CHAPTER FOUR
Scorpius tries to disappear.
GOLDEN DAUGHTER ELOPES WITH CREATURE OF THE NIGHT, the Prophet headline blares. Front page, above the fold. Rosie's shoulders shake, face flushing with silent laughter.
The surprising confession came last night during Hogwarts' arrival at Triwizard Host, Beauxbatons Academy. Rose Granger-Weasley admitted to wedding a vampire over the summer holidays, leading some to wonder whether the relationship began before she came of age. While the couple have an age gap of over one hundred years, Granger-Weasley explains that 'he still looks seventeen, so it isn't creepy'...
"Bloody hell," I say, scanning the rest of the absurd article. "I can't believe they bought that story."
"See." Al nudges my shoulder. "The press always bothers her the most because she's a girl. Ro could have said she switched shampoo brands and they'd put it on the front page."
Near the end of the article, crammed between discussion of the tournament judges and speculation about upcoming weather conditions, sits a curt summary of my existence. Also in attendance is Scorpius Hyperion Malfoy, son of businessman and former Riddle sympathizer, Draco Malfoy… The word choice and order is relieving. 'Businessman' beat 'Death Eater' in their epithet and they even went so far as to use the euphemism 'Riddle sympathizer.' All in all, a success.
All around us students laugh and mingle in half a dozen different languages. Throaty French and bouncy Norwegian dominate but I hear snatches of German, Russian, and Spanish as well. Breakfast at Beauxbatons is served in a glittering solarium overlooking the gardens. A warm, fragrant breeze flutters through the open doors. A bowl of buttery croissants sits at the center of each cafe table.
Unlike Hogwarts, our host school offers multiple different meal halls and we've heard that students spend the summer months dining out on the garden patios. Last night's feast took place in the most formal space of all. The massive ballroom had high, arching ceilings muraled with delicate flowers and picturesque maidens in flowing robes. Anything here that can be decorated with paintings is. The overall effect is stunning, not least because the paintings move.
I'm relieved that the Goblet of Fire has been stationed in that elegant room leaving me to breakfast in peace without its blue-white flames flickering in the corner of my eye. At least the pomp and circumstance around the tournament is keeping the press well fed but I can't help but feel bad for Rosie. Flipping a few pages in my newspaper I see an article devoted to rumours that TriWizard judge, Viktor Krum might be her biological father. Because the former Quidditch star is obviously such a ginger. One need only glance at Ronald Weasley to feel full confidence in Rosie's paternity.
"Alboos!" A voice calls out and I see a Beauxbatons professor flouncing towards us. "Rosie!"
The woman is a vision of shining white robes and silvery-blonde hair and I find it difficult to determine her age. She has the wise eyes and self-possession of an older woman but the immaculate complexion of someone in their early twenties. After a moment's thought I remember that Al and Rosie have veela relatives.
"Aunt Gabbie." Al smiles, rising from his chair. "Sorry—Professor Beaulieu."
"'Aunt Gabbie' is bien, Alboos," she says, hugging her niece and nephew in turn. "Tell me you are to put your names in ze cup?"
"Nah, sorry." Al gives a sheepish shrug. "Don't fancy all that attention. James is furious that he's graduated, though. He'd have done it in a heartbeat."
"Ah, James. 'Ow eez 'e?"
Al and Rosie chat with their stunning aunt and I try to become invisible, sipping my coffee so eagerly that it trails down the future-frown lines of my chin.
"But you both will be staying at Beauxbatons to watch ze tournament, non?" she asks, laying a hand on each of their shoulders. An awkward glance passes between the cousins.
"We'll see." Rosie shrugs noncommittally.
"Got N.E.W.T.s coming, you know…" Al mutters.
"Well I 'ope you are finding a reason to stay." Professor Beaulieu beams. "I never am getting to see ze both of you. Pardonne moi." She frowns, noticing me for the first time. "I 'ave not made your acquaintance? You are the friend of Alboos and Rosie?"
"Yes, sorry!" I jump to my feet and extend my hand. "Scor."
"Scor?" She looks confused, struggling to pronounce my name.
"That's my name. Scor."
"I see," she says. "Enchantée, Scor. Welcome to Beauxbatons. You will be having many beautiful times here this year."
