We, In Faith
By King
Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
Chapter Eleven: Oxygen
His jaw cracking in a great yawn, Fresco pushed himself up in bed. The hotel room was dim with winter light, musty with the use of years. The chairs, the furniture, and the walls were shabbier than he cared to notice; he decided to again try and persuade Minh to let them move somewhere a bit nicer. It's not like they couldn't afford it.
He tossed the threadbare sheets aside and stumbled across the room. He glanced down at a thick manila folder containing his unfinished manuscript; his agent would be in a suicidal panic soon if he continued to ignore his long past deadline any longer. Combing a casual hand through his hair, Fresco peered out the blinds. Minh was walking across the grease-slicked concrete towards the building.
Fresco stepped out and waved. Minh ran a silent eye over him, holding out a warm styrofoam cup. He took a grateful gulp of the coffee, freezing in his boxers and tee-shirt. They headed back inside.
"How long have you been up?" Fresco asked, sitting at the table.
"Since six." Minh flopped on the bed, the springs screeching. He lit a cigarette.
Fresco decided against pestering him with reprovals of that bad habit. "Why don't we get out of this rat-hole?"
He ignored him, taking drags and staring at the ceiling.
"Honestly, I think we'll be fine now. It's been over two weeks."
He kicked off his shoes, his only deviation from unresponsiveness.
"Minh, c'mon. I can't write here. We can go home, even. I don't mind. I just want to finish up the manuscript and then we'll head out again."
Minh finally answered, his tenor roughed over like a copper statue left to rust. "I still think that was fucking stupid of you."
"Which part?"
"Telling the old man our names. Giving him your wand. Getting us caught. And letting him search your mind."
Fresco had admitted that he had felt Dumbledore feeling out the crannies of his mind with Ligilimency and had made no effort to fend him off. Thankfully the older wizard hadn't intruded into things he had wanted to keep to himself, but Minh couldn't care less. "Yeah, well, he's not a bad man, Dumbledore, and he was just concerned," he said, sheepishly. "We've been in worse scrapes before."
Minh said nothing for a minute, beating out a rhythm with his feet against the end of the bed. "Are you going to try and tell Pole about him?"
"You think he'd believe us? No, whatever the kid did will clear up. Anyway, I don't think he really wants to hurt Jean."
Minh was silent.
"Why do you ask?"
"Don't give a damn either way. Just want to know what you're planning."
"Well, we're not bound to pick up the trail again anytime soon. We might as well take a break and then try to find him again."
"We're going to be keeping an eye on Pole?"
Fresco shrugged and nursed his coffee. "That seems to be where he's focusing. Tell you the truth, I don't like the fact he's been so easy to watch so far. Most of the time he's jumping all over the world. If he's told old Voldie about us, which I doubt he has, then we'll get our hides skinned if he decides to set us up or something like that."
Minh sat up, grinning cruelly. "I'd like to see them try."
He gave him a bemused look. "I wish you didn't have to... Well, I'm sorry, you know. About dragging you all over the place and getting us in trouble all the time."
He snorted. "Don't be a pansy. It's not like I mind. It's a helluva a lot better than waiting around for you to write your shitty novels."
Fresco laughed. "Yeah, my shitty novels."
-
Jean stood on the dry grass, idly twirling his wand between his fingers. Kurkov, Malfoy, and Potter stood near, gazing at the gathering crowd of bleary students. The Hogwarts Quidditch stadium towered over them, random globes of light pirouetting through the darkness like shining, harmless bludgers. The stadium had been magically heated for the event in the freezing February night. The stars and the full moon gleamed overhead.
He glanced suddenly at the judges table and the Potters standing by it. Things had simmered down in the month since that incident with the hereditary potion. Dumbledore had asked James and Lily to use their influence to get the Magical Enforcement Department at the British Ministry to perform a very quiet investigation. To Jean's great relief, no one noticed the paltry number of high-quality investigators who came and left with no disturbance. They could find nothing to lend an insight to who had tampered with Jean, even when a specialist from St. Mungo's came to examine him.
Which he wouldn't have agreed to if Lawrence hadn't been there. It turned out Madame Maxime had called his legal guardian to inform him of the abnormal events. Lawrence had hurriedly Floo'ed in, convincing Jean to have some faith and not inhibit the investigation. He acquiesced, answering their questions and letting them run their tests. They unearthed nothing.
