Chapter 8
As I was escorted by the reporter to a more private room, I couldn't tell what raced faster, my heart or my thoughts. I needed a strategy for the interview so as to not look like an absolute fool, but couldn't decide what to go with. Naturally, I imagined I came off as stand-offish, which would not endear me to the public. I could try to pull of the whole 'innocent maiden' look they might expect of the sole female competitor, but imagining the incredulous expression on Damon's face if he ever heard about me batting my eyelashes sweetly behind a fan like a proper lady was enough to stop any further consideration. I'd never live it down, short of obliviation.
The amused smile fell from my lips when I remembered that I wasn't talking to him at the moment, and if we didn't make up soon I was going to have to go through the competition completely alone, without him or anyone else. The mere thought nearly had me scurrying back to Altair to accept his offer of help, if only to rid myself of this dull ache of loneliness taking root in my chest, but I reminded myself that I'd find better companionship in a pair of slippers.
"In here, miss," Mr. Interviewer ordered, holding the door ajar.
I nodded, stepping into a cozy looking lounge area, one far too comfortable to be intended for the students. Frey, the Durmstrang Champion, lounged sideways upon a overstuffed crimson chair, looking more like a model for a painting than any mortal man had any right to. His white-blonde hair carelessly framed his face, a calculated mess, nearly as calculating as his eyes. I caught his gaze, and the cunning look disappeared, to be replaced by a disarming smile that disguised the fact that he contained anything besides hot air within his skull at all.
"What a relief, you still live!" he exclaimed cheerfully, swinging his legs around into a proper sitting position. "I worried the surly boy from earlier was dragging you away to kill you. You looked like you might faint as he pulled you from the Hall."
Despite the dark connotations of his words, the grin stayed ever present on his face. His cheer was contagious, and I soon felt the corners of my mouth twitching up at the mention of Cyrus being called "surly." That was certainly one word to describe him.
"I did not look like I was going to faint, first of all. Second, You thought he might kill me and you still let me go?"
"We will start with the lady,"
The interviewer interrupted, pulling me by the arm to a chair opposite him.
I grit my teeth. I was getting sick and tired of men pulling me around like a disobedient dog.
"What lady?" questioned a cold voice by the mantle that I was beginning to know all too well.
Deep breathes. Don't cause a scene in front of reporters.
I forced a serene smile, hoping it didn't border on murderous.
Kill 'em with kindness, I thought, a little disappointed. Not as good as actually killing him, but I'll survive.
"He's entirely correct, sir," I murmured shyly, fluttering my lashes in a way that would make Damon die of laughter. "I hold no title, and am, therefore, not a lady. You should let the esteemed gentlemen in the corner go first."
"Oh, never mind him," the interviewer said dismissively, as though he thought The Beauxbaton's Champion beneath him. Condescension dripped from his words. "He will go last for his rudeness."
This time, my smile was real and vicious, especially when I felt the energy of Nikolas's glare searing into the back of my head.
"Let's begin. I am Mister Perkins, you will refer to me as such," he introduced, shuffling papers and making a quill materialise out of thin air with his wand. "State your full name for the record."
"Er... Alice," I said uncertainly, watching in wonder as the disembodied quill flew across the page without direction. "Alice Lovett."
No way in hell I was giving my middle name. That would end in disaster when it finally got published for specific parties to see.
Oblivious to my distraction, Mr. Perkins plowed straight on.
"And why did you enter the competition?"
The truth wasn't believable, so I grasped upon the simplest lie I could conjure.
"I... er.... always dreamed of being the champion, I suppose."
Nightmares technically counted as dreams.
"And it has nothing to do with the prize money?" he pressed, searching my expression. What he was hoping to find, I couldn't be sure.
"If you're asking whether I entered the competition to win a few galleons, then I can assure you that's entirely not true." There. That wasn't a lie.
"I see," he mused, raking his eyes up and down my form, looking unsettlingly smug. "But it is true that you live in a muggle orphanage, and that money would be of great benefit to you."
"How did you know-"
"And what about your family?" he cut in, the quill beside him speeding up upon its page. "Why didn't they take you in?"
"I-I have no family, sir," I said, swallowing hard. I had a feeling I knew where this was going and I needed to find an escape route.
"Oh, we both know that's not true," he chided, triumphant smile pulled at the corners of his lips.
It occurred to me then that he knew. My dirty secret — or one of them, at least. I wasn't sure how, but he did, and he wasn't going to let me back out easily.
"You're right, of course," I confirmed, trying and failing to smile back at him. "I have a younger brother."
"Yes, how could I forget about young..." he scanned through his notes, "Thomas. What about your other relatives? You were raised on a muggle orphanage and claim to be muggle born, but you realise how rare it is for two children born of muggles to both have magic, correct?"
Spotting my growing discomfort, Nikolas stepped forward out of the shadows to better listen in.
"It's not as though it's unheard of," I countered, digging my fingers into the arms of my chair to stop myself from fleeing.
Mr. Perkins leaned forward, placing his elbows over his knees and clasping his hands together. Tilting his head to the side, like a bird of prey, he changed tact.
"I'm certain you have heard of Septimus Malfoy, Miss Lovett." Though it could be phrased like it could be a question, I knew it wasn't.
"I have heard the rumours, just like everyone else," I answered, selecting my words with great care.
"I just realised," Perkins said in a flat, unaffected way that implied whatever he had realised wasn't a recent discovery at all, "you look an awful lot like the late Mr. Malfoy."
"How peculiar," I ground out.
"Your hair, your eyes, the resemblance is truly uncanny." His muddy brown eyes pierced into me, sparking with knowledge he shouldn't know. I looked away. "Not to mention the fact that when he disappeared from the wizarding community, it was right before you were born. Seventeen years ago. Quite the coincidence, don't you think?"
"You said it yourself. It's quite a coincidence," I said a beat too quickly.
"What do you think the prestigious Malfoy family would say if they learned that the former head of their pure-blooded family ran off with a muggle, and a poor one at that?"
"No doubt they would be enraged, if it were true," I stressed, jumping to my feet. "Good thing it isn't."
"This interview isn't over," Perkins stated, raising a single, thick brow.
"I'm not what sure you're playing at with those questions, but yes," I swung open the door to leave, "it is."
The hinges rattled as it slammed shut behind me. Oh, I was so screwed.