The Veiled Boy

It was that very evening, shortly after Harry left his room, that Draco decided his heart was strong enough to endure the degree of passion within the pages of Misty. He waited ten minutes after the door closed, sitting on his divan with both hands placed mechanically at his side, waiting. When Draco was sure Harry would not return—perhaps he'd forgotten something or wished to tell him a quick anecdote—he stood slowly and turned to his bed. 

Shaking with both nervous agitation and excitement, he pried his nimble fingers underneath the satin sheets and lifted them above the mattress. Then, with a delicate touch, he felt the smoothness of the mattress for a slight perforated stitch. It was there still at the base; it was not a feverish dream, after all, and the memories of that night replayed for him. With a letter opener, Draco had sliced open a small part of the mattress and carefully slid both novels deep into the feathered filling so that no corner could produce an incriminating bulge. Then, with the same white color, he skillfully stitched the mattress shut—sewing was a hobby reserved for women, but his mother deemed it appropriate for him when he was bedridden for most of his sickly youth. 

Draco let out a quiet laugh when he'd felt Misty still tucked away at the center and pulled it out, careful not to damage the mattress and spill the feathers. After stitching the opening, he blew out all the candles except for the hearth, situated himself comfortably on the divan, and opened Misty with trembling hands. His whole being, in that moment, was in extreme ecstasy. 

The ex-Azkaban prisoner and the retired auror shared yet another kiss, but this time in intimate privacy of the former's bedroom. It wasn't the same as the first kiss, the one that sent Draco's heart into hysterics, for this one also accompanied the symphony with touch and movement of lips. Draco's lay himself down flat on the divan to steady himself against the spinning room, breathing heavily. 

Then the two fell into the tattered bed of poverty, and the auror of high society reduced himself to a lover of this depraved man by loving him tenderly with all that he was. Draco gasped, but dare not quit his reading. Every nerve in his body burned with excitement, his skin tingling with imaginary sensation, and his heart pounded with yearning. It was almost like he was in that dilapidated apartment himself, and suddenly his divan's silk became a coarse burlap; the warmth of his room gave way to the frightening chill of destitution. But in its place, he could feel the warm breath of the auror on his neck and collarbone and the strong grip of the man's wanting hands on his waist and thigh. Draco closed his eyes and dropped the book on his now nonexistent Persian rug, giving way entirely to shameless debauchery. His heart was full to bursting. 

"Harry," he whispered. So quiet was his voice that he did not realize the name on his lips, and nor did he realize it, as he'd let it escape him several more times in the form of breathy sighs. "Harry, Harry, oh, Harry..." Draco tilted his head back and smiled with intoxication. If anyone could see him now—muttering in delirium and his back arched with imaginary pleasure—they'd be entirely convinced of his madness. But Draco hadn't cared for the eyes of anyone except his lover, who'd continued to kiss him tenderly on his exposed skin. 

"Harry," he gasped, louder this time. "Harry, please." It came out as a loud moan and startled Draco back into reality. Without much of a thought, he kicked the book under his divan to rid himself of the treacherous piece. Draco stood in the center of his room frozen and horrified. In the depths of his lustful trance, had he called out to him? Harry. Harry, who, damned from birth, could very much lay his hands on Draco? Who could indeed grab him by the waist and press him with kisses so full of fervent desire? And what if Harry barged into this room again, declaring he'd forgotten to kiss me? What shall I do then? Should I laugh in his face and declare him a fag the very way Crabbe and Goyle had done to me? Or should I submit and lay myself on my feathered mattress and become victim to Harry's tempting sin? Draco's heart beat quickly at the latter, and gradually, being made aware of his weakness, he fell to the floor with a pained groan. Crawling, he moved toward the opening in the mattress and grabbed the other romance and opened it. 

