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"What do you see? Light and Darkness, your world is black and white. But my world has a million shades and then some. And all of them are black."
I left, there was nothing more to say. He would never understand me.
There was noone waiting for me, only the streets and the night.
To the people I was invisible. Just another faceless shadow in a dark coat wandering the streets, without aim, waiting for the hours to turn to days to years to a life to pass by. Lives that don't leave a shadow behind.
This place rank of piss and other, worse things. And somewhere something living stirred, more than just the rats. But deeper, under all the rubble was the place calling to me. Rotted away stairs leading down into darkness deep enough, tangible. No mere tentacles but a living breathing body underneath this town, feeding off its soul.
Into this body to be digested, over broken down walls. Always deeper, where even the rats fear to tread. The own breath being the only sound in all the world and the crushing of old crumbling cement under hard boots.
No light, there's nothing to see anyway and the way's the only one.
Yes, there, someone waiting, not breathing, not living, not seeing. Hunger, Pain, Rage incarnate, loathsomeness waiting to feed off the living, the feast delivering itself.
It is upon me, rejoicing, recoiling in horror then. To kill this abomination is easy then. It always is when they finally have tasted me. No, not kill, they are not alive. To remove – they do it themself rather than stay another second with me. And my part then is just a token. There's nothing left in them to resist the removal of their head.
They don't see me. They don't feel me. They don't taste me.
My heart is beating. Blood is coursing through my veins. But I do not taste of blood and flesh. Therein is just the hell I brought with me when I came back. It is the horrors beyond giving me shape, forming the body that rose from the grave.
Sometimes I see them, trying to hide in the masses, trying to fit in among the people. They always fail. Not to the common bystander but to the knowing eye. Too different is their world.
Sometimes I see a shock of bright red hair and every nerve in my body is screaming for me to run, to hide. To hide from those living in a world I once lived in with them. But I don't, never do.
The stick in my pocket, I don't know why I still keep it. It is useless to me now. Just a stick, dark and smooth from long-term handling.
Sitting in the Starbuck's right next to a group, of Them I listen in on their conversation.
"...and the ministry, they won't press charges..."
"...but how can we be sure You-know-who is truly dead now?..."
It is funny, even with silencing charms and all their first reflex still is to whisper. Still, it is no use to them here. The silence is so easily pierced. I have that little Californian witch to thank for that, and her way of shaping magic.
But Voldemort, after all these years they still wait for him to return and work his evil once more.
I have taken him with me, body and soul. And unlike me there is no chance of him returning.
I can taste it in the air. It is waking the predator and I again will go and hunt.
How little they truly know. They keep all their magic hidden and to themself and still have never heard of the darkness that's hidden even from them. Not even suspect it.
A little witch from California had to teach me, Her and her friends. There I was, having fought the greatest and most evil wizard ever and having won – in a way. And I needed people never even having heard of the wizarding world to teach me. Teach me of the shadow lurking behind the Dark, the powers of true magic and even life and death.
One day I will return to the Hellmouth but now I have a demon waiting for me.