The Veiled Boy

The renouncing of faith, one that confines the individual to premeditated plans, is a frightening thing whether or not the act was involuntary or voluntary. Though the latter's victim possesses the pain with determination, almost a revenge against oneself, what an arduous, ferocious battle this is. And Draco suffered still even after he'd professed with confidence against the pin. There was still the seduction of the lie, tempting him to give it all up for everything to return to his happier, docile days of boyhood when he knew nothing, thought nothing, and spoke everything. Such would have sufficed as a child, but not as a young man who clandestinely acquired cravings of his own.

I have no essential nature. That caricature had been intersubjectively created against my will. And is it such a crime that I detest it, that I wish for an alternative to such? Personal freedom? And what crime is it? Who is injured but my own pride and merit? But are you not being selfish? How could you extinguish the flames of your ancestors, rescind the expertly crafted throne that holds your beloved parents in high esteem? How inexcusable! To desert your birthright, your station, for a fleeting affection! Tarnished and consumed by concupiscence, the wretch possesses a cavalier disregard for his family!

At first Draco supposed the roots of resistance were deeply set in the soil of vanity, but it revealed itself as exceptionality of the modest kind. Haunted, guilty, but triumphant, Draco lowered to his knees before his father and asked finally, "Set me free."

The contract was to be signed at dusk. That morning, though he had been recovering, his fever and nausea returned, marching behind the grand spectacle: his emblematic hysteria. He rose in the morning with a level head, but seeing the Veil upon the sideboard sent him into a shame so intense he fainted as he was getting out of bed, thoroughly frightening Harry, who'd seen it all from the doorway.

"I was too hasty getting to my feet," was his lie; such was ineffective against the suddenly telepathic Harry.

"It doesn't have to take place today," he said, tending to the small gash on his temple, a souvenir from the fall. "The last thing I want is for you to feel rushed; that would only be disastrous later on. Don't do anything you do not feel like doing."

"The circumstances render it necessary that I am decisive. Though I am frightened and the wound still bleeds, my statement is unimpeachable. Don't give in to such petty resignation; in doing so, you fortify the ready-made stage of subjugation. I understand your concern, and for it I blush like a child, but you ought to know by now that, owing to you, I've become adversely stubborn."

Harry laughed. "You were always stubborn."

"Likewise. Yet I tolerate you."

"Tolerate me? Is that it?"

"For pity's sake, do not tease me today."

Draco wore the Veil to breakfast that morning, but nobody dared to point it out. Perhaps they'd all silently assumed it would be removed indefinitely after the contract was signed. But an assumption was not necessary to recognize that Draco was suffering from anxiety. He did not eat, his hands trembled, and he very seldom spoke. And nobody dared to point this out either, for there was, concentrated in that boy, moral strength of the highest kind. Sirius watched him closely, and if his eyes did not blink, Regulus would incarnate himself in Draco, resurrected in every way but fortune. And at the other end of the table, Ginny was restless to see finally their house's most complicated individual; she expected someone decently attractive in the likeness of the father but also believed Harry’s opinion was slightly exaggerated by an odd fixation on his character. Such was the general conviction of all of the Weasley children. Harry’s gone mad, they had said as they placed bets orchestrated by the duo earlier that day.

What was it that she said the other day? War-inducing looks? No, war-inducing kisses and heart-rendingly beautiful. Do you sincerely believe that? No, not really. Maybe he's cute, but Harry’s definitely exaggerating. Definitely.

But against their suppositions, Hermione was more generous in her belief that Harry was correct, that his perception was not warped at all. For when the two were just barely close, Harry had described him as the "physical incarnation of heaven." Such a compliment is very seldom paid to a friend of duty. Hermione was in the minority. Charlie and she believed Harry; the others believed Draco to be decent, generously agreeable, but underwhelming against Harry’s senseless praises.

Afterward, Severus found Draco alone on the porch, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands. The moment was such as never held; his godson was beside him with full possession of himself, and admittedly, Severus found this baffling. Not audacious, the young man Draco revealed himself to be was admirably resilient, uncharacteristic for a child of his upbringing. And even if Draco proved altered in character, Severus could still see the little boy he'd adored shining through like sunlight behind sheer draperies. Draco would still tilt his head to the right when puzzled; his laugh still concluded with a contented sigh; he still spoke out of turn upon an exhausted patience. In many charming and some not-so charming ways, Draco retained distinctive peculiarities against the profound alterations he'd made to his creed, and for it Severus rejoiced. A great wave of warmth passed through him; flashes of the fond past came into his mind to settle in the present complete harmony.

Draco lifted his head from his hands and looked at him inquisitively. "You look pleased. I suppose you ought to be. After all, you'd wished for this day from the day of my birth. Waiting until my psyche mirrored yours and you could voice every criticism against me, assuming that I may bear it with a newfound strength. But I am not stronger than I was yesterday, so spare me the lecture. Your conscience may be clear, but mine is not."

