BLAISE: Hold me close and tell me how you feel. Tell me love is real . . .
July 6th, 1997: Post-Sixth Year
I hate visiting Terry. I don't hate it because of Terry himself, of course, but because of that house, that shop, his uncle, what it all meant and still stands for. Forget about freedom and equality and opportunity. Instead, there's that horrible cloying firewhiskey oppression, the sneer in his uncle's voice when he lets me go upstairs, just because of who I am. And, of course, the fact that he would never let Terry come downstairs, just because of who he is to his uncle. Nothing.
I don't think I can take this anymore. I'll have to, however, because I keep telling Terry that he'll have to take all of it. That I can't change anything.
When, really, I'm just afraid to try.
"Blaise Zabini. Stop that."
"What?"
"That thing you're doing. Where you chain-smoke your visits with me and hardly talk."
"I'm sorry. But I feel like--Your uncle probably thinks we're . . . I don't know. It makes me uncomfortable, I guess."
"It didn't used to."
"I know, but this is now. Things are different."
"You mean, now that you're liscenced to ravage me thoroughly, you feel you ought to refrain?"
"Something like that." I put out my cigarette and try to fight the urge to light another.
"Don't feel you have to."
"What?"
"Refrain from ravaging me thoroughly. Because I would do the same to you if I could, but you're always smoking and I'm afraid of cigarette burns." He licks his lips and studies me closely, as if he's just said something important and wants to see if I caught it.
I don't think I did. "What are you on about?"
He sighs. "Never mind." Another sigh, more impatient this time. "I'm trying, Blaise. But I don't know how to get through to you."
"What are you saying?"
"I don't know how to tell you . . . Or show you . . . I don't know how to let you know how I feel about you, partly because I don't know if I know how I feel and partly because I don't know how to let you know. You know?"
It takes me a minute to untangle that confession. "I think so. And I suppose it wouldn't help for me to tell you how I feel about you?"
"No, you've said that enough."
"I've said it enough? What else am I supposed to do?"
"The same thing I'm supposed to do. A wild, risk-taking proclamation of love. Or, you know, I could make passionate love to you right now." He tucks his hair behind his ears, licks his lips again, leans forward awkwardly, dropping any sort of seductive act he might have been putting on before. "No, don't laugh it off. I'm rather serious, I think. I want to . . . Look, I've been thinking about myself, all right? And you know how I've been kind of a . . . Well, I've been a Knockturn Alley slut, for lack of a better way of putting it. So I thought physical expressions of love couldn't mean much anymore, not coming from me. But . . . You see, maybe I've done almost everything and everyone in the book, but I'm still sort of a virgin, you know? No, don't interrupt me; I'm going somewhere with this, I'm almost sure of it. But, ah, where was I? Right, the bit where I haven't actually had sex yet. So, well . . . You'd think I'd want to preserve the last shreds of my virginity, if you will, wouldn't you? Well, you're right. I do. I'm not going to waste whatever I have left in the way of purity on just anyone. Not when I could give it . . . Or save it . . . Or whatever for you." He pauses. "Does that make any sense?"
There is this wretched little bit of brain wanting me to say, "Yes! It does! Let's make love right now!" But I don't. In fact, I can't think of anything to say.
"Blaise?"
"Yes, Terry?"
"I'm sorry if that wasn't right. If I shouldn't have said that."
"No, it's not that. It's just that . . . I love you, Terry. I know I say it a lot, but . . . I do."
"I know. And I know I never really say it. But I think I love you too."
It's not much. But for right now, it's enough.
I hate visiting Terry. I don't hate it because of Terry himself, of course, but because of that house, that shop, his uncle, what it all meant and still stands for. Forget about freedom and equality and opportunity. Instead, there's that horrible cloying firewhiskey oppression, the sneer in his uncle's voice when he lets me go upstairs, just because of who I am. And, of course, the fact that he would never let Terry come downstairs, just because of who he is to his uncle. Nothing.
I don't think I can take this anymore. I'll have to, however, because I keep telling Terry that he'll have to take all of it. That I can't change anything.
When, really, I'm just afraid to try.
"Blaise Zabini. Stop that."
"What?"
"That thing you're doing. Where you chain-smoke your visits with me and hardly talk."
"I'm sorry. But I feel like--Your uncle probably thinks we're . . . I don't know. It makes me uncomfortable, I guess."
"It didn't used to."
"I know, but this is now. Things are different."
"You mean, now that you're liscenced to ravage me thoroughly, you feel you ought to refrain?"
"Something like that." I put out my cigarette and try to fight the urge to light another.
"Don't feel you have to."
"What?"
"Refrain from ravaging me thoroughly. Because I would do the same to you if I could, but you're always smoking and I'm afraid of cigarette burns." He licks his lips and studies me closely, as if he's just said something important and wants to see if I caught it.
I don't think I did. "What are you on about?"
He sighs. "Never mind." Another sigh, more impatient this time. "I'm trying, Blaise. But I don't know how to get through to you."
"What are you saying?"
"I don't know how to tell you . . . Or show you . . . I don't know how to let you know how I feel about you, partly because I don't know if I know how I feel and partly because I don't know how to let you know. You know?"
It takes me a minute to untangle that confession. "I think so. And I suppose it wouldn't help for me to tell you how I feel about you?"
"No, you've said that enough."
"I've said it enough? What else am I supposed to do?"
"The same thing I'm supposed to do. A wild, risk-taking proclamation of love. Or, you know, I could make passionate love to you right now." He tucks his hair behind his ears, licks his lips again, leans forward awkwardly, dropping any sort of seductive act he might have been putting on before. "No, don't laugh it off. I'm rather serious, I think. I want to . . . Look, I've been thinking about myself, all right? And you know how I've been kind of a . . . Well, I've been a Knockturn Alley slut, for lack of a better way of putting it. So I thought physical expressions of love couldn't mean much anymore, not coming from me. But . . . You see, maybe I've done almost everything and everyone in the book, but I'm still sort of a virgin, you know? No, don't interrupt me; I'm going somewhere with this, I'm almost sure of it. But, ah, where was I? Right, the bit where I haven't actually had sex yet. So, well . . . You'd think I'd want to preserve the last shreds of my virginity, if you will, wouldn't you? Well, you're right. I do. I'm not going to waste whatever I have left in the way of purity on just anyone. Not when I could give it . . . Or save it . . . Or whatever for you." He pauses. "Does that make any sense?"
There is this wretched little bit of brain wanting me to say, "Yes! It does! Let's make love right now!" But I don't. In fact, I can't think of anything to say.
"Blaise?"
"Yes, Terry?"
"I'm sorry if that wasn't right. If I shouldn't have said that."
"No, it's not that. It's just that . . . I love you, Terry. I know I say it a lot, but . . . I do."
"I know. And I know I never really say it. But I think I love you too."
It's not much. But for right now, it's enough.