The Veiled Boy

Harry hadn't really expected a letter from Draco Malfoy; he'd expected the boy to be occupied for the entirety of Yule, so when an owl came to Grimmauld Place, he'd been pleasantly surprised. Sirius had been watching him with great caution as Harry carefully opened the letter. They'd been situated in the living room in front of the brilliantly burning hearth. Harry on a sofa, Sirius on a half-reclined armchair, and Remus on a stool in the corner. 

Hermione and Ron were also situated there on the sofa, leaning in with great intrigue. Harry understood why they'd been interested in Malfoy's letter, but as much as Harry promised transparency to the Order, he'd also begun to feel suffocated with the eyes on the back of his neck regarding his conduct with Malfoy. Dumbledore would tell him not to challenge him yet, to merely remain silent and let the boy tire himself out. Sirius would warn him about Malfoy's allure, stating that many Veiled pure-bloods would maintain a stately relationship with one in hopes they'd too participate in their crooked ways. Remus too had taken to inquiring into their friendship, but he'd usually observe Harry from afar, and there'd been something unsettling about the way Remus watched as Harry relayed any information about Malfoy. But Harry respected them nonetheless, and even more so than he was uncomfortable, he'd understood the importance of the task given to him. 

"Well, go on. Read it aloud," said Sirius, his leg bouncing impatiently beside him. 

Harry began:

"Dear Harry, 

As daylight begins to forsake my room, my thoughts are with you, and now I wish to write as you've so rashly requested. A curious thing has happened to me: my mother ingratiated me with a girl in hopes that I would court her. Of this, I'd been most agitated, for I'd hardly wish to court a girl. She is agreeable in looks, I suppose, and her figure is stout and her personality suppressed. I do not think she likes my character, but I could sense that my wealth palliates this initial aversion. Anyway, I do not think I should marry such a girl. I feel I did not thank you properly for the gift you'd given me. It is open beside me now, playing a lovely tune, and I can hardly part with the sound of its playing. I am thoroughly pleased with it and wish to also give you a gift upon my return. I cannot wait to see you again and speak with you more closely than we are now. Writing letters to a friend is something I've always wanted to do, but I hadn't realized how truly lonely it is! The mere writing is a blatant reminder of your absence, and I should not like to write any longer. But I digress! Please write to me of your own holidays, because, as much as I am hesitant to mention it, I do miss you dearly. Happy Holidays, Harry.

Yours,

Draco L. Malfoy."

"Give me that," Sirius snatched the letter from Harry's hands and studied it more closely, as if it'd been riddled with some kind of invisible ink only discernible by him. "Odd! Very odd! He's a right odd boy, I'll say!"

"Well, I never made him out to be normal, did I?" Harry scoffed, rolling his eyes. "I told you he was different; did you expect a carbon copy of me?"

"No, not exactly," Sirius muttered, still studying the letter. "Excellent handwriting, but that is expected of him. I suppose you don't know how much their lot stresses penmanship. I remember my own mother scolding Regulus because his s's were much too rounded." 

"Why are we not talking about his courting?" Ron blurted. "Why are his parents trying to marry him off? Isn't that weird for a fifteen-year-old to be engaged?"

"Not in their ways; the younger the marriage, the longer it lasts, they supposed. My mother had been married at fourteen," said Sirius. "And Regulus had been engaged when he'd died."

Remus cast a glance at Sirius to check his visage; perhaps he'd expected to see an ounce of sadness there so he could attend to him accordingly, but Sirius carried on as a statue would—unbothered and cold. It'd been a heavy subject, his brother, and Harry dared not inquire much about what happened to Regulus. Though he'd been sort of left in the dark about his manner of passing, Sirius's silence and Remus's lingering apprehension prompted Harry to believe Regulus's passing had been rather tragic. 

"So Malfoy is going to be married?" Harry wondered out loud, uncomfortable with the heavy silence that plagued them. 

"If he likes her, then it is likely. But I don't sense any attraction in the way he speaks about her. I'd guess he'd be more keen on the idea of marrying you, Harry," Sirius smirked, glancing over his shoulder at Remus in hopes of a laugh. Remus was silent.

"We mustn't so lightly assume something of that degree about the boy's character. You know it is punishable—homosexuality, that is," said Remus, standing up and quitting the living room altogether. 

"Someone's in a bad mood," grumbled Ron. "I thought it was funny, Sirius. I think Malfoy really could be bent with the way he writes about Harry. You should hear how he speaks to him too; his tone changes entirely!"