"I am impressed by the character sketch you've made of me. I'm afraid your bitterness that I do not suffer in the likeness of yourself has altered the truth ever so slightly."

"As it always does. With or without the Veil, you believe my word to be infected with personal antipathies."

"There is not a person whose word I hold in higher regard than yours. You know that."

"Solely out of some ill-placed paternal pity. Every single moment we share, I know you see me helpless, still that unlearned child I used to be, perhaps still am. And now you've come to give me advice because you are afraid I shall change my mind. I wish you'd leave me alone, Severus. For once in my life, you might remove yourself from this role of counselor."

"I am not here to dissuade or persuade. While I have counseled you, more than that, I hope, I have been a listening ear."

"To pick and choose which pieces you like to hear, which piece ought to be kept, and what ought to be removed."

"Why so bitter, Draco? You half-believe all of what you say. I can tell by the look on your face. I understand that you are troubled, but what good is it to turn against those who care?"

"Leave me alone."

Severus stood and left him alone, catching in his periphery Draco watching him regretfully.

The Order and the family of the host and Veiled could not gather in one room at the Burrow; it was much too crammed, and Draco, who’d begun to feel suffocated by the confines of the house, had spent his last day as a Veiled boy outside in solitude. Harry watched him from the window, his heart aching to simply comprehend the turmoil within his darling. 

“This is the beginning of hell for him,” whispered Sirius, standing beside him to share his view of Draco making circles around the lone poplar tree. “The days, weeks, and months following the actual removing of the Veil are more agony than the mere anticipation. You must be patient with him.”

“Always.” 

They moved to Grimmauld Place, where the drawing room was of generous size—“without the manor’s grandeur,” remarked Draco scornfully. Dark walls and thick velvet curtains shielded the room from uninvited eyes; at the forefront of the room was the oblong table on which the consequential contract took its station, between two brass candelabras and a single inkwell. Side tables banked with dust-ridden flowers lined the seating, four rows of five for the Order and the families. Harry took his place at the front and stared at the innocent contract, wholly unaware that this single piece of parchment mattered and carried more value than any heirloom in the room. 

Draco and his family had not yet arrived; Harry had been secretly frightened that Draco was nursing doubts, but those were only fears without weight. At his side, Sirius sat with an easy disposition as the new head of the Order. 

“Sitting in the front for these things is always a pain,” he grumbled. “Now that Dumbledore decided to be a little worm, I’ve got to sit up front.”

“Do you think they’ll find him?” Harry asked.

“Dumbledore? Yeah, if Lucius doesn’t find him first. That man is a hound. You’d have been dead if it weren’t for Draco, you know.”

“Is that what the plan is? Lucius is going to kill him?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. Severus already found Dumbledore’s notes; the audacious prick probably knew we’d turn against him; he’s got all his plans carefully written out with a charm that shows one step at a time, no doubt revealing the proceeding upon completion. You know, I’ve always hated his trickiness. Old people become tricky when they’re deeply unsatisfied.”

Harry laughed. “I hope Lucius finds him first… I’d like him dead for what he did to Draco.”

Sirius snorted. “Men like him don’t ever die. That’s the real curse of reality; good people drop like flies, and the rotten sort rot forever.”

At once, every candelabra bore a flame; the entire room was made alight. The heavy doors of the drawing room swung open, and there stood the Veiled Boy. 

Draped over his head was a long black Veil, it fell ceremoniously over his entire upper body, with only his gloved fingertips showing underneath. His parents walked at his side dressed in the likeness of him, in the likeness of that hellish darkness. The sole kind of transgression lay in his display; the Heir approached the Order with grace, a tranquilizing gesture against the heaviness undoubtedly felt by him. At his proximity, the entire room’s air solidified, every bodily sense amplified with the imminence of severe power. Once before the table, his parents took each hand in their own, holding onto their son, undoubtedly intensifying the sensation of impending loneliness. The room was silent. Even the Weasley children had been robbed of every possible jest. 

Severus stood and slowly walked up to the contract. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, Heir to the Veiled Council and the Ministry of Magic, shall henceforth pledge his resignation from the Veil and settle outstanding matters with the Order of the Phoenix in the elimination of the common threats, as sovereign equals, to maintain peace,” read Severus Snape. “The Order declares promptly its readiness to protect, serve, and defend the Heir as a member of their own. Reciprocity is due in part to the Heir’s aid in the aforementioned common interests…. With the Veiled Heir’s signature, he renounces the Council and the doctrine; he renounces his previously established birthright as aid to the Dark Lord, Voldemort. With the signatures of the Order’s upper seating Alastor Moody, Sirius Black, and Harry Potter, it abrogates all previous orders and obligations against the Veiled Councilman and the Mother of the Heir to preserve the safety and instill protection of the valued member. Terms inconsistent between both parties are entered into engagements, and by signature pledge, they agree not to take action against each other for personal interest or gain—“

“Dumbledore should have signed one of these,” Ron snorted. Molly hissed and slapped his shoulder. 

