Blind

BLIND

When I get home from the station the house feels empty. It’s your fault again. I stand outside the door for a moment before going in and smooth down the front of my shirt. The shirt I was forced to change into after the incident on the train. That’s your fault too. I step inside and hear the sound of my footsteps echo around the walls. There are people here of course, but it’s a ghost house without a master. I push this thought aside and go to find Mother. She’s in the parlor. Entertaining guests. I shouldn’t be surprised but I am. Three other women are gathered around her sipping tea and talking quietly. Anywhere else, with anyone else it might be a pleasant scene, but here it just seems sinister.

“Mother?” I say from the doorway.

“Oh Draco, you’re home I see,” she replies, I don’t know how she could see though; She doesn’t even look up.

“Could I talk with you a moment?”

“Not now Draco dear, we have guests.”

The guests don’t look at me either.

“But-”

“Later, darling.” And she lifts the teapot and pours a stream of liquid into her cup. The tea set is all silver. They are all talking quietly; they seem to have forgotten I am standing right there, or that I was there at all. I hate it when people do that. You do that too, I remember suddenly.

“Mother!” It’s a cross between a whine and a shout. “I want to talk with you now!” It sounds so immature. No one listening would guess that I am sixteen years old. But it works. She turns and stares at me. Her eyes are cutting and I know I’ve made her mad but I can’t seem to care. She looks right at me as she says, “Draco, you will go to your room now. No doubt you are tired after your journey.” Disobeying her a second time would be pointless. I won’t find what I’m looking for here. As I turn to leave I can feel the eyes of her guests upon me for a moment before they all go back to their tea, and when they do I mourn the loss of their gaze. When it’s gone I suddenly no longer exist.

* * *

It’s a month before my Father comes home. I told you he wouldn’t be there for long and I was right. Of course I was. I barely see him for a week as he recovers, and then he is back at the table one morning.

“Hello Father.” I murmur as I enter the room and take a seat. He doesn’t say anything, just nods. He has The Daily Prophet spread out before him. Mother comes into the room.

“Good morning, dear,” she says and he looks up from the paper and gives her a tight smile like he always does.

“Have you read this?” he asks and pushes the paper over to her and they begin to discuss some article, glancing at each other every now and then. I butter my toast quietly and reach for the jam. They haven’t looked at me yet this morning. I’m not sure he has looked at me since he got back. As they speak softly and laugh together I feel as though I’m in a glass box. Suddenly it’s unbearable. I’m holding the jam jar in my hand and I let it slip through my fingers. It crashes on the hard floor and both their heads snap up. I can feel my cheeks go pink.

“Honestly Draco!” he snaps. “Sometimes I wonder how you made it onto the Quidditch team with your utter lack of coordination.”

I want to remind him that I didn’t make it onto the team, that he bought my way in for me. Has he forgotten? But when I go to open my mouth I realize they have already turned away. I look to the table again in frustration but the house elf who has rushed in to clean up the jam glares at me and snaps its fingers, moving the plate and butter dish I was planning to throw next out of reach. It’s a very big table.

* * *

When I get on the train to Hogwarts this year I am relieved. Students are walking about everywhere. Looking everywhere. I see Crabbe and Goyle and go to sit next to them. I try to talk with them but I seem to have forgotten what awful conversationalists they are. They barely look up at all. Ginny Weasley walks by and I take a cheap shot at her, feeling satisfied when she glares straight at me before moving to the next compartment. Probably to tell you all about what I said. Weasleys are so easy to rile. I turn back to Crabbe and Goyle with a smile and when the lunch cart comes by I buy one of everything.

In the Great Hall that night I sit and listen to the Sorting Hat’s latest song and ignore Dumbledore’s speech. Theodore Nott is seated next to me. I don’t like him very much. He has the idea that he’s better than me. Kind of like you. He doesn’t look at me once through dinner.

As everyone begins to leave I look over at your table to catch your eye and give you a smirk. It takes forever for you to look up. When you do you give me your customary glare before turning away.

