CHAPTER FIVE: Suspicions
Hope.
The first task was over. The second task would not take place until after the New Year. Even so, Aleksandr felt no sense of calm, no sense of peace. He was pleased by his performance in the first task, and most of Durmstrang had congratulated him on his cool handling of the volcanoes, but something was not right.
He had escaped the throng of well-wishers who had been waiting outside the arena after the first task and had let his feet carry him on an extended tour of the magnificent Beauxbatons grounds. After nearly an hour, he finally came to rest in a picturesque clearing between the lake and a small copse of trees. He cast a brief look around to make sure he was alone, then collapsed onto the ground and lay down on the grass. The earth was cold and hard against his back and the air heavy with rain. Aleksandr surmised that it might be possible for him to fall asleep here. As he closed his eyes, however, he heard a noise and sat bolt upright, searching for the source.
He found it, or rather, her, sitting on a bench near the edge of the clearing. He had no idea how he had missed her in his first survey of the area. He hastily got to his feet, fully aware that to be seen in such a lazy manner while in the company of an unattended woman would be highly improper. He cleared his throat and brushed a few blades of grass from his robes, and made his best attempt at a smile. “Please forgive me, mademoiselle,” he said, assuming she was a Beauxbatons student. “I did not see you sitting there.”
She put down the letter that was in her hands, smiled, and rose from her bench. “There is nothing to forgive, monsieur. You have as much a right to be here as I do!” The lilt of her accent confirmed his suspicions.
She was quite pretty, he noticed, as the overwhelming majority of the Beauxbatons women were. Certainly more fair and dainty than the tall, thick women of Durmstrang. However, she looked troubled, and Aleksandr got the distinct impression that he had intruded on a rather private reverie.
“Forgive me again”where are my manners?” he asked rhetorically, his smile widening as he crossed the clearing toward her. He swept into a deep bow. “I am Aleksandr Gregorovitch.”
He pretended not to notice her sharp intake of breath at his name, and she tried to disguise it with a cough. “The Durmstrang Champion?” she asked. “Yes, of course. I recognize you now from the first task. You performed very well.”
“Thank you, mademoiselle,” he said with a nod. “May I enquire as to your name?” He felt ridiculously formal saying these words, but rumor had it that the Beauxbatons women were sticklers for formality.
“Of course,” she said, extending her hand. “I am Josephine de Tuileries.”
His eyebrows rose of their own accord as he planted a swift kiss on her proffered hand. “You are related to Remy de Tuileries?”
“Oui, he is my brother,” she replied.
Aleksandr thought about this for a moment before he realized he had not yet let go of her hand. He dropped it hastily and cleared his throat, dismayed to see her face flush crimson, though she was still smiling.
“How did your brother fare in the task? I confess I did not watch.”
“He performed admirably, I think, though not so fast as you or George Potter.”
“Indeed,” Aleksandr said, again starting to feel that he had intruded on something very personal, for a moment passed and the earlier sadness crept back into her eyes. He was just about to concoct a reason to excuse himself when he was spared the task: his classmate Mikhail burst into the clearing, completely out of breath and with a very red face.
Aleksandr ran to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “Mikhail! What is it? What has happened?”
Mikhail doubled over, propping his arms on his knees. “Pardon me, mademoiselle,” he said, nodding at Josephine. He then turned his head up toward Aleksandr. “Alexei, you are needed in the palace immediately.”
A thousand thoughts flashed through his mind, and he dwelled first on his father. Had something happened? He straightened up and turned to follow Mikhail out of the clearing, only just remembering to excuse himself to Josephine before they fled through the trees and out of sight.
***
Twenty minutes later, he had heard the terrible news: George Potter had been murdered. He sat with Remy de Tuileries and the three headmasters in the small salon where the Weighing of the Wands had taken place. He looked around the room cautiously, surveying the emotions of the assembly. Professor Novokov looked somber, leaning against the fireplace. Monsieur Autruche flitted around the room, wringing his hands and looking worried. Professor Eldridge, the Hogwarts Headmaster, wore a grim countenance and sat enveloped by a majestic sorrow. Remy, Aleksandr was surprised to notice, looked the most upset of all. His devastation hung around him like a fog.
Aleksandr had of course noticed that Remy and George Potter had been spending a lot of time together in the interim between the Goblet of Fire and the First Task, often with another Hogwarts boy. Aleksandr had never been invited to join them, thus confirming his fear that Kerensky had scared them off. As he looked at Remy’s shocked face, he suddenly felt guilty for not having been better friends with George, and vowed to remedy the situation with Remy.
