Mareth Ealair

"Be kind to strangers; you never know what kind of day they've had."

Mareth Ealair trusted his mother.

She was a frail woman with wispy gray hair and the eyes of crinkled paper. Her words were like silk itself, and the nurturing he experienced was wickedly strict- not in a cruel way, but she had too many symptoms of anxiety to be relaxed as his parent; she worried. So, when Mareth was to be interviewed for a trip away from the country, she was furious, reaching the limits of flame, shoring every attempt at hijacking and ruining his interview. Mareth was not aware of his mother's inner turmoil, so he stepped up to a wooden door and pushed it open with no second thought.

The classroom he was walking to belonged to Professor Glance, a woman just as frantic as Mareth's mother. She taught the grand ideals of Divination, a class of superstitious witches and wizards that believed in predicting the future. Yeah, Mareth thought, Like that exists.

He chose to forget the world he lived in was full of things that didn't exist.

With his mother in mind, Mareth sucked in a breath, eyes wide with the anticipation of what was to come. He didn't know whether to be calm or crazy when it came to Glance; sometimes, she was sweet and adoring. And once, she had entered his nightmares...

He did not knock; it was in his nature to be precarious and respectful, but Professor Glance likely knew he was coming. He had taken the class and been in the room so many times before, but it was different that day- he was different that day. The expedition was limited and he was a factor, a multiple that desired the adventure. Glance always said I was a wild one. I never knew what she meant.

When Mareth entered the room, the professor was propped on a stool, spinning round and round, next to a sultry desk. Twirling her fingers, eyes closed, she was a strange sight. It was easy to tell that she was aware of Mareth's physicality, yet she ignored it as her thoughts dominated the atmosphere. Mareth shivered; the Divination room was a cold place. It was half the reason he loved it.

However, when Glance finally snapped out of the spin and locked eyes with Mareth, familiarity was not there. She did not know who he was; she was oblivious to the world and what it meant; amnesia? Irises of quiet mist and skin of murky fog superimposed her face and Mareth grimaced. He cared more of the interview than the professor- was that wrong of him?

He believed so.

"Professor Glance?" he asked, genuine care lacing his tongue. As soon as he spoke, she stood to face him; her eyes remained as wide as possible, as if the openness leaked vulnerability from her to him, as if staring was a sign that he was no stranger. That he was a friend, and no foe.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

She asked her questions with a certain tone, one of sadness, one of fright. He expected to come and endure an hour of scalding questions, asked by a teacher he admired and liked. However, as her movements were striking with psychosis, he knew something else would occur.

To Glance, Mareth was a stranger.

To Mareth, the woman was a stranger just the same; she was a harrowing catalyst to what he wanted and needed. A life.

"Be kind to strangers..."

"Are you okay?

Glance did not respond. It was clear to say she was hurting, and the mental pain was worse than aching time. Her eyes were distorted. Her hair was dazzled with the ends of wildlife, and her four limbs resembled several more as she flailed about. Mimicking a quiver, a quail, a wicked shake, Glance's head whipped after a moment of realizing the boy's question. Her answer was a reflection of the stated clarity- she was not okay. Mareth walked to her and helped her sit, gathering a glass of water from the nearest sink and letting it cool before handing it to her.

"...you never know what kind of day they've had."

Glance had often gone through times of forgetting herself. Mareth assumed that it was the case prior the interview, and he helped her with the aid of a friend. He was also a stranger; only the most foreign of students interacted with such vigor of caution, especially with whom Mareth thought of as the professor of imagination. And imagination was unpredictable; Glance was a mirror of that.

"I'm here for an interview," Mareth stated simply, stiffening his arms and tightening his lips to a slight smile. Kindness was a virtue to the boy, and vices were worse than death. "To the City of Gold," he continued, "I'd like to go."

Glance nodded slowly, deliberately, processing the thoughts for the detection of lies, of truth. It was like crime had instilled its connotations into Mareth; she watched his breath and chest fall up and down and through and through- thinking- processing- believing.

Her nod quickened and then stopped. "I believe so," she said, "Sit down." Ironically, after ordering the boy to sit, she stood, towering over him without authority.

He obeyed without suppression, keeping his shoulders level as he took a seat in a nearby chair. Glance fell back into the stool, mouth twisting down as if the thing was uncomfortable. It was a school; education's dollars were rarely spent on commodities. Mareth was not an advocate against it, for he believed the best was reserved for those with bad intentions, an oxymoron of irony, a twisted sense of reality that only affected the blonde boy, the stranger. Mareth Ealair was a stranger to himself, truly, and his mother was the most aware of the fact; she wanted him within the country because the closeness was topical. Europe was home; where else would her son discover his identity?

The pause in the room lessened in stress. Glance shifted in the stool and made several small noises- a cough, sneeze, or scratch on rough skin. He awaited the first question like the ticking of an explosion, her syllables and voice the shrapnel and the fire. Then, he'd answer with a tale of a truth; either way, his words would rely heavily on extravagance. If Glance was to ask of his family, friends, or self, he'd lie and create someone false to speak about. If she were to ponder or idealize his traits and words, he'd divert the road to a more obscure place; Mareth would not let her see into his life.

