The Veiled Boy

Ron, Harry, and Hermione were sat under the generous shade of the great oak that neighbored Hagrid’s hut, peeling unidentifiable root vegetables for Fang—who, unfortunately, was slowly recovering from a deleterious bug bite. For the first half of their services, the three were silent, and all that could be heard was the scrape of blades against the rough root skins and the heavy thump of a completely peeled vegetable hitting the base of the baskets. Hermione knew they were all thinking of it as she was, not outwardly yet, but she could practically hear the words churning inside of their heads. She knew out of the three of them, Harry was haunted most by it all; after all, he’d experienced it himself. 

That morning, just shy of three hours ago, the Order met in Dumbledore’s office to learn of Harry’s experience in the hold of Malfoy’s curse. While the entire audience grew increasingly horrified by it—You-Know-Who’s inordinate desire to weaponize Malfoy and to slaughter Harry—Hermione had caught the satisfied visage worn by the headmaster. She wondered now, as she dragged her knife through the rough part of the stem, if Ron or Harry had seen it too or had sensed it in his lofty tone. Even if they had not, Hermione was certain of it. Dumbledore had some unkept secret about the entire ordeal, and this incident with Harry, in some inexplicable way, had proved in his favor. 

“Don’t any of you think it odd how Dumbledore was acting this morning?” Hermione began quietly. Immediately, Ron’s visible confusion assured her of his pitiful nescience. Harry, however, kept his eyes on his immobile knife and slowly nodded. 

“It was almost like he was glad of it,” said Harry in a breathy whisper. “I can’t think of any reason why, though. Lately, I’ve just been growing suspicious of Dumbledore. I know his intentions are good, but to see him along with Snape—someone who actually cares about Draco—he almost seems heartless.”

“I never thought you could ever think Snape was better than Dumbledore,” Ron snorted and tossed his knife and roots to the side. “What do you think, ‘Mione? I’m sure you’ve got a theory about it already; someone as brilliant as you ought to.”

Hermione turned a bright red and suddenly fixed her eyes on her already-peeled root. “I just think Dumbledore’s hiding something. And when Harry brought up his experience in that drawing room, Dumbledore nearly laughed.”

Ron shrugged plainly. “Yeah, the whole story is disturbing, but Dumbledore probably figured it out before hand. You know, Draco’s unnatural conception with dark magic.”

“No,” Hermione blurted. “It wasn’t that. It was when Harry got to the part where You-Know-Who was boasting about Malfoy’s power.”

“Well, maybe he’s just been reassured that Malfoy can help us get You-Know-Who’s mind.”

“And then what?” Hermione finally dropped her root and knife, looking at both of her friends with earnest determination. “What about his soul and his body?”

Ron simply shrugged. “Dumbledore said we should only focus on the bugger’s head. Apparently the body is at the manor, getting fat on pastries and wine. And nobody has a clue about the soul.”

“What if it’s still intact?” Harry asked suddenly. Hermione and Ron stopped their conversation and looked at him. He looked unnaturally sullen, perched upon an upturned root with his head hanging low. “Voldemort’s soul could still be in his body; he might be still in the process of breaking apart from it. You see, it was soon after Draco was born that I was born. Voldemort felt invincible for two months, and when he’d heard that I could be as invincible, he began to split himself into three. Draco was still a baby. He definitely couldn’t commit his psychological terrorism in Voldemort’s favor yet. And from what we know, that ability matured with time, and it was when Draco was eleven he was able to wield it fully. It was because of Voldemort’s miscalculation and error—the unforeseen threat—that he started to split up. But he didn’t get to it in time. He was much too focused on eliminating competition.” 

Hermione listened carefully and, admittedly, had been thoroughly impressed with Harry’s careful consideration of all of the facts of the matter. It definitely made sense, and it made everything more tragic than she’d anticipated. But was it the simplicity of the matter that brought on Dumbledore’s triumphant attitude earlier? 

“How long does that take, anyway?” Ron wondered quietly. “Taking the soul out like that.”

