The Veiled Boy

Miss Clarke dressed him promptly before his mother, who studied the interior of his private room with obvious distaste. 

“Tighter,” she instructed in regards to Draco’s waistcoat. “We will be meeting with another family in Hogsmeade. Proper young gentlemen show a figure, and my son has a fine one. It is the plebeians who dress like house elves.” His mother said, half-reclining on a couch; she fanned herself rapidly with ladylike impatience. “Tighter than that, Miss Clarke. My son has not the shape of a novel, so we mustn’t present him as such.” 

“Yes, madame.” Miss Clarke bowed and tightened Draco’s waistcoat gradually until his mother approved with a curt nod. 

“Who are we meeting with, mother?” asked Draco, smoothing out the wrinkles on his dress shirt. “When you’d informed me of your visitation, I’d assumed you wished to become better acquainted with the school grounds.”

His mother visibly shuddered, and her fanning quickened with agitation.

“Considering this is the best private room, I dare say nothing about this school can possibly impress me. Your father was sent here; you know that, don’t you?”

“Was it not you who demanded I attend Hogwarts?”

“You’re quite right,” she said, offering him a sweet smile. “I couldn’t bear being so far from my dear son.”

“Who are we meeting?” Draco asked again. 

“Oh, my dear, I’ve forgotten to answer your question. Do forgive your mother; her age is catching up to her. We are meeting with Sir Crabbe and Sir Goyle, accompanied by their wives and sons. Yes, they have sons—might I add they are your age?” His mother stood and turned around him, studying every inch of the fabric on his body and nodding with approval. “What a fine gentleman,” she observed outwardly. “Do you wish to see them, Draco?”

“I shouldn’t object,” he answered. Her face softened, and she’d placed a gentle kiss on his cheek. 

Their carriage awaited them in the courtyard. Hand in hand, Draco and his mother followed his father through the halls of Hogwarts toward the exit. Students stared and whispered at them, jutting their fingers in their direction, cowering under the brief glance of his father. Their walk seemed to last an eternity; Draco was tormented by the attention they’d received, for he’d convinced himself that he’d become something of a shadow now that the students had made less of a fuss about his being there. But this parade of their custom—him and his mother under the Veil, following mindlessly after their father, who, on his puffed chest, wore the symbol of their practice—highlighted their differences, and from the mouth of a student, he’d heard the word basilisk, after having not heard it for several weeks. 

Unusually, Draco was also partly relieved to return to his disgraced status as basilisk. Perhaps it would remind the mudbloods to stray far, for it was much easier to ignore them that way. Their silence and fear would lay him under no obligation to struggle with courtesy or repay any sort of tolerance. He’d remembered the moment when he’d thanked that Granger. How dreadful a shudder overtook him then! 

At last, they’d made it to the safety of their carriage, where Draco removed his Veil and let out a sigh of relief. His mother was somehow still fussing over the state of his room, demanding that her husband complain to the school board. His father only nodded—there was no need for a vocal confirmation; Draco knew all of her wishes would be granted, for he would gladly bend at her will. 

Draco sat opposite his father, who had yet to speak with him after the disagreeable display of ruffian-like conduct by himself and Harry. Draco knew he ought to be ashamed of his behavior—covered in mud, drenched from head to toe, laughing loudly in the presence of strangers—but he knew his father dare not discipline him. Despite it all, the silence between them was utterly unbearable, and Draco, determined to say something, could not find the words to lighten the air. 

They’d made it to Hogsmeade in no time, for their horses were bred for both speed and present ability, so their arrival was both quick and stately. With his head held low, Draco followed his parents into a building— whose function he did not yet know. 

Upon their entry, a deafening silence replaced the lively chatter previously there, almost as if a silencing charm had been cast on the populace. A cafe of some sort. Middle-class witches and wizards were scattered around the room and sat at rounded tables with pastries and teas before them. Draco wanted to have a seat somewhere in the back, enjoy a cup of tea among them, and not an eye would turn toward him; not a voice could carry the word basilisk into his ear. And Harry would be there, sitting in front of him; they’d smile and laugh, and because they’d be sitting by a window, ladies and gentlemen would pass by and marvel at how handsome the two of them looked together. Draco smiled and blushed with childlike joy. 

“Right this way,” said a stout old man, who’d been dabbing his sweat-covered forehead with a handkerchief. The man led them up a staircase. The uneven wood floors became a brilliant Persian rug. Passing through an archway, whose doors shut behind them, the second floor revealed itself to be a stately apartment—a sharp contrast to the plain-looking downstairs. It had an unpleasantly high ceiling that carried a brilliant gilded chandelier. The walls were plain, without a single decoration except for a singular, narrow fireplace with a superb fire lit for them. At the center was a set of turquoise chairs made of Chinese silk, surrounding a mahogany table. In these chairs were two large families, who, upon seeing them enter, stood so abruptly that there’d been an unnatural crack in the wood. 

