The Veiled Boy

It was a cold, gloomy afternoon. Outside the carriage window was nothing but gray—gray snow on the gray cobbled roads under a gray sky. There’d been a thick fog that carpeted the land; it was so thick that Draco could hardly see the fields as their carriage passed it. There had been a grand building somewhere along the way, and Draco fixed his eyes on where it ought to have been, but nothing was visible in this fog. 

He pulled away from the carriage window and leaned back against the seat. His father read the Prophet, his reading glasses low on his narrow nose and his lips curled in disgust. His mother had been tending to a loose bead on her silken dress, muttering curses at their seamstress. 

“Mudbloods have been allowed to work in the Department of Mysteries,” his father began, tossing the paper on the empty seat beside Draco. “They’ll get their greasy hands over everything and barter it for a knut. Those filthy things shouldn’t have been allowed into the Ministry in the first place.” 

His mother hummed in agreement. “Yes, dear,” she said, half listening. 

The carriage rumbled as they moved into a cobbled road from dirt. They entered Diagon Alley, so Draco had to pull the curtains closed to shield himself from curious eyes. Their coachman began his colorful castigation of slow walkers and others who did not move out of the way quick enough. If he hadn’t been working for the family for as long as he had, then his father would surely have removed his tongue. 
His mother grabbed their Veils and secured them to his head. “You’ll walk beside me, my dear. You’ll hold my hand.” 

“Yes, mother.”

The carriage slowed to stop, and the door opened. The chill entered the carriage almost immediately, sending shivers up Draco’s spine. His father stepped out and fastened his winter cloak over his broad shoulders before holding his hand out for his mother. 

She stepped gracefully down the steps, the beads on her gown dragging noisily on the ground. Draco stepped out behind them and shivered again. Such an exit did Draco dread, for the entirety of Diagon Alley stared at them—some bowed with their foreheads pressed into the sleet, and some muttering distastefully at their expense. Quickly, his mother grabbed his hand, and the three of them marched down the road. 

There’d been a foreign feeling that possessed him now—a sort of reluctant shame that he’d felt when people’s faces twisted at the sight of him. He’d suppressed this feeling and charitably conjectured that those disgusted faces had merely been one of envy, for mudbloods and half-bloods are rotting with it. But the shame lurked there, and of it, Draco was terribly afraid. Soon enough, crowd parted for them, and eventually some even resumed their shopping, but the vast majority just stared. A perpetual stare. 

“I’m cold,” Draco whispered to his mother. “How much longer until we get there?”

“Soon, dear. When we arrive, you’ll have tea,” she said softly, giving his hand a gentle squeeze. 

They moved from the main road into Knockturn Alley, which Draco was more familiar with. The snow on the cobbled roads was higher here, for the sunlight never reached the dampened darkness of Knockturn Alley. The group moved swiftly through the crumbling bricks and cobweb-ridden shop crates toward the very end of the Alley. There was hardly anyone in the streets except for an occasional loiterer who’d ogle at the sight of them. His mother scoffed at the state of the streets and picked up her dress so that it wouldn’t dirty itself. Draco wished she hadn’t let go of his hand. 

They arrived at a wooden door. It was located in what seemed like the darkest part of the entire Alley; despite being afternoon, the door’s lamp burned feebly against the subterranean darkness. His father tapped the door with his walking stick and straightened his posture at once. For whom, Draco was not yet sure. The door opened a crack, and from the opening came a wrinkled fist. He watched the hand slowly open, and lodged in the palm were two wildly moving eyes. Draco let out a gasp and stepped backward, clutching his Veil at the hems. 

“Lucius Malfoy,” came a voice. The door swung open all the way. An old man stepped forward and smiled wide, causing the stitches over his eyes to pull unnaturally on the skin there. He was short and violently hunched over, so the top of his bald head was visible. Using his hand, he waved it over the entire family as if to double- and triple-check their identities. The hand suddenly stopped in front of Draco, who stared unwillingly into the black eyes embedded in the palm. “And this must be our heir! What an honor it is to stand before you and breathe the very air you breathe.” The old man’s hands began to tremble. “Stop that shaking!” With his eyeless hand, he slapped his arm and glared at his own face. “Stupid arm!”

