The River of Lathe

The Story

"So, Miss James, you spent some time in the Muggle United States, I understand. Can you tell my readers something about that? It must have been very challenging to adapt to such crude artistic methods," said the middle-aged round wizard with an overly bright smile.

Miss Granger, a plain but ambitious girl, seems to have a taste for famous wizards that Harry alone can not satisfy... writes Rita Skeeter... "I told you! I told you not to annoy her..."

"Hmm ... oh yes, I was in West Virginia for a little over a year." With tremendous effort, Hermione pulled her attention back to the reporter before her. He was scribbling furiously, periodically shooting her looks of pain and exaggerated frustration. She supposed he was feeling a little persecuted but she had emphatically forbidden the use of a Quick Quotes Quill and then proven to be a scattered, daydream-prone interview. This was, most likely, the reason behind the questions emphasizing her connections to Muggles, a dangerous connection to say the least.

"What I did was take the basic artistic methods and improve them through magic. Using a transfiguration spell of my own authorship... and don't think I am going to give away all of my secrets," Hermione said flashing what she hoped was a charming, flirtatious smile. "I managed to get the effects you see and... Well, it would be easier if I showed you my process. If you will permit me?" You have to throw the press a bone every now and again, she knew.

"Oh, oh my, yes! That would be absolutely wonderful, Miss James! What a treat for my readers. I am really so glad that you agreed to this interview." Apparently he had decided to forgive, or at least forget, the ban on his Quill. "This will be a great start for the new Magical Arts and Culture page in the Sunday Prophet. Yes indeed, the reclusive Jane James not only gives an interview, but a demonstration!"

As she set her hands to the wheel, everything else faded somewhat. She was vaguely aware that he was still chattering on about the story, but all that was secondary. Absently, she brushed away a few rebellious curls of hair, not noticing the flash of a camera, and then she began. Humming the spell to herself, she guided the clay as it began to bend and move beyond all laws of gravity, into an elegant, impossible form. Strange, she knew, that all her book smarts would be put aside; yet as the magic flowed through her fingertips, she could find a kind of freedom. Besides, she made smart art. McGonagall would be disappointed in her, but McGonagall and all who could hold her accountable were dead. Here, she had control; here, she could create beauty even in a world such as this.

She could remember as a child asking her mother to read one book in particular over and over. It told the story of a group of field mice preparing for winter. As the mice scurried around gathering and preparing, one mouse seemed to be just daydreaming all the warm days away.

Winter came, as winter always does, and soon the mice were all snuggled in their warm, safe home. But as the days passed they began to get cranky and a little stir crazy. 'We should throw you out,' they said to the daydreaming mouse. 'You did not help us prepare for the winter.'

'Yes, I did,' he answered. 'And I was waiting for a day like this. Listen.' Then the little mouse proceeded to tell stories so vivid that it was as if he had brought with him the sunshine or the taste of green grass.

'Yes,' they all agreed. 'Yours was the most important preparation for the winter.'

That is what I am doing, Hermione thought, I am bringing beauty and summer to this winter world.

The second flash of light brought her out of her reverie. At first she did not comprehend what it was. In the second that it took the pieces to fit into place, she was in a rage.

"I told you no pictures! How dare you violate my wishes in my own home!" The wheel and clay tumbled to the stone floor with a dull thud. "You will give me that camera and leave this building at once!"

"There, love, it will be alright. No harm in a picture. We hardly got your face at all, promise," chided the reporter. He had safely concealed the offending camera in his robes and was slowly moving back towards the door. "Besides, I am not sure what you are so worked up about. None of your stylistic secrets will be revealed. We will not give out your address, and you are over an hour broom ride from Prague in perfect weather." Hermione had by now recovered her wand and was following him to the door with a decidedly threatening air. "Speaking of Prague, I really must be going if I am to make it back before deadline. Thank you for the interview. I will make sure you are owled a copy."

"Arggh!" Hermione helped the door to slam after his retreating from before she slumped down onto the floor. "Well, Crookshanks I should have known better than to deal with the Daily Prophet again. Why did I ever allow Violet Greystone to talk me into the article? You would think her current cut as agent to the famous Jane James would be quite enough!" On guard for more flying objects, the tabby had climbed onto Hermione's lap, where she fell into absently petting him. "There really is nothing we can do about it now is there? I hope the light was too bad for any of the images to come out properly. People will see what they want to see, they always do. Besides, it has been four years since anyone has known me as anything but Jane James. It will be fine.

