Viktor scowled and threw down the paper, stalking to the window of the team office as his coach sat in quiet contemplation and their PR agent flicked the paper further onto the desk.
"I did not do this!" he growled out, pressing a heavy calloused palm to the cool glass and trying not to feel like he was trapped in a fish bowl—everyone looking in and judging him, waiting for a show. He wanted the glass to be his shield instead, but he knew that was an idle hope.
Glass was too vulnerable, too pretty and clear and ...reflective.
He growled and spun back around to face his old mentors. "I…I!" Despite his studied proficiency in English, Viktor still couldn't give suitable voice to his outrage and hurt.
Coach Zukanov made a cutting motion with his hand, raising it back to his head afterward to massage away his headache. "Of course not! Ve're not saying you did." He heaved a sigh that raised his large shoulders.
Mr. Markovski sighed and rubbed his nose, his cultured accent rising, "To even think you'd raise a hand to a voman is …bah!" He waved both hands away from him nodding his head 'no' with a sour expression. "But that not change this," he tapped the newspaper, staring at it before flinging it off the desk into the waste bin.
Viktor mopped his hand down his face, licking his lips as he carefully checked his posture. It was his habit now, after his first love had told him he was handsome and shouldn't hide it. Whenever he realized he was defensively slouching he straightened his spine and tried to draw on some of her Gryffindor courage.
He'd need it for this.
For a renowned Quidditch star just reaching the age where most players entered the game, he was the investment of the lifetime. And yet this…harpy…had done her best to ruin his name and lower his professional foundation.
No more sponsors, no more female fans, no more accolades and guest appearances…no more donations for his charity.
Viktor swallowed and slowly sank to the hearthrug.
As he slouched, and didn't stop himself, he clawed his hands over his thighs—hoping the pain would draw him away from these spiraling thoughts. But it didn't, the hands only made him feel more like the beast the article had said he was.
…
It had been released in this morning's paper, and already his life was upside down. The casual greetings in his neighborhood were cold or absent, the enthusiastic fans that usually ran up to him snubbed him obviously, and the media hounds were clamoring without giving him any respect (respect he'd earned after years of politely insisting on some measure of decorum).
For Viktor, a young man who had never truly looked like a Prince and had to establish himself on his skill, this loss of recognition devastated him. Even if he'd never been handsome to the general populace he'd been quick and skilled—he'd been made to fly.
And now, because of some woman's lies, even his joy in flying was taken away from him.
Everyone he met or saw on the streets seemed to know he was a beast—as if he'd hidden it for years behind a handsome face and suddenly he'd terrified them. Viktor had thought he was safe from their shallow judgments; he was an able Quidditch player.
But now they saw much worse than an ugly man, they saw an ugly soul.
Being vilified for an untruth, and combined with something out of his control, broke him.
He'd taken pride in being skilled, in playing Quidditch, and he'd taken pride in never intending someone pain. His majka told him he had a gentle soul, and he'd tried to live up to that assessment.
Now he was nothing but a beast—even if Hermione, sweet and warm, somehow managed to find him again (like she did in his dreams) he was sure that she'd see what everyone else did.
And Viktor broke.
…
He had met Bisera at an after-team meet. She wasn't one of the groupies who hung around after in hopes of a lay but she was there with the reporters, an up and coming journalist ready to make her mark.
She'd reminded him of Hermione a little. They looked nothing alike of course, she was all prim and manicured—the ideal held closest to Britain (the hub of the wizarding world)—and Hermione was all wild and untamed, a very physical representation of her magic and spirit.
But Bisera had known what she wanted in the world, and she was setting out to get it. That initiative was what had reminded him of the muggle-born woman who'd been doing her damndest to find her way and take a stand.
Their relationship was rather quick, but it had only taken that short amount of time for the witch the sink her claws into him and plan out her future.
It just so happened that Viktor unknowingly wrecked her plans.
His refusal to take the relationship a step further—as he was raised a gentleman by his majka, and his papa had reinforced these ideas with his treatment of his wife—had incensed the witch. But he'd been adamant, he'd not live with her until she had a ring on her finger—and that wasn't happening anytime soon. She'd retaliated as quickly as possible while her plans crumpled around her.
He was suddenly slipped into more media coverage, more leaks and quotes being skewed and misinterpreted.
It had culminated in a confrontation with Bisera when she'd interrupted a family dinner. Her treatment of his majka would not do, and he'd stood up to her only for the next article to label him a beast.
Apparently he was angry and bitter, emotionally and verbally abusive, and he used her for her connections to the media.
Viktor snarled at the recollection of the fallout.
