Part 1 – Revelations of the Soul
What do you think of when you hear the word 'magic'? A miraculous power that can accomplish anything? A mysterious entity that Muggles write fantastical stories about and would kill to actually have at their fingertips?
I laugh at the simplicity of a Muggle's imaginative scope. They want the ability to clean a house with the flick of a wrist, to have money appear in never-ending piles, to get from one place to another without putting forth any physical effort. These ideas are selfish and narrow-minded, but I once thought as they did, growing up with Muggles as I have.
Magic should be so much more. For a time I began to believe that magic could solve any problem; the magic of Avada Kedavra allowed me to kill my greatest enemy, it granted me my greatest wish of leaving the Dursley's home and giving me a chance to feel like I belonged somewhere. Without the existence of magic I never would have met my two best friends, my first lover, my godfather, and I never would have seen moving pictures of my dead parents.
You could say magic gave me life.
Of course, one could also argue that magic was the source of all my problems as well. Without magic there never would've existed a dark wizard named Voldemort, my parents would not have been murdered and I would never have had to endure growing up in the Dursley's abusive care. Without magic I would not have met and then lost my two best friends, my lover, and my godfather.
So you see, there are two sides to everything. There is no dark and light magic – there's only magic.
Perhaps I am being too cynical. I didn't used to think this way, I used to see myself as an optimist, or at least a realist, but now I look and see that the glass is in fact half empty. I try to tell myself that I am too young to think like this, but I've never really been young...and now I'll never be old.
Is that poetic justice or irony? Maybe it's both.
I don't use the word 'magic' any more, its taste has grown bitter on my tongue. I feel like it has betrayed me.
As I glance at the Muggle faces lining the hallway, I see so much despair and pain, and fruitless hope. I wish I was as ignorant of the real existence of magic as they were. Would I still be as cynical and bitter? Perhaps. Yet, the Muggles believe in their own kind of magic, some type of higher power that controls their lives. I have to say that that's even more depressing than the absolute uselessness of wizard magic. At least wizard magic is simply a non-living power, it doesn't think for itself or decide your fate – people control it. How can Muggles take comfort in the idea that there's some one with a soul, a conscience even, somewhere up above causing so much misery here on earth? How can you have faith in a masochistic god?
I shove my hands into my coat pockets and avert my eyes, deciding to keep my gaze on the shiny linoleum floor instead of the gallery of faces surrounding me; each human face painted a different emotion. Each one a blank canvas until life slowly stains it with the painful heartaches of life's lessons. I have seen every one of these emotions mirrored in my own eyes; innocent hope, pain, anger, loss, and reluctant acceptance.
My shoes squeak loudly as I hurry my steps.
I emerge outside at last and squint against the bright sun burning overhead. I raise a hand to shield my eyes and look around for an available taxi. I've lived as a Muggle for nearly eight years now and I still don't own my own car.
I guess it hardly matters now.
I finally spot a waiting cab and signal it over from the curb. As I settle back into the worn leather seat, I find my mind wandering back to magic again. I hadn't thought about it in so long, I wonder if I can even still do it.
I could use a time-turner to return myself to yesterday and then avoid going to the hospital today altogether. But that won't change anything, except that I'd be the only one to know the truth instead of me and the doctor, it won't make it any less real.
I could use a memory charm to erase any knowledge of this day and its cruel revelations, but again that won't change the fact. No matter what I do it'll still be waiting for me in the end, and magic can't stop the future from coming – it can only delay it for awhile.
I close my eyes and lean my head back wearily. I wish it were raining outside instead of this warm sunlight that streams down on me with its inappropriate cheer.
I hate magic. It is a false promise, something that mocks me with its seemingly wonderful qualities but in the end is revealed for the cheap trick that it is.
My house is as cold and empty as it was when I left it this morning. I throw myself down onto the couch and stare blankly at the silent television across from me. I can see my reflection in its shiny, grey surface.
I somehow think that I should look different - I feel different. I look closely but I all I see is the same old scar, the same old eyes, and the same old messy hair. At twenty-nine I'm hardly any different from when I was eighteen. Maybe because when I was eighteen I already felt thirty years old, just as now I feel at least twenty years older than I am. I think I aged a lifetime today, which is good since in reality I don't have a lifetime to live anymore.
I blink and my reflection blinks. I lift my hand to scratch my chin and likewise does my mirrored twin.
I wonder if people will be able to look at me and see what's inside. If they'll somehow see the disease eating away my body and slowly stealing my life. I can't see it...yet. I guess it's only a matter of time. I wonder if I'll be able to feel it. The thought doesn't frighten me as much as it should, I've lived through too many rounds of Cruciatus to be scared of pain after all.
I let out a bitter bark of laughter as I realize that everyone around me always fought so hard to keep me alive during my turbulent school years to only now have my life cut short anyway.
I'm surprised to feel the prickle tears in the back of my eyes.
I stand abruptly and fight the urge to cry. I will not fall to pieces over this.
Even though I know sleep will elude me tonight, I decide to go to bed.
As I stare up at the ceiling I come to a decision; tomorrow I will quit my job. I have enough money to see me through the remainder of my life, however long or short that may be.
My mind restlessly jumps from thought to thought as I lay thinking through the dark hours of the night. My mind always did think clearer at night, thoughts and ideas always seemed to come to me so easily during that peaceful stretch of twilight. As much as I treasured and loved my friends, I always did relish being alone. Now I wish I still had them to talk to when daylight appears tomorrow.
Maybe I should call them.
No, that wouldn't be right. I can't drive them away only to call them back when I'm dying. They could probably care less anyway.
I roll onto my side and tuck my hands underneath my pillow.
I don't even know where Ron is now, I've been out of touch for so long that I've lost track of him. I know Hermione is a medi-witch somewhere. I wish I could talk to her, she might even be able to help me.
I roll onto my other side and look out the window. It's a very clear night and I can see thousands of tiny stars up in the black sky.
No, Hermione can't help me. There isn't a miracle cure for AIDS in either world – magic or non. I'm going to die no matter what world I belong to.
I hate magic.