The River of Lathe

Contact

The owl's arrival woke her up just before dawn. She was not really surprised to see it. Ever since that ill-fated article, owls had been bombarding her at all times of the day. True, most were commissions; she had not been so busy since the NEWTs. But really, she thought, rolling out of bed, this is getting a little ridiculous. Still, she knew Violet would skin her alive should she decide to go on a long-term vacation just now, despite how appealing just disappearing sounded. How many times can one woman reinvent a new life?

Sighing, she pulled a slightly frayed blue shawl around her to ward against the grey chill of the morning. She was awake, there really was no help for it, so she might as well do something useful.

By the time the tea kettle was happily boiling and Hermione turned her thoughts back to the small brown owl at the window, she had been joined by a larger pompous-looking white one. With a pang she thought of Hedwig. She paused to look for a treat to give it. This is silly, she thought. I can't go treating every white owl as if they were Hedwig. I can't afford it! Memories of Hogwarts had been intruding into her daily life more and more often, it seemed. Shaking her head, she waved her wand and the window opened.

"Here we go," she murmured collecting the letters and sending the owls back on their way. Throughout the morning, she collected an assortment of letters, notes, and even two small packages. All of them were put aside unopened, it was her ritual to look at the mail during lunch and then again after dinner, otherwise she would be opening letters all day and never get anything done.

She was having trouble with a piece. Although the magic danced from her fingertips and the image of what she wanted to create burned in her mind, she just could not seem to get the clay to do what she wanted. It was a memory piece. She had made a few before. The client gives her two or three memories and she incorporates elements into the piece. The shape of a flower given on a first date, the color of a mother's eyes, the texture of a favorite blanket lost to the years; these elements combined into an often extremely personal piece. But this time she kept losing focus somewhere. Images of Harry chasing the snitch into the dazzling sunlight, or Ron, reading a book upside down because he wanted her to believe he had been studying; and in his hurry, had not noticed, even the determined look on Draco Malfoy's face as he started his suicidal charge towards Lord Voldemort. For some reason it was her memories she kept incorporating instead of her client's mundane memories of a Christmas morning and a child's first steps.

She needed a break and to clear her head. In a fit of frustration, she decided to take an early lunch and go through the morning's mail. The first two letters were more commission requests; the second from a witch who signed herself as a princess no less. She decided not to accept that commission; the last thing she wanted was more drama and publicity. The third letter proved to be from an overconfident young wizard offering himself as an apprentice.

"Fat chance," she snorted before murmuring a charm to send the letter up in a puff of reddish smoke. "Really, I swear, you claim to be a recluse and every arrogant young fool thinks he or she is just the one to be your chosen protégé and, of course, your public face to the world! Ah, Crookshanks, we don't need any of them, do we? Fine, stay over there by the door and ignore me, silly cat. I don't want to share any of my milk with you anyway."

When not even the enticement of milk seemed to move the cat, she turned back to her stack of mail. The corner of a card sticking out half-way down the pile caught her attention. It was made from an extremely heavy cream paper and bore a ragged edge, which had been dyed a rich black. Clearly, a very expensive note card. Her eyes widened and a slight gasp escaped her lips as she scanned the elegant script.

She was so absorbed in the letter that she did not notice the tall figure standing just behind her. Embarrassed by her lack of response, he cleared his throat again. "Excuse me, Miss Gran --- James, Jane James?"

With a startled cry, Hermione rounded on the disheveled young wizard. Before he could utter a word of explanation, his wand was pressed into the hollow of his throat.

"Who are you? And what, in the name of all the gods who ever walked, are you doing here?" she asked.

"Miss James," he swallowed audibly. "I have been looking for you for years. Ever since Neville... You are her, aren't you? You're Hermione Granger?"

"You still have not told me who you are," Hermione pointed out once it became clear that he was not going to continue. She was surprised by how level her voice sounded. She had not released the pressure on her wand, or she was sure it would be shaking in her hand. He knew her.

"Paul. I am Paul Listman. I am with the resistance. There with that sentence I have given you the information to condemn me. Please, we need you. I think we could have a chance if you would only listen to me. Please, just hear me out, I won't betray you. How could I, without betraying myself."

Slowly, Hermione lowered her want. He would think it was his earnest plea which had won her over, but she knew better. As he stood there in his old robe, with its barely concealed tattered sleeves, and look of fierce desperation, he looked more like Ron than her heart could take, despite his brown hair and swarthy skin.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" she asked, already turning into the next room, needing to get away from this walking ghost.

"Hmm? Yeah, thanks." His surprise at the abrupt change in topic and tone was evident in his voice.

