The Veiled Boy

To see his godfather for the first time since yule gladdened Harry immensely. He threw his arms around Sirius when he'd entered and sat him down immediately in Dumbledore's office. Remus, too, was there and took his place beside Sirius. Being in hiding had taken a toll on Sirius, and, without much air, he'd become sickly and sullen from lack of light and society. Despite his poor health, Sirius seemed livelier than everyone else, beaming with pure joy. 

It'd been him that invited himself along. According to him, it is both good for Harry and for the sake of their project that he came to inquire. Harry agreed. After all, while Snape knew the family very well, Sirius had grown up Veiled, and his insight was highly esteemed by the rest. So, they all gathered, Hermione and Ron included, around a small table in Dumbledore's office. 

"Harry," said Dumbledore with a look of paternal pride. "Anything interesting you'd like to share?"

"Yes," he replied. "Well, I think it's worth noting that he'd risked his own neck to save all three of us. Is that not what we expect of him when we pursue Voldemort's mind?"

"Oh, yes! So I've heard!" Sirius perked up in his seat. "Very odd! I might say he's taken to really liking you, Harry."

"Liking Harry? More like love," grumbled Ron. "You should've seen Malfoy panic over the state of Harry. 'Oh, my dear Harry! Your weariness makes me most uneasy; please sit down, my dear Harry!' The kid's obsessed!"

"Give it up, Ron. That's hardly worth pointing out," said Hermione. "He told me that my life is no one's to take, even despite my status. He's a sympathizer—not murderous like his father and the rest of You-Know-Who's lot."

Sirius's eyes widened, and he nodded with approval. "That is indeed surprising, for his father is the council leader, and it is them who conducts the Cleansing. If Draco is to be his heir, he would be expected to hold extermination in high esteem. Someone must remind him of the reality," said Sirius, glancing at Severus. 

"I have, very subtly. But if I plant the idea in his head too quickly, he will become ill. Don't you recall his going mad over Yule merely for being horrified during the resurrection? But I'd gotten my message across to him, and he seems to understand," said Snape calmly. 

"I think it's working," Hermione said. "I'd seen him in the library a couple days ago in pursuit of a book written by half-bloods. Let me assume that is hardly allowed, and he'd seemed adamant on broadening his horizons."

"Oh, is that right?" Dumbledore raised an eyebrow. "What books did you suggest to him, Miss Granger?"

She suddenly blushed and shrugged. "I can't seem to remember."

"You remembered that I copied off of your potions essay in first year, but you can't remember the books you suggested a couple of days ago?" Ron asked and then cowered under Snape’s harsh gaze. "Sorry, Professor, it was quidditch season; I couldn't concentrate much."

"Look, I told him I wouldn't tell anyone the books he's reading. But I promise they will be of great use to him and our cause," she said. 

Harry wished she'd reveal the title because he did notice Draco being awfully skittish as of late. If the book was too crude, then it might set them back a few. But Hermione, who'd been increasingly irritated at Ron's prying, seemed adamant on her silence, so Harry also kept his mouth shut. 

"Whatever novel it is, you best hope he hides it well from his parents. Now, I doubt they would cleanse their own child; I'd be willing to believe the Malfoys would cleanse the entire community before their prince, but he needs to hide the novels. Just in case Grand Ole Lucius Malfoy comes storming in to see how his boy is doing."

"Oh, that reminds me," whispered Harry, suddenly blushing with shame for not having said it earlier. "Lucius Malfoy knows what I'm doing, or at least I think he does." 

With that, the lighthearted air of the room was killed stone dead. Dumbledore—who'd always been one to maintain a semblance of calm—tensed considerably and looked at Harry with a steadfast and interrogative gaze. "And what gives you this impression? Did he tell you, Harry?"

"When his parents visited him for a day several weeks ago," said Harry. "After the test with the ink, Draco and I ran into his parents in the main corridor. After Draco was taken away by his mother, Lucius told me he knew of my intentions and to quit them immediately."

"And?" Sirius asked quietly. 

"He said that I can remain his friend, but if he senses that I wish to use him for my gain, he would kill me."

