Voldemort's Flying Circus
Part II: The Closet of Dreams
Chapter 4
Behold, the Wizarding World.
"World" is hardly the word to describe it, of course, it hardly takes up any space at all. Yet they blow their worth up to insane proportions, purging minds to keep their unimportant existence a secret from those they derisively call "muggles". They place themselves so high up on the list that it hardly matters when a few muggles are damaged irreparably in the process. Even those so-called "muggle-lovers" and "blood traitors" treat them as nothing more than amusing, unintelligent pets with a funny, alien lifestyle. It's no surprise that they refer to themselves as the "world". After all, they lord over it, assuming that anyone on it is theirs to toy with.
Too long has passed where a quick accio gives the people whatever they desire, never mind where it came from. All wants and needs met with a flick of a wand. They have it all, what does it matter if they don't really understand how it came to be?
As a result society stagnates, never moving forward, never moving back. The people go through the motions with a fixed set of guidelines. Every step of their life, dictated. Dreams and ideas fade from existence. But this world, if I may call it that, is starting to change. The people are stirring. Rising.
They awake.
Explosions of colour fill the stage, nonsensical music blasts their minds apart and the people watch open-mouthed as Voldemort's Flying Circus concludes yet another spectacular performance. They clap their hands and yell in appreciation with careless abandonment, and when the curtain finally falls, they buzz excitedly to each other.
"Oh, how fantastic that was!"
"How amazing!"
"Beautiful!"
"Joyous!"
Even the hard-nosed critics sputter in amazement at the sheer beauty of it all. They clap and laugh and sing with the people, grinning widely despite their aching cheeks.
"The meaning of it all! The audacity, the emotions! Spectacular!" One critic exclaims, as the people gather around him to hear what wisdom he cares to impart. The people cheer in agreement, and his words spread through the crowd like wildfire.
Someone asks the critic what he meant. Exactly how was it meaningful, audacious? The critic tilts his chin up and scoffs at him, telling him that it was obvious, even blatant in its attempts to convey deep meaning. "If you did not see it you are obviously thick. Or I might just be much more intelligent than the average person. Or both, which is actually highly likely." The critic swaggers off to find more people to impress with his flowery words. The man notices that the critic had refused to meet his eyes. He turns around, and for a fraction of a second, emerald eyes spark with anger and confusion. He wants to bash their heads in, shake them till their heads snap off their lifeless bodies, cast an avada kedavra into the air, anything to make them notice. But it's useless. It has been for a while now, ever since Voldemort took over the British Theatre Troupe and gave it a new, flashy name, together with bright, flashing colours and catchy beats that refuse to go away, the sound of drums beating relentlessly in the minds of the people, calling them back again and again, performance after performance. And none of them ever notice, as they laugh merrily and stumble back to their ticky-tacky little houses, that they can never remember what the performance was about.