Nobody answered. Hermione nearly hid her face to hide the vainness of her blush for not knowing either. “If it took him two months to attempt to kill Harry.” Hermione cast a weary look at him, but Harry seemed wholly occupied by the previous subject. “Then we can assume it was during that period he rid himself of his mind and stored it away in that particular fashion. How long has it been since his resurrection? Three months? Surely, You-Know-Who has removed his soul by now. That is, if Harry’s theory is correct.” 

“We should continue on as we are while things are still quiet,” Ron said with half a smile. “Dumbledore will figure it all out for us.”

“We should stop depending so much on him,” said Harry. “I’m not sure if I trust him. I say we start asking Snape our questions. I mean, I’ve become a sort of double agent like he’d been, right? I’d be better off by his side than Dumbledore’s.”

Hermione studied him carefully. How he spoke his justification with an unnatural haste was a cause for observation for her. To ease his mind, she nodded and noted this to be yet another change to his character ever since he’d befriended Malfoy. It was plain to see—maybe only to her, whose lauded intuition of the matter was kept to herself—that Harry was wholly devoted to Malfoy. She watched her friend every time he spoke of him or had seen him in the halls. Harry’s eyes would soften with his name on his tongue, and color would rise to his cheeks. When Ron teased Malfoy—which was often—Harry tirelessly defended his character. ‘No, Ron, he does not sleep in trees to stalk his prey! He sleeps just like we do, if not better! You wouldn’t know! Your blasted snoring shakes the entire room!” And that would spark yet another argument as to whose snoring was louder. Harry, when passing by the Veiled boy in the hall’s, would turn his head if he went unnoticed, as if his very soul demanded to be acknowledged by him. Hermione wasn’t sure if he knew yet, but she was positive of there being an unspoken, mutual attraction shared by the two friends. But she did not encourage it; the entire situation they’d been placed in was a breeding ground for tragedy, and Hermione’s heart, though young and inexperienced, ached for the two boys. 

“Whatever you say, boss,” said Ron. He picked up his knife and root and continued on as before. Hermione did as well while cautiously glancing at Harry, who had not moved at all since he’d spoken. 

“Harry!” The voice was distant but clear; in it was the sound of health and youth. Hermione looked up beyond the patch and saw the Veiled boy practically sprinting down the hills, calling that name. “Harry!”

Harry, as if pulled by a divine force, leapt to his feet, and a brilliant smile overtook his previously solemn face. Hermione blushed for him and laughed quietly to herself. Harry soon abandoned his happiness and became overly concerned about Malfoy once he was close enough to see how vigorously he’d been panting. Noisily, Harry dragged a crate, turned it upside down, and forced Malfoy to sit. 

“You shouldn’t be running, Draco. Aren’t you still recovering? How’d you leave your room, anyway? That governess of yours circles you like a hawk!” 

Malfoy—who had yet to acknowledge Hermione and Ron—laughed gaily and waved his fair hand in dismissal. “Well, Harry, I’ve done something exceptional! And I love that you’ve arranged an audience for me!” Malfoy finally gestured at the two. “I slipped away whilst she watched me!”

“What do you mean? She let you go.” 

“No, my dear! I’d been terribly agitated with how suffocating she’s been. I adore her; I do, but I’m still young! Someone of my age cannot be tied to a bed! Wouldn’t you hate to be tied to a bed?” 

Ron snorted. Hermione shot him a warning glance. 

“We’d gotten into an argument. It was not particularly nasty, but I’d nearly insulted her appearance. That is when an argument reaches its lowest point, Harry. She is beautiful, indeed, but I could address three features of hers I know she dreads to see each morning. But I digress! While she lay upon me an ill-placed castigation, I’d stepped back, slipped into the shadows, and reappeared just where I wanted to be: outside the castle walls! Tell me, Harry, are you so very impressed?” Malfoy was now very out of breath, but his story was deemed more important than life itself. 

Harry and Hermione exchanged glances, for she was genuinely interested now. Any first-year knew one couldn’t apparate on school grounds, but Malfoy’s odd way of disappearing into shadows must’ve slipped over the founders’ heads when they’d constructed the charms. Unless, however, such an ability was not yet known at the time. 