"Why didn't you tell us this, Harry?" Ron gulped and dabbed his perspiring forehead with his sleeve. "That's serious stuff, mate. That bloke drinks people's blood!"

"Silence, Weasley." Dumbledore raised his hand calmly. "Then we must be more discreet in our approach. Harry must look like a lone player in this scheme without us consistently meeting as we do. Lucius has spies everywhere, even in these very walls, so we keep our heads down and exchange details with a cautious ear. Severus? Has Lucius ever spoken of his suspicions with you?"

"No, headmaster. But he has instructed me to keep a close eye on Draco, which has already been my priority," Snape said. "I suppose his inquiries have increased as of late."

"If he is inquiring more often, then he is more likely to visit unannounced," said Sirius, looking more troubled now than before. "Tell Draco to hide his books. It is very important that he does so."

"Well, yeah, okay," Ron snorted. "Hide your books, Malfoy. Your dad might catch you with a porno."

Suddenly, Sirius slammed his palms on the table, startling everyone there. Harry watched his godfather's face darken and a cloud form in front of his eyes. It seemed he was suffering with some moral agony that he could not say out of sheer inability. Finally, after seeming to debate himself with every fiber of his being, Sirius spoke. "Sometimes all it takes is a book."

"My brother was eighteen when he was killed, a year after his own Viewing ceremony. His past had been wholly devoted to the Veiled, his present—so lonesome and scandalous. Like I've said before, Regulus was engaged at eighteen, and by their standards, that was late. In fact, he kept pushing their marriage for months until that wretch that raised us had enough. Now, I'd already left by then, I was staying with James, in hiding." Sirius took a deep breath and clutched his breast with a trembling hand. "But it was my cousin, Andromeda, who wrote to me of what happened that day, for she'd been visiting on behalf of her sister's union with Lucius."

"Right, Narcissa Malfoy is your cousin," Harry vocalized outwardly. 

"Walburga Black, that wretched woman, went into his room in hopes to find him there. There was consequently nothing that he could do to delay his marriage yet again. With Andromeda—unwillingly and unknowingly—accompanying her, she found his room quite deserted. But on his table was a book. Now, at first glance, such a thing should not arouse curiosity, but it was the small bundle of letters hidden in the dust jacket that caught her eyes." Sirius took another deep breath, and Remus placed a supportive hand on his shoulder. "Love letters, they were, to a man whose identity nobody knows. Walburga shrieked in horror, which made Andromeda start back in horror. The poor girl tried to dismiss the letters as mere penmanship practices between herself and Regulus, but her efforts were fruitless. Walburga Black snatched them up, demanded the capture of her innocent son, and sentenced him to the Cleanse. Andromeda had to accompany the scouts at the arrest, as a witness of the crime. These scouts are ruthless and proud. They’ve got their own symbol—one giant eye; it haunts me still today. Andromeda told me they snatched Regulus from his lover’s home, still tangled in the man’s sheets, while the man had stepped out to the market. They waited for the moment of pure vulnerability to pounce, those wretches!” 

Harry's heart was in his throat. At this thought, which made the blood drain from his face, Harry had to steady himself in his seat to charge against the dizzying shock he'd felt. 

"Then they'd Cleansed Regulus as if he never mattered to them. Stripped him naked, read his letters out publicly to the crowd, draped him over the bowl, and slit his throat. Walburga drank her boy from a golden chalice, shouting, 'A dog's death for a dog!' She trembled if the unfortunate event could efface her standing with the Malfoys. But she'd turned him in; she'd done her duty as a Veiled, but not as a mother. Regulus was eighteen, his heart full for another, but his hands were tied behind his back. While we grew up, it was he who defended their ways out of sheer cowardice of being caught. I think he knew of his attraction to his own sex at a young age and fervently obeyed them for protection. I left. But I wondered if it'd be different if I had stayed." Sirius paused for a moment, with a pitiful surrender to remorse. "Andromeda sent me the letters for my safeguarding after managing to steal them from the Council's room. Merlin, my brother, was in love with that man, and that man adored him too. They spoke of running off to Prague in just a month. Could you imagine the horror that man endured reading the Prophet? That is why I tell you, whatever those books are, if they can get him in trouble, pray Draco Malfoy hides them well." Sirius muttered. His head hung low over his balled fists. 