People say looks can kill, but they are wrong. It’s the looking away that will kill me.

And suddenly I want to grab you and shake you. Hit you and yell at you. Hurt you anyway I can. Because it is completely inconceivable for you not to see me too, and for you to turn to your filthy little friends and smile and brush me off as an annoyance when I am… who I am. When I’m better.

I get up and begin to leave, and as I pass you I pause and look down and watch as you stiffen and turn to face me not knowing what I’ll do. So I rack my brains and think of one of the things I overheard my father talking about at breakfast over the summer when he barely knew I was listening, or maybe just didn’t care.

“I heard you managed to get someone killed on your behalf again end of last term, Potter. Nasty habit that. You’d better watch it, you two, you might be next.”

And watch as your cheeks flush and your gaze turns stony and focuses on me. Only me. And I think, I could make a career out of this.

And I do.

I seek you out like never before. It’s like an extreme sport, taunting you. There’s the rush of adrenaline, the skill it takes, and the danger. Because the better I get, the closer you come to snapping. And it’s worth it. Every time you turn and glare at me it’s worth it.

And then one day it finally happens. I’ve found you in an empty hallway and I start in as usual. As I’ve been doing for the past few months now.

“Murderer, arrogant, careless, Dumbledore’s pet boy, your filthy friends, your dead parents.” You keep walking, you don’t turn to look. And I hate that. It’s like you’re blind to me.

“Must be hard,” I call finally, and you slow in confusion. “Knowing that none of them really see you.” And you turn and look at me, though your eyes are still blank.

“You’re just the Boy Who Lived to all of them. Even your so called friends.”

“You don’t know anything about my friends, Malfoy.” You hiss. But I think I catch a glitter of uncertainty in your eyes so I keep going.

“Don’t I? What about Weasley then? The only reason he hangs around you is to catch some second hand fame. It’s all he can ever get.” I can see I’m losing you, this is old material and you begin to walk away in disgust.

“You think I’m making it up do you? I remember the Triwizard Tournament just as well as anybody else. He wasn’t too happy when your name showed up was he? It was one thing he wasn’t going to be able to join in on. No attention for Ron Weasley there.” You’re hooked again.

“And Granger? Just think how thrilled she’d be to get mentioned in one of her precious history books for helping you, though I doubt she realizes what helping you will take. She probably still thinks you’ll win by distributing hugs and cuddles. Does she know you’ll have to kill him? Does she know you want to?” I’ve struck gold. Your eyes widen slightly and you take a small step back.

“And how about your dear old Dumbledore? He uses you more than anyone, and I bet you know it, but you just let him, because maybe if you do what he wants he’ll actually see you. Face it Potter, the whole bloody school wants to be in your good graces because you’re the bloody Boy Who Lived who could save them all, not because they like you. The teachers, the students. Even your enemies like me only bother because you’re famous.” I know even before the words leave my lips it is my biggest lie yet, but it works. As you draw your arm back I feel a thrill race through my body that it is the mention of me that has finally broken past your barriers. And in the instant before your fist connects with my jaw, it occurs to me that maybe this isn’t healthy.

Then there is a burst of pain and you are knocking me down, and we hit the stone floor and fall over and over until we strike the wall. You land on top of me and raise your hand to hit me again, but I start laughing. I laugh and laugh until tears run down my face. I’m sure they are just from laughing. Because you are just like me. The thing that kills you is that none of them want to look at you.

You stare down at me and snarl, “Why are you laughing you bastard?” and shake me so that my shoulders strike painfully against the floor. I’ve stopped laughing now and so I answer.

“I just find it funny,” I say, “that the thing that bothers you the most is that none of them notice you, since the reason I started all this in the first place was to get you to look at me.” And I raise my head to glance at your face. I know you understand what I mean because your eyes change and suddenly you are looking at me in a way I’ve never seen before. Or is it just that I never noticed? You’re still not sure if I’m toying with you though, so I reach up and straighten your glasses, still crooked from our fight.

“Can you see me?” I ask. Even as I’m beginning to wonder if I’m the one who’s been blind.