The Veiled Boy

As the end of summer approached, a cool wind had begun to sweep in from a distance. A whisper, a mere hint of autumn pervaded the busy streets of London. There wasn't a cloud in the sky; above was nothing but a vast blue. Harry was smiling. 

Kings Cross station stood before him with open arms, as if beckoning him in with a warm desperation. Harry's fingers drummed impatiently on his trolley's aluminum handlebar. Checking the large overhead clock it seemed they had time, so he made no effort to rush his friend, who'd been attempting to lift his trolley up onto the pavement. Ron let out an exasperated sigh, wiping the sweat off his pale forehead. Harry gave him an excited smile, and Ron reluctantly returned it as he began his toil in pushing the heavy trolley once more. 

Inside was bustling with all sorts of insignificant people rushing to get to their respective destinations; it was as if they'd left all that made them happy at the doors, and leisure had been a mere afterthought. But the surrounding air could not penetrate Harry's fortified bliss, for he'll be completely free of his aunt and uncle's shackles the moment he boards his train. 

"Come on, Ron!" Harry shouted, grabbing his friend's sleeve and heading towards their platform. 

"Slow down! We've got plenty of time! Can't you see I'm struggling here, mate?" 

"What have you got in your luggage that calls for that much struggle?" asked Harry, still not slowing down. 

"Hermione sent me a whole bunch of books to read over the summer," grumbled Ron. "Guess how much I've read?"

"One?"

"None!"

Harry laughed. "Well, what was she thinking about giving you that many books? She should've known better, you could hardly stand to read summaries!" 

"It's exactly why she wanted me to read them! 'You'll fall in love with the characters' internal toils and the stories' morally decisive air!' If I ever start talking like that, point the wand at me and utter an Unforgivable, I don't care!" Ron whimpered, giving his trolley one last great shove. 

"Here, I got it," said Harry, and he got behind the trolley. Ron wasn't lying; the trolley was indeed heavy, but Harry was much too excited to feel the need to complain. So the two of them carried on past the wall and onto their rightful platform. There it stood: the Hogwarts Express. Steam billowed out of the front, engulfing terrified first-years; the loud hiss of the train overpowered the crowd's excited clamoring.

"Harry, Harry!" Molly Weasley came clambering through the crowd. "Goodness, where have you two been? Have we lost you in the beginning? It's impossible to keep track of you all in that muggle station!"

"We're just about to get on," said Ron, turning a bright red when passing families turned to inquire as to who was producing such frantic screaming. 

Molly threw her arms around the both of them and kissed them repeatedly, her eyes glistening with tears of both happiness and bereft. "You two write me as soon as you get there; do you understand? Especially you, Ronald! You always forget to write, and if you wish for no inquiring howlers from me, you'll write!"

Harry laughed at his friend's perpetually flustered state as he nodded obediently, trying to pry himself out of his mother's tight embrace. "We'll write, Mrs. Weasley," said Harry, gently tugging his friend's sleeve once again. 

She finally let go and hastily dried her eyes with the back of her hand. "Alright, you do that! Be safe now; I don't want any trouble!"

"Yes, mum!" Ron groaned as the two of them boarded the train. 

The tumultuous inside of the train was infinitely more crowded than the platform outside. Ron and Harry tried to squeeze their way through the immobile pillars of people while, at the same time, in pursuit of Hermione, whom they knew had come early enough to occupy a generous cabin for the three of them. 

"Harry, Ron!" Her meek voice called out through the deafening voices. "Over here!"

Ron grabbed Harry's wrist, dragged him into a nearby compartment, and hurriedly shut the door. The two of them threw themselves onto velvet seats. 

"Is it just me, or is it a lot more difficult to get a bloody seat on this train?" Ron let out in between his panting and whining. 

"Every year you say the exact same thing because you refuse to come in a timely manner," said Hermione, staring down at them from her straightened posture, her dark eyes narrowed with captious intensity. "Really, is it that difficult to get up early for one day of the summer? And should you wish to nap, you've got a long train ride to do so!"