"No, it doesn't!" Harry protested, his face heated by a blush and no longer by the hearth. "You've gone mad!" 

"No, it's true," said Hermione finally—she'd been quiet up until now, seldom speaking and only laughing quietly at their exchange. "I noticed it when we'd parted with you at the courtyard, Harry. When he addressed us, his voice was as sharp as the wind. The moment he'd addressed you, his voice was lofty and almost angelic. You cannot be that blind to his liking you—I'm not saying he is bent, but there's no denying his affections for you."

"Well, I'm his first and only friend; I don't think he'd hate me," scoffed Harry, leaning back into the pea-colored sofa with his arms crossed. "Stop looking at me like that, Ron!"

Ron snorted. "What if Malfoy really did want to marry Harry? Would Harry be kidnapped?"

"No. Like Remus said, homosexuality is punishable by Cleanse." Sirius sighed, handing Harry back the letter. "Maybe we really shouldn't be joking about it. It'd be tragic if we were right..."

"Couldn't he leave the same way you did?" Harry wondered. 

"Leaving was the hardest thing I'd ever done, and I was in Azkaban. They hunt you for ages, waiting to get their hands on you so they can Cleanse you for your desertion. I had your father to thank for that, Harry; he kept me safe at his place so that the Veiled couldn't come get me. Luckily, I'd left around the time when the Ministry really started to crack down on these families. Some remained in good favor with them—the Blacks and the Malfoys, for example—but a lot fled from England to escape persecution. I couldn't imagine how difficult it would be for the Malfoy heir to leave. First, he'd go through the mental torment of coming to terms with reality, and then he'd have to remove his Veil and leave his parents. But his situation is entirely different than mine, for his parents adore him and love him to death."

"We don't know that, right?" Hermione began. "For all we know, he may be interpreting it differently than we are. They could be harsh and cold, but to him, that may very well be love."

"That's true, but I know his parents adore him. Severus says so, and I knew vaguely of the difficulties they'd endured to have the boy," said Sirius. "His mother, Narcissa, is painfully infertile. For a woman of her age and wealth, that was a tragedy. I remember the great scandal it'd caused in the family; my mother was always talking about poor Cissa. She'd been sent to France on some sort of retreat for pureblood girls—I think to distract herself from the ordeal. At sixteen, she'd met Lucius, I think. Yes, it was sixteen. Lucius himself was twenty something and she was the first girl he’d had his eyes set on since the very beginning of his pursuit of marriage, which'd begun the moment he'd turned seventeen." Sirius laughed to himself. "I remember how big of a deal that'd been! Not only was Lucius rich, but he was exceptionally handsome. You've seen him, haven't you?"

"Yes," Hermione whispered. An involuntary blush spread about her face. "What then? They were married, I assume?" 

"Naturally, and to the great disappointment of many young ladies. Lucius, after being given Narcissa's portrait, had run off to France to pick up his bride. It was a curious sort of romance. Severus said Lucius would not marry any other woman; it had to be Narcissa, or the Malfoy line would end with him. The late Malfoy passed away after publicly denying their blessing. It's a rumor that Lucius slaughtered his own parents for this girl—mind you, they hadn't even met yet."

"She must be very pretty then," muttered Ron. "A pretty woman is enough to make anyone mad."

"Sort of like yourself and Fleur?" Hermione grumbled. Ron's face turned a bright shade of red. 

"Narcissa was the loveliest of the Black sisters," continued Sirius. "Bellatrix was notoriously mad, and Andromeda... well, she was nearly Cleansed for merely speaking to a muggleborn in a friendly manner. But she'd run away just like I had. Anyway, they got married. She was seventeen and he was twenty-one; her family was thoroughly pleased with the match, and there was this unspoken rule not to speak of Narcissa's infertility. I think everyone knew Lucius killed his own parents, so everyone wasn't keen to imply their match hadn't been a fruitful one. Soon after they got married, they'd begun trying for a son. No luck at all. I remember the scandal; it had been, you know, the oldest family potentially without an heir. It'd even made the Prophet several times! I thought, 'Serves them right! The world will have one less Veiled child!' That was a selfish thought at the time, but you must understand that my wound had yet to heal. Anyway, I heard from Severus that Narcissa offered to hire a surrogate, but apparently Lucius said that if their son wasn't their own, then he couldn't care for an heir. Romantic, right? Yeah, I guess it is. Psychopath the lot of them, anyway. Severus doesn't really know how they were able to have Draco, but suddenly she got pregnant, and now they worship the boy like he's some sort of god. Everyone worships the boy in that manner. It'd made the news too—the birth of the Malfoy heir. I'm sure you could find it in the archives somewhere. Sort of like their chosen one, you know? After all, the boy was to be the succeeding Council leader." Sirius paused for a moment; he'd become increasingly uncomfortable with the story he'd been telling, as if to avert further irrational resentment, he'd been doing himself a favor by telling us. 

