Music I listened to while writing : Bloody Mary - Lady Gaga (Orchestral Version)

Chapter 18 : Repentance

A brief glimpse inside Scorpius's mind.

The sun was slowly rising on the horizon, and the light reflected off the stadium's rings, making them appear almost silver.

My head was resting on Dorian's lap. I could smell the grass, the damp earth, and his sweat, but I couldn't make out my own scent. His fingers were in my hair, and his breathing was as labored as mine. We had finished our early morning training, and my hands hurt terribly. They were red, scraped in places, and I dreaded moving them. They lay inert beside me on the still-cold ground. Dorian was staring at the light flooding the distant plains like a wave. The sadness in his eyes became unbearable for me, so I looked away. I didn't have the words, as always. His grandfather was dying, bedridden in his Azkaban cell, and his father was losing his mind. As he declined, he demanded his son come to him.

I knew Dorian didn't want to go back to his father. I didn't want to either. There was nothing good about that taciturn man. Only his eyes seemed alive on his waxen face—panicked, almost mad. They were black when he looked at me, as if I were the one who had stolen his child. A coward never sees his own cowardice. He could have kept his son if he had come with us when my father had offered.

Pain again, between my thumb and index finger on my left hand, where my skin was splitting. At this rate, I wouldn't last long. My skin was raw, and no matter how much ointment I applied, it remained sensitive, cracked. Even the smallest Quidditch gloves at Hogwarts didn't fit my hands—or my wrists. I lost them in flight.

I almost had a nasty fall during the first night training. I had stopped wearing them. And even the flying and physical education teacher had been of little help.

"Can't you shrink them to fit my hands?" I had asked two days earlier.

"No, it's impossible. It's for the market, you see. A spell is cast on the leather so the size can't be altered. So, we buy several sets of different sizes. For budget reasons, we stick to standard sizes."

"You should change suppliers! Not all students have lumberjack hands!"

"You don't have small hands, Mr. Malfoy, you're just underweight. Gain a few pounds, and the gloves will fit you just fine!"

It wasn't the first time my weight had been discussed, but never so directly. Compassionate and concerned looks from teachers or shy comments from Nicolas and others. I had tried to gain a few pounds, filling my plate to the brim, but all the calories were burned off by training and lack of sleep.

"I'm spending Christmas at my father's," Dorian said, his voice so low I could barely catch his words.

"And New Year's too. Maybe... I haven't given him my answer yet."

I sat up slowly, waiting for him to say more, but he didn't. I didn't like his decision. For six years, Dorian had spent the end-of-year holidays with us—with me. I held back from telling him that I would miss him and that his father didn't deserve him. He didn't need to hear that. A light punch to my shoulder pulled me out of my thoughts. He was looking at me, a smile tugging at his lips.

"Yeah, I'm sick of it too." And he said nothing more.

The sun had almost fully risen on the horizon. It was time to head back.

I entered the dormitory. No lights, just the sound of snoring. I shielded the light from my wand with my hand until I reached the bathroom, took a shower, got dressed, and grabbed my bag before leaving the same way I had come—quietly, invisible.

I had been doing this for four days now. Four days of leaving the dormitory at dawn to train. I wasn't ready for Saturday's match—I hadn't trained since the trials, and my stay in the infirmary hadn't helped. It was Dorian's idea to have this intense, secret training, so no one could accuse either of us of cheating. After all, we were opponents. But I needed it, and I couldn't train with the others. I couldn't see Albus.

I was avoiding him pretty well. Aside from classes and meals, where I felt his disdainful, disappointed gaze on me, I managed not to run into him at all during the day. We hadn't exchanged a single word since... since.

When I missed the first practice, I expected Albus to reprimand me, call me out, like any captain would. But he remained silent. I missed the next ones, too. And he never came to see me. I had waited for that encounter—I probably could have explained things to him, told him... No, I would never have been able to say anything to him. In the end, it was better that he didn't come.

He had believed in me for so many things. My ability to disappoint him was remarkable. But that was all over now, as he himself had said.

Winning this match was my current obsession. For Albus. It consumed so much of my time and energy that the pain in my chest became bearable. After missing so many practices, I'd surely be kicked off the team. Potter didn't want anything more from me. I would help him win this match he cared so much about, then I'd disappear. That's what he wanted, so be it.

And this day, like all the others, passed in a half-waking dream, blurred by my own fatigue and sadness. The evening came too soon.

I was hiding with the Gryffindors that night. Or rather, I was taking advantage of Dorian's invitation. I knew Albus wasn't in the Lion's house. I had seen him near the Ravenclaw dormitory—with her. Always so well-matched, an enviable couple, they were universally admired. Seeing them made me want to vomit. It seemed to me that they were never apart. I had said as much to Dorian, without thinking, irritated. The way he looked at me had been strange, but he hadn't said anything and had taken another sip from the flask he kept in his jacket.

He had it with him again that evening, as we sat side by side on the red couch.

"I think you're drinking too much, Dorian."

