CHAPTER FIVE
Scorpius tries to remain calm.
No one moves. No one breathes. Every head has turned to face me. The silence swells inside the grand ballroom, tightening the atmosphere. I just blink at the towering woman stood behind the goblet, a scrap of singed parchment held between two massive fingers.
"Scorpius Malfoy," Madame Maxime says again. "Zat is you?"
"Sorry?" I say, and my timid voice echoes loud in the tense hall. I'm still hovering over my chair, caught halfway between sitting and escaping. Al stares up at me, mouth agape.
"Monsieur Malfoy," she repeats. "To ze front, s'il vous plaît."
The first camera flash brightens the hall. Within seconds the room fills with the flares and clicks of a ravenous press corps. There's blood in the water now.
Rapid footsteps ring out across the marble floor and I see Headmistress McGonagall cutting a course towards me. She looks dignified even in her haste, if annoyed.
"Please, Mister Malfoy." She seizes my arm. "You're due with the other champion."
The Goblet of Fire sparks red for the last time, but no one is paying attention.
McGonagall ushers me down the aisle between tables and I spy Professor Madley still loitering in the archway. The dusty bottle waits on a spindly-legged end table. I try to catch her eye as I pass, pleading silently for her to save me. The bottle glows blue.
"M-my portkey," I stammer.
"You've been chosen as Hogwarts champion," McGonagall hisses. "You can't very well leave now."
She pushes me through a tapestry into an adjoining parlor and I see the Durmstrang champion and headmaster perched on brocaded chairs. The crackling fire in the hearth casts a rosy glow over their smiling faces.
"E'm Elinor," the champion says in a buoyant Nordic accent. "Nice to meet you."
I gargle rather than offer a coherent response, feet rooted to the spot. The tapestry flaps open again and someone crashes into me from behind.
"Merde," he spits, annoyed. The Beauxbatons champion is gorgeous in an aloof, terrifying sort of way. Neat, close-cropped hair fades down the sides of his head, emphasizing sharp cheekbones. One massive, bejeweled hand curves around his shoulder.
"Step aside, Malfoy," McGonagall whispers out the corner of her mouth. I scramble out of the way, embarrassed.
"Ze Hogwarts champion is reluctant now?" the host headmistress raises an eyebrow.
"I didn't enter!" I plead, swiveling my head between the authority figures in the room.
"Mon dieu, not zis again," Maxime sighs, massaging the bridge of her nose. "You were beginning to stand even before I called your name. You must 'ave known you would be chosen!"
"My portkey…" I whimper, turning to McGonagall.
"I'm sorry, Mister Malfoy." She shakes her head. "But the Goblet of Fire represents a binding magical contract. If fraud is indeed the case, then I extend my sincerest apologies. But the fact of the matter remains that you are now obligated to compete in the Triwizard Tournament."
"I can't!" My panic rises as I run a hand through my hair. "My father—we can't have this much attention on us—"
"Listen to me, Mister Malfoy." McGonagall's voice is hard as her eyes blaze into mine. "More than fifty Hogwarts students put their names forward. Whether or not you entered yourself, the Goblet of Fire has chosen you as the champion. This may not be the opportunity you want, but it is the opportunity you have been given."
Tense silence billows while McGonagall's eyes burn.
"You are a good man, Mister Malfoy. I trust people will see that, if only you give them the chance."
Madley and I cross the dark grounds in silence. A few yellow lights glow from the lower decks of the train, but most everyone is probably in bed by now.
The reporters had camped out beside the chamber where the champions got briefed. More still staked out the grounds. Even after Elinor of Durmstrang and Hervé of Beauxbatons took their leave, the reporters remained. They clamored at the doors, demanding statements and interviews, while I sat holed up with Madley and McGonagall beside the dying fire. After a few hours waiting, Madley read off a curt statement I'd penned with a shaking hand. It only took two hours after that before the last journalists finally gave up and left.
"For what it's worth." Madley breaks the silence. "I believe you didn't enter yourself."
"Thank you," I say.
For a moment, the only sound comes from our boots landing on the dewy grass.
"And it's not like this hasn't happened before." She shrugs. "I'm just surprised someone managed to do it again. The associated schools made sure to close that loophole when they revived the tournament."
The loophole. That loophole. There'd been an entire document outlining the changes the TriWizard schools had made to keep another Potter situation from arising. Apparently, Beauxbatons underwent a change of name three hundred years ago, back when the palace was remodeled. Back in 1994, the goblet still recognized L'ècole de Magie, while also accepting the new title of L'académie de Magie. All Crouch Junior had to do was enter Harry Potter under the old name, ensuring he would be the only applicant in the category and therefore destined to be chosen.