"You-Know-Who even vowed to give everything to the heir. A sort of prince, if you will. But the boy's birth was still a mystery to the general public," said Sirius, glancing at the door where Remus left and now speaking in a more hushed tone. "It's just a theory, but I believe the heir is nothing but a product of a bad curse. Remus gets mad when I bring this up because it's improper to speak of children like that, but I think it's true. I think the Malfoy heir is nothing but dark magic materialized as a boy. Severus believes it to a certain extent too. Severus thinks the couple performed some sort of dark ritual to fall pregnant, and that's why the boy is so dangerous. Some of the residual dark magic from the ritual lingered about, I guess." Sirius glanced over his shoulder again and resumed his original volume. "But that's that! A quick background on your little friend. Or, according to him, yours, Draco L. Malfoy."

Harry rolled his eyes again, opting out of a response to better process the information Sirius had given them. 

"I think you're right, Sirius," said Ron. "You should've seen how easy it was for Malfoy to use dark magic. It was like breathing to him."

"Well, that's why Dumbledore has Harry trying to befriend him," said Hermione. "We need Malfoy's expertise. And if there is some curse coursing in his veins, then it'd come to him quite naturally." 

"Speaking of which," Sirius stood and cracked his knuckle against the chair. "I need to prepare the table for our meeting with Severus. He's not so pleased with our scheming to use his godson. You don't look surprised! Well, it surprises me to see how adoringly Severus cares for the boy. He'd nearly hexed me for joking at Malfoy's expense."

"Well, we aren't just going to use him, are we? I think it'd be better for him to forsake his ways," said Hermione. "He's smart, and Dumbledore says he's not the sort to go around murdering muggles and muggleborns. I suppose he'd be better off with us, anyway. Right, Harry?"

"Yeah, I guess."

"Doesn't matter to me, really," Ron mumbled. "Anyone who speaks ill of Hermione deserves a punch in the face." He'd said this with a blush.

"Well, you've spoken ill of me," said Hermione, smiling now. "Punch yourself."

"What? No!"

"Punch yourself, Weasley!"

While his friends were bickering, Harry stood, left the living room, and stepped out onto the porch. It was painfully chilly out, with snow stacked high against the banisters. Harry crossed his arms to shield himself from the cold and looked up into the night sky. Clear. The moon was nearly full, with the stars glittering effortlessly beside it. Looking at a sky like this would only prompt the most powerful emotions, and for Harry, this emotion was guilt. Guilt as pure as the boy he'd been deceiving. 

The music box had been a test. Yes, and Harry was sure Malfoy would fail miserably. It'd been Dumbledore's idea—the box. They'd charmed it so that it could only be heard by anyone who truly adored Harry. Ron heard the music, Hermione heard the music, and Dumbledore said he'd heard it too. Harry hadn't expected Malfoy to hear it, for the two of them had only recently become friends, and before that, Harry hadn't at all been kind per se. It was that quickly that Malfoy's affections for him developed; almost overnight, Malfoy saw Harry as a real friend, someone he'd long to see frequently. That was only half of the reason for Harry's guilt. If Malfoy had produced a similar gift, Harry wouldn't hear a thing—nothing but the pathetic whirr of the gears inside. If Malfoy decided to transfer to Durmstrang, Harry would merely be upset at their loss of chance, but the entire friendship's disappearance wouldn't strike a chord in him. It was that odd feeling inside of him as he stared up at the sky. To feel guilty about wronging a boy you barely care for is painfully juxtaposing and terribly confusing. 

Despite it all, Harry knew he couldn't let any of this deter him from his object. He ought to rejoice in the fact that Malfoy could hear the tune, not wallow in shame. Maybe Harry wasn't built for deception the very same way Malfoy wasn't built to slaughter. It was duty that called them both to this fate; it was duty that would curse their consciences. 

From the shadows beyond the road, Harry spotted a tall figure that seemed to be headed his way. Instinctively, he took a step back into the shadow cast by the post. The figure was definitely headed toward him. Upon a more thorough observation, Harry was able to recognize him. Professor Snape.

