CHAPTER TWO
Scorpius tries stay behind.

Little more than a smudge remained. Like a birthmark, but impossibly darker. I was nine when I first saw it, and surprised that I could have missed something about him for so long. Missed something as simple as a birthmark. Missed something as important as a birthmark that was not a birthmark.

(Once upon a time, there was a very bad wizard…)

"What's that?" I traced one white finger over his forearm.

"You don't touch that," he hissed, hoisting me off of his lap. "You never touch that."

(And this bad wizard knew how to trick people...)

I always felt afraid when Father spoke that way. An urgency sharpened his voice if ever I broke The Rules. No talking in public. No making eye contact with certain people. I spent years thinking 'Muggle' was a bad word, because we were never to speak of them outside of the house.

"This is the reason," he tugged his sleeve down over the mark, "we keep our heads down. This is the reason we keep a low profile."

(...How to manipulate people, and how to get them on his side…)

I might have been a child, but I wasn't stupid. I knew that my cousin Phoebe's life was different than mine. That she studied reading and maths and things with other young witches and wizards in her area. Had friends and sleepovers. I pretty much only ever spoke to family, occasionally, and hired help, awkwardly.

I knew that she had two sets of grandparents. Two grandfathers. One that she shared with me, but another as well. I wondered why I didn't. When I asked about his father, he said he didn't have one. When I asked if he used to, once, he said No.

(The bad wizard knew how to get people on his side. He promised them things he would never really give them, and so they joined him.)

Half truths. Things left unspoken. Secrets made stronger, heavier, and more terrifying for never being named.

(Some joined him willingly and some were forced...)

There was another face behind our house. We never went there, and I knew it scared him, but I didn't know why.

(Some felt so confused, they didn't know what they even wanted at all...)

I remember a fight. A woman with honey-blonde hair shouting at him while Aunt Daphne tried to calm her down. I remember the feeling of cold balustrades against my cheeks while I watched from the mezzanine above.

(And some people didn't join the bad wizard. They fought him instead. And those people were very, very good.)

"You must send him to Hogwarts! I won't stand for it if you don't, I have rights, you know!" Her voice sounded shrill. Dangerous, in a small way. A trapped mouse that might bite, leaving one round, red drip at the end of your finger. Aunt Daphne held her tight while the woman thrashed her arms, sometimes slapping or kicking at Father, but he didn't fight back. Didn't step back. Didn't even recoil.

(Those people were a special kind of good. Much better than myself. One of those people was a boy named…)

"You have to understand how hard it will be for him there…" Father's voice was little more than a murmur. The clamor of the woman's kicks overwhelmed his words, and I heard only a name. A name I knew, but didn't know. A name I was never to say, but always to hear. Whispered behind closed doors.

(...Harry Potter.)

Leaning forward, I struggled to make out what my father was saying. Too late I saw Daphne, looking.

"Shit!" She let go of the struggling woman and cast a binding charm.

I tried to scramble away as Daphne's footfalls landed on the steps behind me. Her warm hand caught my back before I was through the door.

"Hey there, Scorpius." She knelt down to catch my eyes. "Let's get you to bed."

(I wasn't one of the very, very good people...)

She hummed as she tucked me in, her charm silencing the shouts from below. Thumps and stomps still radiated through the floor and rattled the door. Daphne's gentle thumb wiped a tear from under my eye. I turned away.

"I'm sorry you had to see all that."

"Who is that lady?" I sniffled. "Why is she here?"

She was saying the bad things. The bad words. Speaking to the unspoken, and the things that should never be spoken. And she'd opened something, as well.

Daphne looked stunned. "She's your mother."

I could tell she hadn't meant to say it, but didn't know how not to say it. Something had been opened.

(I wasn't one of the really good people, and your father wasn't one of the really bad people. But…)

"What's happening?" I moaned. "Why is everything like this?"

Her hand smoothed my already smooth covers. "Well," she sighed. "It all started a very long time ago. And once upon a time, there was a very bad wizard…"

(Your father did a number of very, very bad things.)

"An entire year at Beauxbatons!" Rosie squeals, scratching butter onto her toast. "You know all seventh years have the option to just stay on the whole time—not just the champions."

The school is still alight with chatter after Headmistress McGonagall's announcement at last night's feast. TriWizard Tournament. Beauxbatons to host. All seventh years required to visit host school until champions have been chosen. The hardest part had been sitting through it all alone. While Hufflepuff is objectively the best place to be, I hate it when Al is sequestered with the Slytherins and Rosie is gobbled up by Gryffindors. Most meals, we sit where we please, but feast nights demand a certain decorum.

"An entire year at Beauxbatons!" She says again, mouth crowded with food.