"Who are you?"

Mareth was not expecting question so vague and so easy.

"Mareth Ealair," he said, "Of Ravenclaw." The answer was feeble, yet an entity of strength that the aquamarine boy knew well. Somehow, confidence displayed heavily without gaining the permission to do do; he appeared egotistical and like he frowned upon the lesser. It was not true.

Then, Glance dimmed to a lower energy level, mouth twitching with the scratch and itch of the following question. It was like she had asked it already; and, as Mareth cam to realize, she had asked it before. Her face dulled and restored itself, back to the Professor Glance he wanted to see and hear. She returned to the Divination professor that conducted the interviews of grand scale; her lips even softened with the balm of knowing herself. Memory relived; the past became past and the future became future. The present remained a cage, a fraction of the universe. At least, how Mareth thought of it.

She sighed; she knew what had happened. Then, she glanced at the glass of water in her hands, features expressing something Mareth could not place. It was a twist of things- adoration, shock, and appreciation.

"What do you want?" she asked, less hostile and psychotic than the previous time. It shook the roots of his core and made the walls of Mareth question their foundation. He was at a loss for words. There was no found. So, for the first time, he answered truthfully.

"I do not know."

Professor Glance smiled.

"Good," she murmured. "No one ever does."

Mareth and Glance's conversation only shallowed from there, but uselessness griped at the words being tossed back and forth. Glance had already decided; Mareth was unlike anyone else.

He was indescribable. Like the futures she witnessed time and time again, Mareth was as unexpected as a jaunt lightening strike, as the smoke of a candle relighting out of thin air. Mareth Ealair was a sole identity that could never be recreated. Her decision was a beacon away from home, and the City of Gold became a mark on the boy's transcript, a memory for him to endure.

Mareth trusted his mother; Mareth mistrusted himself.

I do not know.

Good, no one ever does. 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Marielle Appleton

"I really don't think that Professor Magleby likes me. Everytime I raise my hand to comment I recieve a glare from him until it goes down." Marielle's friend had been talking ninty words a second since they had left their potions class. Currently, they were climbing up the long, winding staircase that lead out of the dank, musty dungeons.

"Well maybe there is someone behind you who he is looking at."

"That's what I thought!" Layla exclaimed, ever so cheerful with everything that exited her mouth. "So I looked behind me, but no one ever sits there!"

Mari sighed, giving up on listening as her friend continued ranting. Instead her mind wandered to other things. Mari was known for her strong intuition, and the strong premonition she was feeling now worried her.

She was so engrossef in her thouggts that she nearly ran into the cloaked figure who had stepped directly in front of her. She was saved from the collision only through Layla throwing her arm out to stop her.

"Madame Moffit! I apologize for my friend here, she wasn't looking where she was going."

"Sorry professor."

The glare that reached Professor Moffit's eyes was unwavering. She crossed her arms in front of her, and despite her already unmatched height, her glowering gaze made her appear even taller.

"Miss Appleton, do watch where you are going. We already have enough stargazers running around here, we don't need to add you to the list!" Her voice was as sharp as her eyes were icy.

"Yes ma'am." Mari adverted her eyes. She was not wanting to be lectured about something she had not done.

"See yourself to the headmistress's office immediately!"

At this Mari's eyes widened with fear. She attempted to protest before being shoved in the direction of the office.

The walk of shame to there was agonizing. Marielle's eyes threatened to water over. She was so close to finishing her education and she couldn't be in trouble again. Not that she was a trouble maker in the first place. She just had a knack for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. And then getting blamed for whatever had occured at the moment.

She had just reached the main floor when she nearly ran into yet another person. Except this time it was the headmaster.

"I am so sorry! I did not see you Professor Dannel."

"It's quite alright, my dear. Please relax." The headmistress gave her a smile, hoping to relieve some of her nerves. "But I do need you to come with me. Someone is here to see you."

Mari turned on her heels and followed the headmistress up a flight of stairs in the grand staircase. A thousand questions whirled through her mind about what the heck was happening but she kept silent, mostly because she was grateful she was not being punished for something.

***

The room she was lead to was small, and inside was only one person. As soon as she had sat down at the long table, Headmistress Dannel had exited. So Mari glanced at the figure and swallowed, unsure of what she was suppose to do. The room was bare save for one line wizard.

The man before her was probably no older then forty and his green eyes glowed in the dark like a cat.

"Caught stealing potions from the lab." The man's voice was deep and gravelly, almost like the rumbling of thunder. A German accent was only slightly detected when he spoke. "Set off an explosion in the Gryffindor tower. Freed a house elf. Broke into the restricted section of a library. Set fire to one of the the ghost's portraits. You sound to be a bit reckless, a bit unmanageable." He shuffled the papers in front of him.

"Actually, sir, if I may interrupt. I never actually did any of those things. In fact, I was framed."

"Framed? Why?" The man leaned forward in his seat, his eyes boring into hers.

"How should I know? I just have the bad luck of being in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Including being in the restricted section of the library?"

"If the teacher who found me there actually bothered to cgeck the records, they would see that I did have permission to be there. I was working on research for my Defense Against the Dark Arts class."