The professor swiftly moved along the shadows, which was actually rather difficult given the bright night sky and the otherwise deserted street. His face was one of calm agitation, and his body was tense but confident in every movement. He'd climbed the steps and turned to face Harry, who'd still been standing awkwardly on the porch's landing. 

"Potter," he addressed. "Why do you stand out in the open as you do? I suppose you do know that this is to be your secret sanctuary and that it is best that nobody knows you call this place home."

"I needed air."

"What troubles you, Potter? If anything ever does trouble you, I surmise it has to do with your own woes, for you seldom consider the feelings of others."

"I guess that was meant as a dig at what I'm doing to Malfoy."

"You're sharp; if you'd only used your brain like that in class, then maybe you'd refrain from copying everything my godson puts down on his paper."

Harry blushed. "I'll have you know it weighs on my conscience, sir. I don't like this deceiving and sneaking around just the same as you."

"You don't like it because it makes you feel guilty."

"Well, yeah."

"Ah, but that's all that discomforts you, isn't it? This guilt? This guilt that torments and only endangers you? You're a selfish boy, Potter, and I hardly have any sympathy for your mere discomfort. If you'd had an ounce of real shame, you'd understand the gravity of your requisition on Draco's entire being." With that, the professor moved into the house swiftly, leaving Harry bewildered on the moonlight porch. 

Severus, Sirius, Remus, and Dumbledore had eventually gathered in the dining room and conversed in hushed tones about the entire ordeal. Harry, who had been situated on the staircase with Hermione—Ron had wanted to attend too, but he'd fallen asleep on the beds while they'd waited for Dumbledore's arrival—was keen to listen in. What they spoke of, they weren't sure, but it'd certainly have to do with Severus coming from Malfoy Manor. Harry sat there, picking at the threadbare carpet and shifting his back against the painful wood staircase, that, every time he moved, let out a human-like whimper. It was dark in the corridors, with the only light coming from the conversation. An orange glow from the candles there spilled out onto the floor, but it did not quite reach the staircase where they sat. 

Hermione had been silent for a considerable amount of time; she'd even rest her head on Harry's shoulder as if to sleep there. He assumed she had actually fallen asleep until she'd begun to speak. 

"What's wrong, Harry?" Hermione asked quietly. "You look troubled."

"Well, first of all, I want to know what's happening in there," said Harry, pointing nonchalantly at the dining room. "And second of all, Snape said something to me, and it's been on my mind." 

"What did he say?"

"He said if I had any shame about it all, I'd feel worse for Malfoy's situation than guilty about the lying. I don't get it because I am guilty about the situation." 

"Well, perhaps you're sorry for his loneliness, right? You're sorry that there's scheming and deceit in a friend that he'd been proud to have. But Snape was alluding to his situation in a broader sense—you know, the choice of forsaking everything for personal freedom. Then there's the risk of him being Cleansed, a great internal dilemma. That is what you ought to be sorry for, not the friendship." 

"Look, I am sorry for it all; I really am. But in times like these, everyone is a victim of circumstance. I care more about you and Ron than I could ever care about Malfoy. Yes, it's a shame he'd taken to liking me so quickly, but I cannot reciprocate the sympathy Dumbledore and Snape have for him. My priorities are with my friends and family, not Malfoy." 

"You're going to have to start tolerating him better, because the imbalance will become obvious once the initial infatuation wears off. He will know. It'll be obvious," warned Hermione, removing her head from his shoulder and looking dead at him. 

"How? I've been very kind to him! Sure, okay, we got off to a bad start, but I'd been very, very friendly." 

"You call him by his last name still while he calls you his dear Harry. Malfoy's not dumb, and he's going to notice. You'll see." 

"I can't be forced to like him like that." Harry scoffed and crossed his arms, slumping against the stairs. "It's so easy for you all to observe what I do and put in your word, but I'm the one actually interacting with him. Sorry, it's difficult for me to be affectionate to a boy who says my mother deserved to die because of her blood status. I don't even know what he looks like! And you all curse me for not doting him, but Malfoy hadn't even shown me his face, so maybe he's not as affectionate toward me as you say he is! But sure, Draco, let's be friends forever! My dear Draco! How I long for my dear Draco!" 

Hermione glanced at him uneasily. "You know I don't mean that, Harry. That's unfair."

"You're right, it's unfair. All of it is unfair." Harry stood and quit the staircase, leaving Hermione alone, knowing the shadows of the corridor. 

