CHAPTER TEN
Scorpius tries to be less pathetic.

MADAME GRANGER APPROVES OF SCOROSE, the morning headline announces. I'm pretty sure there's a war on in Mesopotamia, but parental approval of a (fictional) school romance still makes the Sunday Prophet's front page—only just below the fold.

Beauxbatons serves breakfast late on the weekend so the three of us are sat up in the train's common carriage. A fire crackles in the hearth while we loll on the carpet. We're meant to be doing homework, but I can't help but scrutinize the article. Rosie owled her mum the day Teen Witch broke the so-called story, and to my tremendous relief, Ms Granger agreed to play along.

According to a statement from D.M.L.E. Head, Hermione Granger, the family has been aware of the relationship for more than a year. 'I've had the pleasure of spending time with Scorpius Malfoy on several occasions,' she adds. 'He's a lovely young man with a good heart.'

The story as she tells it more or less follows the facts, with the minor change that the name 'Albus' has been swapped out for 'Rose.' In reality, I've never even met Ms Granger, so I doubly appreciate her vouching for my character.

Near the end of the piece falls the comment specially designed to assuage my father: Madame Granger also put to rest any speculation that engagement rings might be on the horizon. 'They've only just come of age and they've yet to leave school. No one should ever put undue pressure on such a young couple, and they have a right to allow their relationship to take its natural course. I trust that any decisions they make about their future, either together or apart, will be predicated on mutual respect and self-understanding. My husband and I will embrace their choices either way.'

"It's perfect, right?" Rosie grins. "Now all I have to do is dump you!"

Bodie Summerbee keeps eyeing us from his rolltop desk so I hiss for her to keep her voice down.

"Maybe I could cheat on you," she goes on in a carrying whisper. "So it's extra-obvious you're the good guy."

Al likes the idea of getting the charade over with quickly but I'm a little less enthusiastic. The press will likely cycle onto something else on their own. Hell, Rosie's supposed tryst with a vampire seems to have been forgotten entirely. A public breakup would only create another story to be detailed and dissected. If we let this lie, they'll just get bored and move onto something else. And in the meantime, it's hard to deny that this new story is casting me in a much better light.

I'm the sympathetic underdog now. The Nice Guy shackled by a dark legacy by no fault of his own. My new alibi is even starting to gain traction. The Quibbler ran an op-ed yesterday about possible TriWizard fraud and anonymous interviews from my peers corroborated the fact that I've never, ever been one to seek out extra attention.

I also can't help but notice the kinder, gentler Rose Weasley they've introduced. Our tale of Star Crossed Lovers has primarily focused on her family of origin in order to contrast it to mine, leaving out any details about her actual personality. There are no interviews with students about what Rosie's really like. In fact, the editors probably decided to cut them. For the story to work, she needs to be a romantic heroine. The reality that she's a probable menace to a society isn't narratively convenient.

For the first time, she doesn't have to make up nasty things about herself in order to help me.

"What if we kept it going just until the Yule Ball?" I murmur. "They're expecting us to go together, so let's just go with it for a while. If we don't do anything to complicate things the attention will just fizzle out on its own."

I don't mention that fake-dating Rosie doubles as an excellent cover story for actual-dating Albus.

The first weeks of December dust the grounds with snow and I double down on my efforts to solve the mystery of the golden horn. Rumour has it that Hervé has already begun training for whatever's to come, but his exact preparations remain a jealously guarded Beauxbatons secret. Lin and I make a pact to share whatever we figure out. So far, we don't have much to go on.

"You put up to ear like this," she says, showing off her latest lead. "And is almost like you can hearing something."

I follow her advice and press the wide end of my own horn over my ear, fully aware how foolish we must look to anyone passing our chamber in the library. She's right that it sort of makes a sound. It's a bit like listening to a seashell and hearing the ocean.

Then again, I'm pretty sure the shell isn't regaling you with the story of its birthplace. A balled hand would provoke the same reaction.

"I dunno," I shrug. "File that one under 'maybe.'"

