The Veiled Boy

A small number of students witnessed the disappearance of Draco Malfoy. And from this private audience, a wave of startling rumors pervaded the halls of Hogwarts. One student said he'd merely disapparated, earning a heavy lecture from Hermione about the limitations of apparition on school grounds. Another said Malfoy melted into the wall, and Harry felt this was a more accurate description of the matter. This event, coupled with Malfoy's reckless display of dark magic in class, only heightened the castle's weariness of his being here. Teachers struggled with easing their minds, toiling to maintain a steady classroom—McGonagall had to shove Seamus Finnegan into the seat next to Malfoy, so accordingly, Seamus drank nausea-inducing potions just to be rid of him. It was clever in the moment, Harry had thought, but he ended up getting detention anyway. 

But since then, Malfoy has not been seen in the Great Hall for dinners. Hermione pointed out Professor Snape's absence too, and they'd concluded that the two of them went to enjoy their meals together somewhere quiet. Slytherin students were most at ease when Malfoy was not present for dinner; for the first time this year, the Great Hall housed a natural, easy dinner where not a soul sat on the floors. This ordeal gave rise to a conflicted guilt in Harry; he'd been very glad to be free from the continuous chores Dumbledore had given him, but he'd sympathized with the clear loneliness from which Malfoy suffered. And because of this sympathy, he too was ashamed. But until now, Harry'd distanced himself from Malfoy as much as he could, ignoring the growing curiosity in him and also ignoring Dumbledore's indiscreet approaches.

"Malfoy doesn't understand the power that courses through his veins. But it is of such a degree that it will help you defeat Tom Riddle." 

The words resurfaced at the most inconvenient times, and every time he'd remembered them, Harry would feel an onslaught of frustration. His head had become a sort of battleground, where it seemed his will to survive and his itching curiosity were stuck in a constant stalemate. 

"I wonder why nobody is deathly interested in the fact he'd cast it wandless," said Hermione. "Hate him for the Veil, by all means, but you'd been a total idiot to believe Malfoy anything but powerful." 

Harry felt his own frustration resurface. "Precisely why Dumbledore was trying to get me close to him. To use him against Voldemort."

Upon hearing the name, Ron winced. "Mate, Dumbledore's getting old. My grandad was acting funny at that age—walking around at midnight and barking at birds."

The three of them laughed uneasily. The castle had been rather silent, with the majority of its population eating with gusto in the Great Hall. Hermione had been in pursuit of a certain book in the library, and with the Veiled boy not being in the Great Hall, Harry and Ron felt a compelling need to escort her. "Malfoy could be lurking in the corridors," Ron had said, "his Veil pulled back, eyes searching for curious students."

They continued on in silence. With the torches hanging high up on the walls, the shadows danced in accordance with the flickering flames, and with each unnatural spike, the three of them tensed in nervous anticipation. 

Suddenly, from around the corner, panicked whimpers and rapid footsteps echoed. Neville nearly sent them all toppling over, for he'd run into them with a mighty force. Ron grabbed Hermione to ensure her stability, and Harry caught himself on the wall just in time. Ironically, it had been Neville who'd fallen face first onto the stone floors. 

"Neville," gasped Hermione, helping the poor boy to his feet. "Are you alright? Why are you running anyway?"

"The Veiled," Neville panted, completely ignoring the bloodied state of his face. "He'd turned to me and said something; I haven't a clue what it was; he could've taken me into the shadows, right, Harry?"

While Hermione had taken it upon herself to heal Neville's injuries, Harry peeked around the corner to find Malfoy curiously standing in front of the towering windows. He'd been almost like a statue, unmoving and excellently placed. There'd been something confidingly beautiful about the scene. Perhaps it was the way the vastness of the corridor was seemingly centered around the lone Veiled boy. 

"He's just standing there," whispered Harry, pulling an unwilling Ron to his side. "Should I go ask what he's doing?" Harry wondered outwardly. 

"No! Are you mad? Harry, you yourself said you'd never interact with him again after you'd found out he'd disappeared," Ron hissed, his face turning red. "Don't, Harry. Who knows what he'll do next?"

"I'm going to," said Harry. He'd been overcome by some inordinate desire to satisfy his itching curiosity. With quiet and carefully planned steps, Harry approached the boy, who'd yet to move from his position. 