"Please, Hermione, not now." Ron pinched his nose bridge with his fingers. "I cannot stand any more yelling."

"The only reason you don't hear more yelling is because I got us a nice, private compartment! You ought to be more appreciative, Weasley!" 

"Yes, thank you!" Ron whimpered, cowering under her wrath. Harry just laughed and looked outside at the busy platform. There was a naughty pride that erupted within, knowing he'd been settled in a compartment and the kids outside had yet to experience the chaos within the train.

There was a raucous knocking on the compartment window, and as if scripted, all three of them looked to the window. Standing there was Neville Longbottom, who was being squeezed against the window and had been peering at them with pleading eyes. 

Hermione quickly opened the compartment door to let him in. He sat down opposite Harry and let out a liberated sigh, his face red from the chaos that'd ensued outside. "Merlin's beard!"

"Isn't it much more difficult to sit down than it was last year?" Ron pried. "I swear I've broken some ribs getting through the Slytherin section."

"Especially the Slytherin section," said Harry, shuddering. "It's like they want for one compartment for each individual! It's impossible!"

"Actually," Neville began, panting wildly. "It's not. Well, yes, it's impossible for the entire Slytherin house. But a student does have a whole compartment to himself."

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances. "A whole compartment for one student?"

"It's for the new fifth year," said Neville. "His parents want him to be alone and comfortable. Do you not know of Kievount?"

"We have a new fifth year from Kievount?" Hermione gasped, her hand gently covering her mouth. "That's odd for Dumbledore to admit such a student."

"Wait, wait, wait," Harry interrupted. "Kievount? A new fifth year?" 

"Oh, that's right! You didn't get to read the Prophet over the summer," Hermione gasped. "Kievount was a small, privately funded dark arts school in London. The ministry deemed it a threat and closed it down. That is where our new fifth year is coming from."

Ron sat and began to scan the crowds outside with increased curiosity. After a while, he turned to Hermione. "How are you so certain he will be at Hogwarts? Kievount was a dark institute. Dumbledore wouldn't admit a boy like that. Right?" 

"Dumbledore's thought process is questionable," Hermione shrugged. "I don't doubt his judgment is influenced by his own personal wishes. He's only human; we mustn't forget it." 

Neville nodded. "Grandma told me to stay away from the boy. Not only is he Veiled, but apparently he sent a ministry official to the madhouse."

"Veiled?" Harry wondered out loud. 

"The black veil signifies membership in a strict pure-blood family,” Hermione began. “These families preach dark magic and the superiority of pure-blood wizards. And the veils are worn solely by women and children under seventeen to conceal their excellence from muggles and muggle-borns. There aren’t many of them today, but they’re there.” 

"Essentially, they're much worse than the haughty purebloods at Hogwarts already," concluded Ron. "Snobs the lot of them; I'm glad there aren't many today." 

"So how did the boy send the ministry official to the madhouse? Surely, he wasn't that much of a mischief."

Neville Longbottom shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "It's just hearsay, but the official says he saw his own death in the boy's eyes. Since then, he's become some sort of paranoid loony; he's too scared to even leave his room."

Ron visibly shuddered.

"Look!" Hermione thrust her finger towards the window outside, and all four of them crowded forward to get a good look. 

From around the corner, an important man walked. Harry had never seen him before. A rather tall man, exceptionally handsome with a cold expression. Over his broad shoulders, his lengthy white-blonde hair fell and flowed almost in sync with his expensive-looking black cloak. He moved down the road slowly, clicking his walking stick menacingly in front of him. Harry assumed that others were intimidated by him, for they moved hurriedly out of his way and bowed at him. The four of them were watching with increased curiosity from behind their pathetic little window. Behind the man seemed to have been a woman and a child. The woman had a lovely hourglass figure, dressed modestly in black brocade, and held herself with perfect posture. Harry could not see either of their faces, for they were covered by black veils, sort of like mantillas, which concealed their faces. People stared curiously at them, whispering and pointing at the woman and the child. The woman gracefully held her hand out and took the young boy's, walking closer to the man in front of them. The boy was rather tall, with an effeminate, delicate figure. Harry thought that the veiled boy would be an exceptional equestrian, for his body was short and slim, but his legs were admirably long, and his posture was truly excellent. 

