I didn't get any toys.

Not a book, not a doll, not a puzzle.

My father didn't read books.

Books are only for children.

That morning my father was happy.

He flew into my room like a bird.

So cold, but also so tall.

His eyes were blue and gleaming.

He said, "Well son, it's time.

The special day has arrived."

"My birthday?" I asked with excitement.

"The day you become a man.

For centuries in our family

We gave out special presents,

To boys on their eleventh birthday-

A very special tradition."

He reached his hands in his cape,

And he pulled out something large.

Wrapped in a paper with ribbon.

Something I wanted to open.

I took the present from father,

I pulled back the ribbon and paper.

Inside was a silver plate.

My hands were cold as I held it.

"What is it?" I asked my father.

Mother sat in the corner.

She was quietly sobbing.

I think she was really happy.

"Look son," he said very firmly.

His voice was even and low.

He put the plate on my face.

And my hands on the sides to hold it.

My breath whistled through slits.

My eyes looked through the holes.

Only father was in the room.

And mother who sobbed in the corner.

"Now you are a real Malfoy,"

He said loudly and straightened his back.

I didn't think that before

I was only just a toy.

"But why are the holes so small?"

I asked my father that morning.

"What if I can't see you?

Or see what happens around me?"

"You'll see what you need to see,

And you don't need to see any more.

Besides, if you don't stop whining,

I'll take the mask back to the store."

"I was just asking-"

"Don't. You know I don't like stupid questions.

Besides the less you know,

The sounder you'll sleep in the evening."

"Don't think about getting it dirty.

Keep it safe in this special bag.

Only clean it with vevet fabric,

Don't be the klutz that you are."

Suddenly I'm sixteen.

The mask fits right on my cheekbones.

I put my mask on face.

I wear it and I walk forwards.

They tell me something, I listen.

I follow and don't ask questions.

Questions make grown-ups angry.

I've learned to stop asking and talking.

One day I decided

To feel the air on my face,

The coolness along my back.

Just to take my time.

After all, I've done my work,

And looking isn't a crime.

Besides I need to check

To make sure the job is done right.

The job lies on the floor.

I make sure I didn't miss something.

His eyes look up to the sky.

I don't know where he is looking.

I also look up to the clouds.

A flock of storks fly by.

Why is he looking at storks?

Isn't it too late for looking?

He's drowning, the Muggle man.

His body covered in red.

Seeping from vein to grass.

I didn't think Muggles could bleed.

But the Muggle lies there, all bloody.

His eyes reach further ahead.

It's as if he's asking the storks

To send him a pair of wings.

Foolish Muggle, why should they help you?

Help you fly up to the skies?

You really should be embarassed

That you dirtied my silver mask.

Many years have since passed.

The mask still fits on my cheekbones.

But when I look through the slits,

Father is not there anymore.

I don't take my mask off.

I don't look around.

I only listen and follow.

Looking won't help you sleep soundly.

I don't want to see dirt.

I'm tired of blood, of soaked fabric.

I want to see mother sobbing

Or maybe even my father.

I want her to reach and hug me,

To hold me just for a minute.

To whisper words in my ear.

To whisper anything, really.

I sometimes look up to the skies,

I don't know why I still do it.

Maybe that Muggle long ago

Knew something I didn't.