He laughed.

"You know it takes more than that to get me drunk."

"I didn't say you were dead drunk; I said you were drinking too much. You carry that thing around with you constantly," I said, taking the flask from his hand.

"I don't need it, if that's what worries you," he said darkly.

"Then stop carrying it."

He rolled his tongue inside his cheek, irritated, then took the flask back from me and drained it in one gulp.

"There," he said, tossing the bottle behind him, "now I can put it down." He slumped back on the couch, staring at the fire. Anger rose within me.

"If you don't want to see your father, just tell him! It'll save you from ending up like your mother." I regretted it instantly. His eyes shot daggers at me, and for a brief moment, I didn't recognize him.

"Am I interrupting something?"

I looked up and saw James standing above us, behind the couch.

Instinctively, I moved away from Dorian. Leaning on the edge of the couch, he was talking to Nott. I thought I heard him say that Dorian's breath smelled of alcohol and that he'd better perform well in tomorrow's match. Dorian reassured him, but I wasn't listening anymore.

Another boy accompanied him. A Weasley too—Hugo. He was staring at me, as if trying to solve an inner puzzle. I turned away from them. I tried to ignore James. He did the same, constantly. I almost wondered if our determination to ignore each other would end up giving us away. But give us away for what exactly? It didn't really matter anymore that the whole school knew James had slipped between my legs many times.

Very little mattered to me anymore,I realized.

Finnigan arrived behind Potter, his face redder than usual. I could smell the alcohol on his breath and sweat.

"We're making bets," he growled, throwing his arm around James, nearly holding himself up as his legs wobbled. "Between Kate and Albus. We think your little brother's about to score his first goal."

My heart skipped a beat. I saw James grimace, then smile a moment later.

"Are you betting with us?" Gryffindor's keeper insisted.

"No, I have my limits. I don't care about my brother's sex life."

"Oh." He stumbled again, clutching Potter's shirt for support. He noticed me and shot me a nasty grin.

"We thought you'd be the one he'd go for, but apparently, you're missing a pair of..."

He raised his hands to his chest and mimed a large bosom, which he fondled.

Nausea rose within me, but I just muttered "idiot" through clenched teeth.

"I'm leaving," I whispered to Nott. "See you tonight?"

Dorian nodded, but he wasn't looking at me, his eyes fixed on the flames.

I reached the entrance and was pulled back before I could ask the Fat Lady's portrait to let me out.

A familiar hand grabbed my arm, and I caught a familiar scent.

"James," I growled before even looking at him.

He glanced around us, then sized me up, standing straight and smiling. I noticed he was wearing the Quidditch uniform and cloak. His hair was tousled, and he smelled of dirt and sweat. My eyes lingered on the red jersey adorned with a golden lion, and I wondered if the house-elves had shortened my own uniform as I had asked.

He raised a hand toward me, pulling me from my thoughts, and I looked up at him.

"After the match?" he whispered, his finger trailing down my stomach.

I pushed his hand away.

"Screw off."

"That's not an answer," he muttered impatiently, shifting from one leg to the other, chin raised. I had noticed he did that when I irritated him.

"Yes, it is."

He wasn't listening anymore, squinting at me.

"Your hands are a mess…" he said, grabbing my wrists.

I yanked them away.

"My hands aren't calloused," I explained, hiding them in the folds of my robe. "The broomstick just roughs them up. It's only until they toughen up."

James grimaced in disgust.

"If you want soft hands, go find a girl!"

"Or wear gloves!"

I had no desire to explain to him that the fastenings on the gloves didn't stay on my wrists.

He ran a hand through his hair and sighed, hesitating, then took a step toward me. I didn't move.

"So, after the match," he concluded. "Give me your hand."

He took one of my hands and pulled out his wand. I stepped back, but he tightened his grip on my wrist.

"What are you doing with that?"

"Hold still!"

He pressed the tip of his wand against the split skin. A warm sensation spread through my hand, and the wound closed. Surprised, I met his gaze and raised an eyebrow. It wasn't the first time he'd shown me kindness, but it always left me puzzled.

"You always manage to switch from jerk to knight in shining armor... Ow!"

He pressed his nail into one of the cuts. Again, I tried to pull my hand away, but his grip was like iron. I held his furious gaze, amused at seeing him control his anger, his nostrils flaring with each breath. He bit his lip and looked back down at my hand.

"If my brother loses, it'll be because we're the best," he murmured, moving his wand to another cut. "Not because his Seeker's fingers hurt."

"Where'd you learn that?"

"In a book. I want to be a healer."

I raised an eyebrow. I imagined him more likely to excel as a salesman for puking pastilles for his uncles, but I kept that to myself, with his wand still pointed at my fingers.

"Shut up," he muttered, meeting my gaze.

He took my other hand, and I let him. I opened and closed the fist of my now-healed hand, relieved. James's hand slid over mine, searching for the next wound. He applied his wand to each one, and my skin warmed.

"I told you that once he realized who you really were, he'd kick you out of his life," he whispered.