With a thick cloud moving over the spring sky, the sunlight began to forsake the room, almost as a divine gesture of grief and bereft. The entire office was dead silent; everyone seemed to be holding their breaths. Harry, who'd been both horrified for Regulus, had become equally terrified for Draco. He'd imagined if he read such a line in the Prophet: Draco Malfoy Cleansed. Harry's heart seized with unspeakable fear. How could such a woman, in her maternal delirium, have sacrificed her son for the sake of social standing? Two sons of hers, brilliant in their own way, eradicated by her delusion. Such gallant virtues that she'd devoted her life to had become mere crimes. To be slaughtered so shamefully before society, one deemed family, just for something as innocent as falling in love. The accursed Veil and its farcical representation of purity and harmony had been nothing but a fortification of murder and man-made castes. And the many innocents like Regulus had been slaughtered for the sake of the necessary, long-sought justification of peace. Draco, an angel on earth, was born into it. 

The story had embedded urgency in everyone—most of all in Ron, who'd regarded the task as a nuisance at most. Naturally, Ron still muttered grievances about Draco, but in a lighthearted way, just because he could. And Hermione had been consumed with a perpetual anxiety about having given Draco the books. Still, she did not tell them what sort of books they were, but she'd implied they could indeed get him in trouble. This worried Harry, and because Draco's parents were so devoted to him, maybe Draco wouldn't feel the obligation to treat his room like a crime scene. So, he made a point to visit him and observe the place—that is, if Draco would have him. 

At the end of the week, Harry had casually asked if he could visit Draco in his room Saturday afternoon to study. The library, he said, would be too busy, and the bees are out for spring's revival. Surely, Snape's room would be used for detention, and every other classroom hosted a club. Harry didn't need to go on for a while because Draco eagerly accepted his request without questioning his reason at all. 

Accordingly, Harry arrived at the Slytherin dormitories that afternoon, mentally creating a list of incriminating items to search for. Books, letters, merchandise, clothing, anything that could get him in trouble that Draco was too naive to realize. And Draco, despite being a genius in academics, was the most naive person Harry had ever met. Once, when Draco had been particularly annoying about the Book, Harry created a story littered with pathetic falsehoods just to vex him. 

'Did you know, from this very turret, a boy fell, died, but came back to life after exactly sixty backflips in the afterlife?'

'Came back to life? Isn't that the one thing one cannot do?'

'Well, he did after sixty backflips.'

'Incredible! So, do you fancy that seventy could make one immortal?'

Harry, after feeling terrible about playing with the boy's unimpeachable naivety, quickly admitted he'd been joking. 

'I'm just kidding, Draco. Sixty backflips to come back alive? Nonsense.'

'Then how many? Seventy? Eighty?' 

Draco still believes Harry to this day, and every time they pass the turret, Draco would suggest another number that merited the story being true. And Harry, who didn't have the heart to tell him the truth, would nod out of sheer pity. 

Draco had one room to himself, which Harry envied him greatly for. As expected, the room was tidy with furniture of tasteful design. The overwhelming sense of the room was Victorian, with a divan of exquisite charm at the foot of his bed. Harry wondered where all of the furniture came from, but knowing the sort of money in the Malfoy family, he felt his question was already answered. 

"You're lucky to have your own room," said Harry and gently placed his school bag on the divan. "Do you know how chaotic it gets when five guys are trying to get themselves sorted out in the morning? It doesn't help that all of us are untidy."

Draco, who was standing by the door and staring at Harry with exceptionally lively eyes, smiled and clasped his hands together. "Yes, how terrible! I find that a messy sink would be the coup de grâce. But you are impressed with my room, are you not?"

"Yeah, it's very nice."

