The Veiled Boy

Upon the abrupt departure of the Order, Draco fell into a hysterical madness. That evening was spent with his hands clasped together and his knees bruised against the unforgiving wood floor. He confessed his desertion, his fall into temptation, and his weary dignity; he even prayed that he may be attended to by divine grace, not so much owing to his nobility as was custom, but for the decency in his soul and the earnest, insatiable love for another. As customs dictate, only a worthy man may ask for guidance from the purest, most noble first God, whose blood flowed in them, but very seldom is such a thing mentioned, for the pure man walks the same grounds. But Draco felt as small and as weak as an infant, so helpless that he’d opened his requisition to omniscience.

“Forgive me for my askance; I beg you do not punish me if you are so greatly offended. Your blood flows in me, and I have disgraced myself so arduously for love. You have beheld me as I fall against my will into another man’s arms, and I see that I may be cruelly punished by chance of being rid of him. But I ask you, I ask them all, what does it matter if he is my own sex when the love is noble and devout? Why must the shy glance between two men be condemned with the words seduction and sinful temptation, but the touch of an unwilling woman’s thigh beneath a linen tablecloth may earn a high title of mischievous affection?” Startled by his abrupt questioning borne from indignation, he gasped and shook his head. “I am sorry. I understand it all so well. I have been damned from birth, and my impurity shan’t be passed on through reproduction. Yes, I am well acquainted with the verse. Forgive me and retain my dignity.”

As he muttered his repentance, he felt the confines of his room come to life. The windows allowed the eyes of his kind to scrutinize his audacious prayers; the doors whistled not by draft of wind, but to mock his confessions and to tease his pathetic beggary; the walls pressed in on him, and every breath he took felt the compress of the ceiling.

“I have no right. I have no right,” Draco sobbed into his mattress, holding onto his quilt with white knuckles. “I’ve not yet disgraced myself; I have not gone to his bed, nor has he to mine. I may continue silently underneath the cloth of oppression if you may spare my Harry. Pure as I am, my words hold true. Spare him, only him. May Harry return to me; may Harry return unscathed by us all. Please, to everyone whose blood is pure, do not harm my Harry, my dearest and most beloved Harry.”

And that was how Draco spent the entire evening, tearfully condemning himself, for the punishment of his crime seemed to have just begun. Love of the most profound kind was born in the halls of Hogwarts; it echoed by ways of laughs, tears, and angry castigations; it existed as a hush of unspoken words and fleeting glances; as touch, subtle against their skin, violent in its attacks on the heart. But in its very nature, burning up in a great eternal flame, it stood strong against the unforgiving doctrine that eroded those who followed into absent-minded men. Triumphant and unstoppable, it lay firm in his breast even as Draco reprimanded himself for it, quiet and dormant, but mightier than his shame.

I had not had the strength to tell him how much I love him. The eyes of his gallant mother bore into me with earnest expectation. And if I lose him to the wretched hand of my own, he would have never heard those words upon my lips, nor would he have felt them on his own. Somewhere in some alley, he may lie bleeding, shivering, and frightened. And he will leave this earth never knowing how desperately I wished to have him because I’d wasted it with thirsty waiting and immobile depression. But the lies inflicted upon me are no match for his loss. Am I to be without ever having beheld his kiss? My cowardice has thus cost me tremendous physical sensations, surely! His love was mine, but he dares to wait for me?

Draco wept with increased severity, and finally the land of slumber took him, caressing his tired head. As he left his wakeful state, his shame dissolved into an afterthought, and the sensation was like being in his mother’s arms again, where he had an innate understanding that everything might be quite alright.

The Order moved out of Miller’s cellar into the thickened fog that hovered hauntingly over the cobbled roads. The entire town had somehow understood that something was to come of them, for not a soul was seen in the midst of this image of dread. Moody and Shacklebolt preceded the group on high alert with their wands drawn. Harry moved in the middle, without his cloak, and, despite it being summer, shivered with chattering teeth.