Two sets of eyes descend on me as the woman takes her leave. Al takes my hand under the table. "You know we're still coming back with you tomorrow."
Still coming back with you. I'm not an idiot; they would be staying if not for me. The press will soon be distracted by their real targets, the champions, leaving Al and Rosie the space to keep a low profile. Maybe I could too, if I had the chance. But Father knows I have the option of coming home once the champions are chosen, so I don't have the option to stay.
"You can still change your mind, you know," I say, gaze fixed on the ornate porcelain plates. "I'll understand if you want to stick around."
"No!" Rosie cries. "Don't be dim, of course we're going back to Hogwarts. I don't even fancy it here, really."
Utter. Bullshit. Beauxbatons might be the most beautiful place I've ever seen. Even in my haste to leave I can't help but wonder what the grounds will look like when the snow falls or imagine the gardens bursting to life in the spring. Last night at dinner, a choir of wood nymphs serenaded us. Everything about this place is almost absurdly lovely.
"We're going back." Al's green eyes hold mine. "Tomorrow we're going back, and it'll be a bloody amazing year at Hogwarts."
He spent most of last night after the feast outlining all of the advantages available when we return: smaller student to teacher ratio, more individualized attention in lessons, empty dormitories, automatic prefect privileges… I fell asleep listening to him list things off. Each true, and each impossibly boring in comparison to what would be going on at Beauxbatons.
After breakfast we hike down to the seashore. Kicking off our boots and lifting the hems of our robes we let the tide rush around our ankles. After the chill of the Scottish highlands, southern France feels positively tropical.
"But what if?" Rosie asks, head lolling on her shoulder as she gazes out across the glittering bay.
"What if what?" I say.
"What if it weren't for Draco and all? Him forbidding you. Would you have put your name in the goblet?"
I run my hand through my hair, taken off guard by the question. "I… I dunno."
"So you might have?" She turns to face me. "If not for Draco?"
The question is too theoretical. Too impossible to imagine. "I mean, but… But even if he hadn't told me not to, I still wouldn't. I mean, I'm still a Malfoy."
"You're a different man than your father," Al says.
I shake my head. "That doesn't matter."
At best, I'm a footnote. The Malfoy Boy. Quiet, unobtrusive, and unworthy of discussion. In his youth, my Father was an attention junkie. I differentiate myself by sticking to the sidelines. Anything else, and I might as well be him at his worst. I've never spent more than five terrified seconds on a broom if only because he'd been an eager Quidditch player at school. To this day I'm not sure I could tell a quaffle from a bludger.
The wind picks up, sending Rosie's hair into a flurry, so we climb back up the twisting path to the chateau. I can hear the reporters waiting past the crest even before I see them.
"Stay back," I say. "Give me a few minutes lead."
Al and Rosie nod and I continue ahead. Shouts of 'hey Malfoy!' ring out just as soon as I'm in view. I keep my head down and pace steady as the journalists rush me.
"I've got a source saying you put your name forward last night, is that true?"
"No."
"What's it like studying alongside Harry and Hermione's children? Does that ever get awkward?"
"No comment."
I keep my hand over my face the way my father taught me. It protects from the glare of camera flashes and makes the photos harder to print later. No photo, no story.
"Speaking of Albus, we've heard talk that the two of you are staying in the same carriage—"
"Hey!" Rosie's voice cuts across the barrage of questions. I peek over my shoulder long enough to see her and Al appear around a fountain. The journalists turn on their heels to swarm her leaving me free to escape into the safety of the Continental Shuttle.
It's been less than twenty-four hours and Rosie's already running low on stories to slip to the ravenous press. Tonight's headlines will proclaim her a harlot, a hex head, and a half-hinkypunk. By noon tomorrow there'll be nothing left to leak. Lucky I'll be long gone by then.
Rather than return to my own carriage I cut a course for the staff section at the back. Two things have become eminently clear: 1) Al and Rosie are fantastic friends, and 2) I'm not worth it. It might be the nicest thing anyone's ever done for me, their offering to leave Beauxbatons early and miss the tournament. But what sort of friend would I be if I let them? If I rob them of this experience all because of my paranoid father and his obsession with being forgotten?
My knuckles rap against Madley's office door. It creaks open before I have the chance to lose my nerve.