“—in matters of the Great War, the Order shall render actions necessary and desirable but subject to the rightful consent of the Veiled Heir and family. At this time, I invite the upper seats of the Order to stand to sign your name, consenting to the aforementioned provisions thus enacted by your ink.” 

Sirius, Moody, and Harry stood and made their way up to the table. Harry was now directly opposite Draco; he felt his heart beat violently against his sternum, and his ribs rattled to behold his darling almost free. Sirius marked, signed, and passed the quill to Moody. The days, weeks, and months following the actual removing of the Veil are more agonizing than the mere anticipation. The culminating pain of the whole process was to be amplified in a short moment: Draco’s stiff stature showed no inkling of it. But beneath that veil there may be lonesome tears, so exquisite to behold but torturous to understand—

“Will you stop staring at him? Take the damn quill!” Moody hissed, shoving the quill into Harry’s open hand. Sirius laughed; Lucius narrowed his eyes with outward contempt. 

Harry signed his name. They took their seats once again. 

“Ministry of Magic and Veiled Councilman of the Upper House of Malfoy, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, may step forward for a signature.” 

Lucius, without releasing his son’s hand and with airs of an almighty sovereign, plucked the quill from the well and signed his name. 

“Mother of the Heir to the Upper House of Malfoy, Narcissa Malfoy, may step forward for signature.” 

Narcissa seemed to have never signed anything in all of her life save her own marriage contract, for she glanced at her husband for guidance and silent permission granted in the form of a short nod. Given and signed. 

“Veiled Heir to the Council of the Upper House of Malfoy—“

“And soon the House of Potter,” Ron whispered, earning himself another slap from his mother. 

“Draco Lucius Malfoy, may step forward for a signature.” 

Harry’s breath left him. Taxed with anticipation, he began to sweat with increasing vigor every moment Draco remained immobile. Slowly, Draco released his parents’ hands and gingerly plucked the quill from the well. His hands were shaking violently, and he wished to conceal it by adjusting his gloves, but his efforts were fruitless. That faculty of attempted modesty regained life as he signed his name on the parchment. He placed the quill back into the well and stood before the room a new man. 

“Would you like to lift your Veil now, dear?” Narcissa asked him. 

“Yes,” he whispered but did not move. 

Harry looked directly at him, and once he was sure his gaze belonged solely to him, he mouthed, “Just look at me.” 

Draco nodded and allowed his parents to grab the hem of the long mantilla. Slowly, they lifted it higher; the entire room went deathly still. The tallow church candles burned brighter. All eyes were upon him. 

Draco was still the boy of yesterday, but his eyes were now entirely void of tranquil regression. And his expression now, a diluted terror marked by profound comfort in the eyes of Harry, sent the family behind him into feebly stifled gasps. 

Do you see him now? Do you see those silver eyes, of which the stars are mere replicas? Do you see that white-blond hair so soft as it begs you to run your hand through it? The indestructible aesthetic, essences of virginal purity? Do you see the white marble skin, carved by artistry impossible for a mortal? Is the entire ensemble a system of mystification that torments the best men and saves the depraved? Do you see the way his eyes are on mine alone, the exquisite clarity of his gaze? His lips half-parted, eyes blinking, and cheeks flushed with a pink in the likeness of the camellias? Do you see my Draco? Do you now understand how I’ve gone so mad? How have I agonizingly crowded every one of my demons against myself to restrain myself from touching him, kissing him, or thinking of him in some unholy way? Do you see my angel? My darling? My taboo lover? My owner? My tormentor? My lovely, undying manifestation of perfection; my nightmares and dreams, his spell unbroken? Do you see him? Do you dare to share my feast? Oh, my Draco! The world sees you now, and I’ve become so selfishly jealous that your charms may be bestowed on another! My heart beats; there is fire; I adore you; I worship you! Come close to me, and I might kiss you; I’ll start at the lips and move down to your shoes—just say the word! 

“Merlin,” whispered Hermione behind him. 

“You know what, maybe the Veiled were onto something. There’s got to be something in their blood-genetics because that’s not normal,” said Ron. 

“Bloody hell, Harry. He’s out of your league!” Fred snorted. 

Harry stood at once, every thought passed through in a second, and the dizzying effect Draco had on him propelled him from his seat. Lucius raised an eyebrow. 

The family walked from behind the table toward the Order, where they exchanged polite handshakes and bows. Harry watched as every man and woman stared at his Draco, obliged to be gentle with his hand, some even kissing it. Ron even wiped his sweaty hands on his jeans before touching Draco, becoming beet red once in front of him. Hermione and Draco shared a lingering look, a gentle, confiding smile. They nodded at one another with some unspoken understanding. 