Draco stared at the two youngest boys with distaste. Crumbs from the pastries they’d been eating were littered all over their faces and on the front of their white shirts. Their waistcoats were so unnaturally tight that the gold buttons threatened to pop and take his eyes out. In fact, their entire ensemble was ill-fitted, and Draco could not believe such a disgraceful presentation. He’d even looked to his mother to see if she’d comment on it, but she did nothing of the sort. She’d merely removed her Veil and offered her hand to Crabbe and Goyle Senior. His father ignored it too and took a seat at the head of the arrangement. Draco, who was left standing in utter disbelief, finally sat down slowly before the two boys, who stared at him with bulging eyes. 

“Remove your Veil, dear,” his mother whispered gently. Draco, embarrassed now, quickly removed his Veil despite the flush of color that overtook his features.

 
“Oh, madam, what a fine gentleman,” said the larger lady on Goyle’s left. “Should I have had a daughter, I’d have done anything in my power to have her married to your Draco.”

His mother smiled proudly, straightened her posture, and opened her fan to conceal her blush. “What a shame, Winnifred. I dare say any daughter of yours would have had the appearance of a Veela.”

Winnifred giggled and opened her own fan. “But would a Veela’s beauty suffice for the handsomeness of your son?”

Draco’s face burned with uncomfortable flattery, and he turned his body toward his father, who’d been having a seemingly serious conversation with the men of the family. With both of his parents increasingly preoccupied with their own matters—marrying off their sons or orchestrating a ritual—Draco turned toward the two boys his age who’d still been staring. 

“Clean yourselves,” said Draco in a whisper. “You’re covered in pastry crumbs. It is most disagreeable.”

The two boys did as he said, using their sausage-like fingers to pluck the crumbs from their clothing, and bickered amongst each other, declaring the other to be sloppier than the latter. Draco frowned at the barbarism on display before him but did not say a word. To insult the child of his father’s friend would only worsen the awkward tension already between them.

“First name’s Vincent, like my father, and this is Gregory, like his father,” one said, already reaching for another pastry. “You go to Hogwarts, yes?”

“Indeed.”

“What’s it like?” Goyle asked. “What are the witches like?” He’d glanced at his mother to check if she’d heard him, but she’d been too occupied with a piece of gossip relayed to her by Victoria Crabbe.

 
“They ought not to concern you, for there is not a Veiled soul beside my own in those walls,” said Draco.

“Well, yes, I shouldn’t want to court an unveiled witch, but a pretty girl is a pretty girl. Besides, I’m engaged myself," he said. 

“So am I,” added Crabbe. “I’m engaged to Daphne Greengrass and Goyle with Astoria Greengrass. Sisters. I’d have liked the younger one, but Daphne’s dowry is larger, and my father would have liked it for me.” 

Draco stiffened in his seat. “Well, to the both of you, I extend my congratulations,” he said softly. “If you are engaged with these fine women—pardon my asking—might I assume that you’ve held hands with them?” Draco whispered, leaning forward.

Crabbe and Goyle nodded, blushing too. “Yes, we have. When I held her hand, I got really nervous and started to sweat. Thank Merlin for the gloves."

“Yes, indeed,” Draco nodded, recalling having felt the very same way when he’d held Harry’s hand. “Do you find them agreeable in looks?”

“Yes,” they both said in sync. “The prettiest of all women.”

“How so?”

“Well,” Crabbe began, his mouth full of raspberry tart, “Daphne’s got long, dark hair, smooth and fair skin, and a feminine figure.”

“And Astoria the same,” said Goyle, also beginning on the tarts. “They dress nicely, smell like flowers, and are soft-spoken. I think they’re the most perfect ladies to ever exist.”

“The most perfect for the aforementioned reasons? Pardon me, but what is it that earns them such a label? The feminine figure?”

Crabbe and Goyle glanced at one another and shrugged. “They’re pretty ladies. Of course they deserve to be labeled as such.”

“Well, yes, but I could point out a pretty lady myself. There, my mother is a pretty lady. But you find yourself compelled to love them, do you not? So, where do you find such a feeling?”

“Not sure,” Crabbe shrugged. “I’ve always been compelled to love women in that way. Daphne is my age; she’s agreeable and ladylike. What shouldn’t I have a feeling of attraction toward her?”
Draco huffed; his frustration heightened each time he’d received a vague answer.