“Yeah, that is actually pretty cool,” said Harry. “Are you not tired because of it?”

“No, sir!” Malfoy stood and held his hands out wide. “You shall find me in perfect health! No vague delirium, no fainting, nothing to suggest that I’ve been burdened by such a curse! What do you think?”

“Could you do it again?” Hermione wondered. Malfoy turned to her quickly; she did not shrink back as she used to but maintained her attentive posture. 

“I suppose I could,” he answered good-naturedly. Then he’d sit down on the crate and fall into a peaceful silence. Hermione watched with intrigue, leaning forward despite Ron’s cautious grip on her arm. The shade under which they had been situated began to shift in the most unnatural way. Like liquid, the shadows gathered at the Veiled boy’s feet. One could have missed it without a watchful eye; the boy sunk into the collected darkness and disappeared completely. 

Hermione was burning with curiosity; she leapt to her feet despite Ron’s pleads, and whirled around to look for him. Then, the shadow produced by Hagrid’s hut deepened in density, and from the wall—the darkest point—a leg stepped out and was soon followed by the entire spectacle. 

“Merlin’s beard,” muttered Harry, who stared with the same excitement as Hermione. “You’re amazing!”

“That, I am!” Malfoy walked toward them again and bowed. “I shall find myself anywhere at any time! Dare I try to visit the manor? I could come to Hogwarts after a good night’s sleep beneath my brilliant fresco ceiling!” 

“Posh git,” Ron muttered under his breath. 

“You should practice more before you go so great a distance,” Hermione suggested. Malfoy turned to her, waited a moment, and nodded. 

“That is true; I shouldn’t want to get lost in the darkness!” Malfoy happily moved over to where they were sitting and situated himself on the very same crate he was in moments earlier. “Anyway, Harry, I hope to spend time with you. As you know, summer will soon be upon us, and we will be parted for quite some time.” 

Harry’s face softened with severe affection—Hermione checked Ron to see if he’d noticed how drastically their friend changed, but he did not seem to notice. 

“Couldn’t you visit me?”

“I probably could. But my parents will be much too fastidious about my health; I’m afraid they may keep me inside the manor. Oh!” Malfoy covered his veiled face with his hands and shook his head woefully. “I’ve lived more in this school year than I have my entire life! I couldn’t possibly remain idle for two whole months after discovering the true meaning of fun!”

Harry laughed. “Then you’ll have to sneak out. Act like a real teenager and break the rules a little bit.”

“Don’t be a bad influence, Harry,” Hermione laughed. “Besides, you wouldn’t want Malfoy sneaking out into the dark, would you? That’s dangerous.”

“Worry not.” Malfoy waved her off. “I’m rather capable of protecting myself! I’m strong, aren’t I?”

“Didn’t you scare yourself into a month long fever?” Ron asked. Hermione shot him a dangerous look. 

“Yes, I did! And to add to that, you’d have been as good as dead if I hadn’t come rescue you from that telon!” Malfoy stood and turned on his heel to face Ron. “If you were to take the hand of anyone here into the forbidden forest with you, whose name would you whisper? Mine, surely!”

Hagrid came to save Ron from his wallowing silence by stumbling roughly out of his hut with two big beefy hands cupped at his mouth. “Harry! Ron! Bring in yer finished roots! I’ve got me pot ready!” 

“Wait here, Draco,” said Harry as he heaved up a large basket. “After this, we can go for a walk if you want.”

“Lovely! I will wait right here!” Malfoy sat himself obediently on his crate. As the two boys left with their arms heavy with roots, Hermione eyed her new companion with utmost enthusiasm, almost wishing to pry anything from him. But she never had to open her mouth, for an inquiry came on its own. One she had not been expecting. 

“Why did you give me that book?” Was his question. Malfoy was turned away from her completely; his body suggested he’d been soundlessly waiting, and with his face veiled, nobody would ever know they’d been speaking to one another. Hermione took the hint and turned away from him too. 

“I thought you’d learn something.” 

