Chapter 37 - Twelve Names

The Grand Salle was quieter than usual that evening. There were no enchanted instruments playing above the tables. No flickering lanterns dancing in spirals overhead. The candles in the crystal chandeliers burned lower, casting the long hall in a softer, more serious light. Everyone was waiting for the announcement.

Ava sat with her hands clasped tightly in her lap, her dinner untouched. The smells of herb-roasted chicken and truffled potatoes barely registered through the buzzing in her ears. Conversations at the tables were hushed, clipped—half-eaten sentences and restless glances toward the front of the room. Beside her, Isabella was practically bouncing in her seat.

"They are going to announce it now, I know it," she whispered. "You'll see. I will be on ze list. My evaluations were flawless."

Across the table, Marcell sat calmly, his expression unreadable as always. But Ava could tell he was listening. His hands were still, and he hadn't touched his fork in several minutes.

When the double doors to the head table opened everyone turned. Madame Maxime entered with her usual regal grace, flanked by two professors and carrying a folded parchment in one hand. Her sapphire robes swept behind her like a royal train, her towering frame impossibly elegant even as she reached the dais and turned to face the room. The hall fell into silence.

"Mes élèves," she began, her voice echoing softly against the stone walls. "Tonight, I will read ze names of those who 'ave been selected to represent Beauxbatons in ze coming Triwizard Tournament. Zese twelve students will travel to Hogwarts and live zere for ze duration of ze school year."

A hush deeper than any spell settled over the room. Every student leaned forward.

"You were chosen not only for your magical talent, but for your strength of character, discipline, and grace with which you carry our school's values."

She unfolded the parchment and Ava's breath hitched. Maxime's eyes scanned the names once before she spoke.

"Étienne Bellamy."

There was a small smattering of applause.

"Colette Desrosiers."

"Luc Moreau."

These were names Ava knew. They were upper years, talented duelists, and some of the best students in their classes.

"Aline Rousseau."

The tension tightened like a thread.

"Marcell Delauer."

Ava turned her head sharply. Marcell blinked once, then nodded, as if he had expected it. The corners of his mouth barely lifted, but he offered her a glance. She gave a small nod back, even as her heart pounded harder.

More names were read.

Seven. Eight. Nine.

Isabella was practically out of her chair now, chin raised, breath held like a held-back spell waiting to explode.

"Matteo Leroux."

Ten.

"Fleur Delacour."

Eleven.

Ava felt the number before the silence hit as the weight of that final name hit the air. She wasn't sure if she wanted to hear it. She wasn't sure if she wanted to not to.

Maxime took a breath, and Ava saw her eyes lift… right to her.

"And… Clarice Dumont." The room went still.

Ava stared ahead, frozen. For a moment, she wondered if she'd imagined it. The shift in the air, the low gasp from a table nearby, and the sound of Marcell exhaling beside her told her otherwise. Then…

"What?!" Isabella hissed.

Ava turned slightly. Isabella was staring at Maxime, her mouth open in stunned disbelief.

"You did not even apply," she muttered under her breath. "I—I did everything. I was perfect."

Ava didn't say anything. She couldn't. Her limbs felt leaden. Maxime rolled the parchment closed with a soft snap.

"To those selected—félicitations. Prepare yourselves. Ze carriages depart in two days."

Scattered applause followed, though it was uncertain, half-hearted in some corners. Isabella didn't clap. Marcell looked at Ava. She couldn't bring herself to look back.

All she could think was: It's real now. I'm going back.

The gardens were nearly empty, their usual evening charm dimmed beneath the hush left in the wake of Madame Maxime's announcement. The air was cool, draped in the perfume of lavender and dew-damp roses, and the moon hung low behind scattered clouds, casting a silvery glow over the stone pathways and marble fountains.

Ava sat beneath a flowering wisteria arbor, the blooms pale violet in the moonlight, cascading around her like a curtain of silk. The stone bench beneath her was cold, grounding, and she sat curled in on herself—knees drawn up, arms wrapped tight, chin resting on her forearms. Her eyes were fixed on a single fallen petal at her feet, unmoving.

She barely reacted to the sound of approaching footsteps, the faint crunch of gravel beneath polished shoes.

"I thought I might find you out here," Marcell said quietly.

