CHAPTER SIX
Scorpius tries to be less self-absorbed.
"I don't know what to say, Scorpius." Professor Madley hands me another cup of tea laced with anti-anxiety potion. "If you say the photo isn't of you, I believe you."
Dawn breaks outside the infirmary car windows; I've been in Crisis Mode all night.
"What if it is?" I moan. My face feels blotchy and my lips are slick and sensitive from crying. "Could I have blacked out, maybe? Or maybe I was sleepwalking?"
"It's not impossible." She takes a seat and nods for me to sip my tea. "But I know that's not a side effect of this potion. If you're taking anything else…"
"I'm not."
"Listen, I won't judge you if you've been experimenting. But as I'm prescribing the sedative, I need you to be honest about anything else you might be on."
"Cigarettes," I sniff. "Not much, though."
"Tobacco wouldn't cause an adverse reaction." She shakes her head. "And you definitely haven't done any other mind altering spells? Maybe a muggle drug? What colour is the tobacco in your cigarettes?"
"It's not green, if that's what you're asking." I roll my eyes. "I know what weed is, Professor, I'm not an idiot."
"Well," she takes a deep breath. "There is one other possibility."
I feel my muscles clench with fear, willing her not to say it. It's starting. I have what my mother has.
"Polyjuice Potion," Madley says instead. "But if that was the case, it's too late to know for sure. Even if we could test everyone who was here that night, polyjuice flushes from the system very rapidly."
"Great," I say, but I'm honestly relieved. If it was polyjuice then at least it wasn't my fault. Ever since I saw the photo, I can't help but wonder if some secret part of me wanted this—was asking for it. Like my unconscious mind went and fulfilled a desire my conscious mind had long suppressed. But if that was the case, what was I hoping to gain?
The distant bay glitters gold in the sunrise and the pair of us fall silent for a spell.
"I can owl your professors if you like," she finally adds. "Tell them you aren't feeling well."
"No." I rub my swollen eyes. "I'll be alright. Thanks though."
Madley gives me a gentle smile as I heave myself off the infirmary bed.
"Take care of yourself, Scorpius."
"Yeah." I shrug, making for the door. "I'll try."
Al is already gone by the time I return to our room. The two beds are separated again, his neatly made, and I soon discover that his belongings are missing from the wardrobe. Glancing at the mirror I realize I look a wreck. Deep purple bags hang under bloodshot eyes and the pores across my nose gape.
I spend a long time under the scalding tap in the shower trying to burn off the previous night, and when I finally get out, all I want to do is sleep.
"Scor?" Rosie's voice sounds timid as she gently knocks on the door.
"Come in," I sigh, ruffling a towel over my hair.
As she steps into the room I notice that she seems smaller than normal. She bites her lip and holds her shoulders high and I try to swallow the lump hardening in my throat.
"So I guess you heard," I say.
"Oh." Her voice sounds soft and sad and she rushes to my side, laying a cool cheek against my shower-flushed shoulder. "Oh Scor, I'm so sorry."
"So you still believe me?"
"Yes, of course!" She nods and her eyes look more serious than I ever see them. "And Al will see it too. Soon. I promise."
At breakfast Rosie stirs her tea moodily while I pick at a croissant. Neither of us seem very keen on talking. Al doesn't show up at all, and I find myself swiveling to check the archway every time I hear footsteps.
A pair of Beauxbatons girls begin whispering from the next table over.
"Ignore them," Rosie mutters, matching their furtive glances with an icy glare.
The Daily Prophet's run another story on me and the sight of my own face grimacing from the front page of so many newspapers makes me feel sick. While the press had already been convinced that I put my name in the goblet—using the idea to weave a tragic tale of a Lost Young Soul Looking for Redemption in All the Wrong Places—proving that I entered myself has turned me into some sort of villain. Or at least, an attention-starved narcissist from a dodgy family.
Last night, I'd been sure that the newly released photo would finally inspire an earth-shattering owl from my father, but none has yet arrived. That he still hasn't written makes me even more anxious. I'd think he died or something, but with the press watching our family so closely, I'm sure I would have heard.
