about to be overcome by a group of clocked Death Eaters. But the attack never came. The wind had changed and the battlefield fell silent. Harry and Voldemort were circling each other, sizing the other up. If any words were spoken between the two, she did not hear, but she would always imagine they were there.

She saw the movement a second too late. Draco; shifty, arrogant, and as it turned out, brave Draco, in the final critical moment, chose to break ranks with his father and the Death Eaters. Launching into the air, he threw himself at Lord Voldemort, breaking the Dark Lord's attention and giving Harry his shot. Or at least, that is what Hermione supposed he had planned.

Somehow, Voldemort managed to see or sense the attack coming; maybe a reflection of movement in the glasses Harry never gave up. In the moment Draco launched at him, the Dark Lord turned. Twisting the boy's form in the air, he placed Draco between himself and Harry. To have a clear shot at Voldemort, all Harry needed to do was strike the boy who had made his school years torture, the boy who had led to Dumbledore's death, the boy who got in over his head. For a heartbeat or a year, Harry stood there. With one fluid movement, Voldemort broke Draco's neck and unleashed the 'Avada Kedavra' Curse. As he fell to the ground, Harry's glasses snapped before settling half submerged in a pool of blood, mud, and worse.