CHAPTER 2
"I think I'd like to have three eyelids so long as it didn't look odd. Do you think it would look odd?" I ask.
"I think it would only look odd if you had actual bird eyes, considering their lack of binocular vision. No one would be able to tell that you had extra lids unless you closed them," he tells me. "It would probably be advantageous, all things considered. Think of everything you could do if you could close your eyes but still see."
"Like what?" Al asks.
"Like flying," I say. "You close them to keep the wind out of your eyes."
"Or swimming. Of if you were caught in a dust storm, like the ones they have in Egypt. Treacherous, their Ministry should ban them. I think having an extra eyelid is a clever idea." Percy Weasley is the most fantastic adult ever. I knew the first time I met him.
"Or you could just buy some goggles," Al offers. "Wouldn't that be less work?"
"Or, instead of visiting Antarctica, you could just buy one of those snow globes," I retort.
Al frowns and shakes his head. "Don't be a show-off, Score," he mumbles. It's his mother's turn to take him, but she's late. He fidgets and bites his nails.
I like waiting in the Auror Office. Percy is always very busy, and I watch him work. He has long fingers and smart looking glasses and thirteen IN and OUT boxes. And he says I'm clever.
"Wonder what Mum's doing. She's always late. She saw a psycho-anatomist once, you know, during the divorce, but he said there's nothing wrong with her. Must be a quack because she's bats," Al says. He uses a low voice because his mother is Percy's baby sister.
"I wish I had a sister," I tell him.
"Really? You can have mine," he offers. "Give her something shiny and pink, and she'll follow you home like a lost puppy."
"I'd better not, then," I say. "Father says I can't have a dog."
He laughs.
"Percy," I say. He lets me call him by his given name.
"Yes?" His brows rise when he looks up from a stack of parchment. His eyes are chocolate brown.
"Do you like dogs?"
Al makes a noise, but I don't look at him.
"I've never had one, but they seem alright," Percy says. "They're supposed to relieve stress, and young people can learn responsibility through training and caring for them."
"Do you think you'll ever get one?" I ask.
He shakes his head. "I'm not home often enough. It wouldn't be fair to the animal."
"You could get two," I tell him, "and they could keep each other company."
"And you could walk them in the park and find a girlfriend," Al offers. "Girls love dogs, you know. Bananas for them. You'd have a super smoking hot one in like, three seconds."
Percy was engaged once, but he called it off. She had two daughters and long brown hair. I wouldn't want a woman like that, either. Pre-owned.
"Thank you very much for the advice, Albus," Percy says, "but I'm sure if I had two dogs, they would only get themselves into trouble. Chew up all of my books and relieve themselves on the floor and such."
I suppose this is why I don't have a sister.
Al's mother has long, ginger hair. I've never seen so much in one place before. I run my fingers through it as she scolds him for the lip colour.
She grabs my hand. Her fingernails hurt my wrist.
"It's not as soft as I thought it would be," I tell her. "Do you dye it?"
She stares at me, and her face turns red. Her lips press into a thin, straight line.
Al wraps his arms around me, and I secret a charcoal pencil into his pocket. I whisper, "If you had three eyelids, you could put it on without poking yourself in the eye. Try doing that in goggles."
He laughs like water in our fountains on a summer day.
Grandfather is unhappy. He expected me home last night. Father is irresponsible. He has no one to bawl out, as Harry Potter's door is closed and Percy says, "Terribly sorry, Lucius."
"Maybe you should get a dog, Grandfather," I suggest. "They relieve stress."
He tells me, "Not now, Scorpius," nods to Percy, and takes me home.
Sitting at the head of the table, he looks miles away. Maybe Bavaria. I want to ask if he's ever been, but I don't think he'd appreciate it. He never does.
"I've just received a letter from the Headmaster of Hogwarts, Scorpius." He holds up a piece of parchment. "Have you any idea what he's told me?"
"That would be hard, as I haven't read it," I say.
He clears his throat. "He says he is rather… confused by your aims. You were second in your class once again last year, yet you possess an apparent lack of interest in the classroom bordering upon disrespect. He notes that Professor McGonagall, in particular--"
"That was a valid question. Normal cats do lick their arses," I cut across him.
"Do not," he orders, "interrupt me."
"Do not," I reply, "pretend you want me to respect Professor McGonagall."
His face goes blank for a moment. Then he smiles. "Headmaster Ogden says that you have no ambition." It is not a pleasant smile. It never is.
"Ravenclaws don't need ambition," I tell him. "We have books."
This is what he wants to hear, and he nods. "Scorpius, do you know why I came to retrieve you from the Auror's Office today?"
"Yes," I say, as I suspect he wants to hear this as well. Adults always want to think you understand.
"You are a credit to this family, Scorpius. People smile upon those with intellect. Do not allow yourself to be denigrated by such… indiscretions… as those which have befallen your father," he advises.
"Which indiscretions?" I ask. There are a lot to choose from.
He pretends not to notice. "You have heard the stories and know what our family once was, and what it shall be once more. Public opinion is everything to us now. It alone shall determine our future. You did well in befriending the Potter boy, spitting image of his father that he is, but you must work harder to not upset important people. You never know when such things will come back to haunt you, but I guarantee they shall."
"Sometimes important people are really stupid," I tell him.
"Their intelligence is neither here nor there. Use yours to make them think well of you. If you lack respect, or interest, or willingness, feign it," he instructs. "And be sure to never let them think you harbour ill will toward the Mudbloods."
"I only harbour ill will toward those who deserve it," I say.
"Perfect," he says, not understanding what I mean. "Remember this, and consider our situation before you act, Scorpius. Our future is you."
Such an easy thing to say in when you're in Bavaria.
I nod and eat lunch in silence.