She didn't look at him. "I wasn't lying," she murmured, her voice flat. "When I said I didn't apply."

There was a pause, then the gentle creak of stone as he settled onto the bench beside her. "I know," he said simply.

"I didn't want to go." Her voice shook just slightly. "I told Maxime that. I told her I wasn't the right choice. But she didn't care. Said it would look good. Said it was diplomatic." A breeze stirred the wisteria. One bloom fell silently between them.

Marcell didn't press. He didn't ask why it had to be her, or what she'd meant by diplomatic. He just sat, his presence steady and unassuming, his hands folded loosely in his lap.

Ava finally turned her head toward him. "Don't you want to know why?"

He met her eyes, calm and unreadable. "I figured there were reasons," he said. "You do not owe me an explanation unless you want to give it."

She studied his face in the moonlight. His gaze was soft, serious, and kind. Not the face of someone who demanded anything from her. And perhaps that made it easier for her to say what she had to say next.

"I think…" she swallowed, voice barely audible. "I do want to." She slowly drew her legs down from the bench, adjusting to sit properly, folding her hands in her lap like she needed them to stay still. "There's something I need to tell you," she said. "Something I should've said a long time ago."

Marcell tilted his head, not moving or speaking. Just… waiting.

"My name isn't Clarice," she whispered. "It's Ava. Ava Johnson."

A beat of silence passed. Then Marcell exhaled softly through his nose, a hint of something like amusement in it.

"I know."

Ava blinked, startled. "Wait…you… what?"

"I suspected for some time," he admitted, his voice still low. "Not because you told me. But there were signs. The way you never corrected anyone when they said your name wrong… like you didn't really believe it belonged to you. The way you went quiet when anyone mentioned their past."

She felt her throat tighten, her heart thrumming painfully.

"And at the World Cup…" He paused. "Someone called you Ava. And the way you looked at him… that's not the look you give a stranger."

Ava looked down, shame creeping over her cheeks like heat. "I didn't mean to lie."

"You were surviving," Marcell said. "Sometimes survival looks like silence."

She didn't respond, only nodded once. It was all she could do.

"I'm glad you're telling me now," he added. "Because that means you trust me."

"I do," she said, voice thin. And she meant it.

A breeze curled through the arbor again, carrying with it the scent of crushed petals and cool stone. They sat in silence, neither of them in a rush to fill it.

"Did you see Isabella after dinner?" Ava asked softly.

Marcell shrugged, his gaze distant. "She'll be fine. She is just not used to hearing 'non.'"

Ava let out a small breath. Not quite a laugh, but close. "She worked hard," she said.

"She did," he agreed. "But she wanted it for the glory. You… didn't."

"No," Ava said. "I didn't."

She let the silence stretch again, feeling the weight of everything she hadn't said.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.

Marcell's brow knit. "For what?"

"For not telling you sooner. For the way I disappeared at the World Cup. For the look you saw on my face. For not…"

"For not loving me," he said gently.

Her breath hitched but Marcell turned to her fully, his expression open, kind.

"There is no need to apologize, Ava. I saw the way you looked at him," he said. "The way you looked at that boy. The one you called Fred. I know that look because that is the way I look at you."

Her heart ached at his words. She didn't know how to respond to his confession. Thankfully he continued for her.

"Your heart belongs somewhere else. And there is no shame in that."

Ava felt tears prick at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them away. "Thank you," she said softly.

He offered her the ghost of a smile. "Besides… I would rather be your friend than your secret."

That nearly undid her. She leaned against him then, just a little, their shoulders brushing in quiet solidarity. And for the first time since coming here, she didn't feel like she had to hide.

The courtyard was buzzing with early morning fog and the quiet clatter of trunks being loaded into the enchanted carriage that would carry the Beauxbatons delegation to Hogwarts.

Sunlight hadn't fully broken over the mountains yet. A pale blue glow hung over the school grounds, soft and ethereal, like the world itself hadn't quite woken up. Cloaks fluttered. Boots scraped against dew-slicked stone. And behind it all, the low hum of excitement vibrated just under the surface of every whispered goodbye and last-minute checklist.