Draco's nerves were on edge, and even despite having read part of this book, he'd soon become frustrated with how much he could not feel from it. In a fit of adolescent rage, Draco threw the book into the hearth and pressed his forehead against the mantle as a gesture of weary hope. He had become distinctly aware of his hatred for that particular novel, whose only purpose was to hide Misty in its dust jacket. No doubt it was written beautifully, but to Draco, it was nothing but a reminder of his mother's oppressive expectations of marriage to a fine lady. Misty had nothing to do with high society, and the romance was pure scandal in both sex and social hierarchy. Oh, and the sensations it gave him! Draco slowly turned to where he'd kicked Misty in a panic and grabbed it from under his divan. The remnants of the auror’s kisses could still be felt on his neck, and Draco desperately tried to forget whose name he'd called for during this hypnotic episode. Harry.

"I am pureblood," he whispered to himself. "I am pureblood. I am the heir. I am ill at the moment, but what illness have I not overcome?"

With that reflection, he tossed the book aside, stood, and made for the bathroom. Just like the last time, he soaked himself in a cool bath of jasmine water in hope to remedy him from his own arousal.

What an insult! What a terrible insult! The Malfoy heir?! The purest of us all?! How could he possibly be a fag?

Draco shut his eyes to concentrate on anything but the idea and desperately clinged to Book's creed.

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.

He'd memorized this particular line and had churned it in his mind over and over, unable to rid himself of it. It worked its way into his imagination, and what used to be a source of comfort now produced a terrifying pang of horror within himself. Draco dare not ask himself the question he knew he ought to and fortified himself with the idea of what could be to be mere pitiful trivialities to test his undying lotalty to the Veil. Yes, his mother and father always warned him of such trivialities.

‘It happens to us all when we are young and vain,’ she said one night as she kissed his young forehead. ‘When I was a girl, I'd wanted to dress as the others did—to wear a thin, satin dress that hugged my figure and showed my shoulders. But that was a fleeting thought given to me to test my will. I soon lost interest in such trivial things and found a newfound adoration in modest clothing.’

Draco hadn't thought much of that story until now, when his own test had come to play. And in this moment of frightened silence, he hoped desperately for whoever governed them to release him from the shackles of inquiry and give him the necessary adoration for women at once. But he soon began to wonder if he'd wanted to make so drastic a change to his character for the sake of compliance. That, too, must come from his vainness. 

After spending a considerable amount of time fighting his conscience, he felt the water grow warm and almost oppressive. He wished to step out.

Draco let out a guttural scream. Upon opening his eyes, he'd perceived the terrible fate of his lust. Instead of his pallid tub, it'd been a ceremonial brass that enclosed him in a pool of his own warm, thick blood. Still screaming, he clawed at his throat where the fatal slit had been made and attempted to clog his life from leaving him. 

The surrounding Veiled witches and wizards trampled each other to get a thimble of his unwilling blood. A witch stepped on the head of her own child for a brief opening at the base. The dull crack and wailing of the small child was smothered by the eager screams of desperation at the front. 

Draco turned to his father, who stood at the lectern, horrified to perceive that not a tear had escaped his eye. "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!"

"Damned from birth!"

"Damned from birth!"

"Damned from birth!"

The entire room shook with excitement, and Draco continued to scream until his own voice was stifled by chokes and his throat flooded with blood. "I'm pure," he tried to say, reaching out for his parents, who looked through him. "Mama, I'm pure! I didn't do anything! Please, mama, believe me!" Draco sobbed and fell weak against the brass tub. "No man touched me! I didn't do anything! Please!"

While his vision clouded and his breathing faltered, Draco thought back to his fifteen years and wondered what terrible crime he committed to sentence him to such a tragic death. Draco watched feebly as the Dark Lord approached his weak body. Grabbing his blonde hair and lifting his head, the Lord pressed his hungry lips against the slit of his neck. The cease in Draco's fight for his own life arrived almost as quickly as the bloodthirsty Lord, and he'd fallen into the most peaceful slumber. 

They'd cast him into a well after they'd had their fill. His bones would rot there at the bottom with the other traitors, and he was only fifteen years young.

It was evening when the rain came. Severus was walking the school grounds when the first drop fell. Black as ink. He swiped a droplet from his arm and smeared it against his thumb with his index; it was unnaturally thick for rain. Curious, he pressed his finger against this mouth to taste it. Poison. 

