Viktor scowled as he ducked behind a large tree bordering the dark lake, which glimmered under the orange sunset. Somewhere far behind him, high heels clinked against rocks and sticks as the meddlesome reporter trotted down the path from the castle like a stubborn mule, calling out his name insistently. He hated being reduced to hiding and skulking around in the shadows. But if it was the difference between enduring another earful and finding some semblance of peace, he could take the hit to his pride.
Skeeter had been hounding him all day. If she wanted to ask about Quidditch or the Triwizard Tournament, that would have been fine. Ever since he first signed on to play professionally, he'd received training on how to strike a balance between stoking public curiosity and keeping team secrets – and between celebrating his achievements and appearing appropriately humbled. But all Skeeter didn't care about any of that. All she wanted was information about Hermione's friendship with Harry Potter.
Apparently, schoolyard gossip was what passed for breaking news here in Britain. In Bulgaria, a witch or wizard who suggested publishing such information, let alone plastering it across the front page, would have been laughed out of the newsroom. In all likelihood, they would not have been invited back.
Yet Viktor was stuck here for the next few months, and his publicist would be wrathful if he tarnished his reputation by pushing back on this too strongly. It wouldn't affect his ability to re-sign with his team, but it would affect their ability to attract and retain sponsorships.
That left him with only hasty excuses for shields and double-edged remarks for swords.
Between Skeeter's harassment and his horde of overzealous fans, peace was hard to come by.
I did not come here for a holiday, he reminded himself. I came here to learn.
And if the past few years of schooling had taught him anything, it was that studying was rarely peaceful.
'Are the Wrackspurts bothering you?' asked a light, airy voice, drifting in like a wisp on the wind.
Flinching, he drew his wand, but no one was there. Skeeter had walked straight past the tree, continuing down the dim path, and the grassy slopes leading up to the castle were rapidly emptying of the last few students.
'Why does nobody ever think to look up? Oh, well. I suppose it's one of life's little mysteries.'
Up? But the sky was clear – whoever she was, she wasn't on a broom.
He turned around, frowning, and slowly slid his gaze up the tree into the lush emerald leaves above. A blonde girl with large, protruding eyes stared back down at him, looking much like an oversized owl from her perch atop one of the sturdiest branches. She couldn't have been more than twelve or thirteen, if that. She smiled broadly as she waved down at him. 'It looked like you were hiding from someone. You're welcome to share my hiding place if you want to. It all gets too much sometimes, doesn't it?'
She was probably another rabid fan, trying to worm her way past his defences to get a few stories to take back to her friends. Given how badly Skeeter wanted an inside look at his love life, this girl would be able to get fame and galleons if she played her cards right.
Yet for some reason, he didn't think that was her motive at all. Her youthful guilelessness seemed too genuine to be fake. Besides, now the initial shock and confusion was fading, he found himself left with a pressing question that he couldn't imagine leaving without an answer to.
And even as he peered up, he heard the clipping of heels as Skeeter backtracked up the path, still searching for him. With a sigh, he placed his foot in a hollow in the trunk and, reaching up, hauled himself up into the boughs of the tree.
'So,' he said when he'd finally settled beside her, casting a Notice-Me-Not Charm over the area, 'what are Wrackspurts?'
A bright, delighted smile spread across her face as she began rattling off facts and theories tying together the mundane and the impossible. An hour later, after having thoroughly discussed a wide variety of British and Bulgarian magical creatures without having to field even a single question about himself, he walked her back to the castle. The girl – Luna, he'd learnt – insisted she could handle herself, but she'd also let slip that she was a third year, which meant she was utterly unprepared to deal with the kinds of monsters that lurked in the Forbidden Forest.
Then, he returned to the Durmstrang boat, all thoughts of Skeeter and schoolyard gossip long gone.