For a moment, I thought I had misheard him. I swallowed hard. He looked up, and I recognized the gleam I hated so much—the one he had when he wanted to hurt me.

"You can't say I didn't warn you."

I pulled my hand from his, shoving him against the wall. He stared at me, surprised, almost angry. He moved to grab me, but I pushed him into the stone again. This time, he grabbed my collar, and I slammed into the wall with him, the stone hitting my temple. I groaned from the impact, but he didn't—his Quidditch gear had protected his shoulder. He suddenly stepped away from me, surprised and embarrassed. He wouldn't look at me anymore.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw red hair.

"Hugo," said James, his voice calm but irritated. "How long have you been standing there?"

The young Weasley stood by the common room entrance, his sharp eyes flicking between James and me. I held my breath, wondering what he had seen. He finally shrugged.

"Not long."

He looked at me and smiled. I clenched my teeth. Malfoys could smell a lie, and this one reeked.

My head throbbed—it had been throbbing often since Albus pushed me. But this time, the pain was more diffuse, an insidious migraine fueled by exhaustion. James and Hugo were talking, but I couldn't hear them. I asked the portrait to let me out. She made me repeat myself—she couldn't hear me, and I couldn't speak. James called after me, but I slipped away, heading back to the Slytherin dormitory, holding onto the wall.

I knew this feeling—migraines with aura, as they called them. My mother used to fake them to avoid family dinners. Living through them for real was another story.

I held back the nausea until I reached the dormitory. It surged again, and I stumbled to the toilet, barely lifting the seat before my stomach emptied, not sparing my hair, which slid off my shoulders into the bowl, making me even more sick. I stood up, panting, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My hair disgusted me, the smell lingering in the strands was nauseating.

I opened my satchel on the bathroom shelf and pulled out a pair of scissors. I hacked away at the mass of hair, angrily, narrowly missing my ear twice, but I didn't care. The strands fell onto my shoulders, into the sink, and I brushed them aside in disordered movements. I looked up, and the mirror reflected a dull face, empty, tear-rimmed eyes ringed with red.

I gripped the edge of the acrylic sink and took a deep breath. For a moment, I dreamed of happiness. However small. A peaceful, comforting feeling in the pit of my stomach, rather than this painful knot in sync with my heart's sobs.

What chance had I missed to feel this bad today? Or was I paying the price for my clumsiness and pride?

The door suddenly opened. I looked up and met Albus's eyes.

If there was ever a moment when I wished I wouldn't see him, it was this one, as my hands trembled on the white acrylic, and my stomach threatened to heave again. I saw him hesitate, and I expected him to leave when he saw me. But he didn't—he dropped my gaze and stepped forward.

I moved slightly as Potter stood beside me. I gently placed the scissors on the ceramic ledge, resolved not to speak first. He looked tired, troubled. His conniving girlfriend didn't seem to be comforting him all that well, but I couldn't even take pleasure in that.

"We should meet to work on the Charms assignment," he suddenly said lazily, toothbrush in hand.

"It's done," I muttered, ashamed of my unsteady voice. "I handed it in to Lupin's office last night."

"Fine."

He said no more. He brushed his teeth, ignoring me. He rushed through it, though—my presence clearly bothered him, and it hurt. I watched him from the corner of my eye, my heart tight.

"Don't you want to know what object I picked?" I finally asked. The silence was suffocating.

"Doesn't matter." He wiped his mouth, not looking at me. "I don't need to pass Charms."

"I didn't slack off on the assignment!"

"I don't care. I just wanted to hand it in so I wouldn't get detention."

His voice was cold, tinged with impatience. I looked at the dark circles under his eyes, and the fatigue that made his features paler. He was worried about tomorrow's match, despite appearances.

"The match... it'll be fine, you know?"

"If you cared at all, you would've shown up to the practices!"

He had shouted, and his voice echoed off the walls, bouncing off the tiles to strike my chest. I opened my mouth, but closed it again.

I wanted to be angry too, but I had lost the right to be. He wasn't mine anymore, if he ever had been. I tried to remember a time, not so long ago, when we sat shoulder to shoulder, leaning against a sturdy tree, as I listened to him softly speak about things he only shared with me. As I met his grim look now, I wondered if I had imagined that closeness, his warmth, or his fingers in my hair.

No. I had nothing left to say to him, and his anger would prevent him from hearing me anyway. He hated me too much now. So, I walked past him and left.

I found my uniform on the bed. I put it on, pleased with the elves' work. I would wear it tonight. The night would be short anyway. One last practice before the match, and once the match was won, Albus and I would be even. Without regret. I would resign from my position as Seeker. I'd be done with him. Truly done.

I folded the cloak and set it at the foot of the bed, curling up under the covers, knees to my chest, and murmured a spell that closed the curtains, fastening them so no one could open them.

I cast a silencing charm and fell asleep.

End of Chapter 18

Next chapter:
Finally, the match! And a very perceptive Harry Potter...