They were to travel in the late afternoon to catch the Veiled before their purge right outside Hangleton. But intelligence from Snape warned them that the Veiled grew restless and decided to “clean out” the towns bordering Hangleton before their final act. So, they set out early with admirable confidence. Harry wondered how they could speak with ease, but in the face of death, one might rather speak of coffee, the weather, or some trivial anecdote to save themselves from thinking of what tragedy awaited them all.

A loud screech from above sent them all diving behind a scaffold. 

“What was that?” Harry whispered.

“Free napkins and toilet paper,” smiled Miller, gesturing at the sky.

Above them, thousands of ravens blanketed over the village with their hasty flight, and from their talons fell white snow. The snow approached them and revealed itself as leaflets, carpeting the damp stone ground.

“Ah, so they’re close,” said Moody, stuffing a bunch in his pockets. “Let’s move out.”

The Order carried on under the beams, walking over the leaflets as if they were autumn leaves. From the west side of the town, where Earnshaw Bridge was pointed out by Arthur, came a loud blast and a force so strong it sent vibrations pulsating through the town’s entire footing. Harry was struck suddenly by the reality of his situation; he’d become petrified and did not lower himself as the other members had done. The very real possibility that he may die and become nothing, absolutely nothing, and never have another human sensation, neither physical nor emotional, held his body helplessly immobile, waiting for his fate.

Sirius grabbed his arm and dragged him behind a mound of hay by the mill. “Harry, are you alright?”

Harry did not answer. He could not answer. His eyes were focused entirely on where the blast had come. The second explosion came from the other end of town; a large school building suffered a blow to its front, and the people who took shelter there screamed as the brick fell heavily onto them.

“We have to help them!” said Harry, standing up. Sirius grabbed his wrist and pulled him to the ground. 

“We will aid the survivors,” Remus assured him, glancing at Sirius with visible unease. “After the Veiled have moved. We cannot give them an idea of how many of us are here.”

Harry observed in horror the school building’s destruction; just moments before it stood healthy and proud. Through splintered beams, one could see the furnishings and rooms hanging tragically from the casement. Beneath it all lay perhaps a dozen innocent people.

“Heads down; here they come,” warned Tonks, removing a pair of binoculars from her eyes. “West side.”

There were about twenty men in black cloaks moving in a nightmarish procession down the walk. With their wands, they sent detrimental blows at the neighboring houses. At the sight of the Veiled council, one man left his home with his hands in the air and marched bravely toward them. They were far off so Harry could not get even an inkling of their exchange. The surrendering man pointed at a house across the way, and the Veiled moved past him and forced their way in.

“Snitch,” whispered Arthur Miller bitterly.

Through the needles of the hay bale, Harry watched in horror as the councilmen dragged out an older woman and a young man, throwing him violently against the cobbled roads and kicking them with the point of their boots.

“Pin them!” ordered the tallest member; his voice revealed him as Lucius Malfoy. “Get on with it, Amycus, enough!”

Amycus stopped his kicking, casting almost a look of vexation at his leader, but evidently not brave enough to carry it through. He waved his wand over the pair: the tip of his wand shone a bright red.

Before Lucius could give direction, Amycus sent a nasty curse upon the innocent pair, causing them both to scream in agony. It pierced the otherwise silent village like an arrow, lodging itself in Harry’s breast. And when it died down with the bereft of life, the minister grabbed Amycus by the throat.

“Did I give the direction to kill them?” Lucius hissed. Without waiting for an answer, he effortlessly snapped his subordinate's neck and tossed him to the side. “Proceed!”

“Alright, you know where we meet?” Moody turned to them; they all nodded. He and Shaklebolt left swiftly behind the mill, and shortly after, Arthur Miller left with Charlie Weasley and Tonks toward the local inn.

Harry was still struck by the wretched crime committed. From the radio, he surmised such killings were done in an organized, coordinated manner, but this scene shattered his conviction. A mere name announced by a man who knew nothing of the life they’d been robbed of, reduced to a corpse on the doorstep of their home. A firm hand was placed upon his shoulder, and Sirius gave him a weak smile.

