The Veiled Boy

The sun was shining brilliantly, and picturesque clouds bathed in the vast blue above. From his height, the crowd looks like a sea of gold and red; on the other side, green and silver, swaying with each player that passes. Harry watched fruitlessly for a microscopic hint of gold; the snitch was yet to be seen, and thus Harry's impatience only worsened. 

At the far end of the Slytherin stands, Harry could see a lone black figure leaning eagerly against the railing. It was his dear friend, Malfoy. Remarkably, since being back from Yule break, he had not exchanged a word with Malfoy. He learned—after very reluctantly inquiring about it to Snape—that he had been ill for the latter half of the holidays, fainting and feverish. Of course, he'd been well enough to come back to Hogwarts, but Harry gave the boy space and consequently freed him some time to polish up on Quidditch. 

Harry gripped the broom handle and swooped down in hopes of a better field of view. The crowd's cheering increased at the sight of him; maybe they thought he'd found it, but he hadn't. No, he hasn't seen the snitch in a good five minutes. Before he'd begun to feel ashamed and embarrassed for having to resume a watchful pace, he'd seen it. At last! There it was, fluttering mischeviously behind Miles Bletchley's ear, who had his fat finger well up his nose. 

Harry zoomed forward and began the chase. The Slytherin seeker, Harper, appeared out of the flaps of the professor's tent and jabbed her ankle into Harry's brook in an attempt to disrupt his balance. Anticipating the maneuver, Harry recovered quickly and pulled ahead, earning himself a dollop of spit on his face. 

The snitch zipped and zoomed through the wooden arches. Harper approached. The snitch was within arm's reach. Harry extended his hand. He could feel the air pulsating from the fluttering wings of the snitch. Finally, he'd thrown himself forward and grabbed it. Catching himself quickly on his broom, he quickly steadied himself before the crowd.

Harry thrust his fist in his hand, which gave rise to tremendous cheers from the Gryffindor students. The natural high of triumph pervaded his entire being, and he could feel his heart pounding, his ego rising, and all his worries evaporating with every praise he'd heard from the stand. 

"Gryffindor wins!" Lee Jordan announced this from the faculty tent. 

Harry swooped down to meet his beaming team; they'd all been centered in a triumphant embrace. They too seemed to be without any troubles, and Harry found their happiness only heightened his own. 

"Harper nearly knocked you off of your broom, Harry!" Ginny laughed, ruffling his hair despite his being older than her. "You recovered nicely!"

"Please, it'll take more than a kick to the broom to knock me off!"

"Yeah, a rogue bludger will do it," Fred snorted.

"Don't remind me!"

"Congratulations!" Professor McGonagall rushed forth from the swarm of students that'd begun to leave the pitch. "Is the House Cup on the horizon? I dare say it is! Continue as you are, and it'll stay secured in my office."

"Secure the pitch for us more often, and the win will be guaranteed," Harry said. 

"Potter, as much as I'd love to grant you perpetual access to the pitch, we both know full and well that I cannot," McGonagall told them, addressing only him with a disapproving finger. "Now, celebrate as you wish! I've got to rub our win under Snape's nose!" With that, the professor disappeared back into the faculty tent. 

"Nice going, Harry!" Hermione threw her arms around him and squeezed him once before letting go. "It was good you found it when you did!"

"Miles Bletchley wouldn't have noticed anyway," said Ron, putting an arm around Harry's shoulders. "He was too busy scratching his brain."

The three of them laughed. 

"Ready to head back, Harry?" Ginny asked, holding out her hand for him. Before Harry could reply, he'd caught a glance of the Veiled boy standing far away, away from the students, looking in his direction. Standing there. Watching closely. 

"I think I'll meet you guys there," said Harry. Ginny followed his gaze, her eyes narrowing at the sight of Malfoy. 

"That creep is stalking you again, Harry?" Ginny sighed, tucking a strand of loose hair behind her ear. "I don't know how you tolerate him."

"I don't," said Harry hurriedly. "I have to get along with him, you know? It's got to do with—"

"I know. It's just a stupid request, that's all. I'll see you back in the common room then."

"Yeah."

With that, Ginny, Ron, and Hermione left with the other students. Soon the pitch was empty, and the only two left were Harry and Malfoy. He watched in anticipation as the latter approached him slowly and decidedly, as if he were sure Harry wouldn't leave. 

"What an exhilarating game, Harry," Malfoy said. Harry noticed something odd about his voice—it'd sounded distinctly different from when they'd last conversed. Instead of his masterful tone of enthusiasm, there'd been an odd reticence about him. Even in his poise, there'd been something like a personal surrender. Harry wondered if he'd still been feeling ill, but even that didn't quite explain it. 