"Everybody inside!" Severus scolded, grabbing students by the collar who stood dumbly looking up at the skies and dragging them into the castle. Minerva met him in the halls with a lantern—the skies had become so dark, the clouds so dense, not a sliver of moonlight fell upon them. "Poison," he whispered to her, out of breath. "Poison rains upon us."

"Goodness, there must be children still outside," she gasped and moved toward the windows. The black drops of poison hit the panes with a frightful force. Severus quickly cast a protective charm over himself and snatched the lantern from her hand. Despite her pleads to stay vigilant, Severus ventured outside for students who had lost themselves in the impenetrable darkness that fell upon them. 

Hagrid had collected the several remaining students in his hut and handed them off to Severus. Harry was a part of the crowd and had implored him for answers. 

"What's wrong, Professor? Is it Voldemort? Is he attacking the castle? Where's Draco? Is he safe?"

"Silence. I have as much a clue as you have," Severus hissed. "Get to your common room immediately; answers will come then." He tried to maintain a semblance of calm but had become overcome with worry for the boy.

The children were herded quickly into their rooms—when children are thoroughly scared, they do not misbehave—and soon the castle was silent with nothing but the sound of the rain violently pelting the castle walls. He'd met the headmaster and Professor Lupin in the halls, who looked nearly as frantic as he. 

"All the students have been safely evacuated," Severus assured them, the lantern in his hand trembling. "I ask that I take leave to see my godson. I have not seen him yet, and I am afraid something has happened," he whispered.

"Do you mean this is his doing?" Albus asked, casting a weary glance at the windows. 

"I do not doubt it," said Severus. "I believe he may have fallen ill. It is not always, but when a fit is particularly bad, strange things tend to happen. Once birds threw themselves mindlessly at the manor's windows. Another time, every flower wilted and disintegrated into a black dust. It seems nature depends on his very temperament, and if he falls ill, all godly sanctity ceases to exist."

"Let me join you," said Remus. "I am carrying calming droughts with me at the moment, for there were frantic children in my ward. Something tells me they would be of use for your godson." 

"Then let us hurry." 

The two men marched down the hall toward the dungeons where the Slytherin dorms were hidden. The corridor seemed to extend before him, throwing Severus into a deeper onslaught of panic. Draco's private room was on the uppermost floor of the dormitories, away from the other students' rooms. 

With a key, Severus opened the door, and the candles lit up with his entry. With his heart in his throat, he scoured the scene. The hearth burned brilliantly, and there were feathers from a hole in the mattress strewn messily across the floor. At the base of the bed was a small red novel. He picked it up and turned it in his hands.

"What is it?" Remus asked quietly, peering over his shoulder. 

"A novella," answered Severus. "That's all." He handed it to Remus, who skimmed through the first pages. Severus could hardly care about what Draco was reading and continued to frantically search the room, lifting the bedding and making a right mess out of the place. 

"Severus," Remus grabbed his arm and pulled him close. "This is a book of romance between two men," he whispered. 

Severus's blood went ice cold, and he freed himself from Remus's panicked grip. "Return it to where it was on the floor. Merlin forbid he knows we'd learned his secret," he hurriedly instructed. 

Remus placed the book exactly where it had been, halfway underneath the divan and slightly overlapped by the Persian rug, and stood uneasily by the door. 

Severus barged into the bathroom. His throat went dry. Draco looked nearly dead, draped naked across the edge of the tub, his body a sickly color and shivering feverishly. He could not stop to wonder much about the scene; thinking would possibly prompt him to lose his head completely. So, without a word, he pulled his godson from the tub of cold water, covered his body and face with towels, and carried the boy into the main room, where the fire still burned brilliantly. 

"Remus, please send a letter addressed to the Malfoys," said Severus—he was under some trance of misplaced calmness. "Tell them their son has had another fit and to send for Miss Clarke and Dr. Acres immediately before their own arrival. Assure them he is safe but unwell, and advise them to promptly announce their departure should they decide to visit him. Stress they cannot come unannounced."

