CHAPTER 10
Al tilts his chin and throws the boa over one shoulder, puts a hand to his hip and poses for the mirror. The negligee hangs off one shoulder. Cigarette in his fingers.
Moaning Myrtle shrieks with laughter.
"I like it," I say.
He grins. "Look like a fucking star, don't I?"
I nod. Hold my cigarette by my side but don't smoke it. Percy said not to, and besides, it tastes like rubbish.
Al takes a drag of his. Only coughs a little. Carmine where his lips touched.
The red of the boa matches his lipstick. I charmed it that way. It looks stunning against the black satin. Hair a glorious mess. His emerald eyes smoulder.
"You're wearing girls' clothes!" Myrtle laughs. "You're dressed like a girl!"
Doesn't look like a girl, though. Boots laced up his ankles and flat chest drawing the negligee down. The strap falls to his elbow, and a dusky nipple shows.
"I like it," I repeat, and twist the cigarette in my fingers.
"Fucking sexy. I'm sexy, right, Score?" he asks. "Just like those Muggle blokes in the magazine, right?"
I nod.
He grins and twirls the boa. "Wicked. This is the best birthday ever."
I agree.
Myrtle doubles over laughing.
I turn up the music. Something loud and angry on the WWN.
"Hey, pass me the firewhiskey," he says.
I take a sip and hand it to him. It's half gone. His throat works as he swallows.
"Want to try it?" he asks. He holds out the boa.
I shake my head. "It's your birthday."
"My birthday," he says. "Wicked. Best fucking birthday ever."
"You say fucking a lot when you're drunk," I tell him.
"I'm not drunk," he claims. "Just tipsy. I figure it was all the biscuits I ate at the Extravaganza that got me sick then. Sugary ones with the fucking… that sprinkly stuff. I had, like, twelve of them. But I'm not drunk now, I have a very high tolerance. Really fucking high. Right?"
I shrug.
"Anyway, you only turn fifteen once, right? Got to celebrate," he says.
"You only turned fourteen once, too," I point out, "but it lasts for a whole year."
He takes another drag. "Yeah, but fourteen sucked arse. The only good thing about fourteen was you. Fucking crap age, fourteen. They should ban it. Fifteen is going to be much better."
"Your nipple is showing," I tell him.
He laughs. Turns in circles. Waves the boa and takes another pull off the bottle. "Want to touch it?" he asks.
I bring the cigarette to my mouth. Run it over my bottom lip.
"I'm trying out for Quidditch next year," he says before I can answer. Pulls the negligee up to cover. "Fucking Quidditch. Going to get Dad to help me. He used to play seeker, I'm going to try that. You should try out, too. Are you going to smoke that thing, or just dangle it from your lips?"
I bring it back to my side. "Are you going to wear that during matches?"
He grins. Crazy edge to his eyes. I know him well enough to see this. "Dunno. Maybe I just will. Maybe I'll steal all of Claire's clothes and wear them all the time. Not that I stole anything. She left her crap in the common room, s'not stealing when you leave your crap places. Makes me look…" he stares into the mirror, "bling. No, not bling. Glam. I look glam, right, Score? Fucking glam."
"You're drunk," I tell him.
"You're going to be in so much trooooouble!" Myrtle squeals.
He laughs and tips the bottle back. A new song is playing, louder but not as angry, and he moves to the sound. Eyes half lidded and dark. Takes another drink.
I stare at his hips.
"You going to do yourself up, too? Like in the magazine? All glam and… mmm… fabulous?" he asks. "You should do it now." He hands me the firewhiskey.
I take it but don't drink. "I need a haircut," I tell him.
He laughs and musses my hair. "Do it over summer. Then when you come back, you'll look completely different, and nobody will know who you are."
"I think they will," I say.
He laughs harder and takes the bottle back. Drinks deeply. "Want to know what else I stole?" he asks. "Besides the dress?"
"That's not a dress," I tell him.
He leans in, wild grin on his face. Eyes like secret assignations. "Her panties!"
I swallow.