Ava stood near the edge of the main fountain, her satchel slung over her shoulder, her trunk already levitated and stowed. She turned slowly in place, scanning the courtyard for a face she hadn't seen since last night. Isabella was nowhere in sight. Ava had half a mind to go find her, to say something, anything, before she left, when Marcell appeared at her side.

"She's not here?" he asked gently, already knowing the answer.

Ava shook her head. "No."

"You said your goodbyes to everyone else?"

Ava looked around. The other students were clustered in groups of twos and threes, exchanging letters, hugs, and charms for luck. Some parents had come early. Professors offered firm nods and last-minute encouragements.

Ava nodded. "I think so."

Before Marcell could respond, a voice pierced the air.

"ATTENDEZ!"

A blur of pale blue robes and windswept dark hair came barreling down the steps of the east wing, heels clicking against the stone, arms flailing to keep her bag from toppling.

"WAIT FOR ME!"

Ava blinked. "Is that—"

"Of course it is," Marcell muttered under his breath.

Isabella stumbled to a halt just before the fountain, breathless but beaming.

"I get to come!" she gasped, her chest rising and falling dramatically as if she'd run a marathon. Her eyes sparkled, but not from the run. There was something else there. Something sharp beneath the smile.

Ava stared at her in confusion. "What? How?"

Isabella waved her hand as if it were ze most obvious thing in ze world. "One of ze chosen students… Luc Moreau… 'e got terribly sick zis morning. Fever, vomiting—très affreux. 'E could not even stand upright, pauvre garçon."

Ava glanced at Marcell, who raised a brow but said nothing.

"So," Isabella continued, her eyes gleaming as she adjusted her curls, "Madame Maxime, she asked me to take 'is place. She said it made sense, non? Since I was next on ze list."

She flicked invisible dust from her shoulder with flair, chin lifted a touch too high.

"Just lucky, I suppose," she added sweetly, with a smile far too satisfied to be humble.

Marcell made a quiet sound that was noncommittal, but not quite agreement. Ava couldn't put her finger on it, but something about Isabella's smile didn't sit right. It was too perfect. Too controlled. Her eyes were shining, yes, but they didn't crinkle with real joy. They shimmered like glass. Still, Ava smiled back.

"Well… congratulations. I guess it was meant to be."

Isabella stepped closer, smoothing her robes with practiced grace. "I am not surprised, pas du tout. Zings tend to work out for me… eventually." She leaned in, her voice dropping with a mischievous smirk. "And I do look much better in zis blue zan Luc ever did, non?" She laughed then, light and airy, as though everything had simply fallen into place.

The carriage doors opened with a chime, and the professors began calling for final boarding. Isabella swept ahead, already chatting up one of the other girls with an effortless flip of her hair. Ava watched her go, something faint and unsettled twisting in her gut. She couldn't say why, not exactly. Only that Isabella had wanted this badly and now she had it. Almost too easily.

"Are you alright?" Marcell asked beside her, watching her carefully.

Ava nodded. "Yeah… just surprised."

He gave her a knowing glance but didn't press.

"Come on," he said, nudging her shoulder gently. "Let's go meet your ghosts."

Ava cracked a faint smile and together, they climbed the steps into the carriage. The steps creaked under their feet as they ascended, the scent of aged wood and lavender oil lingering in the air. The interior of the Beauxbatons carriage was as opulent as Ava remembered. Soft blue velvet seats lined the walls and were trimmed in silver threading. Crystal lanterns floated near the ceiling, casting a soft, enchanted glow that danced across pale silk curtains and polished mahogany beams.

She slid into a seat near the back, watching as students filed in with laughter and chatter that barely reached her ears. Her fingers twisted in the hem of her sleeve. Across from her, Marcell sat quietly, arms folded, his gaze out the window as the courtyard began to blur behind frost-kissed glass. The door swung shut with a soft, final thud.

A low hum filled the carriage as it rumbled to life, levitating slowly, and rising off the cobblestones. The gardens fell away beneath them, the towers of Beauxbatons retreating. Ava leaned back, eyes fixed on the window, though she barely saw the mountains rolling by.

She was going back. Back to the place she'd fled. Back to the people she had hurt. Back to him.

She exhaled slowly, watching her breath fog against the cold pane of glass, and told herself she'd be fine…. She had to be.