This was certainly not the time for that, however, as two questions now loomed: Who killed George Potter, and what should be done about the Tournament? The former question seemed unanswerable at the moment, at least by those present. The latter was also a tricky matter, since the Tournament was governed by very strict and complicated magic.
Autruche broke the silence first: “What is to be done, gentlemen? Do we consult the Goblet of Fire?”
“The Goblet of Fire will not reignite until the start of the next Tournament,” said Professor Eldridge solemnly.
“Then what do we do?” asked Monsieur Autruche. “Do we continue with the Tournament?”
“Yes, we must.” Novokov clasped his arms behind his back and began pacing around the room. “These two are magically bound to see it through to the end. Even in the face of extreme danger and death.” He gestured at Remy and Aleksandr.
Eldridge nodded. “Ilya is right. We must select another Hogwarts Champion to complete the remaining tasks.”
Silence fell over the room as each realized this choice would be neither easy nor popular.
“Sir,” Remy asked, to no one in particular, “what happens if Aleksandr and I both agree not to finish?”
Monsieur Autruche frowned and shrugged, but Eldridge shook his head. “It would not matter. Your obligation to the Goblet of Fire remains until the third task is finished and the tournament is declared closed. No amount of persuasion can change this. It is a binding magical contract.”
Aleksandr hung his head in his hands. He had hardly known George, it was true, but that did nothing to temper his grief. True, the champions knew that the tournament would be dangerous and death was a definite possibility, but George had not died in the course of Tournament action. He had been murdered. And Aleksandr had a sneaking suspicion of the culprit.
Try as he might to ignore it, he could not forget the look that had passed through Emil Kerensky’s eyes the night of Aleksandr’s selection. And his words, too: “For Durmstrang. It is all for Durmstrang.”
What did that mean? Certainly there were rumors about Kerensky, dark, dark rumors, but was there any truth to the accusations that he was a murderer? Now, with George Potter’s death, should all Durmstrang fingers be pointing at one man, or would that be an overreaction? Aleksandr was worried.
Conversation continued as Aleksandr silently pondered these things, and by the time he brought himself back to the present, the headmasters had apparently decided to let the Hogwarts contingent select a new champion in a quiet ceremony. He and Remy were dismissed from the room. While Remy went straight down the hall without another word, Aleksandr lingered outside the door, waiting for Professor Novokov to emerge.
After a few moments, he did. “Not a word,” said Novokov as he grabbed Aleksandr by the arm and dragged him down a side corridor. Once he was assured that no one had followed, he rounded on Aleksandr and pointed a finger millimeters from his face. “Did you have anything to do with this?” asked Novokov in a cold, fierce whisper. “If you did, I swear I will not rest until no one in the world knows the Gregorovitch name.”
Aleksandr backed into the wall, eager to get away from Novokov’s piercing stare, and unable to speak. Novokov jammed his finger into Aleksandr’s chest. “Answer me!”
Aleksandr found words, and quickly. “Professor, I swear, I had nothing to do with it!”
“Swear it on your father’s name,” Novokov growled.
“I do! I swear!” Aleksandr was petrified. He had never seen Professor Novokov so angry, not even in the midst of all the challenges that had plagued his tenure at Durmstrang.
“Do you have any idea who did?” The headmaster’s finger was still pressing hard into Aleksandr’s chest, his eyes still boring straight into him, as if they could see to his very soul.
Aleksandr hesitated, unsure of what to say. Did Novokov already suspect Kerensky? Did he, Aleksandr, have any basis on which to accuse him? Such an accusation would not be taken lightly”could Aleksandr willingly endanger Emil’s life with no more proof than a strange look he thought he had seen?
As was often the case, Novokov seemed to be reading his mind: “Kerensky. You suspect him?”
Aleksandr stammered. “I… I do not know, Professor. I have no real grounds to suspect him, but something about him seemed amiss a few days ago.”
Aleksandr thought this might provoke another outburst, but instead, Novokov sighed and withdrew his finger from Aleksandr’s chest. He ran his fingers through his hair in frustration. “Kerensky did not do it,” he said softly.
“You are sure?” Aleksandr asked, feeling relieved and yet…
“He has an alibi. At the time of the murder, he was with a few other students, even some from Beauxbatons who can swear to it.” He began pacing again.