"What about the novella? What shall I do about it? Should I get rid of it?"

"By no means. It is clear he had it sewn into his mattress, so we return it and act as if nothing had happened. We convince him this was a terrible dream; anything else would surely disable him for the next year." 

"I will write his parents as you wish," said Remus—who'd been, up until this moment, frozen with perpetual grief—and bowed before he left Severus alone with Draco in feverish delirium. 

After Severus dressed Draco in a nightgown and buried him comfortably beneath the quilted blankets, he tucked the damning novella back into the depths of the mattress and sewed it shut. Then he sat beside Draco and softly stroked his soft white-blonde hair. 

Severus guessed there would be tragedy in this boy's life—such is the fate of all innocent people. And to see his dear godson undergoing a near-fatal shock to the heart only sent Severus deeper into his aversion toward the Veil. Is this boy completely incapable of surrendering himself to acceptance? Even if he'd seemed so helpless now, Severus could never convince himself that Draco would succumb to the weight of his own conscience. There is strength there, and Severus's entire being depended on its existence. 

His head ached more and more, but he continued to sit motionlessly calm by his godson's side. It had become so unbearably stuffy in the room with the oppressive heat from the fire, but Severus could not give his sick Draco a respite of fresh air, for the poison still battered his windows. How comical is the irony of fate, thought Severus. 

Evidently, he'd been awake until morning, for the sky had become a dark, dreadful gray as opposed to black, and the fire had finally reduced itself to feeble charcoal fumes. There was a knock on the door; it startled Severus out of his statue-like composure, and he'd quickly thrown the Veil over Draco's sleeping face. 

"Come in," he said. 

In came three familiar faces that typically accompany the misfortune of Draco's illness. Miss Clarke, his governess; Dr. Acres, the family's private healer; and Miss Wiggum, Draco's personal mind healer.

"Do you know what happened, Severus?" The doctor asked as he placed his tattered Gladstone bag on the divan at the foot of the bed. 

"I do not know," he lied. "I found him twenty minutes after the rain came—I had to ensure there were no children outside. He was draped over the tub, shivering. A dreadful cold the water was; I believe intentionally so."

The doctor nodded and moved toward Draco, who looked deathly peaceful under his quilt. "Indeed, he is cold," he observed cautiously as he pressed his hand into Draco's. "And he's become inert." 

"It was definitely another hysterical fit," said Miss Wiggum quietly. "It is raining poison. I don't suppose such meteorological conditions are common on these grounds."

Severus shook his head. 

"Oh, at least it is poisonous rain this time," said Clarke as she put on an apron. "Do you remember the birds? Goodness, I nearly went hysterical myself. Let us wake him now. I do not want the missus to see her boy out cold." 

From his bag, the doctor produced a green vial that Severus dreaded sight of. He withdrew a generous amount of the clear liquid in the dropper and, with the other hand, gently opened Draco's jaw. "He will wake," said the doctor, as if the four of them had never witnessed the horror of the event. Then, with two drops, the doctor gently closed the boy's jaw and stepped to aid Miss Wiggum in holding the boy still. Severus moved to Clarke's side and took the other arm. 

Draco's face paled to a livid white, and he'd stiffened under their grip. As if shocked by a great jolt of electricity, his godson started with a cry, thrashing and screaming as if being burned alive. Beneath Severus's calm surface were too many suppressed emotions and tears; his soul could handle every kind of torture man could produce, but a fit of Draco's always tested his resilience and strength.

After a half hour, Draco was much too weak to continue his fight against the four adults and fell limp against his mattress, still sobbing incoherently. Despite the immensity of the disaster, Severus watched quietly from the foot of the bed. The doctor laid out several medicinal remedies on the sideboard by the door, quietly instructing Clarke on proper dosages. 

"Draco needs a warm bath," the doctor finally announced to them all. "His temperature is much too low, and it may calm his nerves. Ladies, if you could see to it before his parents arrive." 