"Thanks," Harry replied slowly. "How are you feeling? Snape told me you were sick. I tried to write you, but my owls came back."

Malfoy tensed. "Yes, I'd fallen ill. I was in terrible health, and perhaps my body has frightened itself. But it cured my mind immensely to see such Quidditch being played so well."

Harry nodded, not yet replying, but occupying all of his efforts in trying to discern what was wrong with Malfoy. It was difficult without ever seeing his face. He must be paler now, thought Harry; his gray eyes must look tired, and his face must be weary with forced bliss. Really, how terrible was this illness? Something must be tormenting him. Doesn't he see a mind healer? Harry frowned at the thought and was overcome with a strong impulse to hear real joy from beneath the Veil. He knew what Malfoy's happiness sounded like. He'd heard it at Hogsmeade—on the top of the tree and in front of the carriage. 

"Here," Harry gently took Draco's hand to place the snitch into it, but the latter pulled away quickly, holding his palm firmly against his chest. Harry hadn't noticed it before, but there'd been a wrapped bandage on both of his hands. "Sorry, I was just going to hand you the snitch."

"The snitch?"

"Yeah, the snitch I caught. You know, the little golden ball."

"Really?"

Harry tried again once more, holding out his hand for Malfoy. Slowly, the boy set his bandaged palm on Harry's, and so in the center, Harry placed the docile snitch. Malfoy slowly closed his fingers around it and brought it close to his face to examine it more thoroughly. Joy soon followed curiosity, and soon Malfoy let out an amused laugh. 

"What a thrill it must be to soar amongst the birds," Malfoy soliloquized. "It is one thing to watch such a revelry, but to fly and see the crowd from so high up, I dare say everything becomes an afterthought." Malfoy's joy was short-lived, and he'd resumed a more pensive air. What could be tormenting you? thought Harry, frowning now with worry and frustration. 

"You've never flown before?"

"No."

"Well, I'll take you."

Malfoy's head perked up, and he quickly returned the snitch to Harry's still-outstretched hand. "I cannot, Harry. My mother says I am much too delicate for flying; it's the activity of ruffians."

"Ruffians, eh?" Harry laughed, marching over to the broom he'd abandoned at the edge of the pitch. "Has it ever occurred to you that your mother maybe had some wrong ideas about life behind the Veil?"

The Veiled boy was silent; he'd begun to fiddle nervously with the hem of his sleeve.

"You know I'm not serious, Malfoy. I know you won't speak ill of your mother, and I know you think she's some perfect, all-knowing being."

"I think nothing of the sort," Malfoy blurted. Harry turned to him, making sure to contain his shock. The boy seemed to catch himself in his error and hang his head low in shame. "I suppose nobody is an all-knowing being. That's what I meant."

"I'm surprised to hear that," Harry said, kicking the broom into his hand. "Come on, Malfoy. I'll hold onto you."

"No, I must refuse you today."

"Tomorrow?"

"No."

"The day after?"

"Harry!" Malfoy let out an amused laugh, his voice infinitely loftier than before. "Must you be so unyielding? You'd just been invited to a party, and yet you importune me to fly. With annoying desperation, might I add."

"I haven't seen you in ages, Malfoy. You never received my letters, and for the first two weeks of school, you were closed off. I know you were ill, but if you're better now, then why can't we spend time together?" Harry blurted. He knew his words carried tremendous weight; he could tell from the way Malfoy's shoulders tensed with intensifying joy. "Please, Draco." Harry's said his name with emphasis; he did not need to see beneath the Veil, for he knew there was an entirely captivating smile there. 

"Draco," he repeated slowly. "Will you promise not to drop me?"

"Me? Drop you? Did you not see me win the game? I'm not going to drop you if you hold on tight." Harry swung his leg over the broom and turned to find Malfoy still hesitantly standing by, seemingly debating with himself if he should or shouldn't. Merlin, does this boy ever stop thinking?! 

After what seemed like thorough consideration, Malfoy took a deep breath and straightened his posture with finality. "Alright, then. I'll do it."

Harry triumphed and moved toward the front of the broom. "Get behind me; hold on tight."

Malfoy did as he was told, and slowly, as if he'd been warding off some internal veto, he wrapped his arms around Harry's abdomen. The sensation was thrilling—sort of like standing on the edge of a tall cliff where the view is utterly breathtaking but the real danger is mere centimeters away. In his chest, his heart had run amok, pittering, shivering, stopping and starting in no particular order; Harry nearly let out a laugh just to relieve himself of the onslaught of emotion that'd just pervaded his entirety. His energetic spirit would have taken off into the skies immediately, but Malfoy's arms caged him in, trapping him almost in some odd sense of intoxicating captivity. Harry was smiling. 