“But Professor, this is good news, no?” Aleksandr asked tentatively, wondering if Novokov also felt conflicted.
Novokov turned his piercing stare on Aleksandr and surveyed him for a moment. After a full minute of scrutiny, he spoke. “Yes. It is of course a good thing that Kerensky is not a suspect. But that does not alter the fact that there will be many in this palace who will automatically assume that a Durmstrang student or affiliate was the one to murder Mr. Potter. Make sure that you have an alibi, Gregorovitch, and make sure it is a good one.” Realizing, perhaps, that his words and actions had been a bit harsh, Novokov placed a reassuring hand on Aleksandr’s shoulder for a brief moment before turning on his heels and marching down the corridor, leaving Aleksandr completely alone.
He sank to the floor and leaned his head back against the wall, crossing his arms over his knees. What was his alibi? He had been wandering around the gardens when the murder had occurred, but no one had seen him. Until he had reached the clearing, that is, and found Josephine. She could be his alibi. Did she even know yet what had happened? Mikhail had run breathlessly into the clearing to retrieve Aleksandr, but had not given away any specifics. Someone should tell her…
He did not know exactly what force compelled him back to the clearing, all he knew was that he wanted to return, and he hoped she would be there. He walked as if in a daze all the way through the gilded corridors of Beauxbatons, back out the ornate doors, around the edge of the lake, and into the secluded clearing where, sure enough, she remained, still sitting on her bench.
As his presence was announced by the rustling of tree branches, she rose and turned around swiftly to face him. Her face was ashen and tear-streaked. Had she already heard the news? He took a few steps toward her and cleared his throat.
“What is it, Monsieur Gregorovitch?” she asked, clutching an embroidered handkerchief. “What is the news?”
***
Love.
“What is the news?” Josephine surveyed Aleksandr Gregorovitch while she waited for his answer. She was so afraid that something had happened to Remy, yet there was a part of her that knew this could not be: they would have sent for her to come to the castle, too. Still, whatever had happened was surely grave, for the look on his face was grim. He took another step toward her and she felt her heart flutter. He was very close…
“George Potter has been killed,” he finally said.
Josephine seemed to hear his words as if they came from the end of a very long tunnel. George Potter has been killed. She did not believe it. “What?”
He nodded solemnly. “He has been murdered, Mademoiselle de Tuileries.”
The corners of her vision began to blur and she suddenly felt very faint. She felt her knees give out below her and she took a wobbly step toward him, very nearly falling into his arms.
He reacted instantly, placing one hand on her hip and sliding one under her arm as he steered her back toward the bench. The intricate dynamic of their position forced him to sit down next to her, and to Josephine’s dismay, he picked up her discarded letter and began to fan her with it. Though she knew it was wildly inappropriate for a number of reasons, she could not help but think that she did not want Aleksandr to know she had been weeping over another man. Over Pascal.
Josephine took a deep, steadying breath and gave a little nod to indicate that she was well again. Aleksandr stopped fanning her and handed her the letter, which she folded and placed at her side. She noticed that his hand had not left the small of her back, but she did not say anything: it was quite comforting.
“Please tell me everything you know,” she whispered, clasping her hands together in her lap and looking into his face. Something in his hard, dark eyes moved and he looked away.
“I confess that I do not know much more. They found his… they found him in a patch of woods between the arena and the palace about thirty minutes after the first task was completed. His parents are here already, since they watched the task. It looks to have been the Avada Kedavra, but they have no suspects.”
“Poor George,” she breathed. She took another steadying breath and for a moment believed that the worst was over and she would not break down. But her emotions got the best of her and she heaved a great sob. She brought her handkerchief to her face in a vain effort to hide her tears, but Aleksandr showed no sign of being uncomfortable. He merely sat on the bench with her silently, his hand still on her back.
“I just keep thinking,” she said through her sobs, “what if it had been Remy? What if he’s next?”
“Josephine,” he said calmly, and she felt her heart flutter again at his use of her first name, “I am sure this was an isolated incident. Maybe even an accident.”
“You really think so?” she asked, looking up at his face again.
He looked down at her and smiled, but before he could respond, a shout came from the edge of the clearing, where Mikhail had stumbled through an hour before.
“Josephine!” It was Remy.
Josephine’s breath caught in her chest and she felt Aleksandr slide away from her instantly, removing his hand from its precarious position. Remy did not look pleased.
