I See Nothing

It starts when you are little.

You see Lily in a corner, with her bleeding-red hair, making something spin in her hands.

Making it spin, without touching it at all. The little pink teacup [which used to be yours, until she came along and your parents gave it to her] is spinning, spinning, spinning, faster and faster, but nothing's making it go.

They always said she was special, and you can't remember a time when you were anything but.

You turn around and cover your ears to cover the noise of air being moved freely.

"It's like magic," she says, and you shut your eyes. You decide you don't like magic, not one bit. Not when your little sister is the only one who can do it.

You walk away from the room and when your parents ask if you've seen Lily, you only say, "I see nothing."

You're the only one in the sitting room when the letter first arrives.

By an owl.

You glance over, curious, and you decide to pick it up.

It's not any sort of paper you've ever felt before. It's thick, and smells different, like fire and promise and dreams.

You look at the back, and without turning it over to see who it's for, you open it.

It's for Miss Evans, and your heart skips a beat. A letter? For you? From an owl?

You read it, and it's a letter for a school called Hogwarts. What kind of name is Hogwarts?

The doorbell rings, and you answer it. There's a man in there in strange clothes.

He calls himself Albus Dumbledore, and you wonder, vaguely, why Santa Claus would call himself such a thing. Until you remember, of course, that Santa Claus is magic, and you don't like it.

"Are you Lily?" he asks, and your face contorts. No one asks for you.

"No," you say coldly. "Lily lives here, too."

Your parents come downstairs, with Lily of the bleeding-hair at their heels. This man introduces yourself, and you stare at the wall as he explains about Lily's magical abilities. Lily is a witch.

In the back of your head, you remember that witches are burnt at the stake. At least, they used to be.

Lily calls your name, she reaches for you, waving the letter around. "Look!" she calls, and you can hear her smile, even though you won't look at her. "Look! Look!"

You walk out of the room, and all you say is, "I see nothing."

You stare at the wedding invitation, written on the same odd paper with the same odd smells.

Lily's name is on the front, with another boy's. That odd boy, who never brushes his hair.

Lily's getting married, but you were married first. Some part of you takes satisfaction in that.

Your husband lumbers inside, two sizes too big for your taste, but you love him all the same.

He asks you what you have, and he sees the name, and he sneers.

"Have?" you ask blankly, tossing the letter into the fireplace. You look at your hands. "I see nothing."

The baby is bleating again.

Doesn't it ever shut up?

The baby is crying, and holding his arms up for you. He might be hungry. So you shove a bottle in his mouth and go back to reading your trashy tabloid rags.

He still won't shut up. You take the bottle away, turn the music up, and go back to reading. Your baby is sleeping, just like any decent baby would at this time of night.

Why won't the little bastard shut UP?!

Out of the corner of your eye, you see him raise his arms again. He's calling for you, wanting a hug, wanting to be held, wanting to know the warmth of a mother.

You cover him with an old-tshirt and put him in the cupboard, where he won't waken your husband.

As you head to bed, you don't realise that you're finally able to actually not see the wretched brat anymore.

He's covered in bruises. Your child has gone after him with your friends.

He's so small, like your sister was when she was little, and he has her eyes. But the deep, vibrant green is hidden behind over-sized glasses and blue and yellow marks that mottle his fair skin.

He won't cry. So brave, like his mother and father.

He looks at you, and his eyes are more wide, open, and honest. He reeks of sadness, and desolation [but also of fire and promise and dreams] and part of you wants to open your arms to him.

Instead, you turn around, your heart closed, and point at the cupboard. You hear him enter.

As long as he's in there, you won't see anything.

Anything.

He's sixteen, about to turn seventeen. You went through that letter business with Lily already, and you have no desire to think about his.

He's different now. Like Lily her last summer at your old house. Determined. Focused. Preparing for something you don't want to know anything about.

He's cooking, and you realise that he's taller now, bigger and stronger. Beneath the tshirt, you see muscles that have developed, and scars. And even a freckle or two, signs that he's been outside for some time.

He's only cooking for himself. He has changed.

You think you notice a few bruises as well. On his skin, and in his heart.

He turns around and looks you in the eye. His glance his guarded now, full of secrets. The open green is gone. He is closed to you.

You sit down and read the letter from your son. He's met a girl, and you're so happy. You ignore the sounds of metal clashing against metal as he finishes preparing his meal. Your son is tall, too, full-grown. He'll make a fine husband, a good catch.

The other boy leaves the room. You get up to see what kind of a mess he's made, but instead, you see he's left you a sandwich, your favourite kind. The kind you used to eat with his mother.

You throw it in the trash.

You sit down again, and hear a few thumps. You hear him coming down the stairs, and when his owl hoots, you know he's leaving.

Probably forever.

Maybe you should have done more for him.

Instead, you just listen to him leave.

As you walk around the house afterwards, you realise there's no trace of him. No pictures, no letters, no mess, no nothing.

You see nothing.

You watch your son scream at his son, and you are numb. You don't know what to do.

You don't know how to react.

He's screaming, and threatening, and you are struck deaf and dumb, turning around and staring at the wall. Your husband is at work, and you are alone with your child and your grandson.

You hear the first smack, and you blink. You don't really react much anymore, because you've never really done so before. Not for these sorts of things.

You hear another smack, but it sounds different. Deeper. There's a yell.

Your son is lying on the ground, nose broken. Before him stands your nephew.

His eyes are clear again.

He gently picks up your grandson, barely two years old. Your grandson has a black eye.

Your nephew is with two other people, a girl with wild brown hair and tall, freckled boy. They stand with your nephew as he smoothes your grandchild's hair back, soothing him. Drying his tears.

You blink again.

Your nephew looks at you, and you expect hate, but you see something else.

Determination.

Compassion.

Fire.

Promise.

Dreams.

Forgiveness.

Forgiveness?

"Here," he says, and hands you your grandson, who smiles cautiously at you. Then he burbles, and holds his arms out for you.

You can't believe this.

"Why?" you ask, as your grandchild clutches you.

Your nephew has no words for you, but the girl does.

"Because," she says, and her tone is peaceful. "Because he saw something."

The blinders are lifted, and for the first time in years, you can see.