The Veiled Boy

There is a line written like this: "He who forgives for the sake of torment is a fool; he who forgives for the sake of others is a coward." And there is nothing much else on the topic of forgiveness, but on revenge and self-preservation, there are chapters. When it should be acceptable—forgiveness, that is—it seemed to be a judgment fashioned by unique experiences appropriated from the individual. If that is the case, then what should come of the unlearned? Is it the advice of their worldly peers sought for? And what if this worldly peer is the injurer? 

Thus was the dilemma of Draco, who felt he was on the verge of madness and delirium. Time ceased to exist, and his days carried on as fleeting, feverish instances with no perceptible beginning and end. And with each passing moment, his memory troubled him; it distorted itself invariably with his judgment as if some divine force felt it necessary that his verdict be devoid of foundation. But the unfairness of it all was not in his impending madness—as concerning as it was—but in the self-possession and apathetic nature of his tormentors. It was not their attention, nor their concern he desired, but nonetheless, he felt it incapably aggravating to hear their merriment, their laughing, their lively conversations, so despicable in existence, as if not one individual possessed a conscience. Those would be Draco's reflections, and then he would blush at his quick reproach, for unwillingly he would remember it was his dismissal of all attempts at reconciliation that cast him into a godforsaken oblivion. 

No! Why should they be so hasty to reconcile, thought he. Especially that wretched Harry who had the audacity to suggest the resurrection of friendship without the necessary censure that ought to go with it. 

But how lovely it might be, said another voice—quieter, but quick in protest to the latter. To continue, nonetheless, willingly under such grotesque context, furnished with the unfortunate dichotomy of man. And why should one condemn the other? Have I been a saint? 

Yes; the noble and dignified Draco Malfoy in conduct, belief, and standing!

No; you have been illiterate in feeling, conceited in tongue, while having justified it with ascendancy and right.

But does this warrant this severe punishment? That was what this now deliberation had dissolved into: a sentencing where he was both the jury and the judge. Should he have been placed in Harry's situation, would he have carried it out so skillfully as Harry had done? 

Yes, and as justly cruel and merciless as had been enacted upon him! As he had been fifteen years under the influence—dare he say sixteen?—of command and quotation, thus would be firmly lodged in his conduct, his calculation, and his diction towards Harry. 

No, he could not have. Had he been unwavering in his ideology, uncowardly and self-righteous, he would have. But there is a feeble, unwilling mind underneath the fabric. One, as impressionable as he, gave in quickly to doubt and discomfort in extant circumstances. Could such a person perform an elaborate act with a heart as tremulous as his? 

But, in the end, the identity of the victim was wholly contingent upon whose commander crafted the charge first. That was the reality; it did no good to dwell on hypotheticals. Draco could waste away with "I wouldn't have" and "I would have" in an enduring standoff. And he might have burst into tears of frustration if it weren't for the invitation. 

It came from Severus in the form of two short knocks on his door. 

Overcome with severe emotion, Draco could hardly move; he was huddled pathetically in the farthest corner, staring at the entryway with wide, bloodshot eyes. 

Upon seeing him, his godfather's frame sunk with pity and remorse; Draco hated to see it. Severus moved forward with perfect clarity and offered him a gentle smile. "It's his birthday," said he. "And he has yet to leave the landing. I hardly wish for him to spend his sixteenth birthday waiting for you."

"Waiting for me? Then tell him to quit his efforts. I haven't a charge to ease his temperament," whispered Draco. "Please, do not ask me to join them downstairs. Why must I celebrate the birth of my wretched tormentor?"

Severus's expression did not change, and its unperturbed stability, its unspoken knowing, sent him into hysterical rage. 

"Don't you know it was you who lied to me as well? Oh, how it sickens me to see you so at peace!"

"At peace? Draco, there is not a second that goes by that I hate the situation we've put you in."

"Then why did you do it?" Draco's voice faltered into a broken hush. "How could you do this to me?"

"Because that Veil on your head would have suffocated you to death," said Severus. "You'd have died, if not at their hands, at your own. I knew it was not the sort of life for you; you know this now."

"Should I thank you then?" he asked bitterly. 

"No. Just because what I had done was with good intentions does not rid it of the deceitful, cynical foundations. I lied to you and, in turn, stood idly as you were manipulated. But my conscience, as rotten as it is, would rather see you heartbroken for a moment than without one altogether for the rest of your sorry life." 