The man raised an eyebrow and made a knight. His whole persona radiated power and Marielle wondered if the premonition she was feeling earlier was meeting with him. He seemed to be someone else to fear.

"They say you are especially good at working with animals. Is that true?" His voice sounded cold and emotionless.

"I like to think so. My parents run a small farm."

"You're a mud-blood then?"

Marielle sucked in air. She hated being called a mud-blood more then she hated Professor Moffitt. But something warned her not to cross the looming presence in front of her.

"Yes sir," she responded through gritted teeth. "May I ask what this is about?"

"You may not, but if you must know, I am here about the research assignment you applied for. Consider this the final audition."

Mari's heart beat fast at the thought of going on the expedition, she always yearned for adventure and doing this would give her a chance.

"I'm not sure that taking a wild card such as yourself on the trip would be wise."

"With all due respect sir, I was not guilty of any of those things you listed just now. My luck is just terrible."

He nodded, jotting down a few notes with his quill before asking her another question. "Imagine we were in the middle of our project when a dark wizard attacked, and things looked grim. The only way to save us is if one student sacrificed themselves. Imagine you are there. What would you do?"

Without hesitation Mari responded. "I would give my life for anyone, that's the right thing to do."

The man nodded and stood up. Gathering his papers and tucking them under his arm he spoke one last time. "I don't know if you're brave or just plain stupid." And with that he left, the door clattering shut behind him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Elspeth Anne Ladds

The way I see it, everything has three rules.

Three simple, solid rules that cover all the bases. No questions, no concerns, no number to call for comments, just three rules.

Like for getting good marks: one, pay enough attention to take notes on important things; two, have a friend who pays enough attention to take notes on everything because they're an overachiever; three, always say "Good morning, Professor," when you walk in.

I got seven OWLs last year thanks to those and Jemima's excruciatingly detailed notes in everything, though she got nine Os and I got the grand total of zero. My Es and As were more than I was expecting, though.

I have three rules for most everything I've come across. Making friends (smile, don't talk about yourself too much, and make them laugh at least once), playing tricks (confuse instead of abuse, have an alibi, and make sure it's not too lengthy or you'll get bored), even watching Quidditch games (the trick is to not cheer too loud or Grace's boyfriend will think you're cheering for her and get irrationally jealous).

With all these rules, it's a miracle I break so many, but those are general, not personal. I have my own set of rules to follow, so it's hard for me to sit quietly outside Professor Dannel's office. My feet tap quietly, nervously, and I could swear that the gargoyle who sits outside the office is shooting me glares. I'm not used to waiting - normally, if I'm sent to an office, the professor assumes I'm there for some infraction, and the student averaging Troll in Potions can wait (though I've been that student, and it's so annoying to be pushed aside for some prankster).

Now, though, it's the last step of something that would mean I never had to take my NEWTs, never had to prove I could graduate or get a job working in some back-alley joke shop, which is really the only thing that sounds fun. My mother had forced me to take a summer job two years ago, and believe it or not, reading aloud to Mrs. Lovett every day for five weeks wasn't my idea of a good time.

A soft rumbling begins, one I'd first heard after the Astronomy Tower Tree Debacle of fourth year (though, really, it made it easier to do Astronomy when there was a tree-shaped hole in the ceiling, right?), and the wall slowly turns to reveal a spiraling staircase, spinning gracefully to allow Professor Dannel, her violet robes perfectly pressed as always, to send me a thin smile.

"Ready, Elspeth?"

"Yes, ma'am."

Rule 1 for getting to go on a dream adventure: Be polite.

"Follow me. I trust you remember the way?"

"Very well, I'm afraid. It's only been six months."

Our soft footsteps echo for a second before she responds. "Ah. Yes. I'd forgotten the marmalade incident."

I start speaking before I think. "Actually, uh, it's commonly called the Marmalade Mishap in student conversations. It's, uh, been heard. Frequently."

"You do enjoy your alliterative names, don't you, Miss Ladds?"

"Sometimes."

We reach the top, where Professor Dannel holds the door for me. I step into the office, as neat as always, the shelves dust-free and perfectly organized. I do often think about how satisfying it could be to mess them up, provided it can be easily fixed, but the gargoyle is a issue, and the ever-looming possibility of expulsion. Professor Dannel doesn't seem the type to enjoy a harmless prank - she never has in the past, even the Porch Swing Escapade (probably because she had to lead the Porch Swing Inquiry, which I call a record for the closest I've ever come to expulsion).

"Ready, Miss Ladds, or are you still admiring the paintings?"

"Sorry, Miss. I'm ready."

Rule 2 for getting to go on your dream adventure: Answer well (read: white lies and tactful rephrasing)

"So, Miss Ladds, what makes you feel like you are qualified for this expedition?" Professor Dannel positions herself behind her desk, and I take the smaller seat, suddenly feeling tiny. Still, I keep a smile on my face and sit up straight (it makes you look more confident) (which has its own rules). I've done job interviews before, and this can't be much different.

Summer job in a bookstore is easily comparable to a life-changing quest, right?