The pair of us share matching scrolls, bonded through a protean charm, for organizing our notes. This is where we collect our stray observations and theories in case the other person gets inspired by it. I can't help but wonder whether Lin would be so forthcoming if I hadn't done so poorly in the first task. The fact is, I'm no threat to her.

Whatever. I'm just hoping to make it out alive. If I can help Lin beat Hervé, that's an added bonus.

"What do you think about this line here," I say, pointing again at the patterning I keep obsessing over. Most everyone has agreed that it's probably purely decorative but I refuse to believe anything is that simple.

A raised groove circles the cone, a few inches off from what would be the halfway mark, closer to the point. Outside of interrupting the curly pattern, the mark seems to offer no logical function, decorative or otherwise.

Lin gives me the same dismissive sort of squint I probably just gave her and makes a cursory mark on her parchment. On my own copy, I see that she's underlined the word symbols?, but there's nothing else to add.

With a heavy sigh I flip Trials and Tragedy open to the chapter about the golden egg. Lin and I have been over it so much in the last weeks that the margins are crowded with notes. Cradling my chin in my hand, I frown again at the photo of the 1994 clue.

"They had it so easy last time," I say again.

We've been over the logic of the historic Lake Task so carefully that it all appears painfully obvious. Alchemical symbols engraved on the surface, the poetic irony of wrestling them from firespitting beasts… Everything about the golden eggs literally screamed 'water.'

But our clues don't make a sound. In fact, they don't seem to do anything at all. It's impossible to even know where to begin.

My forehead lands heavy on the table as I groan.

"Hey!" A muffled voice shouts. Rosie is stood thumping a fist against the paned glass wall of our study room while Al shakes his head.

"Library, Rosie," he reminds her as I let them in.

"Sorry, but we knew you guys would be on Horn Duty and Al thinks we just got another clue!"

He hands me a crumpled envelope while she beams.

"Dear Albus, hope you're doing well, can't wait for my next visit to France," I mumble, skimming the (perfectly average seeming) letter from his dad. "Sorry, where's the clue?"

"Right there!" Rosie hops from one foot to the other, annoyed. "The part where he talks about picnic weather."

I glance out the window, but the grounds are lost behind a swirl of white.

"If you haven't noticed, Scor, there's a bloody blizzard on."

Skipping back up a few paragraphs, I read the passage more slowly:

I've been keeping track of the weather reports, and I'm jealous that I'm not there with you all this week. Make sure you take the time to enjoy it. There's a rooftop courtyard accessible from the eastern tower I thought would make a great spot for a picnic. The view is amazing.

"Come on, bring the horns!" Rosie cries.

"But we don't have any picnic supplies," I say.

"Don't be a duffer. The clue isn't to have a picnic, it's to go to the roof."

We dash through the palace even though we should all be reasonably confident that roof isn't going anywhere. Even Hogwarts, which seemed fond of changing its architecture, never went so far as to forgo that particular feature.

A brutal wind howls as we climb up to the terrace atop the tower. While it's far from picnic weather, Mr Potter's assessment of the view was pretty accurate. This is the highest point in all of Beauxbatons, save the old bell tower—the only structure that remains of the original chateau. This high up, we have a panoramic view of the grounds. Snowy gardens and frozen fountains sprawl, ordered and symmetrical, before the valley tumbles down into wilderness. There's the too-familiar inlet to the south, as well as the dense forest behind the palace.

Lovely as the snowy vista may be, it's only a matter of seconds before the wind tears my face raw.

Oh.

My numb fingers fumble the horn. Placing the wide end over my ear, I lean into the gale. Sure enough, something about the narrow aperture filters the storm into a sound. Something like voices, singing.

"Lin, you're a genius!" I laugh, overjoyed, and she follows my lead before breaking into a wide grin.

"It is in French," she says.

I pass Rosie the horn. "Can you translate?"

"Let me see." She copies my gesture and screws up her face. "Elevate… no… something about the hour… hold on."

Muttering along under her breath, she lets the song cycle through a couple of times before offering her interpretation.