But with loophole closed, how did my name come out of the cup?
There's a sliver of light under my bedroom door when I get upstairs, so I know Al is waiting up.
"Hey!" he cries, pushing off the covers. "What's going on?"
I take a seat at the edge of the bed, my back to him, and bury my face in my hands. "Why did you do it?"
"What do you mean?"
"You know what I mean." My voice sounds muffled as I try to keep from crying.
If there's one person in the world who would know how to get past the goblet, it's Al. His dad probably knows something about it. Something that wasn't included in the explanatory document lest ambitious students tried to exploit the weakness. Maybe old Mr Potter let something slip.
"If you wanted to stay that badly," I sniff. "You could have just asked."
"What are you even talking about?" I can hear the subtle flush of frustration in his voice.
"Dammit, Al. If you really cared that much… I would have done anything! I would have told my father to sod off, if you really wanted me to!"
The bed bounces as he crashes down backwards. "That's bollocks and you know it. You never stand up to Draco."
"So… What?" I whip around. "Tricking the goblet into making me champion so we can stay is better than telling my dad to shove it?"
"I didn't put your bloody name into that cup." One arm is folded behind his head and his voice sounds more annoyed than angry. His even temper is throwing me off, if only because I'm feeling so hysterical.
"Goddammit Al." I snap up and pace the narrow room, running my fingers through my hair. Al just lies on the bed, watching.
Tugging open my trunk, I rummage until I find a crushed pack of old cigarettes. Only one remains unbroken, if bent, and I stab it between my lips.
"Please don't smoke, Scor."
"Fuck off."
"Alright. Well," he groans as he climbs off the bed. "I'm sleeping downstairs if you're going to be belligerent."
I puff my fag, listening to Al's footsteps spiraling down the stairs. When they finally disappear, I feel sick and drop the cigarette into an empty glass. The ember hisses against the last few drops of water at the bottom as it goes out.
Al's side of the bed is still empty when I awake. Reaching out, I touch the cold sheets where he isn't. In the sober light of day, I regret everything.
"Stupid, stupid, stupid," I mutter, hammering the heels of my palms against my temples. The more I think about it, the more I see how ridiculous my suspicion was. Al never would have put my name in the goblet. Not least because that's not his style. He might be a Slytherin, but that only makes him subtler. That he's the most obvious choice of culprit means he's the least likely to have actually done it.
I think. Maybe.
Scrubbing my face with my hands I try to shake away the dizzying suspicions. Al said he didn't do it, so he didn't do it. End of. I dress in a hurry before stumbling downstairs to find him.
"Morning," Rosie calls as I descend to the dining carriage. "Or I should say, afternoon."
"Have you seen Al?" I glance down the length of the car.
She nods out the window but the curtains are drawn. "Gardens, I think."
"Thanks." I seize the doorknob.
"Wait you might not want to do that!"
A barrage of camera flashes explodes just as soon as I wrench open the door. I snap it closed again, releasing the handle as though it were red hot.
"Yeah," Rosie sighs. "They've been waiting out there all day."
Shit, shit, shit. I need to find Al to apologize but I'm trapped inside the train.
"What should I do?" I beg, hoping she'll have some mad hijinks up her sleeve.
"Er… Maybe…" She squints, crossing the over a table she peers between the curtains on the other side. "Yes! No reporters over here!"
No doors either. I look at her, then to the pointed lack of door.
"Climb out the window, you duffer!"
Right. It seems inelegant somehow to scramble up the brocaded chairs and I hate the idea of getting my shoes on the pristine tablecloth. Rosie groans as she helps me clear the table, setting the cutlery, china, and vases of flowers down in the next space over. Swinging one leg over the sill I slide my foot against the exterior of the train, searching for something to catch hold of. There's nothing.
"Merlin, Scor, it's not that far down." She rolls her eyes.
In a flash, her palms push against my shoulders and she gives me a shove. I land hard on the grass, only mildly winded. Looking up I see Rosie's mad face grinning from the window above. She raises one finger to her lips, shushing me, and I remember the crowd of rabid reporters waiting on the other side of the tracks.
I duck down behind a hedgerow until I'm out of their line of sight then cross under the lacey trellis into the gardens. A pair of Beauxbatons girls are sat on a bench, giggling and chatting in rapid French, but neither of them bother with me. With most of the flowers have closed up in preparation for winter the gardens are all but empty. I stroll for a quarter hour before I spy Al sat reading on the lip of a bubbling fountain.
"Hey," I say, slowing down as I approach him.
"Hey." He nods, but keeps his eyes focused on his book. "How'd you get around the paps?"
"Rosie pushed me out a window."
Al chuckles once. "She would."