“Are you alright?”

Harry nodded. 

“Show yourself to Voldemort; that is your entire purpose. Once you’ve done that, you follow our route back. Got it?”

“Yes.”

Cursing under his breath, Sirius shook his head with the same reoccurring disappointment and focused his attention back on the approaching council.

There he was, following behind him. Cloaked in a rich brocade, Voldemort moved with an air of fearless nonchalance, stepping over the bodies of the man and woman as if merely an upturned root or a trivial obstruction on his daily trek. Seeing him there so close produced an odd feeling in Harry. He ought to have been frightened, for this was the very being that had condemned him to death and slaughtered his parents. To see someone who has brought upon him such grief and difficulty ought to have sickened him, repulsed him. But instead an enigmatic thrill surged through his veins; suddenly a sense of duty replaced his previous apprehensions—he was able to distinguish things with a certain clarity. It ceased to become a matter of revenge, for the purpose shifted away from his own preservation toward the protection of Draco, who’d been sought out tirelessly by this wretched beast since his birth. If that man should ever find himself in possession of that angel, Harry knew somehow that it would be the very last he would see of him. And of that, Harry was most afraid. 

Despite the thick fog settled before them, Harry could make out Voldemort’s features distinctly. His snake-like eyes scanned the town with pride as if his nimble hands had built it brick by brick, and with each victim thrown out of their house and slaughtered, he would gladden immensely.

By the third house, the council had comfortably moved away from the town’s existing road and toward the town center. That was when the Order made their first move.

A jet of light hit one councilman in the chest, and with near-perfect retaliation, the entire council set their wands against the small window from which the light came. Ten spells at once ricocheted from the brick and into the glass, bringing down a torrential downpour of shards.

Thus, the fight began.

To the right and left of Harry and Sirius, spells flew wildly, narrowly missing them and stinging as they brushed against their skin. Harry separated from Sirius and dove behind a pillar. 

“Potter! It’s Potter!” cried a councilman. Voldemort let out a scream of pent-up anger and frustration, sending into the air a bright red flash. It was as if explosives had been lodged in every crevice of the town, for, with a bang, nearly every window of the neighboring buildings splintered, the beams cracked and fell, and the bricks crumbled under the weight of man’s rage.

The residents evacuated quickly, but some could not escape the bitterness of the council. Everywhere became traced with death, with bodies of bystanders scattered about the rubble; their faces were gentle despite their demolished state. Harry observed them with a numbed nonchalance; he felt like a ghost, someone who did not belong in this physical world. Glancing at them, who seemed so at peace, felt like an invasion of their privacy, an oddly similar feeling to the shame of observing someone’s slumber and being confronted for it.

Harry hid behind the disheveled lodge and sent several of his own at the councilman, who was busying himself with the mill. Seeing him crumble brought out a laugh. Purebloods fall as easily as the rest of us, but they haven’t registered that much, thought Harry.

“Get back!” cried Sirius through the incessant shots of violent curses. “Harry, get back!”

A large blast blew him from the lodge toward the post; it oppressed his chest and robbed him of his breath. There was a dull throbbing at the back of his head, from which a warm sensation trickled down his neck. After lying upon the rubble stunned for several seconds, Harry ran on, his ears ringing and his entire body trembling with dormant terror and unidentifiable aches.

Harry slipped through a narrow alleyway that housed a man lying flat on his back, staring with a look of contentment forward at the sky. He is alive, but his chest is torn open, and Harry could see the shift of his lungs and diaphragm as he takes in his last shallow breaths. Harry kneels beside him and takes his hand. 

“I wouldn’t stand here if I were you, kid,” said the man in a hoarse croak. “Good view of this alley from the mill. I saw my wife walk down this alley in her wedding dress when I wasn’t supposed to. But I was too excited. Don’t tell her I said that.”

“Who’s your wife? Maybe I can find her?”

“No, no, I’m being a little silly. I think I’ve hit my head; is that what is killing me?”