In a burst of something like hysterical joy, Draco gasped and smiled to himself. "Do you deem me a most gracious host? Wait! Do not answer just yet! Please have a seat on the divan, and I will have tea brought up for us. Then, you may praise my hosting and ask to never leave again." With that, Draco turned on his heel and rang a little bell on the wall. Suddenly, a little dumbwaiter opened, and up came a small tea curate stand. Harry's eyes widened. Since when did they send food up to dormitories? 

"Tea!" Draco presented the entire thing on a leveled table. "Well?"

"You live in luxury," Harry breathed, still in awe of the theatrical experience. "I am thoroughly impressed."

Draco's face, framed in whiteness, flushed with the color of life. "Ah, of course you are," he bit his lip. "Living with four other men, I dare say you are hardly capable of living in such stately surroundings." Draco leaned back in his chair and spread his arms out wide. As he spoke, he drew out his words lazily and not without pretentiousness. It seemed his posh accent only thickened as he boasted of his high class. Though Harry did not find it repulsive at all; there was something childishly innocent in his boasting—he'd only wished for Harry's admiration, not his envy or insecurity. 

But Harry wasn't here to have tea, and he'd been far too entertained with Draco's theatrics to remember to scour the room for potential contrabands. "Before we settle down, do you mind if I look around? I want to clean my room, and I need an example."

"Yes, indeed!" Draco nodded eagerly. "Think of my room as the epitome of elegance and charm. You're quite right to wish to imitate me. After all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery." 

"Aw man, wait," Harry paused. "I forgot to pick up my worksheets from divination. I'll be back in ten minutes.

"No! Don't trouble yourself, my dear guest!" Draco rose to his feet with impressive speed. "Let me retrieve them for you, and you may take notes about the genius that is my interior design." Draco grabbed his Veil and swiftly left the room, giggling to himself. 

Harry waited until he'd heard Draco's footsteps disappear down the corridor before he began his search. From the surface, nothing seemed odd or out of place. As previously stated, the entire room was spotless. So, with careful consideration, he'd opened the drawers to find the very same stateliness. Quills, ink wells, and notes raised no particular alarm. In his vanity—Harry did consider it odd for a boy to have a vanity, but it was not entirely out of character for Draco—was products for hair, soaps, balms, and perfumes. Checking the bathroom, the drawers were filled with all sorts of medicinal potions. His mother was a nervous wreck; it was no surprise to find an entire apothecary in his drawer. Potions for flu, brain fever, hysteria, seasonal allergies, paranoia, anxiety, indigestion, nervous tremors, headaches, and other remedies populated nearly every drawer of the bathroom. 

Harry quit his ambitions there and began to focus on the bookshelf. He'd checked every dust jacket and every novel in an attempt to find letters and documents, but there was nothing by annotations to tie every line back to the Book. Clean. Next, he'd opened a dresser. Yes, there was guilt in having invaded every privacy of his friend, but if someone had cared much about Regulus's fate, they'd have done the same and potentially saved him. 

Draco Malfoy Cleansed. 

The top drawer was reserved for intimate garments. Harry's face burned with embarrassment and giddiness to see the briefs of such a conservative prude like Malfoy. There was nothing there, nor in the second drawer, nor in the third. 

He'd been relieved to find everything had been clean and began to believe Draco had disposed of the books Hermione offered him. The final place he'd searched was a small chest under his bed, tucked away behind a skillfully embroidered bed skirt. 

There was a journal inside, with each page signed by Miss Wiggum, his mind healer. It took a few seconds to notice the book was minutes of Draco's counseling sessions. Out of curiosity—as all deviance spawns—he'd flipped to the very beginning of the journal. Six years ago. 

Guilt about Podgers and fear of repetition of the event prevent the patient from encouraging dietary habits. Patient is currently unconscious due to terror from witnessing a death scene in a theatrical performance. Patient suffers from nightmares, hysteria, severe paranoia, hallucinations, and occasional stress-related seizures. Treatments include talk-therapy, potions, and gradual exposure therapy. 

All the entries were very similar, with symptoms gradually becoming more tame and manageable. Harry had an idea of how the ordeal with Podgers had terrified Draco, but he'd just now begun to understand how brave Draco'd been to stay at Hogwarts and try the many things Harry pushed on him. Maybe, even if he'd suffered from terror, his loneliness ached most. 