“Josephine!” he repeated, marching toward her. “What are you doing?” he asked in French. “What is he doing here?”
She rose from the bench and ran toward Remy, throwing herself at him and sobbing into his chest. She was mildly aware that she looked rather foolish and overly emotional, but it had been an incredibly trying day, and all she wanted was comfort. Remy obliged, putting his arms protectively around her and rubbing her back.
“You heard the news?” he asked, and she nodded in response. “Then you know it is not safe to be alone! Especially with… with…”
She pulled away and looked him in the eye. “With whom?”
“With a Durmstrang student?” Aleksandr offered, rising from the bench. The siblings both turned to stare at him, completely surprised that he had understood. “Yes, I speak French,” he said coolly. His fists were balled at his sides and he was glaring at Remy. “And I do not like your assumption that it was a Durmstrang student who murdered George Potter.”
“Well, Gregorovitch,” Remy sneered. “If your lot were not so tainted by dark reputations, we wouldn’t have such strong grounds for assumption. And just what exactly were you planning on doing with my sister? Going to finish her off next?”
Josephine gasped and turned back to Remy. “No! Remy, it was nothing like that. He happened to find me here an hour ago, and then he was called back to the castle, and he returned to tell me the news,” she explained breathlessly.
“Ah, he told you the news, did he? Did he mention that he was involved in the plot to kill George?”
Josephine gasped again, louder this time, and whipped back around to Aleksandr. When he spoke, it was directly to her: “I had nothing to do with Potter’s death. I would never do anything like that.”
Remy laughed a cold, derisive laugh. “That’s not what your fellow students say, Aleksandr. ‘Bad blood,’ they say. You just couldn’t stand being in second after the task, could you? If you didn’t kill him, where were you when it happened?”
“Monsieur de Tuileries, please,” Aleksandr pleaded, taking a cautious step toward him. “I did not kill Monsieur Potter, and I have no idea who did. I took a walk around the grounds after the first task was over. I met your sister an hour ago when I happened to walk into this grove and then I came back to tell her about Potter. You can believe any of this or none of it, but it’s the truth.” He held his hands up and looked Remy straight in the eye.
Josephine stood between the two of them, completely at a loss for words. She believed Aleksandr, she honestly did. But she also knew that Remy had a tendency to be overprotective and”consequently”quick to distrust people. She placed a comforting hand on his arm. “Remy, he is telling the truth.”
Remy looked at them both for another minute, then grabbed Josephine’s hand and pulled her back to the palace. She knew it was best just to not fight it, but as he dragged her out of the clearing, she cast one fleeting look over her shoulder, where Aleksandr remained unmoving, staring back at her.
***
“Well, you can hardly blame him, Josie,” said Angeline after Josephine had recounted the tale of Remy pulling her out of the glade and away from Aleksandr. They were sitting in their bedroom in the Giriaume wing of the palace, isolated temporarily from the rest of the students.
“How can you say that? You do not know him at all, and neither does Remy!” exclaimed Josephine.
“And neither do you,” Angeline retorted. Josephine was silent. “Remy only acted in your best interests. The Durmstrang students have a bad reputation for a reason. Have you heard some of the rumors? It’s terribly dreadful, especially against Muggles. Given your situation with Pascal, I would expect you to be a little more careful!”
At the mention of Pascal’s name, Josephine was torn. She felt she hadn’t fully defended Aleksandr, but she had a confession to make to Angeline.
Her friend must have noticed her hesitation: “What’s the matter? Has something happened to Pascal?”
Josephine pursed her lips, honestly unsure how to answer the question. Nothing specific had happened, but she had perceived a notable shift in Pascal’s tone in his last letter. How could she put this in words and explain to Angeline?
“It’s… It’s nothing definite. He just seems… different, is all. This most recent letter is the shortest he has ever written, and he sounds so distant.”
“Maybe that is just his loneliness, or longing?” Angeline suggested hopefully.
Josephine sighed. She knew it would be difficult to explain. “No, it’s not that. I have felt that in his letters before. This one left me cold.”
Angeline looked and Josephine and there was worry in her eyes. “Do you think… Do you think he has fallen out of love with you?”
“I am not sure he was ever in love with me,” Josephine said, instantly surprised at her own remark. She had never allowed herself to say that before, but as the words came out of her mouth, she knew there was truth to them.
Angeline’s hand flew to her mouth in shock. “No. No, Josephine, that’s not true. You’re just upset over the events of the day. He loved you. He loves you still!”