“I suppose you don’t understand my question,” he sighed. “You have a feeling of attraction toward her, surely, but why? Merely because she is a woman who’s agreed to marry you?”

“No, not particularly,” said Crabbe. “I said she was soft-spoken and ladylike. That’s what I find attractive about her. And physically, she’s gorgeous, as I’ve said too.”

“But how about men?” Draco asked. “Are men not handsome the very same? I suppose I am troubled by your determination to adore femininity.”

“Then what do you want in a wife?” Goyle asked. He’d stopped eating all together and was studying Draco with exceptionally lively eyes. 

“I do not want a wife,” said Draco with growing agitation.

“Why not?”

“I just don’t feel the same way you do.”
“What do you mean? Surely, all gentlemen would like a fine lady on their arm.”

“Never. I would rather die,” Draco gasped, covering his mouth with his hands. 

Crabbe suddenly raised his eyes and looked at Draco with an inquisitive gaze that made the latter shudder with humiliation. “You’re odd, Malfoy. I didn’t know you loved your wealth so much that you wouldn’t want to share it.”

“No,” Draco said, shaking his head. “I do understand how easy it is for a heart to become accustomed to luxury, but it is not for that reason. In fact, I do not oppose marriage at all. I am far too lonesome to object.”

“So then what? If not a lady, you’d marry a gentleman?" Crabbe asked, lowering his voice as if to avoid humiliating him. 

Bashfully, Draco lowered his tearful eyes and held his breath to palliate the feeling of revulsion within. To that question, he could not find the words to fashion a reply; in fact, he dared not answer, so he started to tremble at the confrontation, or more so, the silence that followed. Embarrassed, he discreetly cast his eyes toward his father, who’d been looking toward him as if waiting for a response as well. 

“Nothing of the sort. What a rude accusation. I find you hardly understand what I wish to learn from you,” said Draco, his voice trembling. “But considering your skulls are stuffed thick with pastries, I am not surprised.” He said this in a half-whisper so that the larger boys could not hear him. 

“Mother told me you’d invited Pansy Parkinson to the manor. Is she pretty then?” Crabbe wondered.

“She is plain. I find the only things she is good at are conversation and friendship. But it is seldom that a man and woman are simply friends,” said Draco, accepting a cup of tea from an elf. 

The two boys began to relay their information about Miss Parkinson, declaring her “agreeable” and "energetic,” but Draco was not interested in speaking about girls any longer. He’d turned toward his father, who, from time to time, had been indiscreetly engaged in Draco’s conduct. 

“Father, do you mind if I join your conversation?” asked Draco in a low voice.

“The other boys have bored you I take it?” 

“Their characters I do not despise, but I am quite done with the topic they refuse to drop.”

“And the topic is?”

“Girls.”

His father nodded slowly. “Well, I’m afraid you cannot join our conversation. We are discussing details you’ve yet to find out. I dare say you will be thoroughly bored here, as you’ve been with them. Why don’t you suggest a change in topic? I find they will be more than willing to tend to your needs.”

Draco sighed with disappointment and turned toward the two boys once again, who were laughing about petticoats and silk stockings. 

“Have you ever witnessed a game of quidditch?” Draco asked them. They stopped and turned to him; their faces darkened gradually at the switch in subject. “It is a daring sort of game. My friend, Harry Potter, is a seeker. That is the position that requires great speed and agility.”

“Is that so?”

“Yes, indeed. You see, there’s a small golden ball called the snitch, and to catch it practically guarantees your team the win. But it requires great personal courage to do so. Flying is immensely dangerous, and to fly so quickly without heed to safety is even more so. I’ve seen Harry play before, and I was on the edge of my seat for the entirety of the game,” explained Draco. “I suppose it is pointless to merely speak of it,” he said, observing the disinterest in the boys’ demeanor. “One simply cannot reconstruct such a thrill without having experienced it. The atmosphere is so otherworldly; it couldn’t possibly be augmented by an imagination that’s yet to see the world.”

“Well, doesn’t that answer your question about girls?” Goyle said. “To be with a girl is so thrilling that it is impossible to understand unless you’ve done it.”

“You yourself said you’d felt an innate sense of attraction to girls. So, the two are quite different. And besides, I’ve been in a girl’s company. I’d even kissed her hands and felt no thrill out of it as you do.”

Crabbe and Goyle glanced at each other. "Oh, well,” said the latter. “I suppose quidditch sounds pretty cool.”