He'd been most agitated by all of it. Malfoy, the deception, the weight of expectations, everything. The adults and his friends all encouraged this friendship and told him how to behave around Malfoy. Coddle him! Don't coddle him! Be stingy with compliments! Shower him with all sorts of adoration! Ask to meet frequently! Distance makes the heart grow fonder! And everything had been painfully heavy on his aching heart. Harry did care about Malfoy, yes, but it wasn't enough. It definitely wouldn't be enough any time soon. If he'd become his friend by natural means, then yes, he'd be ready to put his own neck on the line for him. But their situation was far from natural, and Harry could only stare longingly at the empty space in the hole in his heart where this affection was supposed to be. 

Harry covered his head with his blanket and shut his eyes, determined to fall asleep. Ah, that silly boy! How could he care so much for me already? I would like a heart like his—naive and stupid. He's stupid! He's opening his heart to a boy who addresses him by his last name. With the funny way he talks, the little habits of his, and that elegance of mind and infinite sweetness of character, it all went to waste on a stupid heart. Harry rolled over and faced the wall, trying hard to distract himself by finding distorted faces in the pattern of the wallpaper. The faded flowers became eyes, the ribbons became noses and lips, and the leaves became eyebrows and hair. Ugly. Very ugly. 

Suddenly, his own exchange with the heir's servant's voice echoed in his mind. "Is he beautiful?" "Very much so." 

Stupid servant for a stupid boy. Both are brainwashed! It was a silly question, anyway. Ron thinks Cho Chang is subpar, and I think she is very attractive. Draco Malfoy must look like the face he'd constructed on the wallpaper. He has an out-pointing chin, an oblong nose, a crooked smile, and eyes that melt out of his skull. Surely, a boy who produces the most vile words must possess the ugliest sort of face. 

As much as Harry tried desperately to bring himself to hate Malfoy, he couldn't. He knew Dumbledore and Snape were right about him. He knew that he'd been selfish for locking the boy's situation out of his head completely. Harry ought to care deeply for him, for this is a whole other soul he's been dealing with. But every time he'd even consider the possibility of forgiving him, he'd hear it louder still: "But know the Veiled did what was necessary—perhaps not to kill your father too, but your mother was a mudblood and had it coming."

Harry decided once again to make his decision on Malfoy's character another day and to yet again focus on the task at hand. He'd been asked to befriend him, not adore him.

He must've fallen asleep sometime during his dissection of Malfoy's character, because he suddenly awoke when he'd felt someone climb into his bed beside him. Harry did not move but lay there still with his eyes squeezed shut. A gentle hand was placed on his shoulder—a soft and small hand. Immediately, Harry thought of Malfoy and how his hand had been soft and foreign. Laying still, he'd slowly begun to wonder if he'd awoken at all, or maybe he'd just been made aware that he'd been dreaming. 

"Harry," a voice whispered. In his chest, his heart trembled violently, his breathing stopped, and he'd frozen under his quilted blanket. It's him! It's him! Who else could have a voice as soft as a caress and a hand as gentle as his? It's him! 

"What is it?" Harry whispered, petrified still. His voice had come out in an agitated tremble. "What do you want?"

"Turn around and look at me; why don't you?" 

Without opening his eyes, Harry turned slowly on his side toward the voice. There was that gentle laugh; there was no doubt about it now; it was most certainly him. 

"Your eyes are shut, Harry," he whispered. Harry could feel the closeness of Malfoy; his face must've been only inches away now, for he'd smelled the aroma of rose water and osmanthus. "Open your eyes, dearest friend. You're not at all afraid, are you?"

Slowly, Harry opened his eyes and spotted the boy's translucent hand pressed into the mattress beside him. Then he'd looked at the boy's clothing, which had been a simple nightgown, fashionably embroidered solely at the wrists—nothing more than a thin, white cloth draped over his frail shoulders. He'd seen Malfoy's collarbones now. Indeed, he'd been sickly pale, almost as white as his own gown, and there'd been a pink flush about his neck that Harry found particularly bewitching. Harry was breathing rapidly now, sweat beading on his forehead at the mere anticipation of seeing Malfoy's face. The entire scan of his body seemed like a tease, but Harry honestly hadn't been ready to see such a face. If his body and figure had been that mystifying, then surely he couldn't handle the eyes, which, as Malfoy had said, were gray like clouds heavy with drink. Soon, his intrigue about the scene outweighed every other dread; he'd looked up. 