My own toast sags under the weight of its own marmalade and I feel queasy. Al's hand snakes around mine under the table so I squeeze back. I worry that I might puke if I try to say something.

"You OK?" Even out of the corner of my eye, I can see the intensity of his green gaze.

"I'mnuhging," I mumble.

Rosie washes down her toast with a mouthful of coffee. "Pardon?"

"I'm not going," I say again.

All down the Hufflepuff table, conversation hasn't strayed far from the exciting news. Or devastating news, depending on your perspective.

Everyone's giving Al and Rosie side-long glances, and I've overheard a fair amount of speculation that either of them would be a strong candidate for champion. Both are so used to hearing their names in idle gossip that they've turned deaf to it, but even across the Hall, I can hear a pair of Ravenclaws placing bets on which one has the better chance (Granger beats Potter any day! Everyone knows that Harry would have been useless without Hermione!)

For the first time, I wish the Great Hall didn't show us the sky above. It makes me feel exposed.

"I think you, like, have to go," Rosie says and Al just gives my hand another squeeze.

"Don't you lot see what's going on?" My voice is rising with my panic. "Everyone's looking at us."

"Everyone's always looking at us." She shrugs.

"Not like this. The Tournament is going to be a huge press circus, and now… Well, you two are possible entrants. You know what's going to happen."

What's going to happen, is that there will be press access to everything all seventh years do, and we've never had to deal with journalists at school before. As the children of the Wizarding World's biggest celebrities, Al and Rosie will have the media watching their every move. As the child of one of the Wizarding World's most notorious villains, I'll have it just as bad. Worse, probably. Depending on your perspective.

Secrets won't stay secrets. Things better left unspoken, spoken.

I feel Al sigh beside me and I know he's worried too.

"We only have to stay those first few days," he says. "Once the champions have been chosen, we can come back."

Across the Hall, the Ravenclaws are still placing bets. (Do you think Malfoy will go for it? If Weasley and Potter do than yeah, he does whatever they do. Yeah, he'll probably want to win some glory for the old family name).

Shit.

"You guys," I gulp, hating what I'm about to say. "We probably shouldn't even be hanging out at all right now."

Each and every seventh year will have the opportunity to get interviewed, and each and every one of them will face questions about exactly three people.

When the bell rings for start of lessons, I feel my chest unclench. But only just.

"Now remember everyone," Professor Madley calls as we finish scouring our cauldrons. "Your visit to France is going to interrupt the curriculum, and you still have your N.E.W.T.s at the end of the year. Please use these two months to get ahead. Sign-ups for Potions Club are still open, and that's a great way to get some extra work in."

Chairs scrape back from workstations even before she's done talking. Every student is left frizzy-haired and exhausted after the grueling double period. Rosie alone seems chipper as she packs up her bag. Then again, she spent most of the lesson figuring out how to make things explode; literally blowing off steam. And sparks. And a thick, green gas that sent the class cowering in a corner until Madley could clear it.

I've heard that Muggles have a stereotype about witches cackling. I'm left to assume that Muggles have only ever met witches like Rosie.

"Come on, let's go," she whispers while I dawdle. "Madley's been giving me that look like she might tell me off."

She's not wrong. It's the 'you are obviously very clever why do you refuse to behave yourself' look. All the professor's know that Rosie would be top of our year if she gave a damn, and they hate that she doesn't.

"You go," I say. "I think this cauldron needs another go and I don't want it to rust."

Rosie just shrugs and bounces toward the door but I hear her say "liar" as it snaps shut.

"Is everything alright, Scorpius?" Madley is the sort of professor who uses first names and wants everyone to call her 'Emily.' I refuse on principle, especially as I like her. "I think I know why you might be upset."

Looking up, I see her pushing aside hastily abandoned chairs to approach me. Madley doubles as Hogwarts Guidance Counselor as well as my Head of House so she's seen me cry enough times that I don't feel weird about it anymore. She probably does know exactly why I'm freaking out.

"I don't think I should go to Beauxbatons." I stop pretend-cleaning my cauldron. "It's just one weekend, so why not stay here? And… School. Exams. School. It's a pretty big distraction."

"Well…" She's biting her lip in that way that means I'm out of luck and there's nothing she can do for me even though she really wants to. "Like you said. It's just one weekend, and then you can come back. You can catch that up easily."

Our silence rings out in the stagnant dungeon.

"It's not about school at all though is it?"

"No, it's not about school at all."

Professor Madley smiles. "Think about it this way, the press will be so focused on the Tournament that they'll forget about everything else. And pretty much all of the seventh year class will stay on at Beauxbatons. So if you come back to Hogwarts after the Champions are chosen, it might be a really relaxing year for you. You could go to Hogsmeade for once!"

There it is.

But.

"The press that first weekend," I say, shoulders drooping. "It's always worst at the very beginning. All that speculation."