* * * * *
We're sharing a piece of cake. I don't eat frosting, and he eats nothing but. She's sitting at the bench across from us pulling the tinsel off a noisemaker. Even her freckles look angry.
"It's my party, Albus," she says. "You can't bring your weird friends along to other people's parties. You're ruining my birthday!"
"We're just eating cake," he says. "We're not hurting anything."
"You're embarrassing me!" she hisses.
"Wow, you're embarrassed by people eating cake? How awkward," he tells her, and forks a bite into his mouth.
"Would it be less embarrassing if we ate something else?" I ask.
Al snorts around his frosting. "Spotted dick?"
"Mint humbugs," I suggest. "Mints could never be awkward."
"Right, they freshen breath," he agrees.
Her freckles look positively incensed. "You two are both mad, do you know that? You have no social barometer, either of you. You're completely abnormal!"
"Funny how you like me fine until you invite friends over, and suddenly I'm anathema," he tells her.
"Funny how you think you can bring your friends to other people's parties!" She looks over her shoulder, but the friends are with the ginger swarm by the house. "It's not my fault Mum didn't think it was a good idea to invite your dad. If he'd just make up with Auntie Ginnie, everything could go back to normal. Why is he friends with his dad now, anyway? I thought they hated each other."
"I like that word," I say. "Anathema. Wouldn't that make a pretty name? Anathema Malfoy."
"You really are socially incapable, aren't you?" she demands. "And why in god's name are you wearing eyeshadow?"
"You have the most furious freckles I've ever seen," I tell her.
She throws the noisemaker down and storms off. I pick it up and twist a finger into the remaining tassels. Purple makes me look veiny. When I put it to my mouth, it emits a harassed sounding squawk.
I toss it back down onto the table.
"Having a good time, boys?"
I met Al's grandfather earlier today. He's very friendly despite having hardly any hair left on his head. It gives me hope for Father's future.
"Yeah, really good. Score's never been to a birthday party before," Al says.
"Albus? Albus! Oh, there you are! Would you come here, I need some help with the… yes, that's a dear, right this way, bring it toward the..." His grandmother is also friendly, despite being nearly twice as large as his grandfather and three times as loud.
"Is that so? Never been to a birthday party?" his grandfather asks.
I nod. "Grandfather says you love Muggles and thinks you're a disgrace to pureblood Wizards everywhere."
His chin lifts, and he clears his throat. "Does he?" he asks.
"Yes," I say. "My favourite class is Muggle Studies."
He stares for a moment. "Is it?"
"No, it's Divination. But Muggle Studies is my second favourite class," I tell him. "I saw a trolley once. Grandmother scolded me. Do you really collect plugs?"
He has dozens of them in a little shed that smells like rot. He sets them out in a row on a bench. Each is individually wrapped so as not to tangle with the one beside it. I think it's love.
I touch my fingers to the prongs of a slender one with a cream cord.
"And this," he announces, "is an eklectrical outlet!"
He shows me how to fit plugs into it. My cream one slides in and out like butter. I wish Percy didn't have to work all the time. All those IN and OUT boxes bring such responsibility.
Al laughs at us.
"I should've known you'd be here," he says. "Diddling around with other people's plugs. Come on."
He takes me behind the shed and pulls out a little plastic bottle. "Look," he says, and twists off the cap. I run my finger across the ball at the tip, and it comes back shiny pink.
"Where did you get it?" I ask.
"Nicked it off one of the presents," he says. "It's lip gloss, see?"
"Isn't stealing wrong?" I ask.
"Honestly, I think they sort of expect it," he tells me. "And Rose isn't allowed to wear makeup yet, anyway. Uncle Ron would have an aneurism. Put it on me."
I shake my head. "You'll get in trouble."
"But smell it, it smells like candy!" he tells me. "And it's got little bits of sparkles, look! Come on, Score, please? Pleeeeeease?"
"You've got to promise to wipe it off right away," I tell him.
He grins.
It goes on sticky like warm honey. His lips smell like candy. I should've made him put it back.
How readily we compromise our principles for a tube of cheap Muggle lip gloss.
"How does it look?" he wants to know.
"You should've stolen a mirror, too," I tell him.
"Haha," he says, and swipes my compact. He likes it, but the mirror isn't so sure it matches his colouring. It suggests plum. I'll owl Mummy and have her send one with better taste.
"What are you two doing back here?"
Al swears and wipes his mouth on the sleeve of his robes. "Nothing, Mum! Just talking!"
"What've you got on your face?" she demands.
"Nothing," he says. "Frosting."
She purses her lips and crosses her arms in front of her chest. "I want you both back at the tables in ten seconds. Your cousin is going to open her presents. And we're going to have a little chat tonight about what you don't have on your face, young man."
"Urgh," Al says. He wipes at his mouth and swears again. He has glitter on his chin.
"At least she didn't have an aneurism," I tell him.
"It's so unfair. Not like I'm a girl or something. I mean, when my dad was in fourth year, he battled a dragon, and I'm not even allowed to wear a little lip colour," he scowls. "Makeup never killed anyone."
"Unless they swallowed it," I agree. "Though it's usually nontoxic."
"How is that fair?" he demands. "It's not."
"Maybe if you battled more dragons, they wouldn't notice," I suggest.
He smiles. "I could move in with Uncle Charlie. Except his room is like as big as a closet. And his boots smell like dung."
"Grandmother buys lavender perfume in the South of France," I say.
"Really?" he asks.
"ALBUS POTTER! OUT HERE RIGHT NOW, YOUNG MAN!"
He sighs. "Thank Merlin we're going back to Hogwarts next week. Won't even use my middle name anymore. She's a bloody harpy!"
"Do harpies dye their hair?" I ask.
He laughs and asks if I can get him some of that perfume.
I stare at the glitter on his chin all afternoon.