The Veiled Boy

The rain stopped soon after Harry's terrifying encounter. Students were still weary of the skies and primarily stayed indoors until the weather cleared completely. And this time, the arbitrary scapegoating held truth; Draco Malfoy had indeed made it rain poison. 

Naturally, the office of Albus Dumbledore became suffocated with personal visits from many parents and reporters, questioning his motives in bringing on so dangerous a pupil. His old age was their biggest asset in his supposed lack of competence. As always, the headmaster dealt with them with grace and dignity; Severus could only imagine the fate those nosy men from the Prophet would suffer if they'd come shoving a camera into his face. Following this scare, absurd headlines following any deviation from normality extended the incident to the ministry. 

Hogwarts to Replace Kievount as England's School of Dark Magic? 

Veiled Council Leader's heir, Draco Malfoy, Terrorizes Hogwarts' Students 

Dark Crimes on Steady Rise. Many Witches and Wizards May Succumb to the Veil

Minister Fudge promptly assured the public that the incident at Hogwarts was wholly independent from the rise in dark crime. But even during his speech, Severus cringed at the man's unsteady voice and fleeting glances. It was clear he was uneasy and possessed not an ounce of confidence in both himself and his administration. If you're going to spout absurdities, thought Severus, then at least speak evenly like a man of true power so that the public does not have to suspect your lack of veracity. Speak like Lucius Malfoy. That man could capture an entire room's sense of self, crumble it, throw it to the ground, and demand they all laugh at themselves. Everyone would, even the proudest of men. 

Fudge arrived punctually at ten o'clock in the morning at Dumbledore's office. With his satin handkerchief, he dried his perspiring forehead and plopped himself down on the seat opposite the headmaster. Despite his clear lack of confidence, he was dressed in expensive clothes with a proper, clean-shaven complexion. Fudge directed a good-natured glance toward Severus through his pince-nez before tugging at his collar so he could manage a breath. 

"Merlin's beard, my good friend! That is quite the set of stairs you have strewn before your door." 

"One's dedication to climb then rids me of irrelevant inquiries," said the headmaster, smiling with amusement. 

"Smart man! I've come on business, headmaster. Surely, you know how madness plagues the press—how nonsensical those headlines can become—and I dare say—"

"Ah! So you've finally come to tell me to expel my dearest pupil, Draco Malfoy."

"Oh, no!" Fudge let out a forced laugh deep-rooted in fear. "I'm just glad to simply address the situation with you, my friend! I know he couldn't have done such a thing. After all, he's scarce fifteen?"

"He turns sixteen next month," said Severus sharply. 

"Ah, my apologies. My point is he is just a boy! Such power is a generational thing, and we've got our Potter already, don't we?" He laughed nervously. 

"But it was the heir's doing," Albus said. "The boy did make it rain poison."

Fudge, who was previously colored with exercise, became a dreadful white. "Pardon?"

"Was it not your own cabinet member who was sent to the madhouse at his hands, sir?" Albus wondered calmly. Severus winced at the reference to that man. 

"Y-you mean old Podgers?" Fudge brought out shaking wheezes that Severus supposed to be attempted laughs. "But those are just rumors, headmaster!" 

"Do you so obstinately believe Podgers would claw his eyes out merely because of stress? No, you know the truth. But you're afraid that I and the entire country know too. You've been fighting to keep it secret, and now your dread has surfaced. I see it now, minister. I see it in how pale you've become."

"I didn't want the public to know," whispered the minister with his large head hanging low. "Everyone is under the impression that the Veiled are an insignificant community. That is why they can scowl at them in the streets and even shout castigations their way. Dare I step in front of the lectern and tell them how magically powerful they really are, even more so their heir, everyone would simply lose their heads."

"I suppose you are right," Albus said. "And it is to that ignorance that I was able to admit the boy so easily into our school. So, your desire to maintain calm is held in higher regard than the sustenation of peace."

Fudge's redness returned, and the wooden chair on which he sat creaked ominously under his weight. "Albus, do not stain me with so shallow a character. I have done everything in my power to keep them separate and powerless. Lucius Malfoy has been voted off the Wizengamot after You-Know-Who's fall. Kievount was disassembled. The presence of aurors in their usual meeting spots has only heightened under my administration."