Draco burst into tears. How desperately he'd wanted to run into his godfather's arms so that everything would continue as normal, to have forgiven it all and praised them for liberating him. But if it were justly their duty, it was unclear, and his entire soul was sore and weary from being stripped prematurely from a realization he ought to have made himself. 

Severus crouched down in front of him and pulled his hands from his face. "Look at me."Draco obliged, still crying and choking on his tears. "You are capable of anything. You have been enlightened like no other, and you belong to nobody. If you wish to leave, then do so. If you want to stay, then do so. This is what I have always wanted for you, my dear boy. Freedom. For you are a worthy young man whose will ought to cause those cowards to tremble before you. You are strong."

"I am weak and impressionable," whimpered Draco. 

"You are not." 

Weakly, Draco moved forward and fell into his godfather's arms, letting himself embrace and forgive his godfather without a word spoken. The ease with which this was done could only be done for him and was owed entirely to the fact that, beside his mother and father, Severus's loyalty and disregard for the Veil perfectly suited his crime. How vicious the wound and how it bled still now, but in this silent embrace was Draco's understanding that there was truly no other way for Severus than this. Harry's sympathy bloomed from rotten soil, but Severus had always been there. 

"I'm afraid I will go mad," whispered Draco, still holding onto his godfather the same way he'd done as a child. "I cannot continue in this mental agony. My mind is much too weak, apportioned by baseless verses. Severus, what shall I do? I was much possessed with distinction that I felt the decision was entirely my own. But I feel as small as a child in your arms, and I wish for you to decide everything for me. Just like father had done, he told me everything I felt. Will you decide for me?" 

"No," said Severus sharply. "The agony is the price you pay for a life well-lived. It is unbearable because you don't have much ground or reason. Please come outside. Whether or not you speak is entirely up to you. But the air and the company will do you good, I promise you."

Draco removed himself from Severus and peered cautiously outside. There was a table being set up by the tall grass; the family gathered there in a chaotic scene of excitement. A sharp bitterness buried itself in his breast. He had expected a good deal of dramatics from them, but there was not a shadow on their brow. Envious was he, but self-effacing in his wish to be among them. Slowly, he turned to his godfather, who'd stood patiently by the door. The tall man looked very different to him, older and infinitely more exhausted. Draco froze before him as if he were afraid to disappoint or anger the man for whom an enigmatic newfound respect had come forth. With an open palm, Severus silently beckoned him out of his room. Taking his hand, he acquiesced and put on his Veil. 

How heavy it felt today. 

The two of them moved down the stairs in a silent manner; Draco was suddenly reminded of his father's inauguration and how every stranger bowed for him and praised him simply for his existence. As much as he wished to be so loved and admired, it was only done with the hollowing out of his character. Had he appeared in what he now deemed perfection, hand in hand with Harry in a reserved affection, they'd spit at him and curse him. 

Draco saw him standing there; Harry adopted his earlier radiance and smiled with remarkable handsome gentility. "At last! You've come," it seemed to say. "Will you speak to me? Please, just a word will do!" How pathetic! Draco rejected the general verdict of his appearance and ignored him entirely, rejoicing in his visible disappointment. 

"How long will this go on?" asked Severus as they stepped out onto the lawn. "You're ignoring him."

"I am not ready to reconcile with him," Draco replied with an admirable resolution. "If you attempt even slightly to persuade me to do so, I will remove myself at once. That is not your command to make."

Severus merely smile and said nothing but portrayed his understanding with a polite nod. 

Seeing everyone freeze at his arrival and how quickly the smiles had left their faces caused Draco to feel exceptionally small. It was as if he'd commit the terrible crime himself, and out of his shyness, he'd become so terribly angry. Why do I have to feel so uncomfortable? They've done me wrong, not I! 

Draco did not show his perturbation; he, with a dignified air, observed them and sat down under the shade far away from the festivities but close enough that his attendance could be accounted for. Acting was indeed a skill of his, and his proficiency came in the form of a remarkable insouciance. There was a small radio beside him from which music played and an empty chair for a partner he wished not to have. 