“Look at how he’s looking at my girlfriend,” Ron whimpered once he was beside Harry, with the hand that shook Draco’s outstretched before him. “Thank Merlin he’s bent; I’d be single by now. You know what? If he wasn’t Veiled from the start, you’d have never had the confidence to befriend him.”

Finally, Draco approached Harry with his hand, removing his glove. Harry took it and pressed two kisses into his knuckles. “Are you alright?”

“Ever so,” whispered Draco. “I can breathe.”

Grimmauld Place flourished with gentle festivities to ingratiate former enemies. Draco, Harry observed wholesomely, his every smile enchanting, became very shy and blushed frequently to be reintroduced to his host family. With time, he became cheerful and talkative, and every single member, even the agitated Moody and the critical Ron, fell under his spell. As he spoke with refinement, he displayed his mind was rich, his beliefs and virtues were natural, and conveyed his special ability to make every fault of his appear darling and forgivable. Even if Draco very frequently interrupted others and rolled his eyes when someone expressed a differing opinion, nobody pointed it out, nobody seemed to notice, not even Ron, who, for a period of time, stared unblinking at him. With a glass of champagne in his hand, Draco expressed every opinion and insulted beautifully and flatteringly. A true aristocrat, thought Harry.

“I knew we’d be good friends someday,” said Ginny. “I will admit, I thought you’d be plain.”

“Am I not?” Draco smirked, glancing at Harry. “When I feel doubtful of my attributes, I insult myself before Harry. My Harry cannot bear it! He grabs me as if I’d insulted him and showers upon me every worldly affection. Am I so vain, Harry?”

“Never,” said Harry, smiling now too.

“Your vanity is forgivable,” said the blushing Hermione. “If I looked half as attractive as you, my standards would be utterly insane.”

“My standards have been reached, though. Harry meets every one of my silent requisitions,” Draco said. “A dangerous drink champagne proves to be! I’m half-inclined to speak poetry of Harry.”

“You do it sober too,” Ron whispered.

“Do I? Drunk with affection, am I? How can I resist? Every moment I lay my eyes upon him, I feel the joys of being his possession and his mine vigorously. Mais je divague; I will not speak of it any longer lest I bore you all. Peut-être I’ve done so already?”

“You’re odd,” said Ginny, nodding with approval.

“That’s hardly kind, but I’ll forgive you for it. Look there! Mama and Papa have engaged in conversation with that Tonks. She’s my cousin, see? That half-blood. Is that wrong to say?”

“Well, she is a half-blood, but there’s really no reason to point it out,” said Hermione.

“Ah, I suppose not. Forgive me,” Draco whispered. “I’ve a ways to go… The doctrine is easily the most debilitating thing ever to grace this earth. I cannot keep up with my own signature.”

“You are indeed handsome.” Bill Weasley approaches their group. “What’s that like, huh? To know how fascinating you are and have to wear the Veil?”

Draco turned a bright red, and his eyes widened. Harry grew inexplicably jealous, balling his fists to keep from grabbing Draco and pulling him away. “Oh, does this flattery come naturally to you? Being the eldest of the house?”

“I have no idea. I’m just saying what comes to mind. I think you have that effect on people.”

“Do I? What else are you prone to say?”

“Well, I will hold my tongue; your boyfriend looks half-ready to rip my throat out,” said Bill, tipping his glass toward Harry. “Relax, Harry. Top of your cup, eh? I’m not after him.”

“Harry? Jealous?” Draco turned to him, his eyes glittering with sheer amusement. “Goodness, to think that I could, for a moment, even consider subduing my feelings to tend to another’s fancy? Harry, worry not, I believe you to be wonderfully handsome—my very own Adonis! Ha ha! Look at how you blush! I’ve now an inordinate desire to satisfy your every fancy; let us go somewhere quiet,” Draco laughed and set down his drink. “Come, come!”

Harry followed him in a daze, a little embarrassed to hear his friends laughing at him.

“I wasn’t that jealous, you know,” Harry muttered once they were in the smaller room adjacent. It was dark.

“Ah, but it would feed my vainglorious ego if you were,” said Draco, sitting down half-reclined on the divan, looking upon him with a provocative sort of expression. “Will you stare at me all evening, or shall you join me here on this divan?”

“There’s hardly any room.”

“That’s precisely why I’ve chosen this one,” whispered Draco. He had acquired a peculiar expression with every barrier down. Harry took his place beside him and immediately threw himself into his arms. The love was harmonious, and the sound of the festivities dulled into a muffled chorus a lighthearted way. Draco’s prehensile legs around Harry’s body; lips rushing into each other’s; wandering hands, eyes, and mouths.

Without consequence, he is mine.