“Yes,” Harry breathed. “You’ve bumped your head on the wall. You’re dying.”

“I should have worn a helmet. They always say you must wear a helmet when you ride your bike. I suppose that holds true even when the Veiled are on your doorstep. Can I have your jacket?”

Harry quickly removed his coat and handed it to the dying man. Instead of draping it over the opening in his chest, he placed it over his face and let out his final, rattling breath. His hand fell limp over his chest, where the lungs shifted no longer and the heart was deathly still.

Harry had no time to mourn for his stranger; a group of three scouts moved in from the East, passing directly in front of the alleyway. Before Harry could take cover behind fruit crates, they’d seen him and seized him by the collar, temporarily immobilizing him.

“Minister!” they called.

Through the malicious blasts and ricocheting spells, Lucius emerged from the smoke with his snake-point walking stick ready in his hands. Upon seeing Harry, his stone-like expression faltered for a moment.

“Release him. Stand back,” ordered the minister.

Harry fell limp to the ground; his entire body burned with the will to live and the whole rejection of death. Lucius Malfoy’s loyalty was a fickle thing, and he could not place exactly where it lay.

The scouts listened obediently and stepped back, watching the pair with increased amusement. Lucius drew his wand from its holster and pointed it directly at Harry. 

“Draco’s still with you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

Lucius nodded and sent a curse toward the scouts. A white light sliced through their throats like a scythe, and they fell to the road gurgling and choking in a communal pool of their blood.

Harry was freed from their bonds upon their death and rose weakly to his feet. Lucius pressed him into a niche in the wall with his gloved hand tight against his throat.

“Is Draco safe? Is he okay?”

“He is fine,” said Harry, gasping for breath. “He did not come with us, of course.”

“You’d know better than to bring him into this mess. If I’d seen him here, I’d have sought you out individually and killed you. After all, it is your word that protects my boy. Your word.”

“I know,” Harry managed. “I promise, he’s safe.”

The minister’s grip upon his throat relaxed. “And you take care of yourself, Potter. I suspect Draco waits for your return.”

“Potter!” Voldemort had been reduced to a state of panic, frantically scouring the demolition. “Show yourself, Potter! Cease fire! Cease fire, men!”

Lucius let go of Harry and swiftly moved down the alley with his unscathed cloak billowing out behind him. 

Just like that, every councilman quit their ambitions. The Order paused too, and Harry found the silence that followed unsettling.

“I ask one thing,” began Voldemort, pacing aimlessly around the square. “I know it is your side that has taken the Heir! You’ve taken him from me in hopes of making me vulnerable! I shall never be vulnerable; return the boy to me, and Hangleton may sleep in peace! Return the boy to me and Hangleton will be spared!”

“If Draco Malfoy returned to you, you’d gain the confidence necessary to purge all of England. And frankly, I cannot have that.” Harry stepped forth from behind the wall with his wand pointed at his opponent. “He belongs to no one.”

“He belongs to me!” the Lord hissed angrily. “The Heir is mine! His birthright is to serve me! Spare the lives of a thousand, Potter! Be a noble man and bring me my Draco!”

“There is no ‘my Draco’; he belongs to nobody.” Harry thrust his wand forth, and his spell clashed with Voldemort’s, creating a brilliant burst of light. The force nearly sent Harry back, but his resilience maintained his footing as he held himself firm against the heat of the spell. The abrupt assault had prompted much strength, and with his gradual weakening, Voldemort’s force progressed toward him.

Promise you’ll come back to me.

Harry’s strength was painfully challenged; the throbbing on his head intensified, and he’d noticed that there’d been a nasty gash on his bicep that soaked his sleeve sticky with blood. Though the sensations were there—pulse and drip—the pain had become entirely absent. Harry stood concentrated against his opponent with his heartbeat nearly as loud as Draco’s voice in his head.

Voldemort lost his standing, and his wand flew out of his limp arm. And like any man who has suffered a blow to his ego, he sent a stronger group to do his bidding. “Fire!”

The Order quickly regrouped around him as the council sent curses showering upon them.