“Let us in,” his father demanded. The old man bowed and stepped aside, letting the three of them pass. 

Draco, whose nerves were shaking with a disconcerting chill, immediately cowered under the gaze of an entire pub. It was generous in size and housed about twelve tables, which were populated by all sorts of people. At the very far end, the tables were nicer, perhaps polished walnut, and dignified people sat there. Draco recognized Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Rosier, situated by the Parian hearth. Toward the front, the tables were stacked with empty glasses, which also acted as a bed for several disheveled drunks who could hardly keep their heads up. But the moment they’d entered, all conversation ceased to exist. The only sound in the pub was the log burning itself out and Draco’s wavering breaths. Slowly, to avoid attention, he stepped behind his father to escape the eyes of the room and, most importantly, the eyes on the old man’s hand, which had been thrust into his face. 

“Malfoys,” a man broke the heavy silence and bowed deeply on the floor. The pub seemed to shake as everyone left their seats to press their foreheads on the dirtied floor. 

“There’s no need for that,” his father said sternly, looking rather pleased by the gesture. “Carry on as you were.”

Everyone sort of shifted uncomfortably, looking around uneasily to see who would be the first one to stand up. Finally, an old man stood, and soon everyone did as they were bid. 

“Come, Draco,” his father gently pulled him toward the back where Crabbe and Rosier sat. “Your mother tells me you were cold just moments earlier; it is very warm in here, and there’s tea ready for us over there. Don’t feel obligated to participate in the conversation should you feel it is troublesome.”

“Then why have you brought me, father? This entire trip exhausts me; I’d have preferred to stay in my room and study.” 

“You’ll see, Draco,” his father whispered, placing a kiss on the top of his head. Crabbe stood and hastily pulled chairs for the three of them. Draco sat in between his parents and stared at the tea pot as it poured tea for them. 

“The heir,” observed a man who Draco did not recognize. The man wasn’t particularly handsome. His black hair was cut ridiculously short, and his oblong face nursed features that made him look as if he were melting. Downturned nose, tired eyes, and thick, jetty eyebrows that seemed to suffocate his entire face. He must’ve been part of the Council, but I do not remember him at all; that is a face that to be remembered. He is a new member, certainly. 

“It shocks me to learn you are soft-spoken. I’d have assumed you’d inherited a severity from your father. But I see you’re rather docile.” 

“How did you manage to observe something so wholly incorrect? You’re quick to judge, sir, and if I may treat you the very same way, I may observe you to be stupid.”

“Draco,” his mother gasped, her gloved hand pressed against her Veil. She turned to her husband but earned no support; he’d been smiling proudly. 

The man merely laughed, but Draco spotted a flash of deep vexation. “Then I was wrong. My apologies, young one.”

“Matters more important lies beneath us now,” Crabbe whispered, leaning closer toward them. Draco watched as his father nodded in agreement, adopting a dark visage. 

“We must be discreet,” he replied. “Aurors have spies littered all around Knockturn Alley; there may be one or two in this pub.”

“Then let us hurry,” said the man, glancing quickly at Draco. 

“Not so hasty, if you will, Carrow,” said his father. “Draco, why don’t you and your mother go first?”

“Where to?” Draco wondered. His mother had already stood up and held out her hand for him. 

“The boy doesn’t know, Lucius?” Rosier asked.

“Not yet. Go on, Draco, do as you’re bid; follow your mother.”

Draco wanted to protest; he wanted to stamp his foot and demand answers before being unknowingly led, but that may paint him a coward, so he held his tongue and took his mother’s hand. Carrow smirked at the sight, his yellow teeth on full display. Draco blushed furiously. 

Holding his mother’s hand, he’d been led to the very back of the pub, where a man had been waiting for them. Without a word to exchange, he opened a hatchway—it was hidden under crates of contraband liquor and trash bags—and revealed a dark passageway. Draco thought this to be insulting; he’d even turned to his mother in hopes she’d laugh and assure him the entire ordeal had been nothing but a silly joke. But she did nothing of the sort. Without an ounce of apprehension, she pulled him into the hatchway, and the two of them descended into the darkness. 