Rosie gives me a firm hug before we head off to our morning lessons. Stealing through the sundrenched pastel corridors, I hear voices lower whenever I pass. A dozen different accents distort the sound of my own name.
Él sólo quiere llamar la atención...
...So verzweifelt und erbärmlich...
Pourquoi at-il pas dit la vérité?
I slip into Potions and Alchemy and my stomach leaps; Al is sat at our usual table to the back. Green eyes catch mine for the space of a missed heartbeat. Then, he stands, gathers his things, and silently crosses the chamber to fill the empty space beside Hamish Warren.
Guilt rises in my throat like bile. I should have listened to Madley and taken the day off. What sort of idiot parades himself around after everything the papers have said? No wonder everyone thinks I'm just trying to get attention.
Al ignores me all through the lecture, not even sparing me a backwards glance. I'm listless as I scribble down the equations, but don't retain a word the professeur says. Lack of sleep has left me feeling blurry. Over and over again, I catch myself staring at the back of Al's head. His familiar cowlicks makes my chest ache.
The old bell tower rings for the end of class and Al is spirits away before I've even finished screwing shut my ink.
I sleepwalk to my next lesson in a daze. Portraits of eighteenth century witches in fluffy pink robes frolic through the landscapes dotting the corridor, but I keep my eyes downcast. Then, two gleaming oxfords step in to view.
I look up to see Hervé staring down his nose at me.
"Very impressive." The Beauxbatons champion breaks into a derisive slow clap. "I must hand it to you, Monsieur Malfoy, you have the press—comment dit-on—wrapped around your little finger."
His English is more polished than many of the other students, but it maintains a sing-song cadence. He's so beautiful it's hard to look directly at him.
I hate him.
"Did you know that I'm the first black champion in the history of the tournament?" he says, and I have no idea how to respond. "No? Why would you? It's not as if that's been in the newspapers. There's not even a photograph of my name coming out of the goblet. No, everyone was too busy looking at you."
My insides turn to lead while he lets the silence hang, daring me to answer.
"I'm—I'm sorry—that's… I…"
"So now you've had your fun, why not let the rest of us have a turn? Stop parading yourself around like a two-faced clown and let me get a good photo for grandmaman to hang over her mantle. Think of it as a consolation prize, now that I won't be featured in the history books."
Shame burns in my stomach as Hervé turns on his heel. I listen to his footsteps fade down the corridor. In all my angst about the press, I'd forgotten that the other champions actually chose this. That they wanted, even hoped, for this to happen.
I probably should have realized that Hervé would be the first ever black TriWizard champion, but in my preoccupation, it never even crossed my mind.
No photo, no story.
He's right to feel robbed of a major milestone. Whether or not it was my fault, it was definitely because of me.
All at once, I realize how self absorbed I've been. Even hanging out with Lin, I never bothered to ask how she felt about becoming Durmstrang champion. She's listened to me day after day as I whinge about getting something other people prayed for. All this time, I haven't thought to look further than my own nose.
Maybe there is something selfish in me—something narcissistic and self-involved. Maybe that something got out one night, running amok and vandalizing history in the process. No polyjuice, no fraud. Just me; a clown with two faces.
At lunch I spy Lin sat alone on the patio, hair glowing white in the November sun, and decide now is as good a time as any to stop being such a selfish arse. It's chilly outside but the Scandinavian doesn't seem to notice. I ask if I can join and she gives me a weak smile.
"I was wanting some air," she says, and I notice her voice sounds brittle.
"I know the feeling." I shrug. "By the way, I never asked you - why did you put your name in the Goblet of Fire?"
She just laughs and shakes her head. "I think, Scor, you are the only person not understanding why."
I turn her words over, trying to step outside of myself for the first time all term.
"Some try for the being celebrity, I think," she goes on. "And the prize is lots of gold as well. Many would be wanting that."
"But why did you? What made you want to enter?"
A coy sort of smile plays over her lips. Quiet, and conspiratorial. "I didn't think I was to be getting chosen," she whispers. "I just wanted to see."
"But, you're in now," I splutter. "Doesn't that scare you?"