Perhaps Harry enjoyed the thrill of the idea, but the action hardly seemed worth it since he hadn't a clue what he was going to say—he'd realized this when the Veiled boy turned to him. The two of them stood there in the hall without a word being exchanged for a while. Harry became conscious of the darkness outside; he wondered how long an uncomfortable silence needed to be until the night crept toward him and swallowed him whole. 

"Good evening," said Malfoy finally. 

"What did you say to Neville? You know, the boy who'd just passed you by moments earlier? He'd come around the corner shaking like a leaf."

"I told him the very same. But it seems every word I utter might prompt a dark curse of some sort. Why else would a polite exchange result in a startled, one-way chase?"

"Oh," said Harry, putting his sweaty hands in his pockets. "Neville's a bit skittish anyway."

"So are you. You've run away from me too, have you not?" 

Harry was silent. "You have a point, but surely you understand why. It's not everyday that students disappear into shadows and use dark magic. Pardon my appropriately placed caution," said Harry, mimicking the boy's posh accent and smiling at his own joke.

The Veiled head snapped in his direction. "You scoundrel," he hissed, stepping closer now with his finger thrust in Harry's direction. "You mock my character and my dogma, yet I've been nothing but courteous to you. If you're destined to hate me forever, then do so from afar! I cannot tolerate this arbitrary behavior!"

"Me? Arbitrary?"

"Yes! Dumbledore has let it slip that you wish to be my friend, yet the words you produce are impertinent and certainly judgmental," said Malfoy. 

"Dumbledore is lying! I never said anything of the sort! Why would I want to be your friend? You who cannot stand the idea of Hermione's talent; you who wears prejudice like a badge! Dumbledore's lost the plot, Malfoy. Don't count on my friendship, or anyone's, for that matter!" 

Malfoy stepped back, his hands tremulous at his side. Harry’s own heart had been pounding in his chest, and his veins were thundering in his neck. It had been the very same each time he'd spoken to Malfoy—it'd produced a fiery onslaught of emotion that'd intensified with each exchange. Harry had been shaking too, but more so from the thrill of the danger than from genuine anger. 

"I see," was all Malfoy said. He turned on his heel and started down the corridors. The shadows were moving naturally against the stone walls; not one shifted out of place. 

Hermione and Ron hurriedly ran to his side as soon as the Veiled disappeared around the corner. "What were you thinking?" implored Ron. "Come on, Harry! It's like you want to endanger yourself!"

"I can't help it," said Harry, his eyes still on the far end of the corridor. "I cannot stop myself—he gets on my nerves! Everything about him!" 

Hermione scoffed. "Then why do you speak to him? If you cannot tolerate him, then don't attempt to! I agree with Ron; you're being too reckless with someone we know very little about." 

"Doesn't he intrigue you at all? Is there not an ounce of curiosity in you, Hermione? Come on, you're passionate about this type of stuff, aren't you?"

"Yes, but let me observe from afar. It's the logical approach, Harry. That's why we are going to the library to read up on the Veiled. It's safer and more efficient," said Hermione resolutely. She'd linked her arm through Ron's and Harry's. "Let's go before any of us recklessly put ourselves at risk of disappearing!" 

"She's talking about you, Harry," whispered Ron. 

"Both of you!"

In the feeble glow of the candle, the three of them were studiously bent over the books and reports they could find concerning Veiled society. Also sprawled on the table were sweet wrappers, abandoned cups of tea, and quills that they'd passed around to jot down important information. There hadn't been another soul in the library for a long time. 

"Ah," Hermione began, planting a large, tattered book at the center of the table. "It says here that Veiled male children participate in what is called the Viewing at seventeen years old. That is when they come of age, you see, and their faces are revealed to the greater public, even the muggleborns. If the child is female, however, they'd merely be crowned with a longer veil that symbolizes the longevity of their allegiance," said Hermione, pointing at the page she read from. "And the higher the rank of the Veiled family of the child, the greater the spectacular." 

"That's nutty," muttered Ron. "Could you imagine being in the audience at the Viewing of a particularly ugly child? I'd laugh!" 

Harry snorted. "What if someone gagged or vomited at the sight of them?" 