Regardless, the rules are the same.

"Well, I've achieved OWLs in seven subjects, and the ones which I didn't do as well on I'm sure won't be a lot of help in the field, because really, the Castelobruxo students are going to smoke us all in Herbology anyways, so why bother? And History of Magic can be kept in textbooks. I know the practical things, the field things; if you'll recall, I got an E in Charms and Transfiguration both and an A in Potions, which really exceeded everyone's expectations, I think."

"Your humor, while impeccable, is not very appropriate at the moment, Miss Ladds. You have a record of misdemeanors and disregard for authority; not two characteristics you want on a very dangerous expedition."

I hesitate - the question I've been hoping to avoid. "I know I've made some mistakes and broken a few rules in the past-"

"Many."

"Many rules in the past, but the way I see it, Miss, I'm creative. And resourceful, and I know my way around things like booby-traps or broken corridors or that bloody yarn game Katie is always setting up in the common room. I can find a way out of problems and find solutions to things that other people couldn't, and I'm not likely to be deterred by threats or curses. I know it sounds fake, but I think I could be valuable, if only for my comic relief. I may not push myself in class, but I'm not passionate or excited about the goblin wars or what plants can kill you. I'm passionate about being myself, and I'm excited to find the Lost City. It's the only thing I've actually been this excited about in a long time, Professor."

There's a long silence, a silence where I review the three rules and worry. Have they let me down? My rule of threes has kept me out of trouble and in school and passing classes, but three may not be enough for this.

The way I see it, everything has three rules that make it work.

Now, though, I decide I don't have any rules for waiting.

Seconds seem to tick by, my breath seems to grow heavy with waiting, and the thought of ruining the office once again flicks through my mind - just to have something to do while Professor Dannel contemplates her parchment and I contemplate my mistakes.

She's never gonna let me go.

She has to. She likes me. I think.

I've made too many mistakes, broken one too many rules. Goddamn, why did I have to go through with the Jam Decable?

Finally, she glances up, and the lead settled in my stomach seems to drop even further. "Miss Ladds," she starts, and then the lead dissolves into bubbly water as she continues, "what special skills could you offer the expedition? Aside from those already listed, of course."

I smile, the motion itself lifting my spirits, and design my answer in my head.

I have three rules for everything. Some are simple - keep your head high, a smile on your face, and for god's sake, sit up straight. Some are more complicated, like the rules for being able to write a full homework paper in a night - don't read anything until you're done and then read everything; keep a large pile of snacks nearby so there's no excuse to wander down to the kitchens when you burn out at two AM; and thank your teacher when you hand it in so you'll get brownie points and they think you had fun on this project when in reality it was four AM as you cursed their name and the subject and whatever the hell the essay was on because you don't even know.

I try to follow three rules all the time, whether it's being sweet or helping out or smuggling illegal Muggle candy into the common room. The rules for getting to go on your dream expedition are somewhere in the middle, because the ones that seem the easiest are often the hardest, like Rule Three.

Rule One: Done.

Rule Two: Done.

Rule Three: Hope.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Xena Llourign

The day had come to an end with the sun kissing the tip of the horizon and the hippogriffs sent to their cages, tucked away from plain sight and fed with who-knows-what by the burly and loud Professor Muntley. The Ravenclaw Tower provided a view of the outside plains and a strip of the Forbidden Forest for the sixth years, and with the Sun finally giving way to the far cosmos, Xena Llourign folded her robes away with an odd sense of elation. Brushing the tips of her fingers along the fine bark of her wand, Xena wondered greatly as she laid down on her bed why her Transfigurations professor — Tania as she liked to call the kind, old woman — had asked for them to meet later that day, when the nighttime feasts would then have provided enough for the famished students and staff alike, and when the troubles of the day would be momentarily forgotten.

Xena was confident the talk would end with something connected with this expedition for the "City of Gold", where highly acknowledged people of the Magical world requested for volunteers from schools around the globe. Apparently they needed more than just a willing soul; they wanted to know more of the student, per say, wanted to probe more information from them, used for Merlin-knows-what and -when. Xena was of course, quite optimistic about the prospect of it and was already willing to join if they hadn't found anyone already, as she did not really mind the consequences and judging by the serious looks of the two visitors just a few days prior, it looked tremendously promising.

Or maybe, it was something else entirely. It could easily be a short question as to how to get past this entrance in some secluded part of the castle, which Xena had probably learned by heart by now, if memory didn't fail her. It could be something that could get them expelled in a matter of a second; it could even be an illegal trade. It could be about anything, although Xena highly doubted that would happen, since Tania had no knowledge of what Xena does and doing something within the same spectrum was nothing but unlikely for Tania.

Long story short, Xena had absolutely no idea what the talk would hold specifically, and that was frankly why she'd been so jittery these past few hours — Xena loved the prospect of trekking the unknown.

So indeed, later that night, Xena waited well until all the students were escorted back to their respective dormitories, and when the right time came took a sharp turn from where everyone else were heading, and found herself knocking the doors to Tania's office.

"Come in."

