The Veiled Boy

The Crowned Crow Inn stood feebly on Lacewing Lane, along a road where any shopkeeper in Diagon Alley would tell you, 'There's hardly anything worth your while.' The lot was surrounded by a dingy iron fence, caked with rust, and a jungle of overgrown weeds that reached visitors' knees, even if one stood on the concrete steps. Despite the generous prices at thirty sickles a night, business was slow even given the numerous gamblers and drunkards in the locale. 

Upon entering, one was greeted by a disgruntled Russian man, whose everyday clothes resembled those of an auror serviceman despite not having served a minute of his life. He was called Semyon Semyonovich and was often teased by the drunk Englishmen how foolish his name sounded, to which came the same reply: 'My father was also called Semyon! That's how it is done back home!' And nobody would care. 

It was on the fourth floor, in room 406, where Harry was staying and would stay for the remainder of the summer unless bid otherwise. Even for Harry's standards, the room was mildly offensive in both condition and decor. All sorts of stains populated the fraying carpet and peeling wallpaper, and even though it had seemed they'd been there long before Harry was born, the entire room smelled like an accumulation of condiments and bodily fluids. Along the eastern wall was a singular bed and a loveseat at the foot—both of which matched the carpet and walls with their many stains and odd smells. The window, curtained with spare linen from room 405, looked out onto the main road where Harry passed his time watching gamblers quarrel about debts and currency exchange. 

To make matters worse, sleeping proved difficult due not so much to the smell and uncomfortable mattress but to the thin walls from which Harry could hear the couple next door. At first, he'd found them rather entertaining. They often quarreled about the wife's wandering eye and the husband's debts. Harry later learned the woman was ten years his senior and had married him in hopes he would strike it big in roulette. But by the fifth day of his being here, Harry found all of their trifles repetitive and soon grew annoyed by the both of them. 

Harry was sitting on a half-rotted window seat when his Prophet relayed to him the imminent inauguration of Lucius Malfoy. It did not surprise him much, being that by the final week at Hogwarts, the entire Prophet was taken over. The columns reserved previously for cosmetic and fashion tips gave way to proper Veil application and varying styles and lengths appropriate for one's social standing. Instead of the professional quidditch roster was a recruitment notice for 'Young Scouts to Cleanse our World of Traitors for a Safer Tomorrow.' Students had become increasingly restless, and the air of the school changed from condemnation to terror toward the Veil. Consequently, a large majority of the student body left for home early, and one Zacharias Smith showed up to Herbology under the Veil, but not a soul dared to utter a reproach. School was let out while the ministry stood on its last legs. The Wizengamot court stripped Fudge of his title and readily replaced him with a no-name nobody that they could use as a scapegoat should the ministry fall completely—and it did. And it landed in the hands of Lucius Malfoy, whom everybody regarded as a powerful and capable man regardless of his wicked depravity. 

Everything that mattered to Harry seemed to have fallen so easily, and he'd almost become ashamed to have cherished a foundation that proved so weak and impressionable. And being stuck under Dumbledore's orders at the Crowned Crow Inn only furthered into him the inescapable fact that he could do nothing. 

Ron and Hermione came to visit him on the sixth day, and Harry was, for the first time in his life, terribly ashamed to invite his friends to his living space. He'd even entertained the thought that having them cram themselves into his childhood bedroom under the stairs would spare him more dignity than this godforsaken inn. But they arrived anyway and immediately twisted their faces at the stench. 

"Dumbledore must hate you," said Ron. "This place is rank! I wish you'd just stay with us at the burrow." 

"You know what Dumbledore said, don't you? Scouts are keeping rosters of who lives where and with whom; if they write down my name and decide later they want to arrest me, then it's your door they'll knock down. Once they're done with the records, I'll get out of here." 

Hermione and Ron held the heads low with chagrin. 

"Has Sirius come to see you?" Harry asked, finding the silence unbearable. 

"Yes, the Order met at the Burrow." Hermione said hurriedly. "Dumbledore is really pushing us to get rid of the Mind as soon as we can. According to him, that'll be the most difficult of them all. But we haven't gotten hold of Malfoy yet, have we? Snape says Malfoy is already becoming apprehensive about taking part in the Council, and he predicts it will be soon enough when Malfoy runs away from it all."