“Get to the cellar,” said Sirius, grabbing Harry and pulling him aside. “Understood?”

“Where—“

A sharp pain pierced his abdomen and stole his words and his every breath. The blistering sensation pervaded his entire body and fried his nerves with excruciating pain. Harry gasped, clutching his side with both hands as he doubled over onto the road.

The second day came and began its conclusion with the slow drop of the sun. Draco had been pacing the lawn nervously, chewing his lip until he’d acquainted himself well with the iron-y taste of blood.

He had not eaten in the last two days despite Molly’s insistence. It was as if his body could not function under the weight of ambiguity, and the rapid drumming of his heart was a mere reflexive rattle rather than a healthy beat. Hermione and Ron pedantically assisted Molly around the house; perhaps they’d taken to busying themselves to not dwell much on their circumstance. Draco desperately wished to distract himself, but he could not; the only remedy to his torment was to stay on his knees for hours on end, damning himself into oblivion in hopes that his prayer be answered.

Madam Pomfrey and Professor McGonagall had called on them that afternoon lest the Order come back; they’d received word that the fight had begun prematurely. Draco spoke to them once, inquiring about Harry, but they had no answer for him. In the vast yard of the Burrow erupted a great medical tent, furnished with medicinal materials and beds. It was necessary, indeed, but most importantly, a horrifying presage to what the Order might suffer.

He watched the lawn all afternoon, and when the sun finally set and the Order had not yet returned, he fell helplessly onto the porch with his head in his hands.

The hour of waiting had produced their first returning group. Just beyond the tall growth of grass, two staggering figures pushed their way through. Draco leapt to his feet and rushed toward them; it was not Harry but Moody and Tonks. The disappointment was a blow to his soul, and he watched silently as Hermione and Molly assisted them into the tent.

Pomfrey had begun to tend to the large gash on Moody’s leg that bubbled with blisters and pus-filled burns. The man grimaced with pain, biting a balled-up handkerchief in an attempt to ease it.

“Do you know what has come of Harry?” Draco asked him. “Sir—“

“Malfoy, please,” said Madam Pomfrey. “He’s in pain.”

“Yes, but—“

“Make yourself useful, and maybe some questions will be answered,” she said spitefully.

Draco looked more closely at Moody’s wound and recoiled at the sight; underneath the loose flap of skin, a dreadful black liquid had pooled itself there. “What is that?”

“A gash,” Pomfrey said. “We have to close it up,”

“No, there, underneath the skin. The black.” Draco pointed to it but earned himself a confused expression. “It’s of thick consistency; it must be poison.”

“I don’t see anything,” whispered Pomfrey. “It must be a dark curse; shall I drain it?”

“Drain the bloody thing, of course! No gash is supposed to hurt this much! You’ll trap the poison inside me, and I’ll lose my second leg! Kid, tell her what to do!” cried Moody.

Draco soon became irritated, both by the shouting and residual anxiety. “Shut up!” he hissed. “You are not in any caste to make demands at me!”

Moody shot him a look of severe vexation but said nothing more. He laid his sweaty head flat on the pillow and pressed his pale lips together. Draco watched as Pomfrey, with visible apprehension, soaked the wound with antidote and nodded once the thick black liquid had dissolved into nothingness.

“Is it gone?” asked Pomfrey.

“Yes, I don’t see it anymore.”

She proceeded to close the wound. 

Draco proved himself useful as more members of the Order arrived. The curses sent on them were a malicious sort, the kind that would injure, heal, only to kill one slowly later on if they’d managed to survive the first attack. Naturally, Pomfrey could not see the underlying poisons and curses that moved through their flesh and blood, and Draco, under her guidance, developed a shy interest in tending to the sick. But with every member who stepped forth, Draco’s own heart suffered tremendously when his inquiries stopped short. Charlie Weasley carried some news. As Draco was stitching up his arm—counter-spells would have killed him—he asked him incessantly about Harry’s whereabouts, and the man’s pain was not so bad that he could produce a coherent answer.