But like Hermione had said, their faces were hidden, and they carried themselves with personally designated sententiousness. Behind the family was a pitifully skinny house elf who struggled greatly with pulling the boy's portmanteau. 

The family approached the train, and miraculously, the students stopped their pushing and shoving and quickly, without another word, left into any compartment that could take them. Harry and his friends peered discretely into the hall and watched as the Veiled moved carefully down the narrow hall. Then, about four compartments down, the man stopped and turned to his son. 

Harry opened their compartment door rather abruptly, ignoring the whispered pleas of his friends not to. 

"And most importantly, Draco, do not dare lift your veil," said the man carefully and evenly, speaking like a true man of power. "Severus will be waiting for you upon arrival; you must do your very best to listen to your godfather." The boy did not reply; his veiled head hung low, and his shoulders were tense. His father's stone-cold expression softened, and the look of endearment seemed misplaced. "Draco, my dear boy, you may return home at any point of the year should you feel it is impossible for you to continue at Hogwarts. Your mother and I have all confidence in you, and you know that. Don't you?"

"I do," the boy whispered. Harry had been expecting a harsher tone, considering he'd sent an official to the madhouse, but the latter spoke timidly, with a sort of heavenly gentleness. 

"Good," the man said, standing and placing a kiss on the boy's head. "You'll write to your mother first thing."

The woman's proud statue finally crumbled, and she threw her arms around her son. "Oh, my little boy, you'll do so well, you'll see! There is none other like you; none other with your heavenly eyes and exceptional grace!" 

The boy had been evidently embarrassed, and Harry could tell without seeing his face. His body stiffened, and he'd patiently endured his mother's praise in humiliating silence. 

Finally, she removed herself from her son, turning over her shoulder to ensure no one could see, and lifted their veils to place a kiss on his cheek. Harry could not at all see their faces, but he saw that the boy had inherited his father's white-blond hair and deathly pale skin. 

The woman did not utter a word, but she let out a suppressed sob that lasted no more than a second before she resumed her proud stature. Her husband cast a warm glance her way and comfortingly wrapped an arm around her small waist. "Remember what I've told you; that is very important." 

The young boy nodded, bowing deeply to his parents. The couple turned on their heels and made for the corridors, sending Harry clumsily back into his compartment. 

They passed the window, and out of the corner of his eyes, Harry swore he'd caught the vindictive glance of the father. When they'd been sure the couple had left the train, Hermione began: 

"So? What did you overhear?" 

"Get this: the boy is Professor Snape's godson," scoffed Harry. 

"Surprise, surprise!" Ron rolled his eyes, folding back into his seat. "Dodgy man? Dodgy godson! Perfect family!"

"I didn't catch anything odd," admitted Harry. "They seem to be an inviolable family; it is clear they love each other a lot. Of course, they wear the Veil, but I didn't hear a word of any diabolical plans." 

"Well, I don't expect them to be parading their son around like an attraction. 'Look here! My boy's a basilisk! Meet your end upon looking into his eyes! And despite our great wealth, my boy is ridiculously thin!'

Their entire compartment erupted into great laughter. "I didn't think he was ridiculously skinny," said Harry, wiping the tears from his eyes. "He has a figure that would prove to be advantageous should he ever pursue horseback riding."

"Don't you say that out loud, Harry," warned Neville with a good-natured smile. "People might begin to think you've got it for a Veil."

Harry's face burned with embarrassment as a dreadful blush pervaded the entirety of it. "They will not! Can I not make a simple observation?"

"Say all you wish," Ron sighed, and he popped a sweet into his mouth. "Under that Veil, I suspect he's got the face of a wretch!"