The family resumed their festivities, and Harry joined them, though his eyes were not on them but on Draco, who pretended not to meet them. Though the animosity for him was very much there, the love still pulsated violently inside him, and Draco's human spirit trembled under his iron will. Harry's shirt was fitted handsomely, tucked into a disagreeable pair of jeans that had dirt upon the knees. But something so handsome came of it, indeed. It was the thin fabric contouring the muscles on his back and the way his shoulders moved when he reached for a drink or talked rudely with his hands. Draco wondered—still with bitterness—how fantastic it would feel to place his hands there and to feel every dip under his fingers. He should have dearly liked to touch him or to be touched by him. 

There he sat for an hour under the unbearably hot sun, but he did not sweat, nor did he roll up his sleeves. The heat seemed to skip him entirely, for he could not feel anything but the ache in his breast and the headache that throbbed behind his eyes. The family occasionally glanced at him, and the mother offered him drinks and food, but he rejected them all. Once or twice, Harry approached him there under the tree but turned away as quickly as he had come. And Draco's composure and breath would return as he rejoiced in his isolation. 

As the sun set, the quietude of his pleasure had become interrupted by Hermione Granger, who'd taken it upon herself to sit beside him. Pleased that it was her and nobody else—for everybody else was all so indescribably alike—he did not show any outward appearance of annoyance. She did not speak yet, but he knew she wished to. 

The radio's polka had ended and gave way to a dreadful string of announcements. 

"The Veiled have overtaken Budleigh Babberton; the massacre of muggleborns—including the women and children—has stained history crimson. How vile an act! They preach peace and restoration of Heaven, but if this is the price to pay, then that is not what we want!"

"How are you?" Hermione asked hurriedly. Her intent was clear in wishing to overcome the crimes of his own, and Draco felt awkward and ashamed for her favor.

"What a foolish question to ask," he whispered. 

"I know I am not justified in what I ask. And you will not believe me when I say that I am worried about you."

"I don't believe you; you're right." 

The girl blushed and turned away with an odd shyness. "Understand that what I tell you has not been prepared by anyone else, nor have I been bribed to say this. I think you should talk to Harry, Malfoy. His senses are weak, and I'm afraid it will affect him poorly when he accompanies the Order next week."

"Where will he be going?"

"I am not sure, but they expect to scare You-Know-Who by bringing Harry. They want to slow down the massacring." 

Draco shuddered. The Veil grew heavier on his head as if it were woven not by linen but iron. Never before had he felt this weight upon his crown; it irritated his skin like sand with her subtle nails, and the wind pressed it into his face with the intent of suffocating him. 

"Harry cannot fall at a curse, but he's only human. I think his senses might fail him," she whispered. 

"You attempt to scare me. How manipulative and inconsiderate of you to do so after what I've just gone through. 'Give him a week to recover and try again' is your sentiment. Your sort is rather fond of bending little minds." 

"My sort?"

"Mudbloods," Draco managed. The Veil pressed heavier into his face, forcing himself to draw in a long breath just to carry on. The silver bracelet on his wrist scratched his sensitive skin; georgette fabric cuffed him and stifled his chest from expanding. The entire orchestra moved skillfully with the command of the Veil. 

"Yes, you're right. I'm sorry," said Hermione. "Had I known you'd fallen out of love with him, then I wouldn't have said anything."

"Why do you say so?"

Hermione looked at him with utter perplexity, her eyes darting across every inch of his frame in an attempt to draw some feeble conclusion. "Have you?"

With great difficulty, for the weight was unbearable now, he shook his head. "You will laugh at me," he whispered. "You will laugh at how pathetic I am that I still desperately love him, a man who's carved a mere likeness of me from word and duty. Know that I laugh at myself."

"I don't think it's stupid; I think it's brave."

"Ah, yes! Brave," Draco scoffed and looked toward the radio, which still spoke of nothing but his crimes. "It's foolish. And I've wasted my life on a lying man."

"Your life?"

"Yes. They'll kill me for it, I know," Draco whispered, casting another glance at the radio. 

"Howard Rosier, cleansed. Crime: conspiracy and espionage against the institution. Priscilla Forster, cleansed. Crime: resistance against the institution and—"

Draco grabbed the hems of the Veil and pulled it slightly away from his face; the sensation of the voile upon his skin had begun to feel painful. "I'll get my throat slit for a man who sees me as nothing but a pawn. That's what you deem brave, isn't it?"

"You think Harry doesn't care about you?"

"Will you stop interrogating me?" Draco scoffed. "I haven't a clue what he thinks, and do not look at me like that! As if I've had sufficient encouragement from him these last few days; so unsteady a character!" Draco pressed his cold, trembling hands on his face to ease his skin from the needle-like sensations of the Veil. 