His floo activated, and he turned to the green flames with a glower that would have scared the beasts of Hell. He'd had too many press conferences and offers, but no attempt to get his side of the story out or clear his name had worked. He was tired of it all and wanted his floo to stay closed. A darker expression would greet whoever suggested another attempt—and attempt it would be because the public was too enamored with this tragic fairytale they'd been fed.
Mr. Markovski only grinned and dusted himself off, taking great care especially with his beard (though he left a little ash in his hair).
Viktor relaxed at his old mentor's presence.
"I've the idea!" the gentleman exclaimed.
Viktor stared at the man—he was not used to seeing the prim Mr. Markovski in any sort of disarray, and here the man was uncombed and, despite dusting himself off, no other care seemed to be taken for his appearance.
Viktor turned and sat back in his chair, his hand falling back on the tumbler beside it. "It's useless," he grumbled as he took a drink, his head falling back onto the chair as he took exaggerated care setting the glass back down.
"Bah!" Mr. Markovski shouted, "It is never useless."
Viktor stood up angrily, cutting off the man. "It is! I am nothing but a monster!"
Mr. Markovski quieted, staring at him over his silver spectacles before sighing and losing most of his exuberant posture.
Viktor's nostrils flared at this perceived defeat—even a most trusted colleague saw the monster. He knew it. The monster that had slipped right under their noses in some macabre Grimm's fairytale only to startle them when all the truth was revealed.
Well, what passed for the truth in this case.
Viktor sighed and deflated, falling back into his chair.
Mr. Markovski cleared his throat and quietly made his way to kneel in front of him. Viktor stared morosely into his dark kind eyes, watching them crinkle slightly in a sympathetic smile. The man put a hand on his shoulder, squeezing to get his attention.
"Viktor, this is not true." The man sighed and shifted his weight. "I remember meeting a surly youth, still in school but so talented the world had to take notice. He was awkward and gangly, unsure of himself in this man's world." Viktor cut his eyes away. Mr. Markovski reached and turned his chin back to face him. "But that boy was no monster, he had a love of the game and a seeker's heart. He'd play for hours in the mud until everyone else had gotten practice and he could get serious. He'd be found on the pitch hours before practice, and hours after. He'd watch other players in his position to see if he could improve, he talked to his teammates to ask about their workouts and their opinions on his practice. This young man did everything he could to be the best he could be. And he was."
Viktor stared silently back, his eyes burning because he didn't feel like the best right now. He was too hurt and too angry to feel anything more than those emotions.
Mr. Markovski shook his head. "And then one time when the world was turning against a young woman, he rose up in her defense against his friends. He told them of how polite she was to him, of how she treated him like a person. He didn't know it, but even in those early conversations he loved her. A monster cannot fall in love with so wonderful a woman."
Viktor blushed heavily and closed his eyes.
"And, a wonderful woman can not truly fall in love with a monster." Viktor's eyes snapped open to meet Mr. Markovski's beaming smile. "It was obvious with the way she took pride in being on his arm, the way she encouraged him to stand up tall and told him she thought he was the most gentle man she'd ever met."
Viktor swallowed a hard lump and croaked out, "That didn't work out, they didn't love each other enough—he was scared to lose her."
Mr. Markovski smile gentled. "So the young man proved human enough, and grew jealous. That didn't make their love any less. It just meant that it was treasured, but not understood. Perhaps the young man would have found the young woman just as scared of the great thing they were a part of."
"So the beast scares away his intended, while being scared himself."
"Viktor," Mr. Markovski said firmly, his face falling into solemn lines. "You were both young, and finding love like that is startling at any age. I think you can be forgiven. What I am saying is that you are nothing like the beast Bisera called you—this Hermione that you fell in love with knew there was something more to you. Isn't it you who says she told you to take pride in yourself? Told you that you were more than a skilled seeker?"
Viktor swallowed and slumped in his chair. "Yes, she told me all this."
Mr. Markovski smiled now, "Then believe her. And show the rest of them how much that wonderful woman was right."
Viktor stared straight into the forthright gaze of Mr. Markovski, cautiously willing. "What was this idea?" he spoke heavily.
Mr. Markovski grinned and clapped his hands together, rubbing them in that scheming way he exaggerated. Viktor cracked a smile.
"We are going to host a ball!"
"What?" Viktor exclaimed; his hands suddenly tense on the armrests.
"A simple Masked Ball, where we remind everyone that all are animals. And maybe this way we can catch Bisera—a fatal confidence due to a masked identity. It would be the perfect way to turn the tables on her. Maybe a confession for the media hounds she calls friends?"
Viktor swallowed and shook his head heavily, giving his reluctant assent because a small part of him was enamored with the idea of a ball so like the one he'd taken his lioness to, a magical gala where dreams and fairytales existed for a point in time.