Harry sighed and tested his heavy head on the pad of his hand. In his heart was a tremendous ache at the sound of that name in the air. Such was a name that should not be uttered in a room like this or in such a grim context. Draco Malfoy. How divine it all sounded as a standalone phenomenon. Harry hated to only say it about him and not to him; he wanted to call out, 'Draco!'  and watch the boy turn, smile, and blush as was his very nature. But it was such a thing their circumstances could not allow, and Harry yielded to his further disappointment. 

"Are you alright, Harry?" Ron asked. "Snape said he would come to see you with a letter. Why don't you take a walk outside? It cannot be good for you to stay in this place all day." He said this was he took another turn about the room, scanning one particularly large blotch of mold on the wall. 

"Don't go to Diagon Alley," said Hermione quickly. "There's to be a public execution in the square at three. They were distributing leaflets on our way here." From her satchel, she retrieved a small pamphlet on which the notorious eye was stamped. Harry turned it over several times in his hand, picking up only the most wicked phraseology. It seemed almost satirical and unserious the way they condemned and sentenced the poor man to death, his crime being 'disruption of peace and negating order.' 

"Why are they promoting this one?" Harry asked. "All the others were done randomly. This seems a little premeditated."

"Well, it is the first execution under Lucius Malfoy as minister. I expect he will be there with the other council members as a way to instill fear and order among the general public." 

"Lucius Malfoy will be there?" Harry perked up with attention in his seat. "Will Draco be there?"

"I don't know," she said. "Don't go looking for him, Harry. It'll be very dangerous for you to be seen in the Alley this afternoon. I'm warning you." Harry thought she sounded awfully like Molly Weasley just then, with her hands on her hips and the narrowing of her eyes with reluctant distrust. And with Ron standing beside her with his own arms crossed, nodding as if he'd just laid down the rules himself, Harry felt they'd ceased to be his friends but his parents. He almost laughed at how suddenly they'd aged just in this act alone. 

"I won't," Harry promised, smiling to himself. 

"I don't trust him," Hermione told Ron. "Why did you recommend a walk? Now he learned about the execution and will be tempted to go."

"You told him about the execution! I didn't say a word about it!"

"I told him because it is a perfectly valid reason to stay indoors! But I wouldn't have had to say it if you hadn't suggested a walk!"

"Guys," Harry groaned. "Stop the bickering. You sound like the couple next door. Unless you want to end up hating each other, you might want to stop." 

"Fine," Hermione huffed, casting a look of vexation toward her boyfriend.

Ron and Hermione stayed for lunch, thankfully having brought food from the Burrow. The Crowned Crow had one chef, Semyon Semyonovich's sister-in-law, who attended to her hair more than she did to her occupation. Harry ate his food with great gusto, marveling at food that had both taste and temperature. One is easily reminded of how lucky they'd been when they eat an honest meal, and even more so after a decent bath. 

Harry was very sorry to see his friends go and was not reconciled by their visitation tomorrow and the day after that. Alone now, he felt the eye on the pamphlet burning into the back of his neck and watching his every move. Harry picked it up and read it more carefully than the first time. Diagon Alley, main square. Fifteen hundred. Execution of Wyatt Hammock. Mudblood. Without another thought, he reached into his trunk for his cloak, threw it over his head, and left the Crowned Crow Inn through the back entryway. 

The very thought that he may see Draco, even from afar, brought on a joyous shiver. There were profound reasons for Harry's attachment to even the slightest chance: he felt it would cure him immediately of all his doubts. As Harry turned the corner, followed the signs, and ducked his head to avoid the detection of pavement patrollers, his forbidden longing intensified; he became so entirely seduced by the mere prospect of seeing Draco's hands. Even if they were gloved, he might be reduced to staggering drunkenness. Would he notice me, Harry wondered, if I removed my cloak to blend in with the crowd? Perhaps he would run into my arms and ask me to take him away forever. I wouldn't return with him to the Crowned Crow; I'd take him to a glittering resort where I could rest his head on satin pillows and cover him with a feathered blanket. He'd be warm; he'd be mine. 

The square was thoroughly crowded with what seemed like the entire population of the alley and neighboring towns. Harry removed his cloak, rubbed soot onto his face to disguise himself, and pushed his way toward the gallows at the innermost part of the spectacle. The entire ambience relayed to him the grimness of the situation. If there'd been a visitor from beyond, unknowing of the event, who learned that there was to be a hanging soon, the visitor would say, 'Today's that sort of day, isn't it?' and carry on. The sky, previously a vibrant blue, had become smogged with darkness as if to lay upon them the impression of strange hours. Despite the lack of sun, the entire square had become suffocating with a stifling humidity. And the discomforted crowd had become dreadfully restless, unsure if they should be eaten alive with curiosity or grief for the condemned man. From one woman came shrieking sobs, and from another, not far off, the opening of a packet of assorted treats to accompany her viewing. 

