By Callisto Callispi
1.3 . . . I'm Caught Between Two Different Worlds.
Darkness plagued the world of both muggles and wizards. Spells for murders were cast so many times, uttered by thousands of mouths . . . on both sides. And the Dark Mark on our arms burned brightly, twinging pleasurably every now and then with each kill. How we lusted for those screams of submission, those screams of utter defeat. How we relished in the sight of beautiful muggle women collapsing at our feet, begging for their lives. And how we took that sadistic delight in taking them over and over again until they died. That was my world of darkness, of rape, of utter power. It was the power that I enjoyed, the complete power of the kill. My wand burned in my hand with each spell, throbbing with power.
We were winning, Hermione. We were winning so completely -- why did you turn away from me? Why did you insist on your pure, saintly convictions? You could have been at my side as my mistress, and then at least I could have protected you. Damn you and your mudblood pride.
But even as I wait silently in the shadows of the Forbidden Forest, my mind reflects back on that winter night five years ago. That was a world of white innocence where blood did not taint the snow as it did now. We watched the stars serenade silently to their own eternal rhythm . . . and we shared that brief eternity that night. That was a different world -- it was your world where a utopian society was possible, where muggle-borns and purebloods could walk down Diagon Alley hand-in-hand. And for a few years, I believed in your world too. I want to believe in your world, Hermione. Because in that world, you and I could have shared a bed and a kiss and a life. We could have shared everything . . . our memories, our emotions, our passions . . . in your world. Oh, Hermione . . .
You walk like a lost person, but you were never, ever as lost as I was. You were always so sure of yourself, so sure of your direction. Such a dreamer, my love. Hermione, you are the dreamer of sweet dreams while I am damned, lured into Dante's forest of horrors by the poisoned words of a honeyed whore. I lean against the black bark of the tree, just watching you with longing -- the way you walk, the way you smile, the way you hold your wand . . .
"Such irony. Do you remember, Hermione? Do you remember that night?" I ask after minutes of contemplation, stepping into the light of the silver moon, snow moaning under my feet. So much like that night . . . Your world, my world . . . But I have chosen.