He put the journal away and found nothing interesting in the chest. But, in a small little box, was Harry's Christmas present to Draco. Harry smiled and tucked it away neatly under the journal where it was. There wasn't much else in the chest but old stuffed animals and letters from his parents that were tied with a green satin ribbon. A very private chest, surely, where his most intimate belongings were stored; Harry was immensely pleased to have his own gift stored away in there. 

Coming toward the door were light footsteps that Harry instantly recognized as Draco's. He slammed the chest shut, and kicked it under the bed skirt. Then, with a pen and a pad, he'd scribbled nonsense to portray himself diligently taking notes on the interior. 

"You fool," Draco said as he walked in. "Trelawney denied ever having given you worksheets. I had to walk all the way to divination and back, Harry. And do not forget how terrible it is to speak to that particular professor—she is always trembling before me."

"Really? Merlin, who was it then?" Harry pressed his lips together. "Anyway, who cares? I was just wondering about storage. I don't have room for all of this furniture, and I'll assume you have more belongings. Where do you keep spare items?"

"Spare items? The primary cause of mess is too many items," said Draco. "This is all I have."

Harry was relieved to come to the conclusion that Draco had most likely disposed of the books and relaxed immediately. He sat down on the divan where Draco had laid out tea and heaved a great sigh of relief. "Sorry I made you go all the way to the divination tower," he said as Draco sat beside him. "I guess there isn't much studying I have to do without it. Maybe Hermione was doing extra work."

"Is she well? Your friend?" Draco asked, his body slowly turning to Harry, their knees almost touching. 

Harry was a little surprised to hear Draco inquiring after Hermione's well-being, and maybe he could perhaps learn the fate of the incriminating novels she'd given him if he entertained his curiosity. "Yeah, she is very well. She's been reading a whole lot. In fact, she tells me she's recommended you some too."

Draco's eyes widened and his face turned a bright shade of red; some paroxysm of panic took over. "Yes, indeed," he managed, his voice barely audible. Without looking into his eyes, Draco managed another sentence. "And did she mention the titles?"

"No. But if she did, I probably wouldn't have known them anyway. I don't read. What sort of books are they anyway? History? Commentary? Philosophy?" 

Draco let out a breath. "I suppose one could characterize it as commentary. But enough about those books, Harry. Have a cup of tea." With trembling hands, Draco handed Harry a cup, which rattled loudly on the saucer. 

"You're nervous," Harry observed cautiously. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, I am," he assured. "I am prone to such irrational nervousness, but I am quite alright. I haven't ruined your stay, have I? You don't wish to go?"

"Of course not. If I'm so impressed by your dormitory, I bet your room at the manor is even more extravagant than this."

Draco's eyes lit up, and he took Harry's hands in his own and pressed them against his chest. "Your novice eyes could not possibly comprehend the luxurious of the manor, Harry. My very own room is decorated with all rare and costly materials collected from every worthy hand on earth. Persian rugs, Indian jade, Chinese silk, Grecian tapestries, Japanese partitions, and infinitely more. To have my very own boudoir spread with white marble, decorated with ornaments of sapphire and emerald. I adore emerald, Harry. Look at my wrist." Draco pulled back his sleeve to reveal two bracelets, one silver serpent that Harry knew warned against muggleborns, and a dainty chain studded with brilliant green gems. Draco turned his wrist from right to left to emphasize the luster of the expensive jewels. "How I do hope you could come visit me one day, Harry," he sighed and held Harry's hands again. "I dare say if you stepped foot there, your handsomeness would exceed that of our Roman statues, and the emeralds on my walls could hardly compete with the brilliance of your eyes. I'd declare you a god and kiss your cheek the very way a woman may kiss the statue of Adonis."

Harry blushed. Nobody had ever complimented him so thoroughly until now, and he'd felt positively pleased with himself but more so shocked to hear such affectionate words. He opened his mouth to thank him, but he wondered if so much of a privilege could deserve a lousy thank you. 