Xena fought an anxious grin from surfacing and entered the door with her wand in hand, there only for the unexpected cases. Her head filled with that ever-familiar scent of lavender and sugar immediately, and she felt that floating feeling once again, like being in an all-too different place. Tania's tiny office was nothing surprising, though; there were a number of books sprawled here and there, a few sleeping paintings, a couple of candles, and everything else fit inside a dimly-lit room. Tania was standing just beside the table bearing her name Ethania Hophre, and had that kind smile etched on her wrinkled face, and a change of clothing from her usual, teaching robes.

Xena blinked once in anticipation.

"Ah," Tania said in mild amusement. She tapped the wooden chair in front and ushered Xena with a slight nod, "Why won't you sit down, Miss Llourign?"

Xena approached timidly and quietly, and then sat down without as much as looking at anything but Tania. The woman hadn't the intention to start the conversation, and had an odd spark in her sharp blue eyes for a moment. It took Xena a few seconds to realise this and, after clearing her throat and sitting straighter up, she spoke softly but clearly, "What am I here for, Professor?"

Tania swept through the carpet and headed behind the oak table, not answering Xena's question yet. She sat, and then with as much poise as one can muster she spoke to the girl in front, "What do you have on your mind right now?"

Xena raised her brows. If she had to be honest, she expected something like this to happen, but really didn't believe it would, for some reason. She had always thought of Tania being more . . . straightforward with everything. "I'd have to say I was expecting it to be about the expedition . . . Or at least connected to it for any reason."

Tania nodded. By then, they both heard a grating sound, as if one was lighting a large match on fire, and then all at once the many barks in the fireplace sparked to life. Thinking about it, Xena would have been brought back to the Tower by the time this happens, judging by the few memories of them talking in this exact room before. It had only been a short time since they started talking, though.

"Why then do you think they were recruiting students as young as you are?" Tania asked again, a more serious undertone heard now, even with the smile still unfazed.

"They perhaps . . . needed fresher outlooks for this one? The place couldn't have been turned upside down by no one before, I suppose." Xena was thinking about her answer as she spoke with furrowed brows.

"That is one thing. There is more, but I would not really know if my hunches are dependable." The Professor let out a sigh. Xena looked up at Tania's now illuminated face, expecting more. She was confident how underneath all these, there was that one question everything had to take root from.

"Now, from all my years in Hogwarts and basically just being a witch, I have seen more terrible things happen left and right, probably even more so than what the expedition might hold . . . Tell me, are you aware of the long-gone Triwizard Tournament, Miss Llourign?"

"Yes, my great-grandmum once told a story about it. Brutal but exciting, are they not?" How I'd love to have joined those.

"Yes they are brutal, and it took risks just joining said tournament. Risks that could not bend law, that could not take back a lost life . . . Tell me, do you think this expedition would be similar to that? A mug of butterbeer that would poison you at the last drop?"

Xena's heart was beating in a short rush of adrenaline just hearing her superior say these things. Of course the expedition would be nothing if not dangerous, but Xena didn't care, would not even give a goblin's nose about anything, really. Just like the burning rage of fire just a few steps away, Xena could do anything she pleased as long as there is wood underneath her.

"They very much are, Professor. But knowing so would not stop the others from joining, just like how the Triwizard Tournament went."

"Would what you'd find be worth the risk, perhaps?"

"Yes, as long as you're willing to do so in the first place." Xena reasoned, her body becoming more loose as the conversation went. But then she straightened up again as a thought flashed. "Professor, why ask me these, again?"

"You want to join as well, do you not?"

"I'd want to. Definitely."

"Miss Llourign, you do know how you'd always need to have proper decisions to make progress, right?" Tania leaned back on her chair, and Xena was tempted to do so as well. Instead now she stood up, believing the talk was finally done with, knowing now that the Professor only wanted her to turn back.

Xena smiled at the woman in front. "That was my decision, Professor." She headed for the door, the hold on her wand loosening as she went slowly. "I hope you'll excuse me; Werts is very strict with curfews."

Xena might have been turning her back then, but she enjoyed how it's not for Tania's reasons.

She then shut the door behind her.

Xena Llourign just didn't really care.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Aimée Bellamont

She sat, one leg daintily crossed over another, soft waves of golden hair brushed gracefully to one side of her face as she stared at the man before her. Wearing a Colgate-worthy smile and a crisp tuxedo, his brow furrowed in thought as his dark eyes skimmed the piece of paper held before him – all of her academic reports ever since she'd set foot inside Beauxbatons. In her mind, the process was simply unnecessary and a waste of both of their time – after all, the man had been her transfiguration teacher for two years, including this one, and was well acquainted with her skills, talents, and personality.

Yet, Reynard D'Albert continued to rifle through her files, leaving Aimée Bellamont growing more and more impatient. Listening to the continuous tick-tock sound that the wooden clock hanging on the wall emitted, combined with the dim lighting of the room and the loudness of the man's breathing was driving her insane. At first, she rubbed her temple in an attempt to get rid of the pounding headache, and when that method bore no fruit, her irritation finally got the best of her. Leaning forward, Aimée forced herself to smile sweetly before gently placing one hand on the man's arm, whispering, "Monsieur D'Albert, how about we return to the paperwork later and conduct the interview first, oui?"