Lily and James Potter had approached Lawrence and him. To their appeal, his uncle had merely said it was Jean's choice alone. Jean could only repeat what he'd said to James before. They let it be at that. Afterwards, Jean only had to worry about people pestering him about the Rita Skeeter article. His classmates were endurable; they only joked and quickly lost interest. But the Hogwarts lot, a very large lot indeed, was a different matter. He could hardly step out on the grounds without stares and giggles and obnoxious queries following him.
Su Li and Meri rode the waves of infamy with hilarity, but Jean felt bad about Ginny Weasley. He had no doubt she was humiliated. Moreover, he was suspicious about the article's contents; it alluded to events no reporter should have an inkling of. But the days and weeks passed and fascination died down. Now the second task had finally come upon them, by no means catching Jean unawares.
He fingered his wand again, watching as Bagman stood, magicking his throat.
"Quiet, please! Quiet!" The man grinned up at the stands. "I'm sure you're all dying to know how the second task of the Triwizard Tournament will play out!
"In the first task, our contestants received clues giving them the star coordinates of where they must travel, without Apparition, and a warning that they must reach this spot within an hour to recover something very dear to them. This place – is the moon!" The ridiculous man gestured jerkily toward said burning orb in the night sky. The crowd murmured.
Unsurprised, Jean glanced at the others. Malfoy and Kurkov looked determined, Potter a bit queasy. He felt a bit of a tug on his insides, wondering what they had used as his 'treasure.'
"Now, Ministry officials shall follow each contestant in case of emergency," he waved toward four stern-faced wizards and witches. "Also, we'll be able to track their progress through these glow-globes; each official will take one with them. The screens you see above the stadium will project what will be happening above our heads."
Four of the luminescent bludgers swung around Jean and the others. High above, four flat sheets of multicolored lights revealed Kurkov's scowl, Malfoy's sneer, Jean's annoyed glance, and Potter's trepidation.
"Champions? Are you ready? On my whistle, then. To the count of three, then! One... two... three, go!"
The whistle screeched through the drowsy countenances of the students and the very alert ones of the four champions. Jean instantly whipped his wand in an arch over his head, muttering the bubble charm perfectly from rote practice. A delicate green sphere appeared and surrounded him. He deftly made sure the pressure, capacity, and temperature adjustments were perfect. He hadn't been slacking this past month.
He charmed the bubble for propulsion and instantly lanced upward, cleaving the night with a streak of afterimage. One of the officials shot up with him, a bobbing light enclosed in his bubble. The stadium shriveled into a speck under a millisecond, Hogwarts and the tiny village following almost simultaneously. The g-forces bashed and beat him, and clouds clawed at his bubble; he struggled to stay standing. The night was falling on him.
Out of the corner of his eye, Jean could see Malfoy and Kurkov racing in their own bubbles to catch up with him. Potter was nowhere in sight. Grimly, he gripped his wand even tighter and gave strength to his bubble's thrust against gravity. He arched ahead and his Ministry escort hurried after. Jean felt the burst out of the atmosphere intrinsically. His sight locked hungrily onto the insanely huge moon.
He suddenly crashed to his knees, his bubble spinning erratically. Gaining control again, he looked angrily over to where Malfoy and Kurkov, their bubbles still speeding, were yelling at each other furiously. Jean ignored them, regaining his lead. He fingered his wand again, still unsure if he should try his trump card. Kurkov threatened to pass him and a mass of bobbing, disfigured lights flickered in and out of view ahead – blackburns. That decided it for him.
He raised his wand, feeling the firmly called out spell taking hold of his skin, his bones, and his innards. Intricate pinpoints of pain made a complex lace over his body. His bones ached so that he wanted to rip them out, and organs writhed and twisted within him. Thrashing, he was cramped and could feel his legs and arms being lost in a void that wanted to rend him into oblivion. He suddenly knew beyond a doubt the bubble was poison now.
He flicked a wing (a wing) and it evaporated. Dark space enfolded him in its silence and heft. The coolness felt invigorating, and the sudden bereftness of gravity felt liberating. If Jean could have grinned, he most certainly would have. It had worked.