Madley just bites her lip again.

Dammit.

Beads of sweat erupt across my forehead, gathering and pooling until they drop. Already hazy vision blurs against the salt dampening my eyelashes. My brain is on fire. My skin shivers with fever. I feel each muscle scream as I climb the stairs to the infirmary, and then the world lurches to the left.

Head cracks stone. Body crumples, defeated, on the steps. I've lost my balance, and I may never find it again. The convulsions begin just as I'm ready to give up.

"Mr Malfoy!" Madame Longbottom cries, tugging me up by the scruff of my neck.

The familiar whiteness of the hospital wing is recognizable even in my daze. Maybe especially. Cool sheets come as a relief against my scorching skin.

"What have you done this time?" the Matron demands; a vague silhouette swimming before my eyes.

"I'm… Very ill." Bile rises in my throat and I choke.

"I'm sure you are. What is this—twelve, no, thirteen squares of Fever Fudge?"

"Erm…"

Before I can come up with a decent lie, Madame Longbottom is tipping potion down my throat. She knows I must have the antidote stashed somewhere on my person, but she also knows it's all together snappier to force-feed me the solution. The pain is fierce, no matter how manufactured, so I gulp despite myself. Stupid body and its stupid will to survive. I crash back on the bed and catch my breath as my symptoms fade.

"I'm not giving you a note to get out of the ceremony," she says. "And I recommend you stop crying werewolf, lest you plan on ever becoming legitimately ill at some point in the rest of your life."

Details sharpen as the last of the pain ebbs. Madame Longbottom has her arms crossed tight across her chest—half annoyed, half mildly amused. I think.

"What if you just helped me out here?" I try for a winning smile. "It's not like I even want to enter my name in the Cup anyway, so why should I bother visiting the host school at all?"

She's shaking her head before I even finish my very persuasive argument. "It's not up to me, Mister Malfoy. The TriWizard Tournament creates a number of binding contracts. By enrolling at Hogwarts at all you agree to participate in the ceremony."

"What if—" She's hoisting my arm up from the sickbed, but I'm framing a very unfortunate exit strategy. "What if I wasn't enrolled at Hogwarts anymore?"

"No." She tugs the Hospital Wing door open and pushes me out. "Whatever you're worried will happen, it won't ever be as bad as you giving up on all of your potential this close to getting your qualifications."

The door slams in my face, and I'm not sure how to feel.

September passes faster than any month before and excitement about the upcoming delegation to Beauxbatons begins to dampen. Seventh year is challenging enough as it is, and every professor is concerned that the courses abroad won't sufficiently prepare us to sit British N.E.W.T.s in May. A veritable mountain of coursework overwhelms me, so for a while, I am distracted from the horror that is to come. It helps that there has been no new Tournament information since the start of term feast. Discussion dries up.

When the leaves begin to change, the excitement reinvigorates. Notices appear in Common Rooms and the Headmistress makes new announcements during meals. Never before have I seen Hogwarts students so interested to hear about rules, regulations, and protocol. Even something as banal as reminders about dress codes constitute the first fresh meat in weeks. My fellow students pounce.

"What if we don't speak French?" Rosie crunches dry leaves under her boots while we weave down the edge of the forest. "How will we do our lessons and things?"

"But you do speak French," Albus says.

"Ouais." She shrugs. "But what if I didn't?"

"There'll be translation enchantments in certain areas," I say. "Hogwarts students will be able to hear lessons as if they were spoken in English, but it might get a little wonky on nuanced terms."

Al and Rosie both stop and raise their brows.

"I've been trying to find a loophole," I explain, then start walking again. "I think I might be an expert on every subtlety of this delegation thing."

I know which teachers will be staying on at Hogwarts (Deputy Headmaster), which will be traveling abroad to the host school (Headmistress and Guidance), and which will be present and to what degree during each step of the way (various). My Runes translation chart is a bloody thrilling read in comparison.

There's a pause before the rhythmic crackle of Rosie's footsteps starts again. "Well that's kind of lame, about the lessons being translated to English. What if I want to improve my French?"

"It doesn't matter." Al's voice sounds colder than normal and I feel his fingers lace into mine. "It's not like we'll all be staying or anything. As soon as the champions are chosen, we come right back. Let the paparazzi have the Tournament and leave us alone."

I pull my hand away under the pretense of checking my cloak pocket, then leave it there.

"I know," Rosie says with the tinge of apology. "I was just saying. You know. What if."

No one speaks for a while. I glance down at my watch more than I should, trying to see the time, but I just keep staring at the moon cycle around the circumference. A reminder of today's date. The Hogwarts Delegation will be departing in less than two weeks.

"What's the time?" Rosie asks as I glance away from my wrist again. I realize I have no idea.