He looked up at her, startled at her direct question, but the surprise was quickly wiped from his face as he nodded in confirmation, gesturing at her to sit back down. "Oui, oui...interview first. Tu as raison, you are right." He leaned back against the seat of his leather chair, fidgeted with his fingers and looked at Aimée for a few seconds more, before letting out a nervous chuckle and reaching into his jacket pocket for a small notebook. Flipping it open, the man reached for a pen, and finally, finally, asked the first question, "Mademoiselle Bellamont, tell me, why have you decided to sign up for this mission?"

It was a generic question, the most obvious one, and for that Aimée was grateful. She excelled in preparation, and had been anticipating this very interview for weeks. She'd done everything that she'd needed to do, rehearsing and re-rehearsing her replies to what felt like a million possible questions, sending owls to her parents for advice, staying up late at night reading the flyer for the expedition from back to front while her twin snored from the other side of the dormitory. She'd laid out her plans, and now it was time to see if they succeeded in getting her a spot on the elite team. With a soft voice and honey-coated words, Aimée smiled softly and replied, "Well, Monsieur, what can I say? It is such a brilliant opportunity, exploring new lands and searching for the famous El Dorado. I will be extremely honored if I am elected to go on this mission, though I am sure there are many much more deserving than I."

It was an act. All of it. She would never speak this way on a daily basis, and she'd smiled more during the interview than she'd done in a month. Her jaw was even beginning to throb. If Aimée had been bluntly honest with Reynard D'Albert instead of feeding him sugarcoated lies, her response would've been something along the lines of, "With all due respect, Monsieur, I believe that this mission is voué à l'échec, doomed to fail. Je ne suis pas bête – I am not an idiot, I know that the location of El Dorado has remained a mystery over the years. A thousand teams have gone and tried to find it, with no avail. What makes you think that you are going to make a difference? What makes you think that you are going to succeed?"

But it was part of the plan. Stroke his ego, praise the mission, put on a façade of excitement and passion while also maintaining a humble appearance. Make him like you, her mother had written in her letters. Be nice. Be friendly. Be respectful. Do not brag; he has your records; he knows your intelligence. Make us proud, ma cheri, my darling.

Make us proud.

Have I not done that all these years?

Reynard D'Albert smiled at her and scrawled something on his notebook, cleared his throat and spoke again, "An excellent answer, Mademoiselle. I have another question for you, before our session ends."

"Of course, I shall be most willing to answer." Aimée brushed a stray strand of golden hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear, feeling her heartbeat escalate with exhilaration and anticipation for the final verdict. The plan seemed to be working. He seemed to have lapped up her answers beaming from ear to ear. She had carried out her plan flawlessly, following every step with a righteous vigor. There was no doubt that she was going to get in. Well, there was a little doubt, as nothing was certain, but Aimée Bellamont just knew that when the results were announced, her name was going to be among the accepted. What do the Americans call it? Gut feeling? She'd been taught from a young age only to trust in two things – facts and the government – but as Reynard D'Albert opened up to another page in his notebook, the girl couldn't help but wonder if this time, her gut feeling was right.

Make us proud, her mother had said.

Are you not proud of me now?

"Mademoiselle Bellamont, are you aware that your sister, Adrienne Bellamont, is also applying for this mission?"

The words were like a punch to the face.

For two seconds, Aimée could only stare, speechless with shock as her eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. For two seconds, her calm, collected demeanor snapped, and she dug her nails into the armrests of her seat to quench the rage burning inside of her. With great self-control, she managed to reply, though her voice had lost all sweetness and charm, now developing a monotonous, almost dull quality, "No, I did not."

Reynard D'Albert looked surprised at her change of mood, and yet at the same time, he did not. "She is currently on the waiting list to be approved. Would you, her sister, like to say anything on her behalf?"

Make us proud, her mother had said.

But this was not the plan.

This was no generic question. This was something new, something unexpected, and it had slapped her in the face while she only stood in shock. Aimée was not prepared, and for some reason, it scared her. What am I supposed to do? No doubt, the obvious thing was to compliment Adrienne, be the perfect sister, gain Reynard D'Albert's favor with her false love and affection towards her sibling. Yet, she could not stand the thought of being trapped with Adrienne for six weeks in the wilderness, listening to her useless jabber and watching over her, like everyone expected a big sister to do. Not to mention the fact that there was a mutual hate between them – Adrienne at her for "always being in a spotlight", and she at Adrienne for being so stupid and unorthodox that she was ashamed to call the girl her sister. She went around smiling and being happy and gaining so many friends, it sickened her. Friends are not a key to success, her mother had told her once. They will not help you get anywhere in life.

Aimée had tried to tell Adrienne that once. Like always, she had never listened.

Make us proud.

Reynard D'Albert was waiting.

She knew what she had to do.

Aimée Bellamont took a deep breath, and told the biggest lie that she had spoken in her life, a lie consisted of praises and approval for her sister, and as she continued to drone on and one, she could not help but think:

Are you not proud of me now?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Adrienne Bellamont

"Mademoiselle, before we begin, may you please state your full name, year, and age. Just for documentation, of course."