Josephine shook her head. “No,” she said simply. “No, Angeline, the more I think of it, the more I am convinced he does not love me and I do not love him! There was a time when I thought myself to be in love with him, but that time is… gone.”
Angeline was beside herself, but Josephine felt more at ease than she had in months. She let out a little laugh. “I confess I am surprised that I have not realized it until now.”
“But…” Angeline stammered, still unwilling to accept the news. “But after spending so much time together, surely you have some sort of… regard for him? Affection?”
“Certainly there was affection between us. I enjoyed my time with him. But I think that affection was not borne of love, but rather… fascination. Yes, fascination. He was new, he was exciting,” she said, seeking to clarify both for herself and for Angeline. “He was different in every sense of the word. But as time passed and the situation with Muggles grew more dangerous and father began to disapprove, I just went along with it. I protested because I felt that I ought to fight for him, for us, but I do not think I ever believed that I truly felt that we should stay together.” She breathed a deep sigh of relief. It felt good to say it all out loud.
“I don’t understand!” Angeline said, despondent. Josephine knew her friend had always envied their relationship, perhaps even lived vicariously through it. She smiled at the fact that this revelation was hurting Angeline more than it was hurting her.
Josephine put her fingers to her lips and stared at the wall behind Angeline’s head. “When I saw Monsieur Bonaccord at the task today, it made me think of the Statute of Secrecy and the Paris negotiations. Then I read Pascal’s letter and began to feel that we were drifting irretrievably apart. And then I met Aleksandr, and I started thinking about the rumors coming out of the East and the terrible situation there between Muggles and wizards. And now it seems to me that all these things are signs, Angeline. They have to be!”
“Signs telling you what?”
“That the situation is much graver than we realize. It’s not just about a silly affair between a wizard girl and a Muggle boy. People’s lives are on the line!”
At this statement, however, she was reminded of an even harsher reality: George Potter was dead. She shook her head. “We should not talk about this now. It is neither the time nor the place. Tonight, we must mourn George Potter.”
Angeline nodded, but Josephine could tell she still had something to say: “May I at least read the letter?” she asked timidly.
Josephine smiled and went to remove it from the hidden pocket of her school robe, but it was not there. She had left it on the bench. With Aleksandr. “I left it on the bench,” she said, gathering her skirts and heading toward the door.
“Josephine, it is almost sunset. Wait until morning”it will still be there!”
Josephine had reached the door, but she turned back and looked at Angeline. True, the letter would be there in the morning. But would Aleksandr? She wanted to see him again, and something told her he would still be there. She didn’t say anything, merely smiled and ran out the door, leaving Angeline stunned on the bed.
***
He was still in the clearing, in almost the same spot she had left him an hour before. Try as she might, Josephine could not prevent the smile that crept across her face when she saw him. Again, she reminded herself of the impropriety of the situation, but again, she was delighted to see him smile back at her. “You waited?”
“I knew you would come back for your letter,” he said, holding it up in his hand. “I wanted to be here when you did.”
She felt her face crimson as she demurely held out her hand to receive the letter. She knew it was ridiculous to act so simple, but a part of her reasoned that if she kept things at this level, she would not feel guilty for disobeying Remy. There was no need to talk about the tournament, about Remy’s suspicions, or about George Potter. As far as Josephine was concerned”at least the part of her that was in charge for the moment”they could sit on the bench and not talk at all.
But Aleksandr had other plans. “Mademoiselle de Tuileries,” he began. She could not stop the frown that graced her face at his renewed use of her surname, and perhaps he noticed, for he continued: “Josephine. I feel like we did not start on the right foot earlier today. Certainly the circumstances were regrettable, and I understand if you would prefer not to be here. Your brother seems not to trust me, though I assure you there is no reason to fear. But he undoubtedly acts with your best interests at heart, and if you want to leave, please do so. If it pleases you, however, I would very much like to take a walk around the grounds. There are some things I was not able to say this morning, about Monsieur Potter and about the tournament. A brief walk, before the sun sets. Will you accompany me?”
Josephine was overwhelmed and impressed by the quality of his address. Her preconceived notions of Durmstrang students were proving to be false very quickly. He was polite, well-spoken, and courteous, not to mention fantastically handsome in a dark sort of way. And he’s a wizard, unlike Pascal.
At the same time, however, he raised some excellent points, namely that Remy would be less than pleased to know that she had returned to the clearing he had so recently dragged her out of.