Having found a reference to an elusive and complex bird-star creature in a book a few weeks ago, Jean had snatched up any other scrap of information he could on the thing. It was translucent and not definably related to any earth-bound creature. Apparently unaffected by the perils of space, the Shooting Bird had never been known to come anywhere near the atmosphere of Earth. There were accounts of some coming too close and simply melting away as it touched the gases that gave life to others. The birds were apparently frightened of the huge metal contraptions muggles sent into space. The creatures were often mistaken for shooting stars. It was said they took delight in throwing off the calculations of divinationists.
People speculated if it was related to a more common space creature – the blackburn. Blackburns were mindless balls of black light that would slowly feed on radiation from the sun and then latch on to a more complex form (most often the atmosphere's gases) and simply gorge itself to death. They were invisible to muggles and those without magic. Their reproduction processes were mysteries and people could never observe them long enough to make a good study; blackburns were too attracted to the bubbles used to enter space.
Jean had studied the Shooting Bird as thoroughly as he could, analyzing it to every last detail. He filled scrolls and scrolls of notes on a proposed transfiguration. It had been a definite risk to try it, but it was worth it considering the measly bubbles normally used could never match the speed of the bird.
Jean spread his wings, unfeathered and mellifluous, to their full width. He began to pump them and quickly tore through the emptiness. His chest clinched deftly in rhythm with his new wings. Instinctively, he flicked and angled away from patches of blackburns, still soaring ahead with a trail of blossoming lights left in his wake. He knew Kurkov and Malfoy were being quickly left behind in his newfound, incredible speed. His official was trying to keep up in vain.
The great expanses of blackness, the endless wells of nothingness surrounded him, giving him a sort of intense, unknown pleasure. Stars blinked and disappeared within his sight; his great momentum, knife-like in the deepness, did not allow for casual gazing. He could feel the distant throb of the sun's rays.
Before he knew it, the moon loomed large and pock-marked in his line of vision. Jean held his wings straight, gliding to a slower speed. Spotting a huddled group of humans, he landed, or rather, he hovered inches from the surface. A Ministry official stared at him, standing by four other air bubbles anchored to the moon with a charm. Cordelia lay inside one, her face sweet and unaware as she breathed the slow breath of sleep. Ginny Weasley, Brie Brigham, and a Durmstrang boy reclined in the others, unconscious. His weightless body streamed toward Cordelia anxiously.
The official seemed to get a hold of himself and flicked his wand, moving the bubble containing the little girl toward Jean. He flowed beneath it and fluttered one wing. Suddenly, he realized his wand had been transfigured into that wing as Cordelia's bubble latched onto his back. Well, it was better than having to do without it.
Gently, Jean gained altitude again, trying not to jostle the girl. He gradually, but quickly, accelerated, once more arching through the soundless void. He passed his escort, who whirled and hurried to catch up again. Jean hummed in amusement. Well, it wasn't a hum in the normal sense, but like an internal throb of amusement, musical in its silence. Jean thrilled again in his own speed and grace, drunk on the reflected radiation the moon emanated like a fine wine. He loved flying on a broom, but you couldn't compare these two experiences. Not because one was better than the other, but because they were such radically similar and dissimilar joys.
He shot past Malfoy and Kurkov on his way back to earth, still competing franticly with each other and with several starving blackburns. He hummed again in pure mocking of their feeble effort. The exhilaration of his flight and almost assured victory thrummed in his chest and in his wings. The gorgeous blue planet rose to meet him and his inhuman senses could taste the noxious gases in the atmosphere. Regretfully, he pulled himself into Cordelia's bubble, letting the transfiguration melt from his body, making him heavy and cumbersome again.
The process hurt like hell, and he scrabbled against the smooth walls of the bubble. Finally, he was aware of the gravity calling to them. Jean picked up Cordelia, tucking her under his arm, and held his wand steady. They lunged downward, slicing through the atmosphere. The bubble trembled and squeezed as the gas molecules multiplied and the air grew denser. Jean put a firm grip on the sleeping girl, fortifying their craft with his will and his wand. The euphoria of being a bird-star gone, he found himself more concerned for this delicate little thing who anyone could very well mistake as his sister.
Gravity thrashed the green pocket of air, rabid with rage at this disobedience. It flung them downward, the seas becoming continents becoming islands becoming mountains becoming a glazed little castle. Jean grappled with the earth's pull, trying to slow their frenetic fall. Unexpectedly, he was flung with Cordelia still in his arms against the bubble's floor, an outside force slowing their descent and guiding them away from the dangerous spires and turrets of the castle.