Mr. Markovski smiled at him and clapped his shoulder, rising from his crouch to straighten his clothes.
Viktor watched the man put himself back together until he did not resemble the mad man that had stumbled in with a crazy idea.
He watched his friend leave and his hope started to wane—a Ball indeed, what a classic rendition of Beauty and the Beast. Only, this time, Beauty had already discovered and revealed the monster in the castle.
There was no hope for him.
….
He was removed from team practice until they either had enough votes from the board to retire him or the mess Bisera had caused cleared over. A secret part of Viktor hoped that the third option—where Bisera was exposed and his reputation fully restored—was viable.
But he knew it was impossible.
He cursed under his breath (in English so his majka didn't catch him) and made his way to the back yard with his broom over his shoulder. Even if they were taking away his team they could never take away his flying.
He mounted the broom and abruptly shot straight into the air, not taking his time to adjust his senses but immediately seeking the sanctuary he'd found with the eagles and falcons.
Once suitably high enough—his house was a mere speck on the frosted morning ground—he stopped and simply hovered, crossing his ankles under his broom and resting his hands on his knees.
Viktor took deep breaths, his eyes unseeing of the splendor below him as he drifted in thought.
Mr. Markovski and Coach had both arranged it so the invitations were sent out for a mask ball, supposedly hosted by the entire Bulgarian Quidditch league; a celebration of another complete season holding their own against each other (Bulgaria was one of the few places in the world where their regional teams all maintained similar standards). This was the perfect opportunity for Bisera to emerge into public after a suitable time of 'mourning' for their failed relationship and his 'brutish' behavior.
It was also an opportunity for the woman, like Bisera in nature, to gossip. This made the Mask Ball the place for the three men to uncover Bisera as the witch she was, and hopefully clear Viktor's name. It was an opportunity for her to brag, to boast about how she'd brought Vitkor, who was once so powerful in the media, down.
That power was why she'd originally sought him out—she'd wanted an in to the world of the media that Viktor had. Now she believed she had it—she had the ears of every newspaper, and offers for independent work and even columns. All of this came in the wake of her lies.
He was slightly uneasy about how everything would turn out, but Mr. Markovski had revealed himself to be a devious man. If the gossiping hens weren't enough, he'd casually mentioned legal involvement regarding libel and slander—Viktor was beyond caring by now though. Listening to the old man plan and going through his regular life with all the negative publicity had broken his hopes.
Even if they did resort to Verisaterum in a legal investigation Viktor would always know that the public doubted.
Still, his friends were trying hard, and he wouldn't stop them.
In any case, Mr. Markovski and Coach had created many back up plans—any one of them could create a niggling of change at the Ball with all the various and eager reporters searching for the most unique story.
There was no other place in Bulgaria to brush coattails with so many big names after all.
A hard swallow hurt his throat—yes, these people who cared for him were doing everything to clear his name, but he feared it would never be enough. Not only had Bisera damaged public perception of him, she'd damaged his perception of himself.
He doubted all the plans his friends had made, and worse he doubted they'd matter if they did succeed.
It was like being that gangly teenaged who'd hated himself.
…
His majka was excited, fluttering about the house and getting everything ready for the night of the ball. She was clamoring about, pressing their costumes and double-checking their masks.
She so wanted to be a part of this ball that Viktor couldn't disappoint her with his heavy thoughts. Though it was a masquerade, he was still leery of the public. As much as Mr. Markovski assured him this would remind them that he was just like them, Viktor just knew it could all fall apart.
He didn't want another ball taking place in his memories, didn't want anything competing with having his princess on his arms while they danced and laughed.
It seemed, having experienced Bisera, he was clinging even harder to the idea of Hermione. He knew, in some way, that it could be dangerous to do so. But he missed the young woman he had discovered amidst dusty tomes and towering stacks.
He wished she were at this ball with him. He half-dreamed she would surprise him like that.
He knew it was fruitless wishing so, as his life seemed nothing like a fairytale set for happy endings, but Mr. Markovski had stirred his dreams again. If only they'd become reality.
With his majka puttering about and his papa humoring her he saw no out, no fruition of his hopes or first love.
Besides, he'd lost Hermione long ago. When he'd been a jealous fool who didn't really trust her though he'd defended her to everyone else.
He swallowed, painfully remembering their last conversation. She'd wanted to be friends; had been wary of his jealousy and weary of his questions.
Viktor needed that as a reminder that—amidst the beautiful costumes his mother insisted on and the potential of the masks—he was still a monster.
It was only made all the more ironic by the fact that his majka had run with the pun—she'd retrieved a mask of a ferocious lion for him, following the older interpretations of the tale.
For the ball, he was playing The Beast.