"Lucius Malfoy may have no real power on paper, but how many ministry workers cower at the mere tapping of that walking stick? Now, let us not be fools; you and I both know Lucius has more influence in the ministry than you do." 

"Do not be so unfair—"

"Do you believe me as ignorant as the public?" Albus asked sternly, raising his voice a little. "Seventeen of your ministry officials left post last week. Seventeen, minister. Five of them heads of departments, two unspeakables, eight aurors, and two cabinet members. Before this departure, half were spotted consorting in known Veiled meeting spots. And not a single auror suspected a thing. Could it be they too have been swayed by fear and money? Man is weaker than he likes to believe, minister. And I'm afraid Lucius Malfoy has slipped under your nose yet again."

"How do you know this?" Fudge asked weakly with his bottom lip jutted out and trembling. "That information wasn't released."

"Never mind how I know," Albus waved his hand in dismissal. "Minister, I beg you to tighten your hold on your administration. Riddle is back. You know it, and I do too. If you cannot control the ministry, then your approval ratings mean nothing if they grab it again." 

Fudge was shivering now. "Do not spit on me for my blindness! Was it not you who brought a Veiled child into Hogwarts? Hired a close family friend to the Malfoys?" Fudge cast a disagreeable look at Severus, whose own contempt was on full display. 

"Severus Snape has always been our ally," Dumbledore hissed. "His loyalty to the family never goes beyond his love for the boy. All of my moves have been carefully crafted and arranged to our own advantage, but they prove fruitless against your incompetency." 

"And what is this game you play, Albus? Why have you brought the heir here if you knew how dangerous he is?" 

"Does it not comfort you that I am keeping an eye on someone as powerful as he?" 

Fudge blushed again. It seemed his handkerchief was perpetually stuck to his mouth, for his humiliation surpassed the impropriety of the headmaster's tone. "It comforts me greatly," he finally admitted in a pitifully low voice. "Do not forget, headmaster, we are on the same side."

"I haven't forgotten," said Albus, restoring his good-natured smile. "I have my authority here over the school, and you have yours over the ministry. I hope you will be reasonable in time." 

Fudge begrudgingly shook the headmaster's hand and sent yet another weary glance toward Severus, who'd been watching silently against the wall. "Please continue to keep an eye on Lucius's boy. You-Know-Who feels invincible with him on his side. Give him a reason, and he shall unleash a deadly vengeance out of sheer adolescent spite." Fudge shuddered. "I cannot bear being in the same building with Death himself." With that, the minister left curtly, slamming the door as if to give one last demonstration of their social standing. 

Severus looked to the headmaster. He wore a pensive look and gently drummed his wrinkled fingers on his desk. 

"Severus, where is Tom Riddle now?" asked Albus, still looking at nothing. 

"At the manor." 

"Have you spoken with him yet?"

"Very briefly, sir."

"What about?"

"Draco Malfoy."

Otto Wright gained consciousness with a prominent throbbing in his temples. For a brief moment, he thought himself blind, and it took him several long seconds to realize a burlap sack had been placed rather unceremoniously over his head. Around his wrists were ropes tied so tightly that a mere movement unleashed a sharp burn against his already weary flesh. Confused he was, but naturally more terrified than ever. Otto had been victim to several nightmares in his life, but none as real as this, and now, despite the cool chill about the room, he'd begun to sweat profusely. 

"Awake?" Otto nearly screamed when a voice rang out behind him. It was a pathetic tremulous one.

"Where am I? Why am I here?"

The man behind him unleashed a stream of high giggles. "That's what they all say! Almost to a tee!"

"Who are you?" Otto continued anyway, shivering now. "Hello? Answer me, damn you!" 

The man scuffled away and, with heavy steps, climbed a distant staircase. Silence. Otto was alone; of that he was certain now. The unbroken hush reigned over the room for a long while. His weak heart began to relax, and before his nerves could follow, a sound scarcely approached his ears. 

Tap, tap, tap. 

It was approaching. Tap, tap, tap. 