"Adrienne Bellamont, sixth year, seventeen years of age." Her lips quirked upwards in small smile as she watched the man before her quickly scribble the information down, recalling how his instructions mimicked a line a character in the popular muggle television show – Doctor Who – had spoken. She'd visited Britain with her family the previous year, and had quickly discovered that once again, she was the odd one out during the journey. While her parents and sister were busy speaking with old friends and colleague, catching up on the local news and exchanging useful tips from everything to how to perform a certain spell to the best laundry detergent to buy, she had been binge-watching English muggle shows and was not disappointed in the slightest. Aimée had even gone as far as taking down notes – notes! About laundry detergent! If Adrienne were relating this incident to her own companions, she would've let out a hearty chuckle at her sister's queer – and rather strict – habits, but this was neither the time or place to do so. Instead, she straightened her shoulders and ran a hand through her tangles of golden-blonde hair, slightly wild due to the fact that she'd woken up late and nearly missed breakfast.

After all, she thought, as Monsieur Bourbon – a Charms professor – finished writing his notes and proceeded to clear his throat, ready to ask her another question. Nobody's got time for hairstyle when food's going cold at the table. Well, she paused, lips pressed together in a thin, straight line. Except maybe Aimée. She leaves the room looking fresh out of a magazine everyday.

"Merci beaucoup, Adrienne. Let us begin, oui?" He was a small man, Monsieur Bourbon, who, despite his surname, was non-alcoholic and instead a devote vegan. One of Adrienne's closer friends, Serena, had once joked that the teacher ate so much cabbage that the tip of his tongue was flecked with green. Of course, Adrienne had grinned at the jest, though she was quick to defend the Monsieur by inquiring how Serena was able to catch a glimpse of the man's tongue in the first place. Did she go up to him one day and ask to see it? Did he stick out his tongue at her if she forgot to do her homework? When the answer was 'no', she would smirk and proceed to lecture Serena in a nasally impression of Aimée, quoting, "Oh, Adrienne. You cannot say that! It is impolite, ne pas être grossier – do not be rude." Lately, Adrienne and her friends had found more and more joy in making fun of Aimée. A long time ago, she would not have even dreamed of it – but then again, a long time ago, her parents had not bluntly told her that she would not be receiving any of their inheritance, that she was not worthy of their legacy.

Il n'est pas votre droit d'aînesse, Adrienne, they had told her. It is not your birthright.

"Let us start with something relatively simple. Why do you want to join this mission, Adrienne?"

But I am your daughter! She had protested, swallowing back the tears that threatened to spill down her cheeks. It was not the prospect of losing wealth or fame that caused such angst to build up in her heart, but the fact that she was being deliberately overlooked her, all because she was the second child. She was not the golden child like Aimée. She was not smart or stern or grown-up like Aimée. Does that mean nothing to you?

"Well, Monsieur, I simply wish to discover new things," she crossed then uncrossed her legs, shifting in her leather seat to find the most comfortable spot to sit back and relax. The atmosphere of the room alone should've calmed Arienne's nerves – the wallpaper was a speckled white, yellowed slightly due to the forces of time. The only light in the room came from an ancient, rusted chandelier that dangled above their heads, with what seemed like a thousand flickering candles attached. Whenever she breathed, she caught a waft of smoked wood, stale wine, and crushed roses – the combination might seem odd, but the aroma was beautiful, in a homey sort of way. Yet, her body could not stop tingling with nervousness, and her fingers could not stop kneading against the velvet-coated armrests of her chair. "I would love to see the bright, lush jungles of the Yucatán Peninsula. To unearth for clues leading to the famous El Dorado's whereabouts would be just awesome." She sucked in a breath, heartbeat accelerating with excitement, and hurriedly rattled on, "It's a once in a lifetime experience, Monsieur. I don't want to pass it up."

Monsieur Bourbon paused his writing to ask her the question, making random gestures with his pen in the air. "But you do realize the possible dangers of this expedition, do you not, Mademoiselle Bellamont?"

"Yes," she nodded firmly, attempting to appear unafraid and bold. "Of course."

"And you still wish to go?"

"Yes."

Though inwardly, Adrienne felt like this was a repeat of the previous question, she did not speak her mind. Instead, she cleared her throat, made a little hem-hem noise like the one her mother always made when seeking for one's attention, and replied, "All expeditions have their own risks, Monsieur Bourbon. If every exploder that lived did not set out on their journey to uncover mysteries of the Earth for fear of injury or even death, the world as we know it, will not exist." Inadvertently, the girl leaned forward to emphasize her words, blue eyes never wavering from the miry brown ones of the man before her. "I want to go out there and change the world, Monsieur Bourbon. I want to make a difference."

"And what have you done, daughter?" Her father had sneered, his dark, beady eyes glimmering with malice. "In the seventeen years you've been alive, what have you achieved?" He'd waved one pudgy hand, and gestured towards the family 'Hall of Fame' – or more specifically, the Aimée 'Hall of Fame'. A stunning crystal and gemstone case held dozens of gleaming, shining trophies, metals and certificates. Some were bronze, some were silver, but most of them were gold. All for Aimée. All for the competitions she'd been in and reigned victorious. Her name, bare. Her name, nonexistent. Unappreciated. Invisible. "Tell me, Adrienne, why we should give up our life's work while you have done nothing to attain it?"