They spiraled slowly into the Hogwarts Quidditch stadium, and all of a sudden the noise seemed to be turned on. Jean grinned at the screams from his fellow Beauxbatons students. The other cheers were polite. He didn't care; he'd won. To hell with the catcallers. Jean and Cordelia were landed gently on the turf.
"And we have our first return! Mister Jean Pole of Beauxbatons –"
Madam Pomfrey laid her clutches on them. She bullied them into a medi-tent, muttering darkly to herself. Jean laid Cordelia down gently on a cot and sat next her. Madam Pomfrey fluttered over the girl, coaxing a potion down her throat. She murmured and stirred. The nurse turned her gaze on Jean.
Lawrence entered the tent, his look a mixture of relief and anxiety. Jean smiled at him reassuringly and nodded at Cordelia, sitting up and yawning blearily.
"Are you two all right?"
"What?" the girl asked fuzzily.
"We're both fine," Jean told him in English, looking pointedly at Madam Pomfrey.
She continued to fuss. "I'll be the judge of that."
Lawrence sat on the other side of Cordelia, peering at her. "That was incredible, Jean. I'm really proud of you."
He grinned. "It felt incredible. Did they give my score yet?"
"No, the judges are still conferring," Lawrence smiled at him softly, speaking in English and glancing over at the nurse.
The nurse snorted. "Fine. Go on."
Jean gave a one-armed hug to Cordelia. "Be back in a minute."
"'Kay." She appeared resigned to whatever was going on.
Jean stood outside the tent with Lawrence, gazing over the clean-cut grass to the judges table.
Crouch raised his wand and shot up gold ribbons twisting into a ten. Madame Maxime and Dumbledore awarded him another two tens. Karkaroff and Bagman gave him a seven and a nine, respectively.
"Forty-six, Jean, congratulations!" Lawrence clapped a hand to his shoulder.
Jean stretched, grinning. "Merlin, I feel great!"
He spotted Meri suddenly hurtling toward him the field entrance. She wrung his waist, laughing.
"You dog! Forty-six! That was so amazing!"
Izumi jogged after her. He gave Jean's arm a playful punch. "You deserved fifty!"
"Thanks. Who pulled me out of the free fall?"
"The Potters did," Lawrence told him softly.
"Well," he said, "I guess that is their job."
Cordelia emerged from the tent, looking more alert. Jean pulled her to his side, mussing her thick black ringlets teasingly.
"Mmff," she mumbled into his arm. "What happened?"
"Bagman said they put you to sleep," Izumi said. "They took you to the moon and that was the second task. Jean had to get you down by himself."
She was awake now. "I went to the moon and I didn't even get to see it?"
"Cordelia, you would have been too frightened to make the journey awake," Lawrence chided, amused.
"I would to!" she insisted. "Wouldn't I, Jean?"
He rocked her around. "Of course."
She smiled and clutched at him. "See? Jean's nice."
"You coddler," Meri snickered. Cordelia fluttered her lashes and the older girl grinned.
The Potters waved them down from a velvet canopy. They nodded at each other politely and sat in plush chairs set around low tables. The two aurors stood on the other side, watching the sky. Ainsley Potter sat near them miserably, staring down at his sneakers.
Jean nodded toward him. "What happened with him?"
Meri shrugged. "He used the same bubble charm, around his head, and a heating charm, but they wouldn't let him go up. He did a few other things, but they still wouldn't let him go."
"Actually, I'm not sure I quite understood why they wouldn't," Lawrence remarked.
"Me neither," added Izumi.
Jean snorted. "Well, of course they wouldn't let him go."
Ainsley suddenly looked up at them, piqued. "Are you talking about me?" They were speaking in French. Incredible he could zoom in like that.
Jean met his gaze. "Well, yes. From what they're telling me, I'm surprised you didn't prepare yourself before the task."
"I prepared." The boy stood up, looking defensive.
"Ainsley," Lily Potter warned.
"No, I wanna know what I did wrong," he asserted. He looked at Jean expectantly, angrily.
"If you had gone up past the atmosphere without an entire bubble around you, and without adjusting the air pressure, your blood would have boiled inside your veins."
The boy looked confused. "Boiled? But it's freezing in space, right?"