"These tiny little things with a string up the arse. My balls are hanging out! Want to see?" he asks. "I'll show you. Want to see…?"
I try to swallow, but there's no spit in my mouth. His fingers are pulling up the satin. I try not to look. He murmurs, Want to see, Score?, and I whisper, "I don't think that's hygienic."
He laughs like a madman. Fingers fall to his sides. He twirls about and tickles my chin with the boa. Pulls me in and presses his lips to my cheek. "Best fucking birthday ever!" he proclaims.
"You're drunk," I remind him. "And you have lipstick on your chin."
He smiles. "I am so far from drunk, that drunk and I have never even met. Like that fake Muggle cheese in plastic that never met a cow. I could go all night!"
Ten minutes later, Myrtle flees because he's vomiting. The sound of it makes the bile rise in my throat.
"Yuck," he says, wiping his mouth, "I must be drunk. I don't even feel sick. Like, I just puked, but I totally don't care. Do you think I'm drunk?"
"I think you're wearing girls' panties," I tell him. I've been thinking it since he told me.
"I love you, Score, I really do," he says. "You're my best best best friend. Even if you are sort of a stick in the mud sometimes. Damn, what time is it? It's late, isn't it? Are we past curfew? I'm in so much fucking trouble if I get caught like this…"
"I'll wash you up," I say.
He waves me away. "No, no, I'll do it. You'll wipe the skin right off my face. You're so rough with a flannel, it's really not kind, and-- where's the firewhiskey?"
It sits under the sink. He grabs it and downs the rest of the bottle. "My birthday," he says with a tippy bow. "Officially accomplished."
Getting the negligee off proves tricky. He tries pulling it over his head but burns himself with the cigarette. He wanted to smoke them all but has to save the last three.
"Just pull it down," I tell him. "Over your hips. Your shoulders are too big."
He won't have it though, and makes me hold the cigarette. "Stupid fucking thing," he says, and gets it caught around his head. Finally gets it off and stands there in boots and pink panties.
Why make panties that nothing fits into? Maybe it fits for a girl. But not for him. Arse cheeks hanging out. Elastic separating his bits. Far too small. Poking out the top. Pink and wet against his stomach.
Mine are too small now, too. Hair trigger.
I look at the cigarette instead. His lipstick on the end. I put it to my lips. The smoke burns my lungs.
"All right, let's go," he says. Back in his robes now, black satin in his hand and bag thrown over his shoulder. He takes the cigarette for one last drag. Grinds the dog-end into the tile.
"Can I sleep with you?" I ask.
The Slytherins whistle when we come in. Laughter like Quidditch jeers. I forgot to wipe his lipstick from my cheek. Al throws Claire's negligee into her lap. "I don't think you'll want that after what I've done with it," he says.
"Ew, get it off me!" Claire squeals.
I cast an Imperturbable on his curtains because he can't concentrate. "I'm so going to regret this tomorrow," he says. "Hangovers galore." Flops face down onto the pillow.
I lie opposite him, but he tells me not to. "It's my birthday, I deserve one night without your toes in my mouth. Come up here." Pats the mattress.
He hasn't done a good job of cleaning off the makeup. Liner smeared on his lids and his lips still pink. He wraps an arm around me. "I love you, Score. You're my best friend," he whispers.
"I love you, too," I tell him. "But you're going to break out if you don't wash your face better. That foundation isn't noncomedogenic."
He smiles and pulls me closer. Rests his forehead against mine. "Love you so much, Score," he says.
His breath is liquor-y warm against my chin. I slide my hand up his arm and across his shoulder. The soft little hairs on his nape tickle my fingertips.
"Al?" I whisper. "Are you still wearing those panties?"
But he's fallen asleep.
* * * * *
Rose is quite stern the next morning. "For shame, Albus! Imagine if your father found out. Do you even consider the consequences when you do these things?"
"Um, could you maybe not talk so loud?" he asks. "My head is killing me."
She sighs. "You could get yourself expelled pulling that sort of a stunt, do you realise that? You as well, Scorpius. I can't believe someone from my own House would wilfully take part in such shenanigans. It's disgraceful."