Draco wrapped his arm around his mother’s as they carried on further. There was nothing at all to be seen; he felt he’d been swallowed by the shadows and that the entire world ceased to exist, and his mother and him journeyed on a fruitless pursuit of any earthly thing. 

“Mother, it’s dark. Where are we going?”

“Not now, my love; we mustn’t talk,” was her reply. Draco, who was far from tranquil, closed his eyes and let himself be guided by his mother. How painfully helpless he felt in the darkness. It was always this way. Always.
“Draco, open your eyes.”

There was a light pouring out from an opening along the way; a warm glow poured out onto the floor from it and liberated Draco from the horror of total darkness. He’d moved toward it precipitously, ignoring his mother’s requisitions to stay put. 

He’d turned toward the room and froze. 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 men. 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. He’d recognized the arrangement, for he’d read all about it but never personally witnessed a Cleanse. There ought to have been a traitor draped against the tub, thought Draco, shaking with something like awe and fear. What if it’s me? It must be me! Father held his tongue of our entire errand; surely, it is I who is to be drained! But for what? My adoration for Harry? But I also adore Severus, too! No, it must be different. 

Upon seeing him, the crowd stood, bowed down on the ground, and murmured praise in a fervent prayer. Draco gasped, stepping back and wishing he’d not forsaken his mother’s arm. 

“Draco, come,” his mother, who’d caught up by then, took his hand and pulled him through the crowd. They all reached for him, their hands trembling as they yearned for him, begging even. Draco pulled his cloak closer to him and out of the grip of a young woman who’d pressed it to her own face and let out a scream of hysteric bliss. They’d moved behind a lectern and faced the crowd that still bowed and raised their hands toward them. They look thirsty, thought Draco. They look as if they hadn’t a drop of water in ages, and finally I’ve come in with a thimble of it. 

“The heir!” 

“Our heir!”

“My child! Our child!”

Draco glanced at his mother, but she merely shook her head to signal him to stay put. They stood there for a considerable time, watching as the Veiled tirelessly continued their outward praise and devotion for Draco and his own mother. This was not at all new to him; he knew that he’d been held uppermost by pure-bloods, for he wielded robust capability, but never had he been worshiped so publicly. This is why my mother and father seldom took me outside, thought he, observing the crowd with incredulity. This is why I’d almost been a secret from both worlds. Podgers would have made millions off of my portrait. There were other Veiled children at the gathering, but it was only I that he’d picked so boldly under my own roof and from under the nose of my parents. I’d have made him rich; I’d have made him powerful. 

From a door behind the lectern—Draco hadn’t noticed it being there until it opened—his father emerged. The crowd’s fervor increased, and their adulation seemed to shake the walls of this odd underground room. Father, please tell them to stop, thought Draco, staring at how they’d begun to crawl his way. Father, tell them to stop! His heartbeat quickened in his chest, and his hands trembled and numbed at his side. He couldn’t breathe. Draco could hardly stand on his weak legs. The shadows of the room deepened in their mass, inwardly moving and churning in a threat. His dread of being taken away or even Cleansed soon outweighed every other horror. 

“Silence, all of you!” Draco shouted. The entire room fell silent. He could feel the eyes of every single soul on him, even his parents’. “Father, please, what are we doing here? Who is to be Cleansed? Is it me?” Draco whimpered, his shaking hands reaching for his parents. 

His father’s face softened immediately, and he grabbed Draco’s hands and kissed them repeatedly. “My dear son, don’t be ridiculous. Nobody is to be Cleansed today. Yes, I admit the scene looks terribly similar to that of a Cleansing, but nothing of the sort will take place. My dear son, today we will commence the Rise of the Dark Lord. 

“Today?” Draco’s eyes widened, and he’d turned to the brass bowl at the center of the room. “The Dark Lord...”