"I don't know; his father was handsome. I dare say any wife of his must be breathtakingly beautiful," said Hermione. "Let me surmise: the boy under the Veil must be exceptionally lovely on the eyes. It'll make his life all the more tragic."

"How so?"

"Well, the boy is wealthy, is he not? To be of such status and wield such physical beauty, wouldn't you think his youth would be spent in the arms of prospective partners? But his reputation precedes him, and all know of his malicious abilities. Terribly tragic, isn't it? His face will grow old and unseen underneath the Veil. Be it his funeral is an open casket, no one would dare take their chances, and they'll veil his face as they put him under just to be safe..."

For a considerable time, their compartment was silent. Then Ron spoke:

"See? It was a good thing I didn't read those books," he whispered. "She's gone mad. One might think she's looked into our new fifth year's eyes." 

"You didn't read my books?" Hermione stood abruptly, startling everyone.. "How dare you! After I toiled for hours in the library picking and choosing novels for you to read, I see it was all for nothing!"

Harry listened passively to Hermione's colorful castigation of Ron's laziness. But what occupied him most was a boy four compartments down, sitting pretty and alone. As much as Harry wished to maintain his previous animosity for the boy, Hermione's speech about the tragedy of words loomed over him like the common cold. This was a person who was forced to be unseen, who would be treated like a parasite or an inhumane animal. Harry had become entirely carried away with the sentiment of the matter, wishing to forgo his odd sympathy and adopt a safer hatred for the Veiled boy. It is much safer to hate him. For the entire school already deemed him a threat. But there was something unsettling about easily adopting a prejudice against someone else. After all, he'd been victim of a lack of chance too. But still, there was the unsettling idea that the boy hated muggles, and of course, lauded the Dart Arts.

Ron and Hermione both fell asleep, leaving Neville and Harry the only ones awake in the compartment. Neville seemed visibly nervous to be situated near the Veiled. "I wonder what he's doing in there," he whispered uneasily. 

"Should I go check?" asked Harry, casting a glance at Hermione to ensure she was asleep. He was sure she'd scold him if she knew of his plan. "You know, just to set your mind at ease?"

"That's dangerous," whimpered Neville. "He could be standing at the window, his veil pulled back, and eyes wide. I can picture it: he is waiting for curious visitors and the moment you make it there, you'll see something terrible in his eyes! It's like a trap! It's like Medusa!"

"Calm down," said Harry sternly, firmly gripping the boy opposite him. "You shouldn't give him that sort of power, Neville. He cannot persuade you to do anything, if he were as dangerous as you make him out to be, why would Dumbledore admit him into Hogwarts?"

At this, Neville visible relaxed, but his face was still riddled with anxiety. "You should check then, Harry... Make sure he's not terrorizing anyone. I-I mean, if you were immune to You-Know-Who's curse, I bet you'll be immune to whatever this kid is capable of...." 

"I'll go. Don't you utter a word of this to Ron and Hermione if they ask where I've gone, okay?" 

Neville nodded. 

Accordingly, Harry slid the compartment door open quietly, and Neville closed it shut behind him. With soft steps, he made his way down the carpeted corridor of the train—which was ominously quiet now, by the way—and kept his eyes on the space occupied by the Veiled boy. 

Before making his presence known, Harry discretely peered his head into the window. There he was: the boy sat in the corner of the compartment by the window, his legs stretched out on the velvet seats. In his lap was a rather large, leather-bound book, and around his shoulder was a skillfully embroidered blanket. Of course, over his face was the black mantilla, and Harry guessed it might've been charmed to blur the slightly visible silhouette of his features. Just like his parents, he was clothed modestly in black fabric. His robes were tissued with silver, and on his thin, pale wrist was a silver bracelet studded with small emeralds. If Harry hadn't known better, he'd believed that a prince had been aboard the Express, for the boy—just like his parents—existed with a regal air. 

Harry quickly pulled his head back when the boy shifted his position. Worried he'd been spotted, Harry silently debated whether he should abandon his mission altogether. But before he could make a decision, there was a light tapping on the compartment window. 