She realized that she was taking an inordinately long time to respond to his request, so she decided to go with her first instinct: she nodded.
After all, what was the purpose of the Triwizard Tournament if not to meet students from other schools?
***
Faith.
George Potter was dead.
It had been hours since Charles Hurst had told William, hours since Professor Eldridge had sat him down and given any further details, and hours since William had been able to speak.
The sun was setting over the beautiful manicured gardens on the west side of the campus, and William watched it absentmindedly from his position on his bed, which he had occupied since noontime. It didn’t seem real to him. None of it did; not the sunset, not his bed, not the fact that he would never be able to speak to his best friend again.
He found he could only hold on to one thing: the desire to find out who did it, and make him regret it. Truly, deeply, and forever. William did not consider himself a generally passionate man, and was even vaguely aware that such a vendetta was completely against his natural character. At this moment in time, however, it was the only thing that felt right.
Something was haunting him, though, preventing the idea to really take hold. Something his father had said only two weeks before: “You should be Hogwarts Champion, not George Potter. You, William… Just tell me if you trust me to make it right.”
What had he meant? Surely, surely Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was not so obsessed with having William be champion that he would go to such lengths? That he would… murder George?
William shook his head. The very notion of it was preposterous, and he felt guilty for even allowing himself to entertain the idea.
Yet still…
There was a soft knock on the door, derailing William’s dangerous train of thought. He made no move to get up and open the door, and was not surprised to see it open and Remy walk through. “Hello, William,” he said, standing in the threshold.
William nodded and beckoned him to come in, which he did. “How are you?” Remy asked.
“Do they have any more details?” was William’s only response. His voice was raspy after hours of disuse, and it sounded strange and hollow in his ears.
Remy shook his head, and there was genuine sorrow etched in the lines of his face. “None. I heard that Kerensky was with a bunch of Beauxbatons people when it happened, but I’m still trying to figure out who.”
William nodded. Though Remy had only known George for a matter of days, he was very involved in helping William find out who did it, and together they had come up with a list of potential suspects”William’s father remaining off said list, for the time being. “What about Gregorovitch?” William asked.
Remy sighed and looked away. “I found him in a clearing by the lake. With my sister.”
William sat up in bed. “What?”
“Right. They were sitting together on the bench. A bit too close, if you ask me.”
“Did you ask him where he was when it happened?” The fact that Gregorovitch was alone with Josephine did nothing to strengthen his case. In William’s mind, that was suspicious behavior.
Remy seemed to agree. “He says he was walking the grounds when it happened, then he ‘stumbled’ into the clearing and ‘chanced’ upon my sister. It seems just a little too convenient, doesn’t it?”
William blinked and stared down at his hands. He hardly knew Gregorovitch at all, it was true, but he had always assumed him to be a good person. The Goblet of Fire had selected him, after all, and it was supposed to be a good judge of character. William considered the evidence against Gregorovitch, though: his own classmates had said some pretty damning things about him, there were those suspicious rumors about his brother, and he came from Durmstrang. Not to mention this new business with Remy’s sister. And not to mention that if Gregorovitch did it, my father didn’t.
“What do you think?” Remy’s voice jarred him back to reality.
William fished around for words. It was important not to sound to eager to go after Gregorovitch. That might arouse suspicion, and in turn lead to suspicion of his father. William furrowed his brow. “We have to keep your sister away from him regardless. To protect her.” Remy nodded in agreement. “Let’s just see what unfolds in the meantime.”
***
The meantime, William soon found out, was already chock-full of activity. At first, no one was sure exactly what to do. How long was it proper to mourn George? Should classes continue? Should the Durmstrang and Hogwarts students return to their own schools in the interim between the tasks? It seemed as if everyone’s fate was up in the air.
Eventually, the three Headmasters announced the course of action. All students currently at Beauxbatons would remain as scheduled. Classes would resume after two days of fixed mourning. The Yule Ball, a Triwizard tradition, would be postponed until some time in the New Year, if not canceled entirely. Finally, there would be a service honoring George Potter and a separate gathering to decide the replacement champion.
It was all a bit overwhelming, especially since William had still not come to terms with the death. The matter was not helped by the arrival of his father, unannounced as always.
William was sitting alone in one of Beauxbatons many interior courtyards, his cloak drawn against the bitter cold. It was two days since the murder, and Remy had just reported that he had seen Gregorovitch and Josephine together again, taking another walk around the grounds. William was more troubled by another sight: his father striding towards him across the cold, hard stone. Remy excused himself, and William desperately wished he could do the same.
