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Summary
In Elysium, time has no meaning. There is no day, no night — no way to track the moving of the hours, of the years. Still, the years pass. Like the clouds spilling over the Lethe, they come slowly. Never-ending, but gentle. To those who sip from the waters of oblivion, time is a fog, a distant memory.
In his glade beside the river’s edge, Lord Voldemort feels the years like an open wound.