The River of Lathe

Brave New World

There are more of them then there used to be; unshaven men with a hard look in their eyes, garbed in the tattered remains of several mismatched suits, and women with blank eyes clutching at their many layers of clothing, the shape of their bodies unknowable but most likely dangerously thin. They stand in the dark shadows and watch or huddle around unlawful fires and murmur. Everyone pretends not to see them, but no one can miss them. He finds the most comfort among their ranks.

Tonight a group of men are gathered in front of an electronic store to watch the taped interview. "Damned rich," mutters one.

"Yeah, but I wouldn't mind 10 minutes with her."

"10 minuets, that all it would take?" the laughter dies as the interview begins. First the carefully pressed host explains what a treat it is to have her guest with her. The camera angle widens, showing two perfectly composed figures seated on a short couch. The woman, while not technically beautiful, exudes an air of confidence and charisma that draws you in. She talks brightly and quickly, every now and again laying a gentle hand on the knee of her silent companion.

He is a monster, a face to haunt a child's nightmares. There was some talk after the first interview of a tragic accident several years ago that left him like this; apparently school pictures were quite handsome. No one knows for sure. No one dares ask. He does not speak but watches her with a mixture of threat and adoration in his disturbing piercing eyes.

The polite questions are done quickly; how is your family, who designed the gown worn to the opening last week, where will they be going next? But there is a more important reason for this interview. The woman sits perfectly still and stares directly out into the camera; a look of reproach and disgust on her face. She speaks of children who cannot even read their own names, of a world without safety or security. She speaks of a lack of want and the good of a universal world government. She speaks of duty and bravery and honor.

One by one the men around him nod. None of them can see what is really going on. They will all go sign up to become cannon fodder, and happily so. He separates himself from the crowd and the pull of her spell. It seems they found a Muggle crowd control spell after all. Using the power of the camera was ingenious, long distance control.

"Brave new world," the man once called Agent 27 murmurs as he walks alone into the London night. He is disturbed not so much by Hermione's use of such a crude spell on Muggles as by the soft rounding of her stomach and the clear lucidity in her eyes. She appears at peace with her choice.

One way or another, he knows, India will fall next to Lord Voldemort. It will all fall to Lord Voldemort. "Brave new world."