Otto let out a loud, irrepressible sob when he recognized the sound to be that of Lucius Malfoy's walking stick. I'm done for! Otto, panicking now—as all animals naturally do when they sense death—flung himself half senseless down toward the concrete floor. 

"Help me!" Otto wailed. His wrists must've been bleeding now, but the raw sensation of pain was nothing but a sting under the adrenaline's anesthesia. "Somebody help me!"

"Ah! Otto Wright." Malfoy's voice pervaded the entirety of the room. "I see you've fallen over. Peter, help him up." 

Two fat hands grabbed Otto by the shoulders, and with one great heave, he was situated back into his upright position. The burlap bag was swiftly removed, and Otto was able to see him in his entirety. 

Lucius Malfoy's face, handsome as it was, thoroughly terrified Otto. That austere expression gave away a sickening wish to doom him to every torment his imagination could augment, and his stature tall before Otto's only granted it. 

"Wright, department of mysteries. Correct? What was it you were working on?" Lucius asked, drawing out his words skillfully. "Ah, I do not forget. My memory seldom fails me. Was it the eradication of veils?"

Otto pressed his trembling lips together and fell into a melancholic quietude. Silence had always been his instinctive response to questions about his work. The ministry generously filled his vault for this secrecy, and Otto was saving to retire somewhere nice and warm. He'd been eyeing the Bahamas. But an ocean view and bottomless rum would remain unrealized at this rate. 

"Ministry wanted you to keep quiet on this, don't they? Fudge is scared; he is weak and pitifully unorganized," Malfoy said matter-of-factly. "But you, Otto Wright, have been laudably meticulous about your work. I congratulate you!"

A fat man—Otto guessed him as the one who'd laughed at him and recoiled at his bulging eyes and giant front teeth—applauded him, stopping immediately at the gentle raise of Lucius's hand. 

"Article seventy-eight: Exile and Execution," Lucius started to pace around Otto in circles. "A delightful article for Fudge, I dare say. Round up all Veiled families, even the women and children, and send them off to exile! Those who do not comply are sentenced to death! Their crime? Conspiracy against the ministry and terrorism on mudbloods—pardon me, muggleborns." With a quick hand, Lucius grabbed Otto's jaw and forced the man to behold the explicit antipathy embedded within Malfoy's gray eyes. "'Strip the children from their Veil, send them to correctional centers.' And you spit on me for my evil!" Lucius's nails painfully embedded themselves into Otto's tear-soaked skin. 

"It is merely an article, sir! Please, it hasn't been enacted or even presented to the cabinet!" Otto was begging.

"But it would have been, Wright. Fudge would have enacted it and dressed that crime in flowers and jewels. It would be his shining trophy! Minister Fudge rids the United Kingdom of all Veiled Wizards! And there you have it: a reelection. Don't you lie to me, Wright! A man will ruin himself for a thimble of power just to realize there is nothing for a man who falls to his knees for it." 

"I will erase it and step down from my position," Otto whimpered. "Anything you want, Malfoy."

Lucius finally let go of his face and looked with disgust at the blood under his nails. "Mud," he grimaced. "If we are both beastly sort of men, then why not finish this the way beasts would? A good bite to the throat." 

Otto paled considerably, his marrow freezing in the depths of his shaking limbs. "Malfoy, I'll do anything. I will tell you everything, I swear!"

"Pettigrew." Malfoy turned to the fat man, who leaned against the wall. "Get the bowl."

"Lucius, please." Otto was crying now, tears and snot pouring down the front of his face. "I'll do anything for you! Anything!"

Pettigrew came back to the center with a large wood basin; grabbing Otto's seat, he tilted it harshly over the edge, and Otto's cries echoed loudly into the dark, putrid bowl. The cool touch of the walking stick's head—a silver serpent—grazed the back of his perspiring neck. Otto could feel its sharp teeth opening small wounds upon his flesh. 

"Don't do this, Malfoy," Otto begged fruitlessly. "Please, I'll tell you what I know about Fudge. Everything. He has plans, you know? He has plans for your boy!"

The walking stick was removed briefly from his skin, and Otto managed a brief recovery. With a fierce grip, Lucius grabbed him by his hair and tilted his head up to face him. "What plans?"

"If I tell you, will you release me?"