"I don't know." She shrugs one shoulder. "I haven't really believing yet that I am champion for Durmstrang. But the goblet chose me, so I must be person to do it. Better chance than any of the others, so it says."
It's hard for me to imagine having so much faith in a mangy old cup.
"I'm just worrying now about this afternoon," she admits.
I begin to nod 'yeah,' before realizing I have no idea what she's referencing.
"We are doing the interviews today, remember? That was why you asking about reasons to enter, yes? Because now they thinking you entered yourself."
"Wait." My sleep-deprived brain struggles to catch up. "We're… doing interviews? Today?"
I begin to vaguely recall mention that the champions would participate in a press junket. But that announcement had come back before blue flames had spat out my name. Back when I thought I'd be returning to Hogwarts, a world away from Beauxbatons and the Tournament.
My chest tightens as Lin's pale eyes hold mine. Now I understand why Hervé sought me out; he wants the press conference to become a Malfoy Marathon almost as little as I do. Not much to build a friendship on, but that's one thing we have in common.
"Ah, Mister Malfoy," McGonagall calls and I start. "Miss Torstensson. You're both needed in the ballroom for the Weighing of the Wands."
Lin gives me an anxious look and I feel my heart rate quicken.
"Well come along then, you two, lunch will be served inside."
Journalists and photographers crowd a long buffet table, but Lin and I are soon whisked up by a chatty makeup artist and shoved into salon chairs. Hervé looks perfectly at ease as a witch powders his already immaculate skin.
"So what do you usually do?" The makeup artist swivels me around to face a mirror and begins fluffing my hair with her fingers. She doesn't wait for an answer, and sets upon styling before I've even found my voice.
To my right, Lin looks overwhelmed. Her own stylist dabs deep crimson onto her lips, and her once near-invisible eyebrows are penciled a shocking mahogany. Garish orange blush soon follows.
A wizard wearing angular black robes and very small spectacles glides back and forth between us, shouting directions and pointing out every blemish that needs better coverage.
I glance back to my own reflection as the stylist combs Sleakeazy into my hair. The sharp side part and waving fringe makes me look like a prat. To my horror, she proceeds swipe a wholly unconvincing shade of pink over my lips.
A quarter of an hour later, my stomach is grumbling and my face feels claustrophobic from makeup. Lin looks miserable and tentatively touches her coif of absurd ringlets as though they might electrocute her. One space over, Hervé looks more or less the same, if more luminous.
"Well, now that they're all camera ready." The severe looking wizard claps his hands together. "Let's start with group shots."
The three of us are soon steered in front of a backdrop of regal purple drapery. While the photographers seem keen to get me in the middle, Madame Maxime insists that the host champion is meant to take prominence. Her thunderous voice shuts down all opposition and I'm relieved to switch spots with Hervé. It isn't even very surprising when he takes that opportunity to jostle my shoulder.
After thirty hours without sleep, everything begins to take on the quality of a dream.
"Big smiles," the photographer commands.
I feel myself wince as the camera flashes.
"Scor, hey!"
Rosie's voice drags me out of deep, fitful sleep. The stars are out and a full moon sits just at the peak of the mountain above, as though balanced there. I shake my groggy head and feel a rush of embarrassment that I drooled in my sleep.
"I noticed you skived Transfig and I didn't see you at dinner," she says, unwrapping a sandwich from a powder blue napkin. "Nice makeup, by the way."
I sit up and check the mirror—black mascara rings my eyes and my hair is now vertical. My skin feels choked after sleeping in foundation and powder.
"Ugh, I'm gonna get so many blackheads," I moan, kicking off the blankets to scrub my face under the tap. "We had this bloody ridiculous press conference and I just… I dunno, I needed to pass out after."
"Figured."
Having missed lunch as well as dinner, I return to the bed and take greedy bites of the sandwich. The more I wake up, the more the memories of that afternoon sting.
"So, how did the press circus go, anyway?"
The question feels like a splash of cold water. Shame, dread, and helplessness arrange themselves into a thousand different constellations.