"Well?" Malfoy's meek voice came from behind him, almost startling Harry. "You've yet to take off, Harry. Have you forgotten how to fly? It doesn't shock me, for your memory nearly always fails you in Potions— HARRY!"

To silence him, Harry kicked off of the ground with amazing speed, and the two of them flew high up into the heavens. Malfoy's arms tightened around his abdomen, his bandaged hands trembling meekly against him. Harry looked back and laughed at his cowering poise.

"Your eyes are closed, aren't they?" Harry asked, softly nudging the boy behind him. "Open your eyes, Malfoy. The view is beautiful from this height."

"I'm afraid I will faint!"

"Then faint! I'll catch you; don't worry. Didn't I tell you that I'd protect you?"

"You said nothing of the sort, Harry," Malfoy whispered, his tremulous voice hardly audible in the whistling winds. "You've gone mad! Perhaps it's the altitude; what true delinquency I've taken part in!"

Harry laughed. Grabbing the broom again, he swooped lower to encourage Malfoy's bravery. "We are a lot lower now. Don't be a coward!"

"And you Gryffindors recoil at the very word," Malfoy whispered. "As if it were the worst insult one could bear. I will not open my eyes, Harry. I am much too afraid."

Harry grabbed one of Malfoy's hands and pried it off of his clothing to hold it. He gave him a small squeeze. "Malfoy, nothing is going to happen to you. I've got you," he assured him.

Slowly, the Veiled head lifted from his shoulder, and from under the black fabric, Harry could hear a soft exhale. 

He must've seen it. Hogwarts in all of its raw grandeur before them. The snow-covered spires and turrets glittering under the healthy winter sun are such a heavenly phenomenon. It loomed like a secret over the courtyard, where students played such an insignificant game that must've felt the world to them. The wind was colder at this height, thrashing the trees of no color, but there was youth and promise etched in the contours and cracks of the castle. Harry, despite seeing the view many times, was overcome with such exquisite joy, and judging Malfoy's silence, he knew he'd felt it too. 

"I told you," Harry smiled. "Aren't I always taking you to see nice views? I'm such a gentleman." 

"Yes, to the former," Malfoy breathed, his hand still holding Harry's. "Isn't it a kind of dizzying comfort, Harry, that a lot of us, perhaps even all of us, are so terribly insignificant?"

Harry looked at him. "That's not true. Some people have the ability to change the fate of us all."

"Who?" Malfoy's voice suggested he too had an idea. 

Harry wanted to utter his name and tell him everything right then and there. You, Malfoy. It's you! It's you who hold the wheel of fate. Can you really be so blind? Do you not know your own importance? "I don't know." Was the reply he settled for. "But there has to be somebody."

"Maybe so," Malfoy agreed quietly. "I will keep my eyes open, Harry. Take me into the heavens. I want to touch the clouds; I want to forget the earth completely."

Harry laughed and repositioned himself on the broom, waiting for Malfoy to resume a more secure position. "Alright, one cloud coming right up."

With ease, they flew up into the skies; specters of clouds towered high beside them, reflecting the light of the golden sun. There was a laugh behind him; Malfoy had bravely reached out and brushed his hand on the thick mist beside them. 

"What's it like?" Harry asked loudly. 

"Nothing profound, Harry! If I were younger—when I'd believed clouds felt like they might've felt like feathered cotton—I'd be immensely disappointed! But it's just mist, Harry! What a shame! I'd have liked to walk upon them and forget everything."

Harry laughed. "Keep an eye out, Malfoy; we might find your head somewhere up here!"

"I bet you're proud of that one," Malfoy scoffed, giving Harry a squeeze. 

"I always am." 

They began their descent after a wordless eternity in the clouds. The boy held onto him, tightening his embrace after every gust of wind that tipped them in the slightest. Harry was smiling.  

"Touch the water, Malfoy," Harry told him, slowing down above the lake. 

"I will certainly fall!"

"No, you won't. Not if I hold onto your arm," said Harry. 

"You'll let go."

"Why would I do that?"

"I don't know."

"Don't you trust me?"

Malfoy paused for a moment, letting go of Harry entirely when they'd slowed to a stop. "I think so. But you're mischievous, and your idea of a joke is often a terrible crime."

"Is it a crime to dunk the Malfoy heir?"

"See?! You intended to drop me in!"