"'Élever à la plus grande hauteur,' that means 'rise to the greatest height' or 'the highest place.' Then 'et entendre la chanson de l'heure is like 'hear the song of the hour.' Or like, 'the song of time.' 'Rassembler tous les indices'—'collect all the clues.' And then the next line is just, like, 'and avoid the filth.' I think that's in there just because they wanted to rhyme. Anyway, 'pendant une heure, vous serez isolé' is 'for an hour, you will be isolated,' and then it says you have to retrieve the thing they stole."

"So it's going to be another thing like the Hogwarts lake task," Al says. "They'll kidnap someone and you have to go find them."

"Rise to the greatest height and hear the song of the hour…" I say, and Lin follows my gaze up into the distance.

"Well look at you, Mr Clever!" Rosie slaps my shoulder as she catches on.

I'm less thrilled by my discovery; the old bell tower doesn't have any stairs.

"Second task was for swimming," Lin says. "And clue needed water."

If the horn needed air, that must mean we're meant to fly.

Fan-bleeding-tastic.

I only ever had a handful of lessons in first year. I got as far as getting my broom to go 'up.'"

It's a small victory that I was right about the symbols. If you look at the horn like a triangle and the ridge as a line, you get the alchemical sign for air. The added swirly pattern should have made it obvious.

"I reckon you'll need to fly most of the time," Rosie adds, unhelpfully. "You'll only have an hour, and the song referenced more than one clue."

"Like a treasure hunt," Al says in too bright a voice. "That doesn't sound too bad."

"They will find ways to make bad," Lin sighs. "Maybe they bring back gargouille to chase us while we flying."

Al promises to teach me how to fly, so we rent a pair of broomsticks and spend most of our free hours over the next few weeks out on the grounds. We don't even bother bringing Rosie along as cover. Two blokes playing one-a-side Quidditch is probably the most hetero activity imaginable.

"Come on, just kick off," he urges.

I shake my head furiously.

So far, I've more or less figured out how to steer, but I refuse to go any higher than what would allow my toes to brush the snow. Nothing about sitting on a wooden stick while flinging my body through the air sounds safe.

"You're gonna have to make it up to the belltower eventually. Just do like this." He pushes off and rises gracefully. "Then when you want to go down, just lean forward and point the handle." He swoops lower before pulling to a stop a few metres above the ground.

I shield my eyes against the winter sun and look up at him. "You're really good at all this."

Al just shrugs. "Both my parents are really into Quidditch, so we played a lot when I was growing up. But flying was always more of James' thing and I didn't fancy playing for Slytherin against him."

Knowing that he and his siblings were whizzing about on brooms back when they were still in single digits makes me feel pathetic. Closing my eyes tight, I kick off the ground. I warble up unsteadily and throw my arms around the handle, holding on for dear life, which only makes me careen more.

"Blimey, be careful!" He zooms toward me and seizes my broomstick. "Sit up straight or you'll be bumping around all over the place."

Sitting up straight sounds terrifying. Al holds my handle steady while I arrange myself into a less absurd position. Then, I make the mistake of looking down.

"Bloody hell, we're really high up!" My panic makes me waver on the spot.

"It's okay, just look at me," he says. "It's easier if you relax."

"I hate this."

"I know. Come on, now lean forward like this."

I copy Al and we take off, cutting through the crisp, December air. It's at once the most terrifying and most magnificent thing I've ever felt. My stomach seems suspended in a constant state of leaping and I can barely keep my watering eyes open. Al keeps reminding me to relax, which is difficult, but eventually I'm able to hold an even keel and stop lurching so much.

Following his lead, we speed up, overtaking the rolling valley below at a breathtaking pace.

"Now lean back," he shouts over the howling wind. "And slow down."

I pull to a shuddering stop beside him, face flushed with cold, and can't help but grin.

"Fun, isn't it?"

"Well, it's definitely not boring," I say.

Once he decides I'm reasonably comfortable with the basics of flying, we descend to a less dangerous height.