Right next to Harry stood a man, middle-aged, with broad shoulders and a haggard look, as if he suffered a millennia under the influence of life's greatest suffering. His threadbare coat hardly fit, but he was otherwise clean and handsome in both stature and appearance. There was an enigmatic sense of hatred that wafted off of him; perhaps it was due to the cigarette clenched tightly between his teeth and his eyes, no place else but gallows where the executioners would soon walk.

"Excuse me," Harry asked, tapping him on the shoulder. "Do you know where the Veiled sit?"

Upon hearing his question, the man tensed and cast the most hateful look down at him. "What's it to you, anyway? Don't trouble yourself with them. They're just flakes with a little more scratch than us!" He spoke with an American accent, and Harry thought he sounded awful like a gangster from one of the black-and-white films. 

"I'm looking for someone, that's all," said Harry. "A friend of some sort."

The man raised an eyebrow and studied Harry closely while drawing in the smoke from his cigarette. With a swipe of his forehead, the man wiped off the sweat from his brow as if that would give him clarity. "A friend of some sort, huh? Does he belong to high society?"

"Yes."

With the cigarette in between his fingers, he pointed up toward the buildings surrounding the square, where, on each of the vernadas, fanciful tables and seats were laid out. Two ladies at the lower level enjoyed a tower of puff pastries and fanned themselves romantically, looking into the galley with studded opera glasses. The closest building's highest level was yet to be occupied, but Harry was certain that was where the Malfoys would be, for the entire veranda was handsomely decorated with garlands and a gold-trimmed canopy from which plumes of ostrich feathers extended toward the sky. There were black-coated staff standing, polishing the railing and dusting the satin cushions over the heads of the people below. Soon, thought Harry with a smile, I might see you there. Even if you don't arrive, I'll be happy knowing that I at least tried. 

"What's a Veiled got business being friends with a soot-covered idiot like you, anyway?" The man asked bitterly. 

"We met at Hogwarts," said Harry. "I don't think his parents approve of me much."

"Yeah? Watch out, boy. Moment you've got so much of a speck of that soot on their kid, they'll get you," said the man. Suddenly he became downcast with a look of bereft. "That wretch will kill just about anyone."

"Lucius Malfoy?"

The man nodded and hastily lit another cigarette with trembling hands. "He killed his old man, you know that? Both of them, actually, mom and dad. Slit their throats and bashed their skulls in. They could've sentenced him on the charge of patricide, but you know, with the old man gone, he became their leader, and those morons danced to his tune."

"Isn't that just a rumor?"

"No, it's the truth. I was told so by an old friend of mine," said the man. 

"A Veiled friend?"

"A Veiled friend." 

"Are you still in touch with this friend?" Harry asked. There was another flash of strained anguish upon the man's face as he glanced feebly at Harry. From him came no answer, but Harry soon understood that the man had been grieving his friend, perhaps for a long, long time. To spare the man further pain, Harry remained silent and kept his eyes on the uppermost veranda. 

Two men dressed in black cloaks appeared on the scaffolding, holding an arm each of the condemned man. Wyatt Hammock's bare head was hung low in resignation of his terrible fate as he permitted himself to be dragged offensively across the wooden floor. Harry, possessed by the gravity of his situation, was consumed by both shame and fear of where he stood. The neighboring verandas became populated with more Veiled aristocrats, and from underneath the brilliant canopy, the Malfoys arrived. 

Lucius made his appearance first, not once acknowledging with his eyes the crowd of people that applauded for him. Wealthy in handsomeness, he stood unwaveringly tall among even the most powerful men situated around him. From behind him approached his son and wife dressed modestly in black, and their heads were covered with lace-trimmed voile. Harry let out an audible gasp to see his Draco standing with his gloved hands on the railing, so naturally mesmerized, seizing Harry's whole body with ease. His attempt to move forward toward the veranda was impossible, for the crowd was pushed so tightly together that nobody could move even if they'd tried. The smoking man took notice of Harry's gaze and paled considerably at the realization. 

"The heir?"

Harry blinked and turned to him. "Sorry?"

"Your 'friend of some sort' is the Malfoy heir?"

"Yes."

The man's twitched and again wiped the sweat from his brow. "God help you," was all he said about it. 