"Shut up, both of you," Hermione snapped. "This is very important!"

"Why? It's just a stupid ceremony," said Ron. 

"Please, the Viewing can only be done if the child pledges allegiance to the Book and their Blood! If a Veiled breaks this allegiance at any point, they're rid of their pure blood," said Hermione. 

"What do you mean?" Harry asked. "Do they become a squib?"

"Kind of," Hermione whispered solemnly. "They drain the blood from them, leaving the body shriveled and lifeless; any pure blood that is salvaged from these traitors is consumed by the rest."

The two of them sat in complete silence, staring at the large book, unable to understand the wretched scene Hermione had painted for them. 

She turned the page, and all three of them groaned in disgust, for the image was graphic and much too detailed. A shriveled man was naked and draped across a large brass tub—this tub housed a thick ocean of crimson—with a rather pained expression across his face. At the base of the tub, Veiled witches and wizards bowed down with little brass bowls and cups, hungrily waiting to be served. It was a display of pure irony; it was meant to demonstrate order but was nothing but chaos and inhumanity. 

Hermione let out a shaky breath. "I cannot read into it any longer." 

"Yes, it's best not to," agreed Ron, placing a supportive hand on her shoulder. "I don't ever want to see Malfoy again," he said quietly. 

"Me neither," muttered Harry, but his heart wasn't entirely in it, for he could never forget Dumbledore's words.

The leaves under his bare feet were damp and soft, producing a wet, earthly smell. Harry lifted the torch higher; his attempt proved feeble in the subterranean darkness of the forest. He'd been walking for a while, navigating the sea of mighty oaks and moss-covered stumps, before he'd arrived at the mouth of a cavern. It wasn't a grand sight, and there wasn't anything profound about it. Harry could have walked past it if he hadn't been so bored with the sight of oaks. Inside, the tunnel seemed to stretch on for a long while. The walls were rather clean and without moss, despite the dampness of the air. Harry continued on with little intrigue but a silent gratitude for the refuge from the oaks. Then he stopped in his tracks. A sound. Until then, there hadn't been anything but the drop of water and the patter of his feet on the cool stone, but he'd heard it now. The chanting was produced by throaty human voices—eerie and unsettling—that seemed to vibrate the dense stone around him. Harry debated whether he should quit this cavern and find his way back into the sea of oaks, but he'd been much too curious to save himself. With his increased proximity, the chanting grew louder, and Harry had also made out the sound of the soft crying of a man. Harry journeyed on. Curiously, in the distance, an orange light poured out from an opening in the wall. It seemed to be another room—it was the room that housed the chanting; of that, Harry was certain. 

To avoid being seen, Harry extinguished his torch and set it down quietly on the floor. The man who'd been crying softly until now had broken into a sob, babbling nonsense too. Harry made it to the opening, placed his hands on the frame, and slowly peered into the warmly lit room. 

It was a vast space, with ceilings high and sufficiently lit with low-hanging lanterns. It was populated with a circle of Veiled women, children, and husbands. With all of them wearing a black Veil, it'd created the illusion of there being a never-ending pit. At the very center of the crowd was a large brass tub, and draped over the edge was a naked man. Harry winced at the sight. It had been this man who'd been crying, his tears making dull pats as they hit the bottom of the tub. Around the tub, men in black cloaks stood, chanting this curious song, and in their palms were standing bells, which they'd begun to ring after the delivery of a line. Harry spotted a familiar man at the very front, standing behind a lectern. His pale hand was raised high above them all, and his white-blonde hair draped over his emerald green cloak. Lucius Malfoy, thought Harry. At his side was his wife. She'd been wearing a different veil, a green one, and the pair's distinctly fashioned clothes prompted Harry to assume they'd been of different rank.

Harry spotted a basket near the door and peered inside. Veils. Ceremonial Veils certainly. Would they know it is me? wondered Harry. Deciding against it, he grabbed the hem of a random mantilla, draped it over his head, and pulled it securely over his face. His vision was perfectly clear—a little dimmer than what it had been—despite feeling the fabric over his head. Slowly, he snuck into the crowd and inched closer to the center, where the brass tub was situated. The tumultuous chanting seemed to echo and return to the very center of the room. 