"Bollocks," I say around a full mouth, trying to sound casual. "We had to do these individual portraits, and they took about a thousand years trying to get me to smile. Then some important wandsmith looked at all our wands and talked a load of rubbish, and then we all had to stand in front of all these journalists while they yelled questions at us."
"And I'm guessing by 'us' you really mean 'you.'"
I cringe because she's right. That spectre of guilt for stealing Hervé's spotlight returns. While I'm pretty sure I hate him, I also know he has every reason to hate me back. The reporters spent the better part of an hour badgering me while the other champions were all but forgotten.
"It went pretty much the way you'd expect." I shrug. "All 'why did you lie about putting your name in the cup' this, and 'are you trying to restore your family's reputation' that."
Rosie gives my knee a sympathetic pat, but I try not to take it as encouragement to keep talking. I know everyone must be tired of my self-pity by now. Al was certainly growing weary of it, before—
The thought of my boyfriend (estranged boyfriend? ex boyfriend?) feels like a stab wound. It's been less than two days, and I miss him more than I've ever missed anything aside from my aunt Daphne.
All of a sudden, I'm crying. It comes on all at once like a sneeze. Rosie throws an arm around my quaking shoulders and I try to mop my eyes.
"I'm sorry. I'm sorry I'm always like this… Dammit!"
"Hey now." She tightens her grip. "It's okay."
It feels like every time I think my life is as ruined as it could ever get, the universe finds new and interesting ways to tweeze it apart.
"Listen, you've slept for like…" She checks her watch. "Fifteen hours now. Fancy a walk before the sun comes up? The paps have all been fed so they've slithered back to the abyss from whence they came for the night."
Outside, the air is crisp and clean, like a balm against my swollen eyes. Beauxbatons' reflection ripples on the surface of the inlet as Rosie and I stroll down its manicured bank. I half expect her to suggest we do something mad like go skinny dipping but she has her Serious Face on, which is rare. And a relief.
"Maybe it's time for another rumour about me?" she says. "I still have Unplanned Teen Pregnancy in the bank. That should hold us for at least a few months. Longer, if I can fake a convincing enough belly."
"Let's save that one," I laugh.
Further down the water's edge the narrow garden separating the lawn from the shore gives way to a bank of smooth pebbles. We stop and lay down our cloaks so Rosie can skip stones. I watch, hypnotized by her rocks skittering across the inky water. The inlet has its own gentle tide, lapping the bank in an irregular rhythm. Or maybe the rhythm is just so long I've yet to notice it repeating.
"Can I ask you a question?" She looks alarmingly serious. "It's just that you never talk about your mum. Like, I've literally never heard you talk about her."
"That's not a question," I say with the edge of a protective smile and start pulling up blades of grass.
"Alright then: what's the deal with your mum?"
"Baaaaasically." I press one palm against my eye, trying to figure out how to best sort the information. "It was kind of an arranged marriage thing."
"Blimey," she breathes.
"Yeah. Blah blah blah Death Eater stuff; my dad had been pre-engaged to this other witch. Something Parkinson, I think. Dahlia Zabini's mum. Anyway," I blow out a long breath. "So my dad needed the reputation boost, and the Greengrasses never went full-on Team Riddle during the war. And Astoria—my mother—didn't have any other suitors. She'd already had some problems back in school, even before the war, but she was still pretty okay then. She was twenty-two, I think, when she and my dad got married. But then, I dunno. I guess it's the sort of thing that doesn't really manifest until you get older. She ended up in hospital after I was born, and she's been kind of in-and-out ever since. I honestly don't know her very well."
Rosie rocks back and forth where she's sat, eyes wide and shining. "Blimey. Scor."
"It's okay." I shrug, gaze fixed at the small heap of shredded grass in my lap.
"I'm so sorry." She throws her arms around my neck.
"Thanks," I tell her shoulder.
Beyond the jagged line of mountains, the sky begins to glow pink.
Rosie and I sit in silence for a long time, my cheek rested on her bony shoulder, hers upon my head. Finally, I feel her chest rise as she takes a breath, "s'about two weeks until the first task, yeah?"
"Eleven days." I say. "Eleven days exactly."