Before Harry could reply, the poor Wyatt Hammock began to shout recriminations toward the verandas where the Veiled audience watched. "Enjoy the show, you psychopaths! And when it is your turn to fall, know that I'll be laughing beyond the grave at how senseless your man-made caste proved to be! You and I, Lucius Malfoy, will both rot after our final breath! Both of us will be compost! Nature is above your volition! Your pure son, too, will rot and stink the same way as I when he is made a corpse and is rendered as useless as he is now."

Draco's gloved hands tightened their grip on the railing, and he cast a weary glance toward his father, who seemed wholly unbothered by Hammock's castigations. With a gentle wave of his hand, Lucius signaled the two cloak figures to drag the fettered man toward the crossbeam, where the noose swayed innocently in the summer wind. The heat intensified, and Harry felt himself becoming increasingly short of breath as the crowd continued to push impatiently against each other. The noose was soon placed around Hammock's neck, and he stared not toward the heavens or toward the crowd but toward the minister's family with eyes filled with a bloodcurdling antipathy. Harry, too, watched Draco become visibly tense with the scene. His gloved hands moved from the railing to his heart, where he clutched his breast as if he'd felt an imminent attack of the heart. 

"Death! Death! Death!" chanted the crowd, very reluctantly at first but intensifying under the approving look of the minister. "Death! Death! Death!"

Lucius silenced the crowd at once with his hand raised high above them. Draco lowered his head and covered his eyes. The woman who'd been sobbing had fallen down toward the ground with defeat. 

"Get up, you tart!" A man shouted and kicked her rudely in the hip. She managed to stagger to her feet again but swayed ominously with the hot wind. Harry reached for her and held her steady. 

On another signal, the two men stepped aside. As it were, the entire crowd was silent with a haunting mesmerization. Harry, too, watched in horror as the lever at the base of the crossbeam was attended. Then, with one hefty lift and smooth clunk, the floor from underneath Hammock's feet disappeared completely, and his body fell quickly into the opening. Because of the crowd's deafening silence, the sound of the muffled crack of Hammock's neck rang loudly through the square. Harry nearly fainted along with the woman he'd been helping; his ears rang, his breath unsteady, and his vision cloudy amongst the populace. 

Once the body had been freed from the noose, the crowd had become rather bored with that brevity of the execution. Harry supposed they wanted a scene, perhaps more theatrics, where the condemned man would beg for mercy, attempt to flee, and fight the rope as it crowned him. But Hammock was defiant in showing any weakness, and his resolution of martyrdom, only the most genuine sort, had struck in Harry a significant degree of mutiny. 

The woman Harry had helped managed to stay on her feet but pushed her way toward the alleys, unable to continue in the stifling heat. Harry watched wearily as the Malfoys slowly retreated back into their room and the cloaked guards began to make a frenzied fuss at the hotel's grand entryway. 

"Make way! Make way!" One cloaked gentleman began to shove people away from the doors, and from the west side of the court came a fashionable traveling coach pulled by an exceptional black stallion. Because the square had been so crudely packed, many people had been hit by this carriage, and one poor man had his toes crushed by the large iron wheels. The man with a cigarette still clenched between his teeth pulled Harry back to save him from the carriage. It passed right in front of him so that he could see the golden embossing of the Malfoy family crest pressed into the sides. 

It parked near the scaffolding, a little ways away from the hotel entry, and Harry supposed the Malfoys would walk a short way under the eyes of the public to conclude their subtle gesture of power. The desire to be nearer to Draco, should his theory become fact, propelled him through the pillars of men and women. 

"Where are you going, soot-face?" The man called after him. "You want to be seen?"

"I just want to get closer," Harry groaned as he squeezed between a particularly bloated couple. He made it to the velveteen railings, at which each brass post was accompanied by a stern-faced pavement patroller, giving looks of scorn to the bystanders. 

"Did you hear? The heir is not yet engaged," said a woman who stood next to Harry, her entire body draped with a plain black cotton fabric. "Do you suppose he is achingly fastidious?"

Her companion, an unveiled woman, seemed to shrug with disinterest. "I would assume so. Any boy raised in wealth typically has childish expectations when it comes to love." 

"Do you insult the heir?"

"No," the unveiled woman blurted quickly, her eyes fleeting toward the patrollers. "Not at all. I have simply made an observation."

The Veiled woman let out an affronted scoff and drew herself up to a stately height. "Half-blood."