Without another word, Lucius grabbed the serpent head and pressed the teeth aggressively against Otto's throbbing jugular. "Tell me!"

"Okay, okay!" Otto wailed. "Murder. He wishes for someone to kill your heir! After all, Draco Malfoy's name is on the uppermost list of dangerous wizards, just below You-Know-Who. A ministry official will arrive at your home to your lauded private dinners, Paul Gibbons. He's been to your home several times, has he not? Ingratiated himself with your close circle over the years and learned—upon being invited two times before—that your son is typically fast asleep by nine thirty in the evening. Gibbons would slip away into the corridors—which he has done so already—and enter your boy's room. Poison was ruled out by the service; they claim nothing dark could kill him. So, they'd decided a large dagger through the eye ought to kill him quickly and without risk of retaliation. Gibbons is the one to do it; I swear to you I am being entirely forthcoming! Before you or your wife was to find your boy in a pool of his own blood with his skull crushed in, he planned on fleeing to Vladivostok and living off of his ministry pension. Give me Veritaserum, and I will repeat every word just I have said!"

Lucius's countenance faltered briefly at the mention of the ruination of his son's skull, and Otto felt a brief respite of relief upon witnessing an ounce of emotion in his captor. But the silence that followed Otto's confession was enough to make him go mad; he began his begging and crying once again. 

“You slaughtered your own parents for what, Malfoy? Yes, I know.” Otto tried his very best to put on a warm, understanding smile. “I know that you slit their throats the same way you wish to do mine. A vile man, your father, and an unforgiving woman, your mother. I deem you better than them; a better father! Dare I say, with certainty, that you’ve never laid a hand on your own son! Draco has never felt the sting of a beating!”

”Silence!”

”You do not have it in you, Lucius, for you have not forgotten a single thing he’s done to you. Every day you are reminded, aren’t you? When you use that walking stick because your father was so unnaturally vexed and drunk with power the night you ran away. He caught you and made you a cripple! Do not be like him, dear sir!” 

Lucius’s face winced for a second. Then, with a swift motion, Otto felt the serpent's teeth sink into his neck, and before he could scream, it was pulled across violently. Blood gushed from the wide opening in his neck; every time Otto's racing heart beat, a jet of blood spurted messily into the bowl. Even if he screamed—the pain was much too intense to remain silent—he'd choke and gurgle, unable to breathe. As his conscious failed him, he'd heard Lucius Malfoy's walking stick disappear back toward the stairs. 

"Pull Draco from Hogwarts at once." 

After another wearisome long week of feverish fits and trance-like consciousness, Draco regained his weak health by the time springtime had begun its departure. To his watchful governess, Draco seemed a tranquil god as mercy graced his brow. And indeed his torments fled with the season, but the memories—whose reality he still debated—lingered indistinguishable like stars on a foggy night. It was all too distant for him; his mind was much too exhausted despite having been inactive for the latter half of the month. Draco knew some of his fits brought on terrible hallucinations, some so dreadfully real. But he had not troubled himself with it much, partly because he hadn't the strength to confront it. That is, nearly making Harry go mad. And the hauntingly sweet kiss that preceded it. 

With summer approaching, the sun was shining brightly, and the sweet blossoms outside perfumed the air as the wind ruffled the trees here and there. A sufficient rest beside the open window eased Draco's nerves, and soon he was propped up by his satin pillows and talking with his governess. The boy's strength and confidence were carefully reconstructed with the hands of time and good air. Miss Clarke was most pleased with his quick recovery and relinquished every second of her day to his disposal, even if the Malfoys bid her to rest. But accompanying her in her tireless efforts for the heir's recovery were his godfather and his dear friend, Harry. Both—when freed from occupation and school—would hurry to Draco's bedside and speak to him.

Severus would speak of practicalities—schooling, excused assignments, and other matters Draco ought to have been concerned with but had rightfully been taken care of. Harry spoke of everything but. As if before an audience, the boy spoke of comical incidents that'd happened—mostly exaggeration for Draco's entertainment. A poorly aimed evanesco ridding a boy of his pants; the notorious mandrake coming loose and shattering the walls of Sprouts class; Harry's trip to Hogsmeade, which he declared hardly any fun at the expense of Draco's absence. To all of this and more, Draco had been listening while his eyes were shut, but he would smile and nod like a common drunk. 