“It is more than that. Athletics at its finest, indeed,” said Draco. “My friend, Harry, is an exceptional player. Do you know he’s won his team nearly every game since his first year? Typically, first-year students are not allowed on the team, but his skills on the broom were unmatched. You ought to see his stature; one couldn’t deny his ability upon observing his build. I dare say he will be famous for it when he graduates. Famous athletes are both skilled and handsome.”

“You speak of him as if you fancy him,” said Goyle, laughing. “If you were half-blood, I’d assume you were playing for the other team. That would make a lot of sense, actually.” Crabbe grimaced with disgust and relayed this response to Draco as if he’d come into the room holding hands with a man. 

Burning with embarrassment, Draco could not contain his rage. Grabbing hold of his cup of tea, he threw its contents at the two boys. 

The lively chatter was killed stone dead, and the adults turned their gaze toward the three of them. Draco’s eyes widened, and immediately he looked toward his father. His father was staring right back at him with a look of surprise and agitation. The fire burning beside them became stiflingly hot; the room grew stuffy, and suddenly the waistcoat fitted around Draco’s waist felt tighter than ever. 

“I will not apologize,” declared Draco loudly as the adults turned their attention to him as the perpetrator. “I’ve been thoroughly insulted, and if you dare to castigate me for my conduct, I will declare you a hypocrite.” Draco stood and turned to them. 

“Hypocrite?” His mother stood, her hands clasped to her chest. “My dear son, when have I ever thrown tea—“

“Yes, a hypocrite. I am by no means done. Every adult in this room praises what I’ve done to Podgers—even if I’d made him a docile good-for-nothing—and declares my crime as self-defense. But dare I douse my bully with lukewarm tea? I shall not hear that I've been harsh or cruel. Cease to be a hypocrite by praising my bravery, my strength, and my courage the same way you’ve done after I’d sent a man to the madhouse. After all, it’s merely a cup of tea. Had I been disgraceful? Do not deceive yourself into believing I will never accede.” 

There was a silence in the room so thick that they could hear the pendulum in the grandfather clock in the corridor. 

Finally, his father stood. “My son has spoken. While his conduct is not the approach that ought to have been taken by a gentleman, I trust his judgment that the insult could only have merited such a response. I demand the boys stand, repeat their insult, and let me judge if their punishment was met fairly.”

The two boys, who’d been wearing a look of triumph when the adults had turned on Draco, paled considerably in their seats. Goyle stood slowly, his head held low, and the crumbs fell from his tea-soaked shirt onto the table. His parents sat trembling before them, muttering silent castigations toward their child for misbehaving. 

“I’d merely said he fancied Harry Potter,” said Goyle. “You ought to have heard the way he spoke of him, sir. He’d been lauding his athleticism and his handsomeness after refusing to speak about Miss Parkinson in the same manner. Pardon me, sir.”

“You did not word it so eloquently, Goyle,” Draco blurted. 

Winnifred Goyle’s fan quickened in pace, and she nearly fainted in the arms of her husband. “What an insult! What a terrible insult! The Malfoy heir?! The purest of us all?! How could he possibly be a fag?”

Draco winced at the term so boldly used before children, but he’d said nothing. He turned to his father, who’d been staring at him with an enigmatic expression. 

“That’s enough,” said his father, with his eyes still on him. “Draco, apologize for dousing him with tea.”

“Me? Apologize?” Draco gasped. Even the Goyles were silenced. “But I—“

“Draco,” said his father sternly. “Apologize immediately.”

“I apologize for dousing you with tea.”

“Thank you. Now, I hope the Goyle House will accept this apology from the middle seats.”

Madam Goyle finally fainted, and her husband, who’d become as pale as their tablecloth, quickly lowered to his knees and bowed repeatedly toward Draco, begging for forgiveness and their restoration of rank. But Draco did not move; he’d been smiling and basking in the warmth of victory so much that he couldn’t possibly feel an ounce of mercy. It was an insult, indeed. And Madam Goyle deserved it too, for she’d said “fag” before him. 

“Oh, Miss Greengrass shall revoke her engagement,” said Madam Goyle, who recovered with surprising speed. 

“Come, my dear,” said her husband, helping her to her feet. “We must work our way up again, that’s all.”

Draco nearly began to laugh, so he’d covered his face with the Veil again. His parents took his hands and left the room, which had become full of hysteria and grief. 

Once they’d arrived back inside the carriage, Draco let out a laugh so intense that his mother was startled. He’d continued laughing, reimagining the look on the family’s faces at their demotion. Then he’d thought about the insult he’d suffered. Such opposition, as these feelings produced, prompted his fit of laughter to transform into hysterical sobbing. While he had indeed been glad for justice, he’d felt nothing so strongly as humiliation and revulsion. 