"I'm…" My feet shuffle pebbles and I plunge my hands into my pocket. "I'm really sorry about last night. I was just… freaked out."
Al marks his page before looking up. "I'm sort of miffed that your first instinct was to think I had something to do with it."
"Yeah, I know." I shrug, rubbing an eye. "It's just this place. And everything that's happening here. You'd have missed out on all of it."
"I wouldn't do something I know would hurt you just to study abroad."
Fair enough. I sigh and take a seat beside him, resting my forehead in one hand. "I really don't know why you bother with me."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I mean… just look around. You really would have given all this up to go back to Hogwarts with me?"
Water splashes in the fountain and Al gives me a look. "This routine is getting old, Scorpius. I'm tired of telling you: yes."
His calm frustration hurts more than anger and I hate the feeling of him closing up against me. Something desperate pulls at my chest. The emotional space left vacant by his composure demands to be filled.
"I don't understand you." I swoop up to stand and throw my arms in the air. "Why do you even bother with me? I don't understand what you even like about me."
Green eyes close for a steadying breath, which I hate. Annoyed Albus is the worst kind of Albus.
"Don't do this," he says.
"Why not?" I shoot back.
"Because it's bollocks, ok?" Now he's starting to show some feeling, but that just makes me feel like a tosser. "Listen, Scor, my parents like you. They think you try way too hard, but they like you. You're the one who's rebelling against your dad by even going out with me, so I should be the one questioning your motives."
My face pinches, flushing hot. I feel my chest rapidly rise and fall. "Al…" I say, but speaking makes the tears come too fast and I'm mopping my eyes.
"Dammit, Scor." His voice is soft as he folds his arms around me, pressing his head into the crook of my neck. "I'm sorry, what you're going through right now is mental. I should know that."
"I love you," I sniff, squeezing him tight.
"I love you too," he says, and we sway from side to side for a long time.
I met him on the Hogwarts Express.
That first summer before I went off to school was the worst to date. The rules were still new then, and Father didn't take any chances that I might not understand what was at stake.
Keep your head down. Keep to yourself. Keep a low profile.
And no matter what you do—no matter what happens—stay away from Harry Potter's children.
I remember standing on the platform with my parents, only the second time I'd ever seen them together. It had felt strange sharing the limousine with my mother as we drove to King's Cross together. Astoria was aggravated and fidgety. She rolled her head on her neck, blew air out between her lips, and shook her head as she mumbled to herself. More than once, she changed her mind and demanded that we take her back to Greengrass Manor.
Just as we'd finally gotten into London, Astoria started tugging at her clothes. Her arms caught in the sleeves of her robes as she tried to pull them off. I looked away while Father tried to calm her. After downing a phial of Draught of Peace she was able to stand still and keep her clothes on. She stood beside me on the platform, eyes unfocused, and smoothed the back of my robes with a gentle hand.
Father's jaw stayed tense all that morning. I remember him giving me a curt nod when he pointed out which children I was to stay away from.
"No—don't look just now. Over there." He jerked his head to the side. "Did you see them?"
I nodded that I had and he gave me an anxious pat on the shoulder.
Once aboard the Hogwarts Express, my cousin Phoebe secured me an empty compartment before going off to join her third year mates. The train had already started rolling down the tracks by the time the door creaked open.
"Hi." The voice had the edge of an exhausted groan to it. "Sorry, can I sit in here? It's just that I have this brother, and he's a second year, and he's driving me mental."
Every passing owl makes my stomach clench. I'd been so sure Father would write first thing, but I haven't heard a word. All of his greatest fears have come to pass, so why hasn't he owled?
I can't help but wonder if this is him disowning me. Might his lack of contact mean 'we're through?'
As anxious as his silence makes me, I'm infinitely more anxious about what he'll say when he finally speaks. His lack of comment inspires in me a precarious sort of calm.
We start taking lessons at Beauxbatons on Monday and I struggle to get between classes with the horde of reporters camped in the area. Right now, they're running the angle that I lied about putting my name in the goblet. My motive? To draw some desperate parallel with Harry Potter's famous story—trying to emulate him, garner sympathy, win back the family name. Et cetera, et cetera.
Technically, the press aren't allowed inside the chateau unless it's an official tournament event or ceremony. Unfortunately, Beauxbatons has a lot of windows. A minor commotion breaks out in my first ever History and Ethics of Magic lecture when the professor notices a photographer hovering outside. The classroom is on the ninth floor.
After that, the administration bans reporters from using broomsticks between official events as well.
Filing into my Charms lecture after lunch I see the Durmstrang champion trying to catch my eye.
"Hello," she says. "You are Scorpioos, yes?"