"Sit, sit," she instructed from the dim kitchen. Silently she blessed the darkness, it would not do to have him see the tears she felt threatening. "You mentioned Neville Longbottom. I am assuming you fought with him?"

"Yes and no, I was in Paris when he fell, but my mother held me out of the fighting. It was a terrible day. They say it will go down as the last of the Dark Lord's wars for Western Europe, Germany sure isn't putting up much of a fight. But we all think of it as the first battle of the resistance. From Neville's mistakes we will launch the great Wars of Freedom." The rickety chair creaked and groaned as he leaned back, craning his neck to get a glimpse of the legendary best friend of Harry Potter, now that she was no longer threatening him.

"Pity, I have not heard any glorious news form any great 'War of Freedom', as you call it." It came out harsher than she has intended, but it hurt her more than she would have thought to hear of Neville's fight and death spoken so callously. After Harry fell, Molly Weasley had grabbed her, and a portkey was shoved into her numb hands. Mercifully, she did not remember anything else until waking to find Neville had also escaped and was offering her a restorative potion. He said she had been raving half-mad about Voldemort's marking her with his eyes. She left with her parents for the States the next day. Neville had declined all offers to come with them.

She was in a small town in West Virginia when she heard about Neville's death in Paris. The scattered remains of the old DA had joined with the few members of the Order and the remaining Aurors. Uniting under Neville's leadership, they made their stand in the streets of Paris herself. To the best of her knowledge, she was the last of those old groups to draw breath. This, she knew, was why a young, idealistic wizard called Paul, was now sitting in her study waiting for her to bring him tea and hope.

With a sigh, she realized two truths simultaneously; the tea was boiling, and he had started talking about his glorious resistance again.

At least the boy has passion, she thought as she brought the steaming mugs into the study, a little overzealous but he defiantly believes in his cause. For a moment, she allowed a small wistful smile; "the boy" as she thought of him, was barely two years younger than her twenty-two years, when did she start to feel old?

Turning into the room, she stopped cold. Just a few centimeters from his left hand sat the letter she had been reading when he walked in. Its black edging seemed to absorb all light, demanding her attention, her notice. Under no circumstances could she allow him to see that letter.

"I know that it is quaint, but I much prefer a cup of tea made in the Muggle fashion. Something subtle about the flavor changes when you use magic, I think. Plus, I love to watch the color change as it gets sleep. Would you like to see?" Carefully, she set the mug down on this right side, forcing herself not to even glance at the letter.

"Oh... hmm... yes, thank you." Watching him carefully, she moved into the chair closest to the letter. Making sure he was politely looking into his mug, she smoothly slipped the letter into a fold in her robe.

"I'm sorry, I thought I heard something. Did you hear that?" Hermione asked with a self-depreciating smile.

"Oh, I didn't hear anything. Do you want me to go check it out?" With a movement from Hermione's hand, he sat back down. "Well, I was saying that we really need to act fast now. We have spies inside that say his most recent attempt failed, but he is funneling all of his energies into achieving true immortality. It is really only a matter of time now."

With a start, Hermione realized she was unconsciously fingering the note in her pocket. Disgusted with herself, she clasped both hands in her lap so tightly her fingernails bit into her skin.

"Once he becomes truly immortal, no one will be able to touch him, or restrain him. Not a Muggle blade or the strongest spell will have any effect. It will all be his and all dependant on his whim, or boredom." In a strange echo of the past's fear to mention the name of Voldemort, Paul had whispered the last words, as if speaking such a future aloud was too horrible to be contemplated.

"Yes, I see," she said with a touch more irritation than she actually felt. She felt numb and worried. "But what does this have to do with me? No, I see that too. What exactly are of asking of me?"

"Help us. You name alone is power but your intelligence, your genius, is the missing weapon we need. You could find the chinks in his armor and you could find how to exploit them. I am not saying you have to be a public figure. If you wish I will be the only one to know anything at all. No one will even know if you are alive for sure. Whatever you want."

"I will think on it."

"That is all I can ask of you today," he said, gently patting her hand, relieved that the conversation was finally under his control. "I have bothered you far too long, and will go. If you wish to get in touch with me, for any reason, owl Pierre LeBon."

"Yes, thank you... I will remember." He was gone before she could rise to say goodbye. For a long time she sat staring into the empty space he had inhabited. She realized a part of her hand been waiting for him to come. She had been waiting for one side or the other to find her. She had always known this house, this career, was a temporary sanctuary at best.

The shadows had gathered in the corners of the room before she moved to take the note out of her robe. In the dim light, only the signature was clearly visible:

Regards,

Lord Voldemort