Soon enough, however, Lord Warrington-Hughes was upon him, and”much to William’s surprise”he was smiling. “Well, is it you?” he asked his son.
William just stared at him, completely at a loss for words. The hollow feeling had not yet left him. “What do you mean?” he finally asked, hoping his confusion was not, as he feared, tinged with disgust at his father’s flagrantly inappropriate good mood.
“The next champion! Is it you?” The man was positively jovial.
William ceased to care if his disgust was apparent and he let it spread all over his face. “Are you serious?” he seethed, standing up to look his father in the eye. “Are you serious? George Potter, my best friend, is dead, and all you’re worried about is the bloody Triwizard Tournament?”
Jonathan looked momentarily affronted, but he rearranged his expression to one of mild displeasure, even annoyance. “William, it is on everyone’s minds. I have been in Paris these past two days gathering information from Pierre Bonaccord himself, and Henry Somerset has met with the Minister of Magic. Everyone is talking about the murder.”
“Right, father, the murder. Not who will succeed George as champion!” In a way, it was good to feel emotion again, though he knew that this might certainly get him into trouble.
“They have no suspects, you know,” Jonathan said, completely ignoring William’s remark.
William would have said something, but he was far too interested in the strange look in his father’s eyes. That look brought all his suspicions flying to the surface”he was no longer able to keep them in check. Was his father happy that there were no suspects? Was he relieved? Did that confirm that he was a suspect? “Just tell me if you trust me to make it right…” The words kept repeating themselves in William’s head, over and over and over again.
He shook his head and backed away from his father. “No,” he muttered under his breath. “No.”
“No, you’re not champion?” Jonathan asked, his eyes widening.
William ignored him. The time was upon him, the moment was now. Possessed of some unknown courage, he stared at his father and narrowed his eyes. “Did you have something to do with the murder?”
For the first time, Jonathan actually seemed to have heard him, but his answer was noncommittal: “What?”
“Did you,” William said slowly, anger simmering underneath every word, “have something to do with the murder?”
Jonathan’s eyes shifted and he glanced around him”was it frantically?”trying to see if there was anyone else in the courtyard. They were alone. Still he did not answer.
“Answer me!” William demanded. “Did you have something to do with George Potter’s murder?”
Finally, Jonathan responded. He pulled himself up to his full height and his words came in a blast of fury. “How dare you disrespect me like this, William!” he bellowed, shaking his head haughtily at his son. “And in public!” His face was a deeper shade of crimson than William had ever seen.
“We are not in public, father, and it is you who is disrespecting me by not answering!” William was yelling now, not caring at all whether others could hear him.
Jonathan’s chest was still puffed out and his face bore every sign of anger. For a moment, William was afraid his father might strike him. Then, inexplicably, the anger vanished, to be replaced by something else: shame. Disappointment. “You should not have to ask,” Jonathan said, and in an instant, he was gone.
William turned on the spot, searching in vain for his father. He had not even heard the crack of Apparition, but then again, sudden appearances”and disappearances”had always been his father’s specialty.
Shivering, William sat down again on the bench. He knew not if he shivered from the cold or the confrontation. “You should not have to ask.” What did that mean? His father had not confirmed his involvement in the murder, but neither had he denied it. The look on his face before he had Apparated… William already knew it would plague his every waking moment. It was a look layered with disbelief, shock, and disappointment. But had it also betrayed guilt?
The guilt suddenly fell upon William’s own shoulders as he came to full recognizance of what he had done. He had just accused his father of murder, or at least plotting to commit murder. He had completely and totally disregarded seventeen years of trusting his father’s every move, and for what? A rash claim with no support other than a cryptic inquiry.
William was ashamed that he had again doubted his father, but he could still not shake a peculiar feeling that Jonathan Warrington-Hughes was not telling him everything…
***
George Potter’s memorial service was very tastefully done. Beauxbatons had gone to great lengths to decorate the Haute Chambre in black and the whole affair was somber, but also inspiring. Thankfully for William, it was mercifully brief. He could not stand more than an hour of watching George’s parents and brothers sob silently next to him. It was all he could do to choke back his own tears when Mrs. Potter had embraced him at the end of the service.
Perhaps an even more somber occasion was upon the Hogwarts contingent now: choosing George’s replacement for the tournament.
