An Excerpt from The Glorious Revolution:
Today, as always, our Glorious Revolution is a kinetic sculpture, constantly in motion while showing the beauty of unification. The Great Lord's wisdom is without bound, for he knows how to use the inferior and weak creatures around us to further our own aims. All rulers must deal with their subjects, and any decision naturally gives rise to those who are perceived to win, and those who are perceived to lose. Injured parties have resentment, and sufficient resentment leads to unproductive behavior for the New British Empire. Acceptance and productivity are requirements for participation in the Glorious Revolution.
In the Year 5 NBE, the muggle technology for monitoring others was fully adopted throughout the Empire. For those who are of the weakest class, lacking all magic, the enforced observation of all behavior through vision systems makes easy the identification of unproductive subjects. Those that possess magic naturally have full comprehension of the Scrying Orbs installed throughout the Empire, and are likewise monitored for the same unproductive warning signs.
Once unproductive workers are identified, re-education is applied to remove the source of injured views. Any party that loses a judgment is in de facto violation of Our Great Lord's will and wisdom. Repeated wrongs are invariably an indicator that the education program had failed for the individual worker in some fundamental manner. The Glorious Revolution's continued motion compels us to re-educate all workers until they are properly aligned with Our Great Lord's vision, becoming once more productive and accepting participants.
Attempts to thwart the destiny of the Glorious Revolution are dealt with by the Guards of the Revolution, the stalwart defenders of . . .
An Excerpt from The Lost People:
3-Nov-2001
It was a harbinger of The End when they did not return. We had less than a thousand people left in the entire Lost People enclaves, a mix of magical and muggle people working without hope or cessation. To lose a strike team of fifty people, including warriors, healers, and technologists, was a grievous blow. Not one of them returned from the ill-fated attack on a research facility run by Voldemort's people. The lightening raid on the night of samhain has become another stark reminder of how we have become abandoned by the world, and how futile our fight has become.
Kingsley Shacklebolt offered to step down as the leader of the Lost People, taking full blame for the consequences. The others – notably Neville Longbottom – refuted his offer, and pointed out that the information the strike team mission was based on had never been confirmed. Indeed, all that went had known the risks, and the lack of verification of the data, and had volunteered to go.
Had the strike been successful, we would have collected samples of the new tools they are using to track us down. The next generation of Scrying Orb has been rumored to contain muggle technology inside of it. We have also heard rumors of new weapons, blending the most dangerous creations of the muggle military with the palling facility of the killing curse. Kingsley had hoped that securing prototypes would allow us to devise means to counter them, and thus the major strike team had been assembled. While he is still our leader, even he now walks with stooped shoulders and I believe fear in his eye.
While I dare not directly ask any volunteers for any mission, I am convinced that the number of volunteers is a direct reflection of the increasingly bleak visions of the apocalypse coming. Kingsley had been hard pressed to decide which volunteers to send, given that only fifty slots were available in the team. Our numbers dwindle, there will be no more children, and the well has gone dry. What little hope may remain in some guarded breast is dying from lack of water, but I no longer believe any truly remains. If Kingsley has fallen prey to the perception of reality, there is nothing left for us to lean on in the dark hours.
As Keeper of the Chronicles, I officially list the names of the lost. Leader: Bill Weasley. Healers: Luna Lovegood, Orla Quirke. Fighting Team Leader: Nymphadora Tonks. Fighting Team: Ginny Weasley, Stan Shunpike, . . .
The hewn stone slab was the only constant in her mind. She had no idea of how long she had been held under the Cruciatus, but she had successfully worn holes through her clothes and armor from writhing within the restraints. She knew what her fate would be. They all knew what would come were they captured.
They had found the bodies of others.
When there were bodies to be found.
Somewhere between five seconds and an eternity after she had been placed on that rough slab, the interrogation had begun. The systematic attempts to break her mental shields, the snapping of bones, the cutting of flesh. Potions to keep her alive between sessions, and still they asked. She was not even sure what her name was half the time, or why she was there, but that mattered little.
She had to fight. She knew that. She would die in the end, for death was always there. Waiting. Watching. Whispering.
It was almost a relief when the torture stopped so they could move her body. What scraps of clothing she had left were discarded. The restraints were moved. Faces, hauntingly familiar, taunted her with words and gestures.
She thought she knew what was coming. Their use for her was over, so she was no longer of direct value. She would be handled far worse than the lowest half-breed.
They had found the bodies of others.
When there were bodies to be found.
She was left hanging, literally. Alone. In a dark room. They knew that she knew what was coming. In her lucid moments, she was terrified of it all. In the bulk of her time, she was eager for the release of this life. She had tried. She had failed. But she had lived.
Two of them came back. But they mercifully brought the light back, and she could see the clumps of her red hair hanging around her face. It was clumped and matted with other things, but she could see, and she was still alive. Their voices were confusing, but their actions as they began to disrobe were clear.
A dementor floated to the doorway, staying there. The unbearable cold caused her body to convulse, lacking any buffer from the evil in the room. She had no idea when the end would come, but there was her death. Watching. Waiting. Whispering.
She could hear the screams starting, the screams of her mother fighting Bellatrix Lestrange when Hogwarts was a safe haven.
Fighting to protect her daughter.
The laughter of the insane echoing as her mother's body exploded from a curse she had never heard.
She heard the voices of the Diary telling her how it was her fault that her mother was gone, that if she had not been there, her mother would still be out there, loving and caring and fighting and . . .
She came to consciousness slightly, only to see the dementor gone, as were the two naked men. The room was dim but not dark, and a new person was standing near her. Her brain was trying to wake up, but even it seemed to recognize the futility of bothering. Her body was numb from the cold, and she was unsure what had happened while she had been unconscious, locked in the visions the dementors brought.
They had found the bodies of others.
When there were bodies to be found.
In a swift motion, her new assailant released the chains holding her manacles to the wall. Her spine was unable to process the posture change by itself, and she found herself in a heap on the floor. Betrayed by her body, her captor dragged her back to the stone slab. He pulled something from the side of the table, one hand pushing her stomach to the ground, and used the other to unlock one of her legs.
It was too much to hope for, a flicker of heat at the base of her skull.
She was alive.
She kicked out viciously at the man that released her legs. She felt a fleeting moment of glee at the grunt of pain that escaped her captor. She would not go down without a fight, whether it be weapon, fist, foot, tooth, or nail. She would fight unto the end, for there was nothing left for her. Her sadistic pleasure in his pain ended abruptly when a blast of green light filled her vision. The waiting, the watching, the whispering was finally over.
A/N:
No betas were involved in this work.