One morning, when he was alone in the room and he felt himself particularly strong, Draco slipped out of his bed and made for the foot of it. His heart quickened; he wondered if it'd been too soon to verify that dreadful event, but he'd persevered with a weak hand, caressing the mattress lining for the hole. Instead of an opening, there had been a stitch in its place. As if he'd burned himself, he pulled his hand away and stared perplexed. Surely, it was more than just a bad dream. Having heard footsteps approaching his door, Draco leapt back into bed, threw the covers over his legs, and mechanically folded his hands on his lap. It was Harry. 

"You're awake," said he, smiling handsomely. He pulled up a chair to Draco's bedside and situated himself comfortably, spreading his legs as men of impertinence do. "Are you feeling much better?"

"Indeed," Draco whispered shyly. This shyness he deemed a symptom of his fleeting illness, for it hadn't been there before. Maybe it was the foreseen effects of having received that kiss. Harry seemed exceptionally lively today and was already digging into his school bag for some silly trinket to entertain Draco. But Draco's tongue was thick in his mouth, and seeing his friend brought on an uncomfortable burning in his chest. "Harry, may I ask you a question?"

"Yeah, of course," said Harry, emptying some trash onto the bed. Draco grimaced at his friend's insolence. 

"Did I really attempt to curse you after I'd flung myself half senseless into madness?" 

Harry stopped his rummaging and slowly looked up to Draco with an odd, enigmatic expression. It was almost saying, 'You know of it?' as if Draco was a small child inquiring about politics at the grown-up's table. 

"Why do you ask?"

"I remember it as if it were real. The ache of the fear left a scar on my heart. But I ask you because I am no stranger to hallucinations, Harry. I simply wish to know if I'd committed so vile an act. Answer yes, and I'll be swallowed whole by misery, guilt, and confusion."

"Why confusion?"

"Why confusion? You ought to have left me the moment I attempted to rid you of sanity! That is what any sensible person would do anyway. But you're still here before me as if... as if it never happened."

"Remember I am not sensible, Draco. And I don't think you should feel guilty at all. You didn't do it on purpose." 

"So it truly happened?" Draco gasped, clutching his blankets so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "Oh, I'd secretly hoped it'd been nothing but a vestige of a dream!" Overcome with humiliation and self-hatred, Draco buried his face in his hands. 

There was a strong hand on Draco's shoulder that squeezed him comfortingly. "Hey, I'm alright. I told you I'm practically invincible," he laughed. How could he laugh before me who suffers from tremendous guilt? Is he mocking me? "Really, it was nothing but a flash of light for me. Nothing to beat yourself up over. If anything, it was my fault anyway. I was going to wait until you were steadier on your feet before apologizing, but I can't stand to keep it from you. Don't you know what I'm talking about?"

Draco looked at Harry through his fingers, not removing his hands to conceal the blush that overtook his entire face. Now, instead of the fierce grip of remorse, a self-effacing sensation sent jolts to his heart. Yes, I know what you're talking about, thought Draco, still hiding modestly behind his hands. I remember the way your handsome lips graced my cheek. I remember how electrified I'd become by my adolescent adoration toward you, and how it'd been quickly replaced with the terrifying dread of a witness. 

"I kissed your cheek," said Harry, looking into Draco's eyes with sincerity. "And I'm sorry that I did it. You know how stupid I am, don't you? It seemed like a good idea at the time, but knowing that I'm bisexual and condemning me to whatever the Book says, it probably was a stupid idea. I'm sorry, Draco. I really am." Harry turned a bright shade of red and lowered his eyes. "But I swear I didn't kiss you for any reason other than a friend-like affection. So don't worry about anything that might get you in trouble." 

Harry's final line offered a sting to Draco's heart, and his silence only exaggerated this friendlike exchange. So unwittingly foolish he was to believe otherwise. "It wasn't the kiss that prompted the curse," said Draco, slowly removing his hands from his face. "I'd merely been afraid someone could have seen it."

"And if they had?"

"I'd be Cleansed."