"Yes. Scor, for short." I offer my hand. "Elinor, right?"
"Call me Lin." She smiles. "For short."
I like her.
"You are having a lot of journalists around you, yes?"
"Yeah," I try to laugh, but it doesn't work out and I sound like I'm being strangled instead.
"We are not so much, Hervé and I." She leans closer and lowers her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "I thinking Hervé is jealous."
"Well, he shouldn't be," I say.
The schools chose to mix the visiting and host students together, so neither Al nor Rosie share Charms with me. Taking a seat near the back of the class I'm pleased when Lin chooses the seat adjacent. The Durmstrang Champion has a warm, easy-to-talk-to way about her. It helps that she doesn't seem to be appraising me when we talk. Her white-blonde hair almost reminds me of my father, but her cheeks glow pink in a way that makes her seem more alive. I can't help but root for her to win the Tournament.
I think I might still be in shock. Or at least, denial.
Outside of the morning's athletic photographer, my first day as a Beauxbatons student passes without incident. Lin and I head down to supper together after classes end, getting lost several times on the way, and I'm relieved that we're dining in one of the more casual halls this evening. Well, casual by Beauxbatons standards. There's a bit less by way of intricate murals in favor of striped silk wallpaper, but there's no want for swirling cornices and gold leaf.
Glancing down the tables I'm surprised that I don't see Al among the crowd of students. The relatively small proportion of black robes should make him spot, but I don't see him. Rosie's sat in a secluded corner, annexed by a handful of adoring blokes in powder blue.
"Hey," I say, jogging up to her. "You seen Al?"
She just shrugs and gives me a Do Not Salt My Game sort of look. Feeling a little lost and abandoned I'm relieved to see Lin beckoning me to join her with her Durmstrang mates. I shake everyone's hands in turn before taking my seat.
"Can I ask you personal question?" Lin says, forking a helping of marinated fish onto her plate. "About something in newspaper?"
"Sure," I answer too quickly and choke on my water.
"I read your father was supporting of Tom Riddle."
"Yeah." My stomach clenches and I try not to catch the eyes of the others at the table. "He was a teenager and got kind of dragged into it, which isn't a defense or anything. I'm not like that at all, though. I wasn't even born yet."
"I understand." She nods. "I asking because same with my great-grandfather. He was supporting of Grindelwald, so I understand how can be sometimes. Guilty, kind of. But for things I never was doing."
A few others at the table nod and I'm too surprised to say anything.
"The var in Europe vas bigger than either in England," a boy who introduced himself as Pavel explains. "Many more people 'dragged in,' as you say."
"I have both sides," another girl says, raising her hand. "My grandmother's family died in Nurmengard, but my great-grandfather was guard."
"Wow." It's all I can think to say.
"I think is unfair to say anyone is guilty for what ancestors do." Lin shrugs. "And like you say, you are not holding onto old ideas. It is our job to learn from past and remember, I think."
My jaw feels tight as I nod. Then, something clicks. I checked every headline this morning but most were more positive than I would have expected. Sympathetic even, if dead wrong. But the Evening Prophet got delivered an hour ago, and Al is nowhere to be found.
"Excuse me." I scrape my chair back from the table.
Racing across the lawns towards the train, I ignore the shouted questions from the throng of reporters trailing behind. I tear through the door, out of breath, and see Al sat at a table. He's made himself a makeshift supper from the snacks on hand in the dining car. Putting down his cutlery with a clatter he gives me a withering glare.
"I don't want to talk to you."
"What happened?" I ask, still panting, but Al just heads for the stairs. I race after him and nearly slip on the spiral steps. "What did they write?"
"I really don't want to see you right now." He's climbing up the second flight to the dorm deck. I try to catch his arm but he wrenches it away. I falter. Never before have I seen him so angry.
He slams our door in my face and I hear it lock with a click.
"Al!" I hammer my fist against the wood. "Please, Al. Please tell me what they wrote."
When the door swings open, his face is a calm mask over a livid interior. "Why didn't you just tell me? You know I would have supported you if I knew that's what you wanted to do."
"What are you—"
"And then that big production you put on, accusing me of putting your name in the goblet."
My chest clenches as I start to panic, pleading. "What are you talking about?"
"I feel like I don't even know who you are anymore."
"Please, Al." Tears sting my eyes as I reach for his arm. "Please, I don't know what you're talking about."
Once again he jerks himself free of my grip. "This," he says, thrusting a fluttering copy of the Evening Prophet into my chest. "I'm talking about this."
My hands shake as I turn the newspaper over. A wide, full colour photograph takes up most of the front page. A photograph of me, dropping a scrap of parchment into the Goblet of Fire.