The two ladies bowed. 

"Let me walk you out, doctor," said Severus. 

Draco's sobs could be heard from the hall, and Severus's heart tightened painfully to leave his dear godson alone again. The two walked through the dormitories, not speaking until they reached the deserted corridors. Despite it being nearly seven in the morning, the skies were a deep gray, and the rain cast a blackened screen on the windows, giving the illusion of perpetual night. 

"Let me be honest with you, Severus. Every time the boy has a fit, I am consumed by a dreadful feeling that he may finally succumb to insanity," said Dr. Acres quietly. "It is truly a miracle to see the heir recover each time."

"Doctor, I sense you've always known why he's grown to be so sickly," said Severus, stopping in his tracks. "Do you?"

Dr. Acres paled and lowered his eyes to the ground. "My guess is as good as yours, sir. If you were to ask for my professional opinion, I'd say it had something to do with the boy's conception."

Severus's face must've revealed his shock, for the doctor quickly blushed and laughed in dismissal. "No, doctor, I am not offended. I believe the very same, and to hear it from your lips is pure relief." 

"Madam was infertile," said the doctor casually. "There couldn't have possibly been a miracle child. I know this for certain, for I'd been madam's healer too. A child could not have been conceived unless some unnatural factor came into play."

"Like a ritual?"

"I believe so. I've read into it, sir, and all children conceived using these dark rituals hardly make it beyond the age of two. But that boy was born with tremendous power, and it did not kill him—it protected him. The master must have known it would be successful and believed it would not do harm to his child. You know how he is; he rarely takes risks and loved his son tremendously even before his birth. Oh, but the poor master must be tormented by the fact his heir is ill nonetheless." 

"Which ritual do you believe it was, doctor?"

"Ah, that I do not know," said the doctor, laughing now as if he'd merely exchanged a witty anecdote. "It's not my place to inquire into the business of the master. If it was meant to be kept a secret, then it must be kept. Let us not inquire much further; it isn't our place. We must consider it a blessing that the heir is healthy enough."

"Healthy enough? Doctor, my godson will scream until his voice fails him."

"Then let him scream," the doctor whispered. "Draco is infinitely more powerful than whatever curses him, and if he must scream to ward off death, then let it be so." 

Draco had finally stopped his screaming and crying and instead had been reduced to a catatonic stupor. He truly resembled a porcelain doll, his skin still framed in its whiteness but flushed with color from his bath, and sitting submissively still as Miss Clarke brushed his soft white hair. Severus's eyes moved from the lifeless gray and toward the mattress, where, just underneath its victim, the book remained a secret. 

Lucius and Narcissa arrived in the afternoon, following Severus's instruction to announce themselves before leaving. With no owl's being able to fly in this weather, at the nearest village, the Malfoys had sent a house elf in its place. The poor creature dropped dead on the front steps of the castle. 

"Oh, my poor baby!" Narcissa dropped her Veil on the divan and threw her arms around her son, kissing him repeatedly. "He is as silent as a mouse! Has he stopped his screaming already?"

"The first bout, yes, madam," said Miss Clark as she bowed. 

"My dear child, do not fret! There's absolutely nothing to be afraid of," continued Narcissa. She began to rock with her son in her arms. "Oh, how silly you are to be so terrified of everything. Don't you know your father, and I would never let anything happen to you? My poor baby!" 

Severus cast a cautious glance at Lucius, who stood almost as frozen as his son, seemingly too frightened to move or speak. The hand around his walking stick trembled with an irrepressible agitation and proud disdain. This expression of negative emotion had not been directed at his son but resembled that of a man who condemned God for all earthly suffering. 

Without a word, Lucius moved to the other side of the bed and took his son's hand and pressed it into his own. "How did you find him, Severus?" 

"He was unconscious in his bathtub," he replied. 

"He could've drowned!" Narcissa gasped and clutched her boy tighter as if he were still at risk of doing so. "We must assign Clarke to him at all times—"

"No," said Lucius. "He needs his privacy. He is fifteen years old."