"The Lake Task wasn't just swimming and stuff." He produces a red Quidditch ball. "The champions had to battle grindylows and things."

Next up: learn how to fly while engaging in literally any other activity at the same time. As if defying gravity atop a mere household object weren't enough of an accomplishment.

"Catch." Al tosses me the ball and I flinch.

"Okay, let's try that again. Accio Quaffle."

Airborne multitasking proves incredibly difficult, and I struggle to keep my broomstick steady while I try to throw or catch. Mostly, I jerk around uncontrollably. Every time I try to dodge I lose control and fall into a tailspin. After a mere half hour, I'm sore from a dozen heavy falls onto the frozen earth.

"You're getting a lot better!" Al insists as we glide back down.

"You are the world's most patient person," I say, stepping tenderly onto solid ground.

My limbs are stiff from cold and aching as we head back to the train to shower before supper. Wiping away the steam on the mirror, I explore the blue bruises blooming across my back. An afternoon spent perilously flying over the snowy grounds has left me tired and hungry.

"I unpacked my dress robes, if you want to try them on," Al says when I return to the bedroom. A rumple of forest green lays on the covers.

"They're nice," I say, holding them up in front of me, but they aren't really my colour.

Merlin, I am a brat.

"They were my dad's," Al shrugs.

"What?"

"Yeah, my nan tailored them over the summer to make them longer, so they shouldn't be too short on you."

"Al, I am not wearing your dad's old robes to the Yule Ball."

Firstly, the press would have a field day remarking on a seemingly desperate Potter comparison. Secondly, it would be weird.

"Suit yourself." He shrugs.

"Besides, then what would you wear?"

"Does it really matter? I might not even go."

Noooooooooo.

He and I bicker about the ball all the way to dinner. The only bright spot I have to look forward to is that, once my ceremonial duties dancing with Rosie are out of the way, I'll be able to hang out with him. It'll be miserable if he isn't there, and I'll spend the whole time missing him.

Food makes us both a lot less grumpy, and Lin soon joins us at our table.

"Alboos, do you know who you are going with to ball?"

He and I share a pointed glance before he shrugs 'no.' The champion bites her lip.

The Durmstrang Drama turns out to be pretty intricate. Apparently, she and Pavel had been in a relationship for more than two years before he confessed to cheating with a Russian witch in the grade below. While upset by the betrayal, Lin couldn't help but be relieved that the relationship had come to an end, having since grown weary of his constant partying. But as the two shared a great deal of history, she was happy to rekindle the friendship during the voyage from Norway.

At the same time, feelings were beginning to develop between her and an Austrian named Henrik.

"So now both are trying for asking me to ball, and I'm worrying I lose both of them," she finishes, miserably.

As most of her Durmstrang friends have more or less picked up on the fact that Al and I are a couple, he would make the most neutral companion.

Well this is convenient.

"Yeah, sure," he says, ladling himself more fish stew. "I'll go to the ball with you."

"Thank you!" Lin cries and throws her arms around his neck.

I feel equally appreciative to her for giving Al a reason to go. At the same time, I can't help but wonder who Hervé ends up taking. He'll most likely end up the only champion with a genuine date. And one needs only to look at him to know he probably has his pick of any witch in the school.

Buoyed by the fact that I'll be joined at the Yule Ball by my three favorite people, I help myself to another serving of creamed potatoes. All this flying has done wonders for my appetite.

All of a sudden, something knocks against the back of my head and I start. Two owls flap their wings and awkwardly drop a long box on the table, splattering me with a spray of stew.

"It says is for you," Lin notes, carefully dislodging a corner of the box from her plate.

Al and I trade confused glances before I gently tear back the brown paper. Inside sits a silver garment box embossed with the name of a French designer. My curiosity deepens. Pulling back the gently stew-stained tissue paper, I spy a parchment card sitting upon a bed of grey silk.

I recall that it's been some time since you've gotten new dress robes, the familiar cursive reads. Let me know if they need further tailoring.

Just below sits the cramped, fussy signature I've so often forged on Hogsmeade permission slips; Draco Malfoy.