Masked

Masked

When I tell people I ran away from home as a teen, they tend to have dramatic reactions. Their reactions tend to vary from "You poor thing, what happened?" to "Did you parents abuse you?"

The pureblooded community scoffs and then curses me for breaking tradition. At least, I assume that's the community's reaction. It's not like I have loving chats and sit down for a cup of tea with the lot of them.

Was I beaten? No. Not really.

My mom spanked me a few times when I was younger, of course, for disputable reasons, I suppose. But a spanking was all it was.

My father did belt me once, however; I remember the day distinctly. I was out in Diagon Alley with the folks, and I got into a bit of a shouting match with Regulus. My parents, being the fair understanding people that they were, asked my brother what happened first without asking me a thing. And oh, he told them.

I had lectured him not to use the word Mudblood, that it was crude. My tutor told me so, and I just relayed the message, doing what I thought was my older-brotherly duty.

Regulus disagreed. So, it seemed, did my parents.

My tutor was fired by the next day. She vanished within a week.

I was taken home and hit with my father's old leather belt. Now that I think of it, it's a bit odd he even owned a Muggle belt, seeing as he looked down on Muggles and everything from their world. Maybe, he bought it in anticipation of the very occasion.

He never did belt me again, nor did he ever lay a hand on me after that day. I had learned my lesson when I looked into my parents' horrified eyes, and I saw that I was no longer their wonderful son.

I never lectured to Reg about his language again. I used the word Mudblood every so often to please the folks.

But I knew it was wrong.

That day, everything changed. A simple argument rocked my belief system.

I was six.

I never talked about that day with my friends at Hogwarts. They knew I didn't get along with my folks, but they didn't know how or why the animosity began. Even at the age of six, I was different from the majority of my family. That day certainly proved it.

The lesson I learned that day stuck with me for the next ten years. Heck, I think it will always stick with me.

If the differences between you and someone else come down to your core fundamental beliefs, someone has to change. Someone has to adjust or there can be no harmony, only chaos. At the age of six, I adjusted, and I pretended to agree with their beliefs. I wore a mask that only slipped occasionally and never did when it mattered. I certainly became a gifted actor.

But at the age of eleven, my parents realized it was a mask. Being sorted into Gryffindor was not in their master plan for me, being their pureblooded heir. They knew in that moment what they had brokenheartedly predicted that day in Diagon Alley and what I had hidden from them as best as I could: I wasn't one of them.

But we came to an unspoken agreement. I continued to wear my mask when in their presence, and they allowed me to be in their presence.

Oh no, my parents never laid their hands on me.

It killed me each year's end and each holiday to get on the train ride to go home. It killed me to leave Hogwarts, pranks, James, Sirius, Peter and magic. It killed me to leave magic that was just magic, with no hidden purposes, no dark agendas. But each holiday and each summer break, I got on the train. The mask of a good, pureblood boy involves going to family events. Holidays included.

It was times like that that I hated the mask. But still, I got on the train.

It was just another holiday. We sat at the table and ate our posh feast. The whole family was over, and Kreacher was slinking in the shadows, coming when called. Reg was talking to Narcissa and Bellatrix.

I never talked to them, unless it was necessary. You see, I wasn't the only one with a mask. They pretended to like me in the family's presence, as I did to them. But, there's only so much a mask can do, and I didn't push it by reaching out for conversation.

It was just another holiday for everyone. But there was something different. I couldn't explain it at the time, not even in my private thoughts. But something was definitely different.

Maybe it was Andromeda's absence. Maybe it was my favorite cousin not being on the family tree.

Maybe it was Kreacher in the background obeying all but me. It seemed he had never accepted the mask.

Maybe it was Regulus laughing as he told Bella about the stupid Mudbloods that he cursed the other day.

Maybe it was my mother beaming as he told his story.

Maybe it was the conversation echoing around me like it came from the end of a tunnel, that I just couldn't get into.

Maybe it was "The Dark Lord" this and "Pureblood" that.

Maybe it was simply the weather.

But when I heard Regulus complain about that "Mudblood Evans being a teacher's pet", I was six years old again, and I had yet to forge my mask.

The conversation stopped. The 'always pure' world stood at a standstill as I lectured my brother about not using the word Mudblood. And I didn't just stop there. I continued and said that maybe she was just smarter. Maybe she was better. And maybe, he was so bad at insults; all he could come up with to insult her was her blood.

I lectured to Reg like I had done that day in Diagon nearly ten years previous.

My parents were a mix of red and white, fury and shock.

Kreacher came out of the shadows for a moment with a look of supremacy on his face, if ever a house elf could manage that.

Reg paused and his face held confusion and hatred, an interesting mixture. To this day, I don't know if he recalled the day in Diagon Alley when I first put on my mask or if he was simply in complete shock, having always thought my mask was the real me.

My cousins held looks of glee; they could treat me as they wanted now.

My grandparents and aunts and uncles all held looks of fury.

My father stood as if to push me out of the room to deal with me in private. No, I wasn't having any of that. If I was going to be ousted a Muggle sympathizer, I was going to do it right.

I stood, and I said, "I like Lily. She's nice. I'm friends with Muggleborns. And I like Gryffindor. I wouldn't be re-sorted, even if I could. I hate Voldemort," I said with venom as my cousins flinched. "You can tell him that."

My mother cleared her throat and began to make excuses. "Sirius, who cursed you? We'll get this taken care of right now. I'm so sorry," she said to our guests while glaring at me.

I wasn't cursed. I was free.

"I told you, Mother. I told Reg nearly ten years ago that Mudblood was a bad word. I told you all. And then I became your perfect little boy. Did you never wonder about the sudden change? Did you never care? Of course, you didn't. And I was okay with that. But I'm going into the real world right now, and I can't hide under your beliefs. Someday, I'm gonna fight against Him and against all you. All of you. We're on opposite sides, and we have been since I was six-years-old," I said with a passion in my voice that my family had never heard.

And I walked out of the dining room.

The room burst into conversation, all variations of "Oh my!", "How dare he?", and "We'll take care of him."

I walked to my room, past the house elf heads on the wall. I grabbed my trunk and a few things from my desk. I left the rest a disaster.

I walked out the front door, leaving it to slam on the chaos behind me as my mother aimed her wand at my place on the family tree.

As I walked away, I couldn't believe my mask had slipped. Ten years is a long time for your family not to know who you are, who you really and truly are. Ten years is a long time to wear a mask and live a double life.

It was just another holiday. Nothing specific caused my mask to fall. But fall, it did.

I was sixteen, and I was finally free to be simply me.