"But, Lucius, dear—"

"That is final," he said sternly. His wife bowed her head and hugged her son tightly. "Severus, I ask that you speak with me outside." 

They quit the room as Narcissa began to fuss over the medicinal potions, and Lucius cast a spell that erased them from any lurking private audience. 

"Have you any idea what happened to him?" Lucius asked in a quiet whisper. "You cannot keep anything from me, Severus. I am his father." The man's face revealed a tremendous sorrow; he was almost begging Severus, with both hands turning white on his walking stick. Upon further observation, Lucius seemed to be expecting a specific response, and Severus dreaded to realize that Lucius knew of it as well. 

"I am not sure," he said honestly. "I have only a vague idea."

Lucius was evidently annoyed with the lack of certainty in his profession. He ran his hand through his long hair and shielded his eyes from Severus. "Is it a boy?"

"A boy?" His repetition came out as a pathetic croak. "No, sir. I do not think there is a boy." 

"And you do not question my implications of such a suggestion because you know of it," Lucius whispered and slowly raised his eyes to meet his. "Don't you?"

"I dare not utter an inkling of anything, Lucius. I do not know the confirmation you wish for."

"Oh, do not play dumb with me, Severus. I laud you for your genius, and this act will simply not suffice. I speak of my son's clear adoration of his own sex!" 

Lucius was aware of what feeling he had produced in Severus, for his face faltered and his stone-cold visage failed him. He dropped his walking stick and leaned weakly against the door frame, covering his eyes as if the light from heaven blinded him. Severus attempted to help steady his friend, but Lucius would not recover himself. 

"Draco has not told anyone, Lucius. He has not said a word about it; I could only guess," Severus said hurriedly. 

"Guess?! When the sky clouds over, the heavens start to rumble, and torrential rain falls upon us, one doesn't guess it may storm. I'd known for a terribly long while, but I'd been in a dreadful denial. It was not until very recently I'd been made certain." 

"How long, Lucius?"

"Do you remember that young tutor, Mr. Wentworth, we had hired for Draco when Miss Clarke took leave three years ago? A handsome fellow he was, I dare say, but my observation stopped at that. Draco blushed every time the tutor praised his intelligence and acting like a schoolgirl when Mr. Wentworth came to dine with us. That behavior—to ingratiate oneself with one's tutor—stops at age ten at the very latest. No twelve-year-old boy blushes and twiddles his thumbs over a tutor unless there is some other feeling."

"Three years ago? And what about Narcissa? Has she suspected anything?"

"Oh, my dear wife probably knows of it more than I do. I believe she's buried it deep in her mind as a way to cope with her anxiety. You know what happened to her cousin, don't you? I was there, you know. I Cleansed Regulus Black," he muttered with a weak voice. "Nobody shall know of this, do you understand?"

"Is that what you wish for him? To suppress it and marry that Parkinson?"

"Heavens, no!" Lucius stood and grabbed Severus by the robes, shaking him with an insane force. "I am abhorred by your assumption that I would rid my son of happiness for my sake. The moment I became his father, 'my sake' ceased to exist!" 

"Then what?"

"I do not know." Lucius let him go and sank back toward the wall again. "But you must be silent on the matter until I figure it out. Do you understand me?"

"And the Dark Lord?"

"The Dark Lord stays with us," he said quietly. "Our rank is rising, and we are untouchable. That is what I wanted for my boy—His protection. I have to solidify it. I have to be diligent in my conduct."

"And if you cannot save Draco with His hand?"

“Don’t be ridiculous. The Dark Lord worships my son the same way everyone does. He is our prince.”

“Let me speak hypothetically, for I am sure you’ve turned over every scenario in your head. I, devoted to my godson, have indeed thought of it too. What shall happen if all else fails and he is no longer safe in your home?”

Lucius raised his eyes quickly and was seized by a violent trembling. Severus was afraid his body would finally fail him and he would join his son in his stupor. But as soon as he'd weakened, strength graced his brow, and in a low, melodious voice, he spoke.

"Then the Veil comes off."