"It's the pressure," Jean told him. "A boiling point is the temperature when the pressure of the liquid is equal to the pressure of the air around it. With nothing pushing down on it, the liquid then evaporates; it enters the air. A boiling point is lowered as pressure is lowered; in other words, the higher you go where there is less air or fewer air molecules. In space, there is no air pressure so your blood doesn't need to reach any temperature to reach its boiling point. Therefore, your blood boils in your veins and you die."
Ainsley turned a sickly puce and sat back down. His parents gave him funny looks.
Meri tutted. "You're lucky you're so intelligent, Jean. Imagine dying like that!" She shuddered.
Cordelia stared at him, bewildered.
"It's not that complex," he said, rankled. "It's basic science; muggles learn that when they're fourteen, thirteen. Wizards just give their students the answers without any of the explanations."
"I don't know if that's entirely true, Jean," Lawrence said. "What about magical theory? Plenty of people study that."
He looked like he would argue, but shook his head. "I don't want to get in a big discussion over that. What did the judges give Potter?"
Meri chuckled. "A grand total of five out of fifty points."
"Five? You'd think he would get a zero; he never even left the ground."
"Bagman gave him the five," Izumi noted. "Quite a few people didn't care for that." His gaze skittered over Meri.
"You're going to be in first place for sure," she said with aplomb.
"Jean's going to wi-in," Cordelia suddenly claimed in a sing-song voice.
He smiled at her, draping an arm on the back of her chair. They noticed a commotion being raised outside.
"And here come Mister Malfoy and Miss Kurkov! My, they're certainly having a go at each other!"
They stood up, standing at the canopy edge and staring up at the sky. Two blurry green lights split the burning darkness. The screens high above flickered, showing Malfoy and Kurkov struggling against gravity in their plummet. The jarred each other violently several times.
"What happened with those two? I didn't have a chance to watch them," Jean murmured.
"You left the ground first, and they followed," Meri informed him. "After you left the atmosphere, Kurkov was lagging and mowed down you and Malfoy. They started yelling at each other and you went ahead, of course. They pretty much were going at the same pace. Go up, yell, knock each other about. Rinse, repeat." She shrugged derisively.
The Potters were standing in the field, eyes and wands on the two bubbles now drifting down. Malfoy and Kurkov landed gently with darkly furious expressions. They glared at the sight of Jean. He looked back impassively and watched as Madam Pomfrey bustled them away. They ignored the individuals they'd rescued, leaving the Potters to pick up the Durmstrang boy and Brie Brigham from the grass.
The judges spoke among themselves. Ribbon whipped through the air, shimmering in the blackness. Kurkov had thirty-eight points while Malfoy had thirty-two. They both looked disgusted as they passed Jean on their way into the canopy.
Meri grumbled, "You'd think they'd have the same scores."
"Not with Karkaroff favoring his student," Izumi said. "I guess Dumbledore's too principled to give Malfoy a ten like he did."
She snorted.
"And that, with the scores from the first task, places our champions as follows," Bagman shouted up to the stands, "Jean Pole in first place, Draco Malfoy in second, Monika Kurkov in a close third, and Ainsley Potter in fourth. Now off to bed with you lot! Don't party too long!" He flicked his wand at his throat again.
The stands squirmed and shifted with excited students; the air was filled with their laughter and sharp, bawling yells. Lawrence, Cordelia, Meri, and Izumi left and Bagman entered, smiling at them and apparently unconcerned with three very sour looks.
"Well, well! Thrilling, that! I'm here to tell you that you'll all be informed about the third task later. It won't occur until the twenty-fourth of June, so you have plenty of time to prepare. Good luck!" He scurried out.
Malfoy whirled on the fourth champion. "Congratulations, Potter," he spat, "not only have you made a hilarious fool out of yourself, but you've also confirmed to me that you're the mindless idiot I've always suspected you were."
"Shut the hell up! You're one to talk, always depending on your daddy's money!" The boy glared back, fists clenched. "You barely got into second place!"
Kurkov laughed and gave a not-so-playful shove to Potter's shoulder. "This coming from the one in last place!
"Don't touch me!" Potter gave the girl's hand a sharp slap.
"Lighten up," Malfoy told him, sneering and patting the boy's shoulder. "We're only fooling around." He gave his arm a good shake.