Nothing. The moment their eyes locked—Harry hadn't time to make out the latter's physiognomy—he'd seen a brilliant silver light. It faded, and Draco Malfoy revealed himself, but Harry—who'd been trembling all over—silently declared that this hadn't been him at all and that something dreadfully vile had materialized before him. 

The boy's face was busted open at the skull; blood covered the entirety of his face, and it dripped on the sheets with a dull patter. Harry could see the whites of the bone—a pinkish foam oozing out of the opening, bubbling and throbbing. One eye had been puffy and swollen shut; the other eye, which was indeed gray, dangled pathetically against his melted cheek. And the boy's mouth—which was missing a quarter of his lip—was twisted in a most unnatural way; Harry could only assume he'd been smiling. Not a breath left Harry's mouth. No word or explanation could paint the horror of the sight. There was nothing but a face that was so violently misshapen. 

"Am I beautiful, Harry?" Malfoy asked, the blood gurgling in his throat and spilling messily on the sheets. "You should've seen me before it happened, Harry; before they found out I'd betrayed them, I was like an angel." A strange languor lingered in his voice. "I used to be an angel, and this is what they did to me."

"Who?" Harry managed, his words barely discernible. "Who did this to you?"

"My lot, as you like to say. My lot! And it's all because of you! It's all because of you!" Blood came out of his mouth in currents. "It's because of you! Because you weren't careful enough! I left everything for you, and you didn't care enough to protect me! Why, Harry? Why do I have to die for you?"

"What? D-die? You d-don't have to die for me. I-I'll protect you—"

"This is the way it goes, Harry, for I'm disposable to you. Your kindness is a quotation, your words a script, and you wait for the headmaster's "Action!" before you help me. And you're scared of how I look now; you're scared because I'm bloodying your sheets and I've removed you from a peaceful slumber. The life in me was real, Harry. Too high a value has been placed on peace, dearest, and you're more than ready to bargain my life!" Malfoy's hands went to his face, and he'd let out a guttural scream, wailing loudly as his nails dug deep into his distorted face. "I DID THIS FOR YOU, HARRY! HARRY!" 

"Harry?"

Harry jumped up in his bed, his entire shirt soaked against his chest as he'd scrambled away from where the figure was sitting. Hermione stared at him with great disconcertion. A wave of relief came over him at the realization, and he'd brought his hands to his face to calm himself down. 

"A bad dream?"

"Yes."

"What about?"

"Forget it. I don't want to talk about it," whispered Harry, shuddering at the visual image. He could still hear Malfoy's screams, the way the flesh sounded as it tore from muscle and muscle from bone. "What did you want?"

"I snuck into Sirius's room and grabbed something I'd seen on the dining table," Hermione whispered. "I think they're portraits of the family, but I can't see them."

It'd been dark in their bedroom, with the curtains drawn shut over the bay window, allowing for only a sliver of moonlight across the center of the room. Ron was at the far end, snoring, tangled messily in his own quilt. Hermione lit a candle and placed it on the walnut bed stand, and from her side, she produced a small folder. 

It was an emerald cloth cover with gold detailing around the trim. In gold, the front was labeled: The House of Malfoy. 

Hermione opened the folder, and inside was striped paper with three silhouetted images placed neatly on top. The first was labeled Lucius Malfoy. Harry could recognize the man's sharp, pointed nose and statue-like posture. The other person beside him was Narcissa Malfoy. Her profile was indeed lovely, with softly pursed lips and gentle features of a woman who'd seemingly been stranger to age. Then there was Draco Malfoy's. Harry, whose hands were still trembling, brushed his fingers against his silhouette. His own profile was lovely, just like his mother's, youthful and sweet, but like his father, there'd been a point and a sharp edge. Harry couldn't pull his eyes away from it; he'd almost wished it would move or speak to him. 

"Can you see anything?" Hermione asked. Harry had almost forgotten she was there. "The frames are blank for me, but I don't think they will be for you; why else would this be kept around?"

"It's not blank. It's their profiles. You know their silhouettes. Lucius here, Narcissa there, and here's Draco's," Harry whispered, his eyes still on the latter. "I suppose I can see it because... you know."

"You're half-blood," Hermione said, with no evident offense. "Interesting, isn't it? I wonder if pure-bloods can see the full picture, not just the silhouette. So? What does our friend look like?"

"I think you were right, Hermione," Harry whispered, his hands brushing against the portrait again. "I think he might be beautiful."

Hermione smiled triumphantly but remained silent beside him, staring at the page as if she could see it too.