"Shenanigans," I say. "Is that what it was? I like that word."
"Oh, don't you start with me!" she accuses.
"Rose, inside voice, please," Al says. "My head is about to explode. And my lungs burn. How does Dad go to work in the morning after he's been out to the pub? Ugh, get that bacon away from me, Score, it smells like misery…"
"Uncle Harry drinks on weeknights?" Rose asks. "Do you approve of this?"
"I beg of you," Al says, and covers his ears.
She turns to me. "He's Head Auror. When he drinks, it is a matter of national security. Do you feel secure with a drunk Head Auror calling the shots? Honestly, do you? Is this any way to run a country?"
"He goes out with Father," I tell her.
"He what?" she says.
"I don't think they drink much, though. They mostly talk. They're very friendly now," I say.
"No offence," she says, "but my dad doesn't have much good to say about your dad. In fact, whenever anyone mentions his name, Dad's face gets really red, and he swears and leaves the room. Says just thinking about some of the things that man does might be contagious."
"No offence," I tell her, "but you're quite rude today."
She gives me a look.
I butter some toast.
She panics about examinations.
A lot of people do. You'd think they'd have better things to panic about, but perhaps their lives are just that dull. That's one good thing about being raised in a family like mine: anything short of Dark uprisings or prison time slides off your back like water off an Impervious.
The Dark Lord could rise again, and Al wouldn't look up from his nail polish. Mummy's sent a package with every colour in the rainbow, and some the rainbow hasn't thought of yet. He puts a different shade on each finger.
"I need a manicure or something. Don't you think?" he asks.
"You'll chip them playing Quidditch," I tell him.
"My life is crap," he says. "Though Amelia's is worse. If she hadn't been so awful to me during Transfiguration last week, I'd help her with her notes. Looks like she's going to cry."
Amelia MacDougal has seven stacks of parchment that keep sliding into each other, onto her lap, or to the floor. They seem to have a mind of their own. Several of them are curling up and blowing her raspberries. "She is crying," I say.
"Sucks to be her," he tells me. "I like the black, actually. Is it too much? Too rock band wannabe? Too vampire? Too I-cry-in-dark-corners? Score, what do you think?"
"The black is perfect. But is it alright to let her cry?" I ask.
"Look, I asked if I could borrow her book for like, two seconds because Arthur turned mine into a ground squirrel, and she gave me this look like death. I'm not helping her," he says. "And neither are you."
"If she cries too loudly, it might disturb us," I say. "Shouldn't I make her leave?"
"Oh," he says. "In that case. I thought you were being nice."
"I'm not nice," I say.
"I like that about you," he tells me.
Madam Pince sends Amelia to the infirmary. One page of her notes lies under the table, still twitching.
Al tears it into miniscule shreds.
"You're nice to me, though," he says. "And you're decent to Rose, even though she's snotty and ungrateful and won't even sleep with you."
"I like you," I tell him.
He nods. "But you like Percy too, don't you? More than you like Rose?"
"I do like Percy," I say.
He spreads the pieces out on the table. Pokes at a few, but the hex seems to have been broken. "Do you, um. Do you like him more than you like me?" he asks.
"I don't know what that means," I say.
"It's a pretty straightforward question," he tells me.
"I like birds," I say. "And I like pineapple. Also, the way a new quill sounds when it first hits parchment. But does a new quill sound better than pineapple tastes? Are birds' wings more beautiful than fresh ink smells?"
"Wow," Al says, "you really know how to overcomplicate something."
"Complicated things are complicated," I tell him.
"So then who's more complicated?" he asks, frowning. "Me, or Percy?"
I think of Percy's fingers, his lips around a cigarette, and how his feet would look sliding out of his shiny black Lattanzis. I think of Al in black satin, eyes like embers, pulling on a firewhiskey bottle.
"Claire's panties," I tell him. "Most complicated thing I've ever seen."
Al sighs. "Never mind," he says. "Let's just revise for Potions."
I feel like there's something he's not saying.
I open to page 241.