“Saw him after the Veiled retreated,” said Charlie. “And someone cursed him because I saw him fall onto the road. Sirius dragged him away, and that’s the last I saw of him. There were only about four left, including You-Know-Who; they disappeared.”

“My father?”

“Not a scratch on him,” said Charlie, laughing bitterly.

“What sort of curse hit Harry?”

“Not sure, but I assume it was pretty nasty. I couldn’t help him out; nearly lost both arms myself.”

Draco did not answer, because his teary eyes would have produced a voice choked up by tears. 

“Ouch!” Charlie gasped. Draco’s hands had begun to tremble, and he’d been unable to control the needle as it stabbed through the deep, fleshy part of the wound. McGonagall rushed over and placed a hand on his shoulder. 

“Take a break, Malfoy,” she whispered.

Draco quietly stood and removed his blood-soaked gloves and apron and tossed them into the bucket by the entryway. Rushing out into the open air, he fell helplessly onto the porch steps, threw off his Veil, and began to sob uncontrollably.

Only the stars could bear witness to him now; surely they ought to have been laughing at him for his grief. He felt himself separated from the world as loneliness seized him by the throat and stole his breath. Draco fell limp against the banisters, calling for Harry whilst simultaneously asking that he himself might be damned. His conscience has become strained with burden. How he wished for nothing but to see his dear Harry for but one second! Those green eyes amused at something wickedly trivial; his crooked smile producing a healthy laugh and a simple word that might threaten the integrity of Draco’s will. How he might throw himself into his arms, kiss him over and over, and never let go. The forgiveness that had not been granted seemed almost an offense; now Draco whimpered and shivered against the silent, vast nothingness of the night, wondering if there might even still be a man left to forgive.

“Harry, you’ve promised,” he whimpered. “You’ve promised me…”

“Malfoy, you alright?”

Draco hid his face in his arms as Ginny sat down beside him. “Did you see me?”

“No,” she whispered and draped the neighboring Veil on his head. “Just your hair. Is that fine?”

“Yes.”

“You’re worried about Harry, aren’t you?”

Draco did not answer her but continued to weep silently. It must’ve been confirmation enough, for she took his hand and held it strongly in her own. There was something so profoundly resolute in her grip, such that it would be appropriate for some all-knowing being to wield. He looked to her almost startled and found comfort in the solace of her expression.

“Harry will come back.”

“You don’t know that,” began Draco in between tears. “Charlie said he’d been hit and dragged away. If he is not here, he must not be in condition to travel and will die without attention.”

“Malfoy, you can’t do that. You can’t think about everything that will go wrong, especially not in times like this. Yes, hope is a dangerous thing to have, but strength is always necessary. Locking yourself in your room, condemning yourself is weakness—yes, I hear you, and it keeps me up at night. Focus on what you can to get what you want.”

“But I’m so terribly afraid,” he admitted. “I do not know what I shall do if Harry should leave me. I can’t help but think that—“

“How about you start thinking about what you will do when he returns? Get your scrubs back on, get in the tent, and prepare a bed,” said Ginny. With her firm grip, she pulled him to his feet. “Come on, Malfoy. Get yourself together.”

His eyes were still wet with tears and his breath still trembled, but he begrudgingly returned to the tent and did as he was told.

“Bed! Bed up front!” cried a voice from outside. Sirius and Remus poked their heads through and carried Harry in, whose blood thickly colored his entire shirt crimson. The irrepressible cry of relief that escaped Draco had been stifled short by the terror of perceiving his Harry on the verge of death. He was placed on the bed, nearly in likeness of white with the colorless sheets, and moaned as he writhed most painfully with his hands clutching gauze heavy with blood.

“Harry!” Draco ran to him and moved his sweat-soaked hair from his forehead. “Oh, Harry, remove your hands so I may see.”

Pomfrey cut away his shirt to reveal the startling wound. It began at the last rib and stopped just below the pelvic bone, a deep ravine of bubbling blood oozing out in thick fountains, stifled only by a loose piece of muscle that shifted unnaturally with his weight. The area surrounding the wound had a grayish tinge, black toward the center, and spread out across the abdomen like ink on paper. Draco did not scream, gasp, or even cry. It was as if all human feeling escaped him and disappeared somewhere where it could be of use.