The hotel doors opened ceremoniously, and from them came the Malfoy family. The crowd fussed over who was to be seen by the new minister, as if some unspoken promise was made of charity or promotion. Harry's own heart beat wildly in his chest at his long-sought proximity to Draco, whom he had not seen in a long while. But he did not seem to notice Harry's being there, for he carried on with his head low, almost with shame, and his hands stationary at his sides. 

"Look at our heir," the Veiled woman let out a suppressed sob. "So tall and noble! I cannot wait for his Viewing!" 

Her companion merely smiled and looked ominously toward Draco, who passed in front. 

The closeness was almost intolerable, and the fact that Malfoy had not blessed him with a meek nod of his head or even a brief wave wounded him intensely. So, natural for any man in a fit of passion, Harry rashly reached out from the velveteen rails, unseen by the patrollers, and gently, just for a moment, grabbed Draco's hand. 

The Veiled boy turned immediately, and Harry knew at once that he'd been seen, for the rigidity previously worn by Draco had given way to a softness only Harry could produce. In his breast, a drunken happiness was revived, and from his hand, his every nerve burned. Harry moved behind the woman the moment Narcissa took notice of her son's sudden halt in his procession. Draco moved ahead, and Harry observed the trembling of Draco's hands with what he could only assume to be an inconceivable joy. 

The Malfoys disappeared into their carriage and left the crowd stunned with the sheer remarkableness of the family. Soon, the effect would wear off, and the square was soon beginning to dilute into its everyday conduct. But not Harry. He stood there frozen, his hand still pulsating with a thrill unlike before.

Returning to the inn, Harry fell defeated onto the bed and rested his heavy head on the singular pillow. On the contrary, seeing Draco had not healed him at all but only worsened his earnest craving for the Veiled boy. Once before he had Draco all to himself, he could kiss those hands, hear his laugh, and even feel the softness of the boy's white-blonde hair. And how remarkable it all was. But how is it that Harry should learn to rejoice over a mere grab of his hand, from which not even a greeting came? It was all so tortuous, so vile, and so enormously unfair! This was not to be Harry's social standing—a mere distant admirer of Draco's. To readily admit to himself he can never have him was much too difficult for such a brittle heart. 

"A very odd room you've been placed in, Potter." From the place of the desk, a deep voice rang, and its noble intonation Harry immediately recognized. Lucius Malfoy. "It is hardly reassuring to know that Dumbledore treats his soldiers with the most offensive quarters."

With the sun nearly set, the room was nearly completely dark, save for the last feeble rays of sun slipping through the buildings ahead. Harry lifted his head and saw him standing tall next to the desk, hidden behind the dense shadow of the elevated shelves. Dressed completely in a black rich cloak and his long white hair that fell neatly over his broad shoulders, Harry's certainty of his guest's identity intensified with his apprehension; he sat up rigidly against the iron bed frame. 

"What do you want?" asked Harry, standing slowly and eyeing his wand on the side table. 

"There's no need for that, Potter. I haven't come to dirty my hands. Well, it seems that I already had when I entered so lowly an apartment. You're in hiding, I presume?"

Harry did not answer. 

"And yet you foolishly made yourself known to my son today at the execution. How stupid are you really?" Lucius emerged from the shadows, with his walking stick firm in his hand. Malfoy's steely gray eyes bore into him with a cold severity, such that Harry could only wonder how so austere a man could produce a son so delightful. "Do you understand the gravity of your actions today? The Scouts could have seen you, seized you, and brought you before the Lord."

"I guess that's what you're here to do," said Harry, slowly taking his wand into his hand and holding it in a ready position. 

"No," Lucius, despite noticing the wand pointed at him, turned toward the window with his back to Harry. "I am reprimanding you and judging your character."

"Why?"

Lucius pondered for a moment before answering; he shifted his weight onto his walking stick and slowly turned toward Harry once again. Instead of his previous authoritarian air, he looked upon him with a fatigued expression. 

The minister's previous firm composure was quickly restored, and he turned to leave. Then he stopped before the door and turned to Harry once more. "I suggest you take leave of this place. After all, the couple next door has already sold your whereabouts for a pretty galleon. The Veiled intend to raid the place on the evening after tomorrow’s." 

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" Harry asked.

Lucius's face twitched. "Merlin, can it be my son has attached himself to someone so dim-witted? It’s that mudblood mother of yours I dare say! That ought to be a Cleanse-able offense, not so much your sex but your sheer idiocy.” The latter half of his castigation was spoken quietly as an outward observation. With that, Lucius left as quietly as he came.