"Are you alright?" 

"Yes," he breathed. "Will you bring me some water?"

She nodded and stood, turning to him once more as if she were afraid he'd run. As soon as she'd moved into the kitchen, Draco grabbed the radio and pressed his two fingers on the volume dial. Tempted to shut it off, he found himself as still as a statue as the words drifted through the Veil and into his ears. 

"Friedrich Smith, executed. Crime: birth."

"Birth," whispered Draco, his hands trembling. 

"Harriet Presley, executed. Crime: birth."

"Birth," he repeated again. 

"Theresa Strauss, executed. Crime: birth. Kristen Dewey, Cleansed. Crime: homosexuality."

Draco's breathing quickened. 

"Veronica Lovell, executed. Crime: birth. Draco Malfoy, Cleansed. Crime: homosexuality and desertion—"

Draco gasped and dropped the radio. Hermione stood before him in a gentle patch of grass with a glass of water in her hand, staring at him curiously. "Did you hear that?" He gasped. 

"Hear what?"

"My name," Draco whispered. "Homosexuality and desertion."

"No, it was a Devon Hall," she said. "Here, have a glass of water. You'll feel better."

Draco ignored her and picked up the radio again, turning the volume up with shaking hands. 

"Joseph Coleman, executed. Crime: conspiracy. Draco Malfoy, Cleansed. Crime: homosexuality and desertion."

"There it is again!" Draco leapt to his feet and pressed the radio to his ear. "They've said it twice!"

The girl didn't reply, but she took a step back and stared at him with wide eyes.

Ah! So she's heard it! I am a phantom! A ghost! Time seldom passes; there is no distinction in days. I am dead! 

The wind blew hard again and pressed the veil into his face again, and the sensation felt like knives now, splitting his flesh open so that his corpse may drink his blood. It seemed every vein was throbbing with agony, and nausea choked his every breath. 

"Please, have some water. You must be overheated," said Hermione. "Summer under a black Veil must be overbearing."

With a restless nervousness, he took the glass from her, poured the icy water on his hands, and pressed them to his face that itched and burned like a ravishing disease. The radio still rang loud the names of the unfortunate and their trivial sentence. 

"Are you alright?"

Finally, every sensation hit him at once. The words from the radio rang through him and shook his bones like a great bell, vibrating his muscles into an infantile weakness. The cloth around him squeezed and pressed into his sensitive flesh: it burned like fire. Draco staggered onto the ground with a heavy dizziness, for his head wore iron, and he was much too weak to remain upright. 

"Draco," came Harry's voice. "Draco, what's the matter?" 

The Veiled boy lay with his head against the earth. And he observed himself as a spectator, for a lovely tree had become of him. The trunk was a smooth, pale birch, furnished with leaves greener than the eyes of his lover. It ought to have been a fruit tree, so he may feed the hungry, or a sturdier oak for those who needed his shelter. The birch emerged stupidly under the eye of Providence, its branches reaching desperately towards heaven and roots so pathetically shallow, nourished by the blood and bones in our soil. 

"Exhaustion from the heat," said Molly as she closed the door behind her. "I was foolish; I hadn't been aware he had nothing to drink since yesterday." 

Harry's entire frame sunk solemnly into itself. Severus felt the boy had aged five years in the last hour, and fatigue had threatened to take hold of him completely. "I promised him that I'd take care of him."

"You mustn't blame yourself," said Severus. "It is entirely my fault; please, get some rest, Potter. I beg you."

"Can I see him first?"

"He's asleep, dear boy," said Molly apologetically. 

"I'd still like to see him."

Molly cast a look at Severus, who replied to her silent requisition with a nod. She opened the door for the both of them and took her leave.

Harry must have felt the very same about the sight, for he'd momentarily recoiled and looked away. The paleness of his godson under a white sheet and a damp towelette over the entirety of his face gave the impression of his untimely death. Severus shuddered at the sight and removed the towelette from his face so they could see the flush of life upon the white frame. 

"Hermione said he heard his name," whispered Harry as he sat down on Draco's bed. "On the radio roster."

"There is a lot on his mind," was all Severus said about it. He, too, would often mishear a name on the roster and suffer a fright for it. 