“How did you know?” Malfoy’s voice was stronger than she’d expected considering the subject had sent him into hysterics just weeks before. “How could you send me a book riddled with disease?”

“It’s not a disease, Malfoy. That’s what they tell you so they can control the family structure and ostracize you further from the rest of us.”

“You fail to answer my initial question. I ask you again, What gives me away?”

Hermione was blushing now, nearly trembling with both embarrassment and shame. “It was made clear through your conduct with Harry. And you, not knowing yourself, allowed that behavior to slip so boldly.”

Malfoy’s shoulders tensed and she’d seen his pale hands gather his robes tightly in his palms. “What are you suggesting? That I’m in love with Harry?”

“I’m not sure about love, Malfoy. But I could only assume you fancy him.” 

There was a deafening silence between them. Hermione listened with dumb emotion, almost begging him to reply with something. But Malfoy remained as a statue would, rigid and lifeless. For a brief moment, she’d been frightened that he may fall into another fit of his.

“Even if I did, I couldn’t do much about it. I will still marry a respectable woman, and so will Harry. I could be happy if we just carried on as we are: good friends. I am much too afraid of the justified consequences.”

“Unjust,” Hermione corrected. Malfoy’s head swiftly turned to “If you do as you are bid, you’ll grow to resent your wife, your parents, and soon even Harry. Could you imagine going to his wedding where you are sitting at the pew and not standing at the alter? Could you bear to see Harry fall in love with another?”

Malfoy’s statue-like posture faltered for a moment; his hands began to tremble under the weight of reality. “You speak to me as if it is merely cowardice that ties my hands. My life would be made easier should I live in the most sensible way possible. If that means I must betray my wicked self, then by all means. I’d rather live an anecdote than throw myself foolishly into utter destruction.”

Hermione hated to hear it. On a human level, she pitied him immensely, but on a more technical level, she feared that Harry had not managed to pierce his indissoluble loyalty. There it was intact before her in the form of a contended brokenhearted boy. 

“There’s nothing wrong with you, Malfoy,” she whispered quietly. “I hope you know that.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Of course there’s something wrong with me. And it is credited to your book that brought upon me this terrible misery.” 

“You would have found out one day, with or without the book. I believe it is better now than on your wedding night when your new wife cannot do anything for you.”

Malfoy tensed again. “Do not repeat a word of this conversation to another soul. Should you decide to betray me, no one shall believe that I spoke so ridiculous a thing to someone far below me.”

“I keep all of our secrets, Malfoy. I haven’t told anyone about the books, and I haven’t told anyone about your affections for Harry.”

“I never admitted to such a thing.”

“You don’t have to,” concluded Hermione rather boldly. “Here they come.”

Malfoy quickly stood and went to meet Harry. Hermione watched pitifully as Harry attempted to take the former’s hand, but Malfoy—whose dread was still fresh in his mind—swiped it away. There was a pang of offense and pain upon Harry’s face, but he did not seem to question it further. Ron returned to his place near Hermione, stretched out under the shade, and shut his eyes. Much too relaxed he was when a tragic scene was occurring only ten steps off. The two boys walked away without a conversation, but with an unspoken, undying devotion for one another. Hermione sighed and lay beside her Ron. 

The two of them strolled toward absolutely nothing in a comfortable silence. The pebbled road, bordered by forget-me-nots, led to a hidden recess in the trees that terminated it. Conveniently, there was a soft patch of grass there, and Harry sat down with Draco close by. It was rare for Draco to be silent for this long; usually, the second minute he’d find something odd to complain about, but today he’d seemed as if he were examining his own conscience. Harry was quite unsure if that bode well for him. 

Draco lay down completely and extended his arms upwards in a big stretch. Harry admired the length of his figure—thin and boyish as he was. It was almost ironic that he should wield so tremendous a power and house it in a body as delectable as his. Harry reached for the Veil and removed it so that Draco’s heavenly visage could complete the art that was his physical being. Draco smiled innocently and patted the ground beside him. 

“Merlin, people should fight wars over you,” Harry chuckled as he propped himself on his elbow to look over his friend. 

“Why?”