“My dear boy,” his mother gasped, pressing her handkerchief into his tear-soaked face. “Why are you crying? Were you terribly embarrassed? My poor boy...”

“Narcissa, let him cry. To answer your inquiries will take away from a necessary analysis of his internal affairs.”

“Analysis? Lucius, why must you lack sympathy? Don’t you understand that he’d been humiliated in front of everyone?”

“Of that, I understand, and the punishment has been given. Now, let him cry. Hold him if you wish, but do not try to label the reason for his tears,” his father whispered. “For we may not know if it is humiliation or shame.”

“Shame of what?” His mother hissed, smoothing out her handkerchief.

“Dousing that wretched boy in tea? He needn’t be ashamed of it! Draco, listen to me—“

“Cissa, my dear, pray leave the boy alone for a moment.”

His mother finally submitted and was silent for the entirety of the ride. Draco continued to cry, convulsing and shivering from the onslaught of emotion that refused to give him peace. The quiet weight of the carriage walls compressed his fragile heart, and he’d felt like he’d been buried in a suffocating coffin. 

Draco, his eyes still damp with tears but his heart too tired to produce more, dragged his feet toward his dormitory, where he threw off his Veil and fell face first onto his sheets. His mother was instructed to wait in the carriage, and they’d parted there without a word being exchanged. Draco had been grateful his father ordered her to not fuss over him; as much as he loved her affection, he already felt smothered by the weight of the incident and could not possibly fathom his mother’s sympathy. 

His dormitory door opened quietly, and Draco immediately recognized the soft taps of his father’s walking stick as it approached. Sufficiently humiliated and not wanting to talk further on the subject, he buried his face deeper into the bedding and hoped, even prayed, that his father would leave. He’d felt the bed sink beside him, and a gentle hand stroked the back of his head. His father seldom laid a hand on him; his affection was merely in his conduct rather than in his touch. After the entirety of the day spent wondering if his father had been at all vexed with him—ever since his ruffian-like return from his rendezvous with Harry and now his dousing of an ally—he’d almost been certain of it until now. In that touch was strength, but the sort of strength that begged and yearned for the weight of Draco’s woes. 

“I will take your mother back to the manor,” said his father in a low voice. “She will write you about tomorrow and yesterday and nothing else. Will you look at me?”

Draco sat up slowly and situated himself beside his father. After a moment of silence, his father began to speak. 

“When you were an infant and you’d cry, I’d hush you in my arms so that your poor mother might stay a little longer in the land of slumber. Oh, how you loved to cry, even when everything was quite alright.” His father’s stern face gave way to a reminiscent smile. “But what did I know? I am an adult; I hadn’t been a child in decades. Perhaps there was indeed something you wished for that I couldn’t possibly provide you. I wracked my brain for hours on end, wondering what it was that you’d needed so desperately at an age where the only important things are food, comfort, and health.”

“Did you ever figure it out, then?” Draco asked.

"Oh, yes,” his father said, his smile brightening. “You were afraid that if you’d stopped your tears, I’d set you down in your crib and leave you alone. We had a large nursery built for you. High windows, a gilded chandelier with all sorts of creatures skillfully carved in, a view that looked out onto the luxuriant growth of orchards, and a spacious crib crafted with only the finest of materials. But what did you care for all of it?”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Why? Well, it was one of my very first triumphant discoveries of parenthood. I’ve had some more later on, of course, but not so much lately. I hope to have one again.”

“And what is it you hope to discover, then?” Draco asked bitterly, slightly insulted by the anecdote of a wailing infant. 

“That’s not up to me, is it?” Finally, his father stood and gave him another gentle smile. “But know that every little quirk and idiosyncratic detail I’ve learned, my God did it only to deepen my love for you, Draco. Be not afraid of your parents, my son. Be not afraid of us, because, as a child, you have yet to discover our character. If there’s one thing I shall promise you, one thing that I want you to know now is that there is absolutely nothing that would ever stop either of us from remaining wholly devoted to you.”
Draco felt like crying again; his eyes blurred with a mix of blissful and embarrassed tears, but he’d merely nodded and kept his gaze on the floor.

“Yes, I am aware,” he said, hoping his father would halt his panegyric, even if his full heart beat healthily at the sound of it. 

“Now, get some rest, Draco. Tomorrow is still the weekend, and I pray your young soul heals over a day outside with a friend.” His father stood, placed a kiss on his forehead, and made for the door.

Before leaving, he paused and turned to Draco once more. It looked as if he’d wanted to say something, for there was a look of finality about him, but he seemingly decided against it and finally left the room.