Harry laughed at the Veiled boy's seriousness. "No, I wouldn't drop you into the lake. I promised you I'd protect you, didn't I?"

"Something of the sort."

"Then touch the water, Malfoy. Come on! It won't bite." As promised, Harry grabbed his arm and helped him lean down toward the water. Malfoy gasped the moment his fingers touched the lake, and he recoiled as if he'd burned himself badly. "It bit you?"

"Yes, it's cold."

"Well, yeah, I'd assume a lake in January would be. The only reason it won't freeze is because they charmed it so it wouldn't. So you could get your finger bit."

Malfoy scooped some of the water into his hand and released it back into the lake. He did so continually. It looked like he'd never felt water before, and he'd been preoccupied with trying to discern its purpose. Then, before he returned the water back to the lake, he'd flung it toward Harry. Harry recoiled and let out a startled shout, leaning so heavily that he'd almost taken a plunge. Malfoy grabbed hold of him. 

"You snake!" Harry gasped, clutching his chest to calm his thundering heart. "You nearly sent me over!"

"I'm sorry! I didn't mean it! I didn't think you'd be so startled by water!"

"It's freezing cold!"

"Yes, I know! That's why I wanted to throw it on you!"

Harry stared at him but couldn't find it in himself to be embittered for longer than a second. He burst out laughing. 

Malfoy, who'd been trembling out of sheer terror, relaxed almost immediately. "You're not angry?"

"I won't be if I get to get back at you," Harry sneered, already bowing toward the water with an outstretched hand. 

"Wait! I'm sorry, Harry, I really am! I will fall, and Severus will give you detention! Harry, stop!" Malfoy was positively frightened now, his voice shaking more so from fear than from the cold. "I'm sorry, okay?"

Harry, who'd sat back up with a hand full of water, shrugged. "Alright, fine." As he turned back, he'd grabbed the boy's collar, pulled his robes forth, and emptied the water into his shirt. "Now we're even."

Malfoy gasped and clutched his robes. "You're wicked! I'll be ill for the rest of the semester! Get me off of this broom at once!"

Harry, who was laughing hysterically, turned to face the front and grabbed Malfoy's arms to fasten them around himself. "Hold on tight then, princess."

"How I hate you! I wish you'd fallen in!" Malfoy hissed. "I'm cold now, Harry! My teeth are chattering!"

"Your mother was right! You're too delicate for anything! Maybe next time we hang out, we can play a thrilling game of chess!"

"Are you being sarcastic?" 

"Of course I am. There's nothing thrilling about chess."

"That's because you're stupid."

Harry laughed and shrugged. "Maybe so, but at least I'm not boring."

Malfoy scoffed and rested his head on Harry's back. "I'd rather be boring than die so young."

His heartbeat quickened in his chest—the same thrilling sensation as before. His head was aflame with excitement and inward triumph at their proximity to one another. He's mine, thought Harry. He and his loyalty are all mine. 

The pitch approached, and Harry was almost disappointed that their rendezvous would end so quickly. Maybe he did, in fact, miss Malfoy, for a character like his own was refreshing in ways no other could replicate. Maybe I should fly another loop around the pitch, just for a minute. 

They soon lowered themselves to the flat earth, low enough so that their feet touched the ground, and the broom fell submissively at their feet. Malfoy, who'd been on some sort of high, clapped his hands together and could not stop laughing. Harry couldn't help but join him. 

"Could you believe it? I believe I am the first in my family to touch the clouds! I will tell them they were wrong—that clouds are soft like cotton and that I could walk on them just fine! What have they to prove me wrong? Hm? Nothing!"

"Books, Malfoy. They have tons of books that'll prove you wrong."

"They don't believe the books." Malfoy shook his head and held his arms out wide. "Nothing but the Book. Harry, will you leave me to go to your party now?”

“No,” Harry promised. “Let’s go walk then. Fresh air will be good for you, that is, if you’re still ill.” 

“Maybe a little,” said Malfoy, cheerfully walking after Harry, who’d started toward the pumpkin patch. “How was your Yule, Harry? Did you spend it with anyone?”

“Of course. I was with my friends and Professor Lupin. He was close with my father.”

“That mutt.”

“Don’t be like that, Malfoy. It wasn’t his choice to be a werewolf; he was very young when he was bit, and he suffers from it even now.”

“It hardly matters,” said Malfoy, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his robes. “If we start sympathizing with victims of circumstance, then why condemn the mudbloods who are the descendants of the wicked sort? To hell with all of them; it so happened they’d become like that for a reason.”