“Why? You’ve never heard that before? When someone or something is so beautiful, people tend to fight over it.”

“Don’t be a fool,” Draco scoffed, blushing anyway. He turned his face away from Harry in an attempt to hide a smile. “Perhaps you need to adjust your glasses from time to time.”

With his free hand, Harry gently turned Draco’s head to face him and carefully moved his blonde hair away from his face. “I’ve never met anyone as lovely as you. It might be a good thing you wear the Veil.” 

Draco laughed and rolled his eyes. “What do you want, Harry? I haven’t any galleons on myself at the moment.”

Harry shrugged and continued anyway. “You’ve got hair as soft as feathers,” he said and ran his hands through it. Draco seemed to melt under his touch. “Eyes like moons, skin as smooth as marble, your lips...” Harry’s fingers stopped and gently brushed against the softness of the boy’s mouth. 

“Yes? What about them?” Draco asked in a whisper, staring at him, eyes heavy with languor. 

“Kissable,” said Harry, blushing now. 

Seized by the sudden awareness of how bold he’d been, Harry tried to remove his hand, but Draco held it in place against his mouth. Then, with the natural hesitation that comes before all firsts, Draco kissed his fingers tenderly. From that point on his hands, his nerves burned and sent a thrilling sensation pulsating throughout his body. Harry had felt so significantly enraptured by such a simple gesture. Never did he feel such a thing when he’d kissed Cho Chang during their brief time together or kissed other girls on a dare or a brief fling. And seeing Draco repeatedly kiss his hand so graciously now, feeling the softness of those lips on his flesh, seized upon everything he knew and was rid of it in almost an instant. The curvature of Cho’s body, the fullness of her breasts—the one-dimensional importance to any teen boy. Even the symmetrical divinity of Cedric or the uncanny allure of any Veela seemed so wholly insignificant beneath the lips of Draco Malfoy. 

Draco pulled Harry’s hand away and replaced it with his own. After placing a gentle kiss on his fingers, he gently offered his hand to Harry. On his face was a burning desire attempted to be concealed by an innocent timidity. And Harry could not resist that look. Draco’s gray eyes fleeting, his cheeks flushed with a childish blush, and his lips pressed tightly against one another to suppress a plead. With passionate haste, Harry took his hand and kissed it where his lips had been just moments before. He could feel how Draco melted under the contact and heard a brief sigh of pleasure at Harry’s acceptance. 

Harry chuckled. “What do you think?” 

“You’re teasing me,” he whispered, looking up at Harry with the same alluring expression as before. Draco used his elbow to be on the same eye level as him, but his loving gaze was fixated on Harry’s lips. 

“I’m not,” Harry said. “Genuinely curious, that’s all. Personally, for me, a hand kiss is a first. But it was very sweet anyway.” 

“What about a proper kiss? Have you done one of those?”

“Plenty.”

Draco’s blush deepened, and he took a newfound interest in the grass. “Is that so? What was it like?”

“Well, it depends on the other person. I’ve kissed a girl who used her teeth a lot. That’s always unpleasant.” Harry watched as Draco stifled a laugh. “And it’s also unpleasant when a guy is particularly rough on the skin.”

“You’ve kissed a man before?”

“Yes, very briefly at a party. A fleeting and forgettable moment.”

“Have you ever gone beyond kissing?” Draco asked with his eyes still on the grass. Naturally, Harry was rather shocked and was silent for a couple of seconds. “Never mind I asked; I was merely curious. My apologies.”

“N-no!” Harry quickly stopped Draco from turning around. “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting you to ask about it. But no, I’ve never taken anyone to bed if that’s what you meant. I almost did, but I couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“Didn’t feel right,” Harry shrugged nonchalantly. At the time, he’d been plagued by a tremendous grief to have not followed through. The man-made pedestal a teenage boy felt after having slept with a girl was an unmatched feat at the lousy age of fourteen. Much too young to be considering that sort of intimacy; Harry knew it now and was exceptionally grateful for his then cowardice. 

“Did she not love you?” Draco asked quietly. Harry shook his head. “Did you love her?” Again, he shook his head. “Did you touch her?”