Potter reared back, getting ready to let a fist fly. By the two's expressions, that was exactly what they wanted. Jean shoved in, grabbing the younger boy's wrist before he could do more damage to himself than to the others.
"Knock it off," he announced, looking at each of them in turn. "You're all going to get yourself disqualified."
Potter jerked his hand away. "I don't need your help!"
Jean gave him a glib look. "I wasn't trying to. I'm just pointing out to Malfoy and Kurkov that they're the ones making fools out of themselves at the moment. If you hadn't noticed, you two, you're far ahead of Potter in points and I suspect you're merely picking on him when you really have a problem with each other."
Malfoy and Kurkov glowered at him sullenly and then gave each other dirty looks. Malfoy stepped away disdainfully, his pale brow arched and his silver eyes filled with derisive hauteur.
"Piss off, Pole," he said succinctly and stalked away.
Kurkov merely scowled and left in a similar manner. Potter ran out without looking back and saying nothing.
Jean sighed. Bunch of idiots.
-
Ainsley flung another rock at the slick lake surface, licking his lips at the satisfying crack! popping the air. He kicked at the light dusting of ice glazing the grass and felt the sharp prick of the cold night wind on his chapped and rent lips. He scooped up another jagged handful of rocks, chucking them with all of his might at the frozen water.
He was mad as hell. Mad at his own stupidity, mad at Malfoy and Kurkov getting all up in his face. Mad at Pole for being such an ass. He could take care of himself. He wasn't an idiot. He wasn't a child. Grasping a good-sized stone, he chucked it angrily into the lake.
"Dammit!" he yelled at the stars.
"Language, Ainsley."
He looked up. Oleander sat a few feet away on a log, her eyes darkly amused. She looked like a porcelain doll with her fur-trimmed dress and caplet, her hands stuck primly into a muffler, and her lips deep red against the whiteness of her face and hair.
"What do you want?" he snapped rudely.
She smoothed her immaculate skirts. "It's your own fault. You wouldn't let Stewart or I help you."
"'S in the rules," he muttered. "You can't accept help."
"You want to win, don't you?"
"I'm gonna do it by myself, dammit!" He give a fierce kick to the soggy mud and grass mixture at the lake edge. Ainsley gave her a filthy look.
Oleander stared back impassively. "You are too proud by far. Don't you think the other three are getting help?"
"I don't care if they are!" He gritted his teeth in frustration.
The girl said nothing for a long moment. "How is your mother, Ainsley?"
"Fat!" he shot. Instantly, the pit of his stomach dropped until it wallowed in sick guilt. He dropped his newest fistful of rocks in disgust. Flopping down on the log beside Oleander, he refused to look at her. "Shit... I didn't mean that." You didn't call a pregnant woman fat.
The girl's eyes glowed eerily in the dim shine sifting from the lake's surface. "It's all right to be concerned."
He hunched over sullenly. It wasn't fair. Mom and Dad were keeping something to themselves. He was starting to think they didn't trust him. It was stupid, but he was feeling left behind. He grew up sibling-less and now, all of a sudden, there was a new baby coming. Where he used to be the major object of attention for his parents, he was becoming a second thought. The baby and this... other thing were, he admitted, making him jealous. And Ainsley could only get helplessly pissed at himself for feeling like that; he wasn't a freaking five-year-old, after all.
"Perhaps you should talk to them."
He rubbed his arms. It was suddenly very cold. "No." He didn't want to look like an idiot. His lungs clenched.
Oleander laid a tiny hand over one of his own hands. "What will be, will be, Ainsley."
"Yeah."
"You should go inside. McGonagall will yell at you if you're late for her class in the morning."
He nodded and stood up, giving the snow one last good kick. They climbed the hill to the castle together, silent in the quiet noises of the night.
-
"Really, tell me what's going on." Jean leaned toward his uncle over the battered wooden table, his tone and expression adamant. The Three Broomsticks bustled with shoppers coming in from the cold to gulp down warm butterbeers and give a cheery greeting to the jaunty proprietress, Madam Rosmerta. Lawrence had sent Cordelia home last night after the second task, but he stayed a day longer himself to spend time with his nephew.
Lawrence gazed back mildly. "Jean, I've told you. You needn't worry."
"Don't give me that."