Professor Eldridge had gathered the students together at the end of the service, and they sat now in the empty hall, still bedecked in black.
“I thank you, friends, for being here with me tonight,” Professor Eldridge began. “You know as well as I do that the circumstances of our gathering are far less than ideal, but our task remains: we must choose a new champion. Though George Potter was as good a choice as our fair Hogwarts ever could have wished for, the strict magical rules of the tournament necessitate the naming of a replacement. The Goblet of Fire will not ignite until the next tournament, so we will have to improvise.” He pulled out his wand and conjured one of Beauxbatons’ embossed crystal goblets. He smiled his now-usual grave, sad smile and placed the goblet on the small table in front of him. “Now, students,” he said, waving his wand once more, “you each have a scrap of parchment and a quill. Please write on that scrap of paper the name of the Hogwarts student you nominate to replace Mr. Potter. Each student will have the choice to accept or reject the nomination, of course, bearing in mind full well what it means to be Hogwarts Champion. After the nomination period we will vote by secret ballot.” He surveyed the room and nodded, indicating it was time to nominate.
William looked down at his own scrap. He did not want to nominate himself, for a variety of reasons. It was poor form, to be sure, but more importantly, he was not sure he actually wanted to be champion. He knew others were worried that the Hogwarts Champion would now be marked for death, but this concern was not paramount in William’s mind. No, the only thing William could think of was George. This was supposed to be George’s, his and his alone. Despite their playful rivalry, William had finally come to terms with letting George claim this victory. Now, if he were to be chosen replacement champion, it would be like stealing what rightfully belonged to George. It seemed mean-spirited.
He looked around, surveying the pool of nominees. Most of the boys were fidgeting nervously, perhaps wrangling with the same questions as William. Most of the girls were still teary-eyed from George’s memorial service. A few were still weeping. William sighed and scribbled Charles Hurst’s name on the paper. If it were not George and not he, Charles would be best. He walked forward and placed it in the goblet, eliciting another sad smile from Professor Eldridge. William did his best to return it, then retook his seat.
Moments later, all scraps had been turned in. Professor Eldridge reached into the goblet and withdrew the first slip. “Charles Hurst,” he read aloud. “Do you accept the nomination?”
Charles flushed, but his face remained grave. He shook his head. “Respectfully no, Professor.”
Eldridge was not upset. He merely nodded and withdrew the next piece of parchment. “William Warrington-Hughes,” he said, looking directly at William. “Do you accept the nomination?”
William swallowed. He suspected someone would nominate him, but had not properly formulated his answer yet. He opened his mouth to decline the nomination, but no words came. He cleared his throat and inexplicably found himself posing a question: “Perhaps, Professor, I might have some time to further consider the matter?”
The Professor nodded, though William could not suppress the look that must have passed over his own face. He had already considered the matter! There was nothing left to consider!
Professor Eldridge moved on to the next scrap. He smiled. “This one is also for you, Mr. Warrington-Hughes.”
William forced himself to smile, but the façade became harder to keep up as piece after piece of parchment bore his name. All of them, in fact. Except for William’s own nomination of Charles Hurst, not another soul had been nominated. All the eyes in the room eventually turned on him as Professor Eldridge withdrew the final scrap: “William Warrington-Hughes,” he read slowly. The eyes blinked in anticipation and William cleared his throat again.
“Well, Mr. Warrington-Hughes, I believe we must have a decision!” Professor Eldridge said in an attempt at humor.
William surveyed the room once more, taking in the faces of his expectant classmates. They had all chosen him to replace George. They all wanted him to be Hogwarts Champion.
Somewhere, deep inside, something stirred. Was it the flame of competitiveness that had slowly been extinguished after his name had not shot out of the Goblet of Fire? Was it the comforting warmth of the knowledge that his friends had not lost faith in his abilities, as he himself had?
No, it was none of these things. It was the feeling that George would be pleased with this outcome. George would want William to accept, to be champion. George’s own words floated back to William’s mind: “You know that cup had it down to the two of us…” And George Potter was never wrong.
William nodded, relieved to feel genuine happiness creep into his smile. “I accept.”
These Three Remain by LuthAn
Chapter Notes: Hello again! I know I promised a shorter chapter, but, well... I lied. The deadline is just bearing down on us, and the characters wouldn't shut up! Oh, well. :-)
Super-beta: greennotebook. Many, many thanks. Enjoy!