Harry raised his eyes to see the Veiled boy standing directly behind the glass, and suddenly, Neville's words were unearthed in his head. 'He could be standing at the window, his veil pulled back, and his eyes wide. I can picture it: He is waiting for curious visitors, and the moment you make it there, you'll see something terrible in his eyes! It's like a trap! It's like Medusa!' 

Harry accepted his fate and begrudgingly looked into Malfoy's veiled face. Slowly, the compartment door slid open. Harry's heartbeat quickened, and his entire being trembled at the idea of meeting his end. There he was, looming over him, those eyes carrying his fate in their gaze, and—

"Are we about to arrive?" 

Harry blinked and looked once more at him, unsure if he'd heard him correctly. "What?"

"Are we about to arrive at the school? Father told me a student would let me know ahead of time so that I could appropriately prepare."

Harry stood there frozen, and then began to pathetically nod his head. "Yes, we are to arrive in an hour."

"In an hour? You're awfully punctual; you ought to have notified me ten minutes prior," the boy said, his voice lightening and carrying a sort of lofty, posh tone. 

"I won't be available ten minutes prior," said Harry, glancing uneasily towards his own compartment, where Neville's curious head had been poking out. "Your name?"

"Draco Lucius Malfoy. Yours?"

"Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter, you say? Why, I hardly recognized you! I dare say you're a lot more handsome in person; I've seen you in the papers. Forgive me, for I've been impolite. Surely Father hasn't asked you to give me the time."

"No, he hasn't."

"Oh! I suppose you just wished to make my acquaintance! If I were to choose anyone on this train to do so, I'd have chosen you! I've heard many extraordinary things about your character. You know, I deem you the most eligible friend I could have!"

Harry recoiled, wholly unaware of the boy's seraphic voice and his seemingly impressionable appearance. With the knowledge he'd had of him, he'd expected someone who'd be a tad bit more cynical and pompous. But the boy before him seemed like he desperately wanted to embrace Harry if only he'd allow it. 

"I think there may be a conflict of interest there," said Harry. 

"How so?"

"One of my best friends is a muggleborn, and I hear you think of them as vermin."

Malfoy's hand, that had been resting on the door frame, tightened into a fist. "And I take it you do not?"

"I don't. So I don't think we can ever be friends." 

"Then why have you come to my compartment?"

Harry pressed his lips together and shook his head, knowing that if he'd begun speaking, the truth would slip. What was he to say anyway? I came to see if you're a monster! Yes! I wanted to know if you're a freak show, just like everyone has been saying about you! No, surely he couldn't say that. 

"Well, Potter, you ought to leave," said Malfoy with undisguised indignation. "And for the record, I was merely being polite when I said you are exceptionally handsome! On the contrary, you're not at all forgiving on the eyes!" With that, Malfoy finally slammed the door, leaving Harry slightly awestricken in the corridor. He turned to find many curious heads peering out at him, whispering with great interest at one another. 

Slowly, he'd returned to his compartment, Neville staring at him with wide eyes, imploring him to speak as if he'd been starved of any human connection for a millennia. 

"So? What did he say? Did he threaten to send you to the madhouse? Did he attempt to lift the Veil?" Neville began in a harsh whisper.

"No," said Harry. "He told me that I am not forgiving on the eyes."

"The eyes? Oh Merlin! On his eyes?!" Neville whimpered, cowering back into his seat and covering his quivering mouth. 

"Not like that, Nev! He means I am ugly!" Harry scoffed, crossing his arms. Hed been thrown all sorts of insults in his life, but for some reason, as petty as it was, Harry felt properly defeated. Maybe Hermione's assertion of the boy's supposed beauty field this defeat. After all, the word is always more painful when it leaves a pretty mouth. 

Harry and Neville remained silent the rest of the way. Neville had even taken a nap too despite being terrified of the thing four compartments down. But Harry remained awake. He was thinking. And he was troubled by some silent thoughts that could not surface just yet.