But you missed your dinner while I was talking to that leech! Come on; let's see what we've got then." But despite her words, a knot of worry had lodged in the back of her mind.

**

"Wormtail! Get! In! Here! I swear; it is hard enough trying to keep the Muggles from suspecting anything without you running around with that utterly wasted silver hand!" Lucius never raised his voice nor took his eyes from his breakfast, yet with each word a hot spike of anger dug into Wormtail. "Oh, and Wormtail, I do hope you remembered to bring my Sunday Prophet."

"Here it is. I don't know why you can't just get it owled to you like everyone else. But I don't know how you can stand being around Muggles all day either," he added with a snide smile. His blow hit the mark. In a flash, Lucius had sprung up and grabbed him by a grubby shirt collar.

"You know very well that as the Muggle Prime Minister I have appearances to keep up. And you also know the importance of the position I hold given the master's interests in the Muggle War. I would think you would speak more wisely," hissed Lucius.

"And I know very well that you would be Minister of Magic right now if your son had not been stupid enough to switch sides." Wormtail hit the wall, knocking down one of the strangely still Muggle paintings, before he registered being thrown. The pain caused his head to spin, and for a moment he thought he would utterly disgrace himself and pass out.

"Lucius, Lucius, I am surprised by you. And displeased. You know how I feel about people treating my things poorly," said a cold voice from the fireplace. Lucius, who had his armed raised in mid-curse, stopped dead and grew pale. "Sit; finish your breakfast before it gets cold. I know what stock you set in such... physical comforts," said the voice. "I assume you know why I am here. I want a full report on the Muggle War; things are progressing along I presume? Germany will fall next?"

"Yes, my lord, of course. And my deepest apologies." Lucius tried not to see the joyful look on Wormtail's face as he crawled towards a plush green armchair. But instead of sitting in it, he simply rested his head against the seat, as if the act of climbing into a chair might be too much for him. "Germany should be under our control within the month."

"Good. Oh, and Wormtail, do stop provoking Lucius. He does have a point; your hand is a little conspicuous. I thought we had discussed a concealing spell?" There was a dangerous note in Voldemort's voice; it was never a good sign when he was being this congenial. Wormtail cringed.

"But master, it... it burns so."

"Stop whining and stand up, you disgust me," snapped Voldemort. "I really..."

"Gods, Granger!" exclaimed Lucius, who had risen to his feet while staring at a page from the Prophet, seemingly unaware that he had just interrupted the Dark Lord.

"Granger... Granger... you mean the boy's Mudblood?" Voldemort's voice seemed to almost purr at the prospect of the last and infamous member of the Order being unearthed.

"Yes, my lord, it appears she is living near Prague, under an assumed name, as an artist or artisan or some sort. Still not much to look at, is she?" Lucius handed the paper to the hand not protruding from the marble fireplace, his composure quite regained.

"You always were overly concerned with looks, Lucius. You miss so much." Voldemort turned back, his eyes narrowing as he quickly scanned the article and accompanying picture of a young woman sitting at a potter's wheel, absently brushing strands of her bushy brown hair away from her face. "Ah... so it is Miss Granger, after all this time, the brains behind the boy. Is it really any wonder she is the last to be found? But you have slipped up this time, little one. I believe I can use this..." Both Lucius and Wormtail looked slightly uncomfortable to be overhearing the Dark Lord's murmurings.

"Do you want me to send a group to dispose of her?" asked Wormtail.

"No, I believe I might have other plans for her. After all, I wouldn't want it to be said I destroyed... what it was they all called her... "The cleverest witch of her age."

"Surely you don't actually mean to employ... I mean she is a Mudblood!" Lucius looked utterly aghast at the very idea.

"Think, Lucius. She is a symbol: Harry Potter's best friend, the last remaining member of the so called DA, the last of the Order of the Phoenix. They whisper her name in the same tone of awe and wonder that Muggles reserve for King Arthur. She is a legend. And like all good legends, no one really believes she is still alive. Now imagine it, she will be not only resurrected but will resurface as a devoted follower in my service. We can't just destroy such a powerful statement. No, this will take a subtle persuasion. Wormtail! Attend me now!" snapped Voldemort. "And fetch an owl on your way to my chambers."

With a slight pop he left the fireplace, not even pausing to acknowledge Wormtail's clumsy bow. "Still an errand-boy, are we," sneered Lucius.

"Go play with your Muggles, Prime Minister," spat Wormtail before he hurried out of the room, silver hand in plain sight.