Harry's whole body tensed as if fate were entirely his own. There was a heavy silence in the room; even the birds outside coincidentally stopped their song. But then, unexpectedly, Harry laughed once again. 

"Why do you laugh about something so serious?" Draco whispered, nearly in tears.

"Because it won't happen," said Harry, still laughing. 

"You were right to call yourself stupid just moments ago. How can you possess the confidence necessary to say so foolish a thing?"

"Well, didn't I say from the moment I met you that I wouldn't let anything bad happen to you? If that is ever your sentence, then what stops me from running away with you? You know I would."

Draco blushed but still kept his eyes low and his hands in his lap. "Oh, you haven't a clue how vigorously they search. We'd be living in exile and tedious secrecy for the entirety of our miserable lives should we ever run from them." 

"Okay, sounds good to me," said Harry. "We could change cities every week. Before you go outside, you'd wear my invisibility cloak. And in particularly deserted places, we could maybe settle for a month."

Draco managed a smile but still could not look up at his friend. "You'd soon grow tired of me."

"Never." Harry spoke lightly, but his tone was entirely serious, and even if he'd been laughing, Harry's words flowed from him as if they were on his tongue for a while.

"But this is all hypothetical," Draco whispered solemnly. "I would never run from the Veiled; I trust their judgment wholeheartedly. If they believe I am no longer pure, then they must be right. Running is foolish." Never before did words taste so bitter in his mouth, and his own reluctance to disagree with Harry made him uneasy. "Understand that, Harry. Their word is sound; their word is law. 

"I know. It's all hypothetical. But really, I wouldn't let them do anything. I mean, I don't think they're right at all. I think they're full of it." 

"When you say 'they' you also insult me. I am a Veiled wizard, Harry." 

Harry smiled and nodded. "Yeah, I know. But even if the scenario was grim, it could be fun to build on. Don't think you've got yourself in some inescapable dilemma, Draco."

"There is no dilemma, Harry. And I think it is not inescapable but an unwillingness to leave so correct a doctrine! Do I make myself clear? Have I given you the impression that I wish to be without it?" Draco was trembling again, and he was so sorry to have rid Harry of his unserious thought. In fact, he did find it remarkably sweet to discuss the hypotheticals of the two of them running off together. There was something so profoundly romantic about it, and Draco, understanding his disease as a droplet of venom, was yet again startled by its resurfacing. 

"I'm sorry," Harry whispered, his countenance becoming more overcast. "I don't want to upset you at all. Let's not talk about it anymore." 

"We can speak like fools about the silly prospect of our adventures, but we cannot in the slightest speak of it in the context of my impossible defection." Draco blushed and smiled sheepishly. 

Harry's face lit up with excitement, and he leapt from his stool onto the bed. "Well, then! First, I'd take you to the coldest cities! That way we won't kill each other in the small apartments we rent—we won't have much money. I could go looking for food, maybe steal from our wealthier neighbors, and you'd sit comfortably at home."

"But I haven't the money to sit idly by," said Draco. "I must find an occupation! What do you believe me to be good at, Harry?"

"You can teach piano to kids, I guess."

"Oh, how lovely!" He gasped and clasped his hands together. Draco was, as it were, thoroughly entertained by this game and gradually forgot everything that ailed him. "I could perhaps make one hundred galleons a lesson—"

"One hundred galleons a lesson? You're so filthy rich that you think one hundred galleons is hardly enough money?"

Draco blushed. "Then how much should I make per lesson?"

"Five sickles at most," said Harry. 

"Five sickles?!" Draco gasped. "Now I'm not sure I enjoy the hypothetical scenario we've crafted. How desolate are we to be? I know too well how easily the heart can grow accustomed to the comforts of life, but I've always believed myself rather modest in that sense. I've never even seen a sickle before!"

"You won't have your carriages, your clothes, or your satin sheets. No warm rose water, no cashmere towelettes, and definitely no emeralds. Just me, a broken wood burner, and five sickles a week."

Draco laughed and leaned his head on Harry's firm shoulder. "What a nightmare," he said half-heartedly, unable to abandon the wide smile on his face. It matters not if the wood burner is broken, thought Draco, blushing. I'll be sufficiently warm by your side.