“Indeed, and I did not tell you because I did not want you to be nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes, for it will be your hands that lift him from death,” said his father, his gray eyes beaming down on him with immense pride. Such a look gave rise to a sense of great honor in Draco, and he’d looked at the room with an entirely new air. Not a Cleanse to take place, but a crucial turning point for their family. The Dark Lord promised them glory; he’d promised wealth and abundance. The Malfoys shall emerge from under the shadows of the Ministry and reconstruct a new age. An age of abundance, prosperity, and righteous imperium. How the children at Hogwarts may bow at his feet, beg him for his friendship and his forgiveness for their harsh words and ostracizing manners. Draco smiled, looked at his father, and nodded. 

The crowd anxiously awaited a sign of their procession, and when Lucius took hold of Draco’s hand and made for the brass bowl, they began to weep with joy and reach toward the sky as if the Dark Lord were to fall at any moment. Crabbe and Rosier stood at the other end of it, holding small pewter boxes. 

“What am I to do?” Draco asked. His heart was beating wildly in his chest. “Give me an occupation.”

“One moment,” his father answered. With a wave of his hand, the bowl shrank considerably and was lifted from the floor by a rising Parian pillar that carried it perfectly. The crowd trembled in anticipation. 
Rosier opened his pewter box, and from it, he produced a small vial containing a thick red liquid. “The blood of the Lord,” he announced, showing it proudly to their audience. They’d begun to wail. 

Crabbe opened his box, and out came a blackened mass, about the size of a Rememberall. “The heart of the Lord,” Crabbe announced. Draco frowned at the sight. It hardly looked like a heart—charred and shriveled—without any real characteristics of a working organ. The heart was securely placed in the bowl, and the blood was poured over it like a dressing. Draco shuddered. 

From the ceiling, a white light emerged. He looked up to see a small opening that allowed for a straight beam of moonlight to land precisely on the bowl. How far underground are we? Draco wondered, staring at the seemingly perpetual tunnel. I hardly remember walking for long. He’d been so preoccupied with the enigmatic opening that he’d failed to step up to the bowl along with everyone else. It made for an awkward and clumsy shuffle near his father, and Draco wished desperately to redeem himself. The bowl was hissing ominously. He looked inside. The blood was sizzling as if there were a fire underneath, and soon enough, an awful smell of soured smoke began to pervade the entirety of the underground room. Draco discreetly pulled his Veil closer to his face, his eyes watering at the awful stench. 

“Lift your Veil,” Crabbe turned to Draco and gave him a reassuring smile. “Go on.” 

He’d looked to his father, who nodded in approval. With trembling hands, Draco lifted the hem of the Veil, revealing his face to the room. Draco smelled the wretched smoke stronger still, and he’d tried not to make a face to display his disgust. He dropped his Veil at his side to hold the brim of the bowl like the others had. Several people climbed to where his Veil dropped and grabbed it hastily, ripping it to shreds. Draco watched as one man swallowed a piece of it and began to sob with joy. He must be a half-blood, thought Draco. They'll do anything to feel pure. 

“Draco, hold your palms over the bowl,” his father instructed him. “You will now give your blood to the Lord.” 

“Mine? It has to be mine?”

“Yes, yours,” Crabbe whispered with impassion. “Your blood, young Malfoy, is placed highest in value, for in you there is a rare dark magic. Spill and share it with the Lord.”

Draco’s eyes widened upon seeing the sharp pocket knife in Rosier’s hands. His hands began to tremble as he slowly held them high above the sizzling bowl. 

“I’m scared,” Draco whispered, glancing at his father, who looked upon him with endearment. “Will it hurt badly?”

“Maybe.”
 
Draco let out a shaky breath. Crabbe took one of his palms and Rosier the other after passing the blade to his father. He watched as the blade slowly approached his right palm; he could not hold back any longer; his hands had to be held still by Crabbe, who’d begun to regard Draco with his growing frustration, tugging at his arm and flattening his palm with irritable strength. 

“Let him be afraid,” his father snapped at Crabbe. “He’s a child, Vincent.” 

The blade finally met his palm. Draco closed his eyes. A furious sting erupted from his hand into his shoulder, sort of like fireworks going off in his nerves. He could not feel that hand anymore; he could not move it; it ceased to be part of him. All he could feel was the pain—just the pain. Draco shivered more intensely now, and hot tears streamed down his face. 