Sanctimonia Vincet Semper

Harry internally noted this line, for he'd heard it being repeated many times in the fervent whispering of the crowd and more clearly in the chanting. Lucius Malfoy rang his own standing bell that was placed strategically on the lectern. The chanting stopped at once. Without it, the silence hung over them like a threat, and all they could hear was the sobbing of the man and the patters of his little tears. 

"Please," the man sobbed. "Please! I didn't do anything! The Book still remains unread! She'd merely bought it; she's yet to read it, I swear!"

"Silence!" Lucius snapped. "I find it does not matter an ounce if that mudblood has read it or not! The intentions were there, Arsene; do not deny it. The facts are that you've been possessed by some ostentatious evil to besmirch all we've ever been! To sell the Book to a mudblood! Quiet your pleadings; it's nothing but white noise to our ears." Lucius brought out powerfully, his handsome face stern. He'd slowly stepped down from the lectern, resulting in louder wails from the man. "Let it be known that this man committed suicide the moment he'd forsaken the blood in his veins. What a shame, truly, for our kind has already been made pitifully few by those you wished a small fortune from." Lucius grabbed the man by his hair and tilted his head up with great force. "How sickening," he whispered. "The privilege we must drain from you—what a shame you'd been tempted by their wicked lies. Everything of theirs is a lie, Arsene. Even you, it seems. Your devotion a mere quotation." 

"Please," the man whimpered, his voice without hope at all. 

Lucius Malfoy grabbed his walking stick, the very same Harry saw he'd carried on September first, and lifted the snake's head to the man's throat. He punctured the throat with the snake's fangs, prompting a gutteral and choked scream from the man. Lucius dragged it across the man's throat, opening two large gashes. From them, a wave of blood poured and entered the tub, sloshing and filling it rather quickly. The man choked, still alive, draped over the brass rim. The chanting began again, and the people around Harry began to stir. 

"Come up front," a woman said to her child. "Half-bloods drink from the floor; grab your cup." 

"Hey, you," a man grabbed Harry's wrist. "Pure or half?"

"Half."

"Get to the back then."

Harry, still petrified by the scene, scooted to the back, where the other half-bloods were situated. Nausea choked him; he felt the entire cavern was shifted unnaturally, so he'd clung to the floor with hopeless desperation. After a while, he managed to look up. The pure-blooded individuals had brass cups in their hands, scooping the blood from the bowl and bringing it to their lips. Harry watched in horror as a woman brought it to the mouth of a child, smiling as she did so. Lucius Malfoy kicked the poor man to the floor, filled a rather large glass, and handed it to his wife, who bowed in gratitude. 

"Half-bloods," Lucius turned to address the ones still sat on the floor. Harry copied the rest by bowing low, not wanting to be caught as the outlier. "Drink and nourish the half of you worth nourishing. May we hope it silences the muddy waters pulsating through your almost-worthy bodies." 

Then, with the wave of his hand, little hatches at the base of the bowl opened, and the crimson poured on the floor. Harry wanted to move away, but he'd been overcome with the will to survive, so he'd stayed there like the rest of them, his hands and knees bloodied. The half-bloods bowed down low and began to drink from the floor with hungry desperation. Harry watched in horror. 

"And don't forget to dispose of your ceremonial veils," said Lucius from the front, sloshing his own helping in a goblet. "It is not for your lot to keep."

Harry woke up in his bed, bolting upright and gasping for air. He'd clawed at his face to get rid of the Veil but it was no longer there. 

Removing the blanket from his legs, Harry slipped out of bed, still trembling from the scene of his nightmare. It was the book they'd been reading just earlier. The image was haunting him, and he couldn't seem to forget it. Would that be the sort of world he would have to live in if Voldemort succeeded? A disconcerting thought. 

Harry rushed out of his dormitories and into the darkened corridors of the castle, his destination fortified in his still disturbed mind. The gargoyle sprung eagerly to the side without Harry having to utter the password. Dumbledore has been expecting me, thought Harry. 

With great haste, he ran up the spiral staircase and rushed into the headmaster's office. Dumbledore looked up from his Pensieve cabinet, and his wrinkled face morphed into that of a pleased visage. "Harry," he said with a faux surprise. 

"Tell me what I need to do," Harry panted, holding himself against the wall. "Tell me everything."