“Stop!” Draco grabbed Pomfrey’s dittany-wielding hand with a violent aggression. “That will make it worse.”

“He is bleeding to death, Malfoy. What must I do?”

“Poison.”

“Poison?!”

“Yes. Surely someone must have poison.” Draco turned around the room. Remus handed him several vials from his leather satchel. “This curse exists as a separate entity. You must kill it first before it spreads.”

Pomfrey exchanged a glance with Sirius, who encouraged her with a nod. With a drop of poison upon the wound, Harry’s wails intensified. He moved against the agonizing sensation, which only worsened the tear in his side.

“Harry, my love, hold me,” Draco gasped and took the boy’s hands. “The pain will go away; it always does, I promise. Pray do not move, do not move, my love.” Harry stilled and placed repetitive kisses on Draco’s hands.

“Hey, look, listen,” said Harry quickly with a trembling voice—he’d begun to shiver now. “If I don’t make it—“

“I will not hear it!”

“No, listen, Draco.” Harry seized Draco by the apron and yanked him forward with a startling aggression. “Don’t interrupt me. You do it too much. Listen to me.”

Draco nodded.

“If I don’t make it, you have to know that I love you. Alright? God, I love you so much, and I couldn’t leave this earth without telling you. Damn it! Will you let me see your face?”

Everyone turned the other way so Draco could lift his Veil and reveal his tear-stained, colored expression. Harry grabbed his face and rubbed away his tears with his thumb.

“I love you,” whispered Harry. “And I’m sorry for what I did to you—“

“Harry, please, don’t—“

“Draco, I’m serious, let me speak,” Harry pressed his thumb against his lips to silence him. “I messed up. I messed up real bad. And honestly, I don’t care about anything other than making sure you know that I love you. Tell me you know that I do.”

“I know,” whispered Draco, crying now.

Harry’s face relaxed, and he nodded. “Let me kiss your hand?”

Draco removed his glove and allowed Harry’s trembling lips to press against his palm and against his fingers. “Harry? You’re not going to die,” he whispered. “You promised you wouldn’t.”

“Sometimes I make stupid mistakes; you of all people should know that,” said Harry weakly.

“No, you have to keep your word,” Draco begged and kissed his forehead repeatedly. “I forgive you, Harry. I forgive you a thousand times…”

Harry nodded and soon after fell unconscious, for the pain was too great to bear. Draco covered his face again and, in between tears, ordered Pomfrey to begin treating the wound after another drop of poison. His hands were trembling, and they burned like fire, but his soul was healthy, and his strength remedied every previous doubt.

The bleeding had slowed down, but Harry’s color had not yet been restored, for the curse had yet to dissolve completely. The wound could not be closed completely; the surface had been treated skillfully by him and Pomfrey so that recovery and life beckoned them from the hills beyond, calling out to them in invitation.

By two in the morning, the Order had fallen asleep in the beds, with the only sound being from the summer bugs in the neighboring field and the occasional groan of pain. Draco waited for Pomfrey to leave before he placed his timid hand on Harry’s bare chest. His heartbeat was slow and weak, but there.

Draco pressed kisses there and upon his shoulders, whispering deliriously with exhaustion against his lover’s skin. “I love you too,” he breathed and rested his tired head on the pillow.

Go down into the yard of a poverty-stricken house, and underneath a tent covering, and you may find a boy with bruised knees and breath wasted on prayer basking in the warmth of his lover. And now that he is rid of the weight of damnation, he begins to dream of the wild sensation of skin against his own. He rose in silent victory against his tormentors, and the Veil had, somewhere in his mind, degraded itself from an axiomatic custom to a piece of lace that kept the nettling little flies from landing on his sleeping face. He does not know it fully, nor will he understand it when he wakes, but it’s there somewhere in the soul that loves.