Harry grinned. “You’re really curious, Malfoy. What’s the matter, hm? Afraid that I’ve got a wandering hand?”

“Not at all!” Draco scoffed and punched Harry’s shoulder repeatedly. “And I wouldn’t put it past you either! You’re terribly impulsive!”

 “Me? Impulsive?” Laughing, Harry grabbed Draco’s cheek and pinched it affectionately. “You’re so cute when you deny you were just interested in the details!”

“I was not interested in the details! It is still crucial that I judge your character. The questions I ask to assist my doing so are nothing more than academic research!” Draco gasped in defiant assertion but spoke with the sweet extravagance of childish reproach.

Harry sat up. “You get so worked up when I tease you. Haven’t you learned that I’m hardly ever serious?” 

“I forget how annoying you can be,” Draco sighed and leaned back on his palms. “The circumstances under which we are in, I suppose, I find it necessary to enjoy every moment regardless.”

“And what circumstances are those?”

There in Draco’s eyes lurked a concealed sadness; his brows furrowed and a small line formed between them. Harry adored his troubled expression, but not now when something otherworldly tormented him. 

“Our differences,” he said finally. “There are expectations of me that I must follow. And doing so rids me of everything I’m afraid of. What is necessary is made so by trial and error. If I am to thrive and be comfortable, then I am to comply.”

“Nobody wants to be comfortable,” Harry shrugged. “Comfort is what you give to livestock so it doesn’t try to escape. Do you know what happens to a fat and well-rested pig? It’s eaten by the farmers who gave it the warm barn and the slop.” 

“And I suppose you believe the better alternative is discomfort?”

“Not so much discomfort, but change and risk. You don’t think the ministry got to its position today if they didn’t break a few rules themselves.”

“The ministry has fallen because of those broken rules. My father says they were at their peak fifty years ago, but ever since they started letting in muggleborns into the department of mysteries, everything has gotten exponentially worse,” Draco shrugged. “That’s what he says, anyway.”

“What do you say?”

“Well, I am much too young for politics. I seldom read The Prophet. My father encourages me to become well versed in current affairs, but I hardly care for it.” Draco gave Harry a good-natured smile. “Perhaps you think me a fool for not reading The Prophet.”

“Sometimes I think you can be a bit foolish. Not for your lack of reading newspapers but for repeating your father’s words and claiming them as your own.” 

Draco blushed and looked away immediately. “Forgive me,” he whispered. “I haven’t anything much else to say, for I’ve hardly lived.”

Perhaps two months ago, if Harry were to accuse Draco of regurgitation, Draco would have surely been thrown into a fit of agitation, scolding Harry for his ‘insolence’ and demanding that everything his father—or the Book—said was law. And each time, Harry would quietly surrender into silence and note to himself that Draco’s had yet to form his cocoon. But now this sudden acquiescence to his clear ignorance, an act of great moral strength, came to Harry as a sign of imminent change. 

Very proud he was of Draco that he wrapped an arm around the boy’s shoulder and pulled him close. Still shy with his admission, Draco rested his head quietly upon Harry’s shoulder, without a protest or justification for his words. The silence was an unspoken pledge that they should never betray one another; that Draco could undergo a spiritual metamorphosis and become his own being crafted by his own individual will, and only Harry would watch in awe as it happened. 

“There you are!” Snape’s towering frame emerged from the trees beside them. Draco practically leapt to his feet and moved away from Harry as if he were a venomous spider. “I’ve been looking all over for you. Are you alright? Miss Clarke told me you’d disappeared.”

“Worry not, Severus,” Draco stammered, casting nervous glances toward Harry who rose and approached the two. “I’d intentionally done so. I couldn’t bear being trapped in so dreadful a state. Is that all you bid of me?”

Snape glanced cautiously at Harry before taking Draco firmly by the shoulders. The potion master’s visage was a match for the grave manner in which he spoke. “Your father has come,” he said. “He’s come to take you home.”

Draco seized up with terror and dread, and without saying another word, he reached for Harry’s hand and squeezed it tightly.