"Oh, I've embarrassed you!" Draco dropped Harry's hands and turned away. He clasped his hands to the sides of his face, which had become a brilliant shade of red. There was a suggestion of immense disdain on his face and sheepish pleasure. The expression aroused a deep adoration in Harry, and the boy's evident humiliation was almost intolerable to bear. 

A insurmountable sensation gained possession of Harry, and he'd done what Draco's words merited. He grabbed the boy's porcelain hands and pressed them tenderly to his lips, and affection he knew the Veiled reserved for close family. From Draco's lips escaped a vocal sigh, which produced an inexplicable chill within Harry. 

"You're not upset, are you? I consider you close enough a friend to have done it." Harry whispered, still holding Draco's hands in his own.

"Oh, I am hardly upset at all," Draco gasped, his gray eyes glittering with irrepressible triumph. "I kiss the hands of my parents and my godfather's; it is not at all inappropriate if you consider me very close. You are my dearest friend—I've seen mother kiss the hands of her close friends and sister." 

Harry nodded, pleased to know Draco had leveled him with his close family, and wished to tell Sirius immediately. But even stronger than this pride, his own heart was painfully constricted with the knowing of Draco's standing and would not dare to think about losing the boy before him, who still stared with awe and affectionate adoration. 

"Do you do the same with your Ron and Hermione?" Draco wondered.

"No. I've kissed your hands because it is a gesture performed between your lot and I know it is significant to you. Outside, though, nobody ever does it."

Draco's eyes softened. "I see," he smiled shyly. "Would you have kissed my cheek if it was performed between Veiled friends?"

Harry laughed. "Well, I don't know. Usually that's something we on the outside consider too romantic if it's not a brief greeting."

"You are quite right," said Draco, beaming with mischievous laughter. "No respectable Veiled man kisses his friend on the cheek. In fact, Veiled men seldom kiss their friends on the hand unless they are practically brothers. Women are allowed to be much more affectionate with one another. What a shame!"

"I couldn't last a day living like that," said Harry, finally letting go of Draco's hands and leaning back against the divan. "Nobody should govern who I kiss. If I want to kiss a woman or a man because I love them, I will."

Draco jumped and turned to Harry with a look of surprise. "Are you liable to love a man?" 

"Why not?"

"And a woman in the very same manner?"

"Yeah." Harry nodded. "But you hate that sort of person, don't you?"

"You're not pure," Draco whispered with his customary serene cordiality. He'd flushed with pink, and he stared at his hands in his lap. "It is a defect common with half-bloods and muggleborns. I am hardly aghast. But I've told you, Harry, that it matters not to me whether your line has been dirtied, because I adore you anyway." Draco said quietly, continuing his slow speech as if thinking before every word spoken. "You must despise me for what I said to you that day in the Room of Requirement, then. When I'd said such a person is dirty and ill-bred."

"You don't think I am."

"In such terrible language, no." 

"But I'm defected."

"In that sense, yes. You ought to marry a respectable woman and silence yourself on the matter."

"But what if I fall in love with a man? Who cares?"

"They care."

"Do you?"

Draco stammered on a sentence and struggled immensely with an answer. Then he quickly rose and made for the bookshelf. From it, he removed a great leather-bound book that Harry knew was the Book. With great ease, Draco flipped through its contents and cleared his throat. "'To all of the objections urged by the divine, the discouragement of further infestation of mudbloods and sometimes halfbloods comes in the form of the abhorrent attraction to one's own sex. Pure-blooded witches and wizards overcome by traitorous temptations, without the necessary pangs of consciousness, have been damned from birth and to possess the disease of vermin.' That is what the Book says," he finished. 

"But what do you say?"

"The same as the Book, of course."

"Odd. You couldn't produce a sentence of your own on the matter without reading a script. For once, Draco, I'd like to hear your own ideas. You're brilliant; I'm sure you have something worthy to say." 

Draco blushed and slowly put the Book away. "I'm much too young to have my own ideas," he whispered shakily, as if afraid someone would hear him. "All I have to say to you, Harry, is that anyone, man or woman, ought to rejoice to be loved by you, for that must be a tremendous honor."