"Is everything alright, Scorpius?" Her pale eyebrows raise high as she leads me to a chair.
"You've arranged my portkey home, yeah? For after the champions have been announced?"
"Yes, of course." She settles in behind her desk. "A portkey for three, set to depart tomorrow morning."
"Not exactly," I gulp, closing my eyes for the space of a breath. "It's just going to be one now. Al and Rosie are staying. Just… Just a portkey for me."
"Oh," she says, voice soft with sadness. "Oh, Scorpius I'm sorry—"
"It's ok." I pull away from her comforting hand. "But do you think maybe I could leave a little earlier? I know I have to stay to see the champions and all, but maybe right after they've been announced? It might be best, you know, to slip out when everyone's distracted. The press and all…"
"Of course." Madley nods, happy to finally be able to oblige. "I'm so sorry, I know how hard this has all been for you…"
"Yeah," I say, rising up from my seat. "Well."
And so it is.
And so Al and Rosie will stay behind, with their aunt and their other friends that they never get to hang out with when I'm around. They'll stay at Beauxbatons and watch the first TriWizard Tournament in thirty years, and they'll have the time of their lives. This time abroad will be an adventure. The source of a thousand fantastic stories they'll tell for years to come. And so what if Al falls in love with some beautiful Beauxbatons boy or dashing Durmstrang bloke? I never deserved him to begin with, and it won't be long before he moves on and forgets about me. After all, it was always my job to disappear.
The largest ballroom at Beauxbatons is electric with anticipation, a sea of periwinkle robes intermingling with inky black and oxblood. Even in the brightness of the pastel hall I can see the flickering light from the Goblet of Fire dancing over the judges' faces. Speculation shivers across the students.
"It'll be Potter, obviously," someone murmurs from a nearby table.
"I dunno, his cousin is clever too, and her parents are nearly as famous…"
The TriWizard Tournament is about to begin in earnest and I try not to focus on the beauty all around me. It's Halloween but there are no carved pumpkins or clouds of live bats fluttering ahead, just bouquets of fluffy chrysanthemums. Not that Beauxbatons demands extra decorating. There's more detail in this one room than I could possibly take in over a single weekend. Even the china is too intricate to fully appreciate after one viewing. But this place is not for me, and this excitement is not mine. Any minute now I'll be spirited back to Hogwarts while everyone is looking the other way.
I'm keeping my head down. I'm keeping to myself. I'm keeping a low fucking profile.
"Not long now," Al says, but I don't let him twist an arm around my back.
Photographers pace the edges of the ballroom, wielding cameras like weapons. Bile burns in my throat. The food on my plate sits untouched and I can't shake the notion that it's a Last Meal of sorts. Even the meals are better here. Fresher, and with a greater variety of herbs and flavours.
"Try the bouillabaisse," Al urges. "We won't have a chance for this stuff back at Hogwarts."
I try not to meet his gaze. Fearsome love rushes in a torrent that I'm not sure I can control. I'm supposed to be slipping away soon. Disappearing. But I'm not sure if I'm strong enough to go through with it.
Red sparks leap from the Goblet of Fire and silence falls.
Madame Maxime's footsteps echo on the marble floor as positions herself behind the cup. The ropes of opals on her neck catch the light. Flames burst up with something like a roar and the crowd gasps. One massive, glittering hand catches the scorched curl of parchment.
"Ze champion for Durmstrang Institute…" she reads.
Even Al is transfixed as the headmistress announces the name. I don't bother trying to place it. It's not as though I've spent the weekend making new friends, and I'll be leaving before the champions' identities matter anyway. A girl with white-blonde hair rises from a knot of red-robed Durmstrang students. Everyone watches as she takes slow, wavering steps up the length of the ballroom. I catch Professor Madley's eye.
Applause begins to swell, offering cover as I edge my chair back from the table. There comes another round of sparks, followed by a hush. I freeze, waiting it out, but keep Madley's gaze. She's standing not ten feet away, in the shadow of an arched exit, gripping the neck of a dusty bottle. My portkey.
Fire growls from the goblet and everyone is too distracted to notice me rising slowly from my seat. Another scrap of singed parchment flutters in the tense air.
"Ze champion for Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry," the throaty voice calls. "Eez Monsieur Scorpius Malfoy."