“Are you alright?” his father asked. 

“The other hand,” Draco whispered. When the knife grazed his left palm, the pain in both hands increased tenfold. He’d never touched fire before, but surely now he’d been burning. Draco was sobbing. The blood from his palms fell in drops into the bowl and hissed loudly. 

“Draco,” his father stepped away from the pillar and held out his hand to him. “Come!”

Before he could get away, a great beam of light erupted from the bowl and illuminated the entire room. The crowd cheered and began to praise the Dark Lord before he’d even made his appearance. Draco, who’d been paralyzed by both fear and pain, could only stare helplessly at the head that appeared in the basin. Slowly, the man rose taller and taller, his features not yet discernible in the blinding light. The Dark Lord was completely bare in skin, without a scrap of cloth on his frail body; even if he’d been a wretch by appearance, Draco could feel the man’s power oozing out of him like pus on an open wound. Finally, the entire body was floating above the bowl, his arms spread out wide and his face toward the small opening in the ceiling. The crowd was deathly quiet; there wasn’t a sound but Draco’s quiet crying and the Dark Lord’s raspy breaths. 

Then the light was gone. Darkness. The ceiling was closed. The bowl had been extinguished. There was nothing. Draco turned in the direction of his father and held out his bloodied hands in hopes he’d find him there, but there was nothing. 

“Father,” he whispered. No reply. 

“The Malfoy heir is lost.” A voice sounded behind him. It was low and sounded rather amusing; there was some odd sense of starvation in his intonation. Draco froze in his spot and felt the Dark Lord’s raspy breaths on his neck. “The Malfoy heir is scared.” 

Draco slowly turned to face him. There he stood. An oblong head as smooth as an egg. His eyes were red, buried deep in his skull, and in the place of his nose, there were two slits. He smiled. That crooked grin and curled lips bared teeth that were rotting and yellow. Draco almost felt heartbroken to see how grotesque the Dark Lord looked, for his lauded character hardly fit this hideous caricature. He’d been staring at Draco with something like half ecstasy and half distaste. 

“The Dark Lord,” Draco breathed. “I-“'

“Your hands, if you will,” the Dark Lord smiled, holding out his own. “Give me your hands.”

Draco slowly placed his bloodied hands in the Lord’s, trembling with anticipation and nervousness. The latter breathed heavily, brought his hands to his mouth, and began to hungrily lick the blood off of Draco’s palms. 
There was nothing he could do but watch and continue to shake helplessly. For an excruciatingly long while, Draco remained in an agony of despair; his heart beat thick, he was suffocating under his apprehensions, and he’d finally uttered a small involuntary cry. 

“Pure,” the Dark Lord smiled. “Thank you,” he said, kissing Draco’s hands and setting them down.

 
“Draco,” his mother rushed toward him and stared incredulously into his eyes as if he’d died and been reborn as an angel. The forsaken light returned; when, Draco could not tell. “My dear boy, how proud we are of you! How beautiful you are; the world ought to adore you and praise you!”

“Mother,” Draco said, wrapping his arms around her neck and wept into her shoulder. Not alone was he, for the entire room wept with glee. They were all crawling forward toward Him, sobbing and shrieking with rapturous joy. But Draco had been crying out of sheer terror, his nerves broken by the entire ordeal. 

“Come, come.” His mother pried his arms off of her and pulled him toward the Lord, who allowed himself to be kissed all over by the crowd. “Let us greet him!”

“But I have! I have!” Draco screamed, pulling himself free from her grip. “I’ve met him!”

“Draco? What’s the matter?”

How could he discern his own emotions? Proud he was, his bliss ineffable at the projected glory his family would receive, and rightfully so. But he could not deceive himself. That moment he stood there before the Dark Lord while that wretch licked the blood off of his hands, emaciated and greedy; it haunted him, and he could still feel stifling hot breath between his fingers. It threatened to choke him. So unprepared his young mind had been for it all; he could carry himself no longer. Draco fainted there in front of the Dark Lord, who’d been watching him closely the entire time.