That letter from months ago, mentioning the trouble with Cordelia's custody still worried him. He wanted to know what was happening; he wanted to know where she would live. And he could just feel his blood-tide rising at the thought of Madame Pole having a hand in the girl's life.
His uncle sighed and leaned back. "You're persistent. Okay, nothing much has happened since that owl I sent you. Honestly. I think it's because she's still in school, but I'm betting the moment she gets out, Mother will make her move."
"I don't like this," Jean told him frankly.
"It will be fine," Lawrence replied reassuringly. "I'm not letting Cordelia have the same childhood I did."
"If you could become her legal guardian, are you sure you would want to? You've been putting up with me for four years now, and I'm really grateful to you for it, but would you want to spend another four or three raising another kid? You're only twenty-six, you know."
Lawrence laughed. "Jean, I've never had to 'put up' with you. You've been a lot more help to me than I suspect I've been to you. And Cordelia means a lot to me. Or course I'd want to take her in."
He grinned back wryly. "Listen to us. We sound so old."
The older man smiled. He suddenly paused, staring past Jean. He turned around and saw James and Lily Potter sitting down across the moderately crowded room. Lily looked up and smiled tentatively, giving them a small wave. Jean nodded back. Looking away, he bit his lip and drummed his fingers on the table.
Lawrence said nothing. His eyes were patiently concerned.
Jean was suddenly struck, not for the first time, how physically similar he was to François. The pale hair, the shapely nose and mouth, the hazel eyes – François's had always been faintly touched with melancholy, but Lawrence's were merely patient, constantly patient. They both held themselves and acted in a gentle, calm manner.
Jean glanced at the Potters again. They sat stiffly, as if their eyes were darting unconsciously to his back. Making a snap decision, he straightened and looked Lawrence square in the eye.
"I need to talk to them," he said, his tone and face resolute.
"Jean..."
"If I don't, they'll just keep hoping, and what's the point in that?"
The older man said nothing. But he stood when Jean stood and left their table when Jean left. The Potters looked up at them in surprise as they stood next to their table.
Jean managed a smile and asked politely in English, "May we sit with you?"
"Of course!" Lily said quickly, scooting her chair over.
They sat, Lawrence smiling a them and accepting James's hand.
"Good to see you again," the auror said tightly.
Lawrence nodded.
Lily placed a gaze on Jean. "Congratulations on yesterday. You were very impressive."
He shook his head. "I didn't come to talk about that. Not really, anyway."
"What is it, then?" she questioned softly.
"I know you both have said that you would leave alone the subject of the hereditary potion – " Jean began.
James looked like he wanted to interrupt, but Lily shook her head at him.
"But I've got the feeling you still haven't given up the notion."
"Jean, really, we meant it when we said we wouldn't try to press it on you," James said earnestly.
"We're letting it go," Lily added.
"Be honest," Jean told them. "Aren't you still hoping? I admit, what happened recently can make it look like there's still a possibility."
Lily look confused. "Are you saying you want to retake the test?"
"No, I'm saying it would be best if you gave up those hopes."
James sighed. "You're right, I think. We are still holding on to the feeling that you're our son. But, Jean –"
"I don't think," Jean interrupted carefully, "that Harry Potter is still alive. I'm sorry, but I don't. And even if he were, supposing I were him, I retook the hereditary test and it turned positive, what makes you think that will make any difference? What if I don't have the time to stick around?" He gazed at them straightforwardly.
The woman leaned back. "What do you mean?"
"I have plans. I've had them for a long time," Jean told them. "The moment the Triwizard is over, I'm leaving England. Of course, it all depends if I win." He paused, tugging at the lapels of his coat. He pressed his lips together and plunged ahead. "Which I will. I can't not win."
They said nothing, waiting for him to continue. Lawrence leaned toward him a little.
"I'm planning on using that prize money to open an exhibition." He shifted little. "My father – François Pole – was an artist. A great artist, despite what people said about him." Jean's brow wrinkled in faint irritation. "He never could sell his work well. Wizards stuck up their noses because he never charmed his paintings into movement. Muggles couldn't appreciate his work because they couldn't understand the latent... magical element in his paintings." He looked thoroughly frustrated.
"Jean..."
He ignored Lawrence. "But I'm going to change that. I know François's art is great. Anyone with enough sense to actually pay attention to it could tell. The exhibition will prove it. And I can't allow anyone else to put it together. I have to finance it, organize it – everything – on my own."