“And what if everyone decided that those who were born with uncontrollable dark magic were the scum of the earth? That would make you eligible for damnation, even if you’d merely been born that way.”

Malfoy abruptly stopped walking and turned to Harry. “It is always a pleasure to watch your mind at work,” Malfoy scoffed. “You don’t know a thing, Harry. You’d never even read a word from the Book and—forget it. Your words are too idiotic to merit a response.”

“Enlighten me, Malfoy. Why is it idiotic?”

“Because it just is,” said the boy, starting to walk again. “There’s a certain criterion that determines one’s rank. There’s no room for what-ifs, no room for chance, and certainly no room for exceptions. Nowhere in the Book does it say someone of my ailments is foreordained to shame and dishonor.”

“Who wrote the Book anyway?”

“Merlin.”

“Merlin?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t know Merlin was a Veiled Wizard.”

“He wasn’t, but he wrote it to restore order, and order was indeed restored. That is, until the Ministry began letting in the mudbloods. The pure ecosystem Merlin had constituted had become polluted with toxic vermin. And thus, rather against our will, the Veiled preserved their ways and practiced in humble silence.”

“And you want the world to be like that again or something?”

“Yes, it’d be good for my family, and everyone would stop looking at me funny.”

Harry found his reason to be shallow, but did not press on. If his heart truly wasn’t in it—which Harry was beginning to uncover—then Malfoy would have justified the restoration in a more worldly sense—maybe something like justice and peace—even if it were anything but. Or maybe this wasn’t a sign of Malfoy’s disheartening, but a sign of his immaturity, which Harry also deemed a strong possibility. 

Malfoy drew in a sharp intake of breath and exhaled lightly. “That was truly fun, Harry. Flying, that is. I believe you'd cured what had been ailing me as of late."

"What had it been? A flu?" Harry wondered and picked up the broom. "You can afford an apothecary, can't you?"

"It wasn't the flu, Harry. I had a fit, they say. A terrible fit. It happens every once in a while; my mother doesn't jest when she says I am delicate."

Harry glanced wearily at Malfoy. "A fit? What sort of fit?"

"Mrs. Wiggum isn't entirely sure. They say I'm much too anxious," he said. "I'd frightened myself, you see. I'd seen something that stabbed me in the depths of my soul, and I feel like I have been bleeding out since then." 

"Was this "something" the thing that frightened you so bad?"

"No, it was the way I'd felt about it. You see, I-" Malfoy paused and stopped walking altogether. Suddenly, he shivered as if he'd touched the icy, cold waters once again. "I...cannot."

"Cannot what?" Harry stepped closer to him. He was on the verge of figuring something out. And the silence from the latter ached; he'd stopped himself from grabbing hold of the boy and shaking him. "You cannot what? What was it?"

Malfoy turned away slightly. 

"What was it, Malfoy? You felt what about what? Come on now." Harry stepped closer. “Don’t be daft, Malfoy; you can talk to me.”

"Keep to your caste, and do not speak that way to me!" Malfoy screamed. His voice seemed to have reached the peak of the mountains and echoed. Harry stepped back, startled, his heart hammering in his chest. "I'm sorry," Malfoy began. "I didn't mean that; I'm sorry."

Harry turned on his heel and started quickly for the castle. No, there wasn't an ounce of antipathy toward Malfoy. His words were nothing but a confirmation of Harry's own suspicions. Over the entirety of Yule, he'd known that Sirius, Dumbledore, and the whole lot were expecting something big to happen. Sirius had made Harry read out Malfoy's letter while everyone listened. They'd discussed it without Harry in the dining room, bent over the sheet of paper and whispering among themselves. Then Malfoy falls ill. He returned sullen and unsociable; his hands are bandaged, and he forsakes the word of his mother for the sake of forgetting earth, as he said. Something significant happened for Malfoy, and he didn't like it. And his not liking it tormented him. He's back. 

Harry stumbled into the dark corridors of the castle. All of the students, who'd yet to go to the Gryffindor party, slapped him on the back and praised him for their win. He's back. A confetti cannon blew, and a shower of red and gold fell upon him. Students cheered. He's back. 

"Harry?" Hermione must've waited for him to return before going back to the common room, for she was standing there by the archway with her arms crossed. On her face was a look of intense concern. "What's wrong?"

"He's back," said Harry quietly, half whisper, half breath. 

Hermione's eyes widened, and she said nothing but nodded promptly. She took his arm, and the two of them marched toward the stone gargoyle. The cheers of the Gryffindor students sounded like screams; the red confetti could have been their blood, and the gold their flesh. 

Voldemort is back, and so it begins.