Harry, with an uncharacteristic gentility, took Draco's hand in his own. The boy sat there without once taking his eyes off of his godson, perpetually frightened of the initial impression cast upon their entry. Perhaps he'd taken it as a warning of life's brevity and was startled into a long silence. But Severus observed there an intense affection, something odd to behold in a man so young. The grandness of it was almost perplexing—Severus felt himself small in its presence and had become incredibly ashamed, like an unwanted intruder. He had calculated on Draco's eventual love, but now it seemed awfully silly as it lay there larger than he. 

Severus lowered his eyes bashfully and slowly made for the door. Harry glanced at him apologetically and returned his gaze to Draco once again. As he left, he thought the young lovers looked pitifully indefensible to the interference of fate and bad fortune.

The next morning, consciousness accompanied by nausea graced itself on the young heir, who, despite losing most of his color, still contained a tenderness that looked exceptionally pitiful on a sickbed. His heavy eyelids opened, and with a look of languor, his vision gathered itself by familiarizing itself with every piece of furniture. Once his gaze reached the window, his eyes opened completely to behold his Harry standing there watching him.

“You’re awake,” said Harry, who, upon noticing him, looked to possess a glow of feeling and a strong feeling of restless anticipation. Draco blushed to see him so deeply concerned and almost smiled if he were not again reminded of his despair. “How are you feeling?”

“Never mind that,” said Draco rather weakly. He managed to look away from his guest; something about the tired, desperate look he wore threatened a forgiveness out of him. “How long have you been here?”

“All night.”

“Have you slept?”

“No.”

“Don’t you have somewhere to be?”

“You mean an Order meeting?”

Draco was silent but nodded anyway.

“Yes, I was supposed to be there this morning. But I’ll just meet with them later,” said Harry nervously.

What an odd sound to hear in his voice; he who seemed almost afraid of nothing and whose conduct was molded out of recklessness and audacity. Draco’s own nerves tensed at the sound, and he finally braved looking back at him. He did indeed look exhausted, clearly without a moment’s respite from his care. And with his hair more disagreeable than usual, he adopted a look of a man who’d become so terribly lost. An orphan.

That you are! Your parents meddled with the wrong sort and rid themselves of a proper life of being your guidance! Came unwillingly a voice. Ah! But without the mudblood, you’d have never been born! This wretched boy, whose sole purpose seemed to be marking an adoration, could not have existed if Potter had not committed the crime of confining himself so low in status.

Draco covered his eyes in horror at the quickness of these thoughts and shook his head in an odd attempt to silence them. If it was his bitterness that produced so cruel a thought, he was not sure, but even his disgust at what ought to be deemed certitudes caused for another bout of nausea.

“Are you alright?” asked Harry. Draco felt the bed sink beside him and then the gentle hands on his own wrists, fingers curling around and almost fixed there.

“My God! Let go of me, you filthy half-blood!” Draco hissed.

Harry’s eyes widened momentarily, but his offense gave way to grave concern. He did not oblige and continued to hold his wrists, less confining and more gentle in their touch, with his thumbs caressing his forearms.

“I’m sorry,” Draco whispered hastily. “I didn’t mean that.”

“I know,” said Harry.

Suddenly, an old feeling rose in his chest. Propelled by a switch, a feeling of emancipation and an intense desire to throw himself into Harry’s arms welled up within. It was the feeling he’d possessed so firmly and worshiped during his joyous days in Hogwarts, and it had finally returned after having died so suddenly.

Draco still could not look at Harry; his shame was much too great, and he could not help but feel that to be beheld now would associate with him those wretched words permanently. But with a saint-like patience, Harry remained there, still stroking his arms. It was not enough.

“You’re tired.”

“A bit.”

“Lay down,” whispered Draco.

Harry froze momentarily and released Draco’s arms from his gentle embrace. Overcome by shyness, Draco turned away completely, facing the splintered dresser on which a mirror lay. Through the reflection he perceived Harry still sitting upright but with his eyes on him, staring. No, I will not ask again, thought Draco, whose lips nearly parted at a requisition. “He must do as he wishes. I will certainly not reduce myself to begging.”

Watching him still, he grew increasingly more nauseated with nerves, more so his exhaustion, and he closed his eyes to rid himself of anticipation. Finally, the mattress shifted and from behind him came almost a sigh of relief. How Draco's back burned like fire! The pressure was intoxicating and terrifying in only the most sensuous way; Draco found himself completely unable to move save for the smile that’d spread across his face.