James and Lily looked at him, their emotions mixed.
Lawrence sighed. "I've told him I would want nothing more than to pay for it, but he's stubborn about it. So many others have offered to help. The parents of his friends, Meri and Izumi, for example."
"Art exhibitions – do they cost a lot?" Lily inquired, her eyes dusky.
"There's the rent for the space, and I'll need a lot," Jean said. "He had so many paintings. There's the catering, advertisement, the decor – and it will have to be specific so to compliment his work. And it's not just that exhibition I need to be concerned about. Other people are depending on me. I'm planning on starting an agency, and I already have a few friends who are counting on me to be their agent. I have to jumpstart their careers; start their own exhibitions and get them publicized."
Lily sat back. "So you're saying even if you were our son, the whole 'everything-is-hunkey-dorey, happy family' bit isn't enough to tie you down."
"Yes. And I don't see the point in you keeping hopes that will only hurt."
Lily suddenly smiled. "Jean, you're very mature. You're certainly the most mature seventeen-year-old I've ever met. But you've still enough child left not to understand why we keep on hoping, why we must hope." She leaned toward him, her full lips curved but her eyes apprehensive. "If you had a child, you would understand the incomparable bond and the plain and simple love that could never die a parent grows. That's all hope is, really – love."
Jean stared at her, unnerved. He felt unbalanced, swinging erratically off-course as if he were that bird-star once more and had swallowed too heartily of the thick honey sunrays, drunk and staggering in the great, freezing void. Words, crippled in their age, lurched through his skull. 'They're dead, François! They're dead, they're dead, they're dead!' His teeth bit into the slick muscles of his cheeks. His body dripping away like so much fat and tissues, his indefinite self rose and sliced through his disarm.
Jean's eyes, fiercely green, shot to the Potters. "You're right. I don't know anything about that. But I know enough about love. François meant a lot to me. I don't think I could ever acknowledge anyone else as a parent."
Lily studied him with soft eyes for a while. She hesitated before saying, "Jean, is he dead?"
Lawrence's quiet gaze switched to his nephew. He was silent.
The void of disconcertion threatened, but Jean reeled himself back in. Dr. Swann had once told him something he'd never forgotten. You're only ashamed if you believe yourself to be guilty. No man can judge his brother; only you can pass judgement on yourself. Jean drew himself up.
"He is. For four years now. He –" A light pause. "He committed suicide. He always had a melancholy soul."
James's looked at him with a well of sympathy. "I'm sorry, Jean."
"Oh," Lily sighed and her eyes shivered in commiseration. She placed an elegantly shaped, callused hand over his. "You didn't have to tell us."
Jean shook his head. He didn't say anything for a while, looking off. "His art. I have to make it live forever. It's selfish of me, of course, to refuse to allow anyone to help with the exhibition. There are so many people who loved him, too. But I just can't. I have to do it myself. I won't accept failure." He glared at them suddenly, not angry, but passionate.
All at once, he felt the part of him that had slashed neatly through his indecision pulling away. He stood.
"I think we should go."
Lawrence kept his eyes on Jean, standing as well.
"Okay," Lily said quietly. "Thank you, Jean."
He looked at her. "For what?"
She smiled sadly. He didn't ask again.
He and Lawrence left the tavern, the bitter wind hitting them outside. They trekked toward the hill where the castle perched, silent.
Finally, the older man asked, "Jean, are you all right?"
He was speaking in French again, and the divide in language made the divide between people seem wide and gorging.
"Yeah," Jean answered. He shrugged, not caring to talk at the moment.
Lawrence understood the intrinsic request in the shrug. He didn't press the conversation further.
-
A/N: Well, yes. François commited suicide. I sincerely hope I'm not going to make a huge angst fest, so tell me if I do. The subject of suicide is more intricate than just weepweepweep. Weep. I'm going to try and conquer that hill.
I haven't got much to say, so I think I want to make a comment on Ainsley. He's brat, but he's also a kid who's getting frustrated and confused. He's at the awkward point right between ten and twenty (and, yes, that is a Five for Fighting reference). He's the type of person you want to punch at first, so you have to get to know him better.
Gyagh, I know, the second task was horrendous and unimaginative. So don't tell me that. I already know. But – I've always wondered if wizards go to space...