Monsieur Bourbon continued taking down his note, hand flying across the paper. Briefly, Adrienne wondered why he did not simply use a spell to do the job for him, but the thought quickly vanished from her mind when the man inquired once more, "Is there any other reason why you want to join this expedition, Adrienne?"

"Nothing in life is cheap, Adrienne," her mother had told her, placing one slender, pale hand on her shoulder. "If you want something, work for it. Prove to us you deserve your reward."

Prove it, Adrienne. The words echoed and re-echoed in her head, bouncing off the edges of her skull and rattling her brain. Prove it, prove it, prove it.

"There is another reason, Monsieur Bourbon," she said slowly, as the man's interest perked and he rested the tip of his pen on the parchment again – but the girl did not immediately speak. Instead, she let her eyes flutter shut, engulfing herself in darkness, and focusing purely on the rhythm of her breathing. In, out, in, out.

Prove it, Adrienne.

Prove it, prove it, prove it.

"I need to show the world who I really am, Monsieur. I need to prove to everyone that I am not useless. And maybe..." her words trailed off, dying its own death in the humid, musky air, before she looked the man in the eye and whispered,

"Maybe I need to prove it to myself as well."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Ahri Du Couteau

Questions sweep through my mind like a whirlwind, throwing in new thoughts while quickly leading away old ones. I feel as if I'm playing a video game, trying to grasp all the best questions and thoughts in this hurricane of words and question marks.

Ahri, keep your cool.

I take a deep breath, calming the strong gales of curiosity and thirst to know more swirling inside of me. Gingerly, I push open the cedarwood door, careful not to make it creak. Taking a soft step forward, I see a man in his early thirties sitting behind the large mahogany table. He gestures for me to sit down in front of him with the slightest flick of his fingers, a small smile resting on his face. As I get a clearer look of his face, I suddenly realise who the man sitting in front of me is. I should be scared after all of the rumours I've heard about him, yet all I feel is warmth and kindness from him. One step, another step, I reach the seat he had gestured to, sinking into the soft velvet of the chair.

The room itself is quaint yet magnificent. Of course, no room in Beauxbatons is anything less of spectacular, yet this room feels different. It is different. How can I put it? It feels homely. Something rarely found in Beauxbatons. Everywhere else, it's all about fancy decor like white marble columns and golden embroidery. I've lived here for more than five years now, yet my dorm still feels too posh to call home. This room, quietly set away from all the rest in one of the many towers of Beauxbatons feels so different. It's a very welcome change of scenery, almost as if I've apparated straight back home. It makes my heart feel warm of happiness as my mind runs through all of the memories with my parents.

At the word, my heart drops dead as a rock. My real parents...

Ahri, stop. You're going to make yourself all weepy and sad. How on earth are you supposed to get into this research thing if you act like a shrivelled up prune?

Quickly, I shake my head free of those thoughts, smiling up and Mr. Goethe. The name feared by so many in this school. Yet sitting right in front of him, I see nothing to be scared of as I wait for his first question for me. His almost seafoam coloured eyes twinkle with delight as his rich voice fills the small homely room we are in, "Hello Ms. Du Couteau, it's a pleasure to meet you. Please make yourself feel at home."

"It's an honour to meet you Mr. Goethe, but please just call me Ahri," I return the smile.

"Wow, I'm already starting to like you Ahri," he says with a laugh.

"Why so?" I ask confused.

"Well, from your reaction to seeing me, I had gathered that you had not recognized me," he explains, yet I am still in the dark.

I tilt my head to one side, "Who would not recognize you?"

"Well you see, almost every interviewee that has come to see me tonight has been very obviously scared of me. Or they just don't realise who I am until I tell them," his eyes twinkle with humour as he says this, while I try to suppress a grin of my own, "Yet you," he continues, "You addressed me in your first sentence to me when I thought you hadn't realised who I was."

By the time he finishes his sentence, I'm giggling, " Do they really think you're scary Mr. Goethe? You just seem to radiate kindness and nothing bad at all. I'll admit I'm curious though, why are there so many rumours about you anyways? Of course, if you don't mind me asking."

"It's really not a bother," he replies, now with a kind, almost fatherly smile finding its place on his face, "It's just that not many people know what my past really is, so they make up all these crazy stories."

"I see," I reply calmly. Inside, my curiosity has been peaked again. I feel the questions flow into my brain like the surging tide, wave upon wave.

Calm down, you don't like it when people ask about your past right? Don't ask about it.

"I can already see the curiosity in your eyes," he laughs, shaking me out of my daydream, "That's the first step to becoming a successful explorer, but we have to get started on this interview."

"Sure," I smile up at his kind face.

"Ok, first and foremost, why do you want to go on this exploration?" Mr. Goethe asks me.

"Curiosity, definitely," I reply quickly, "I can't help but want to know more and more. I'm the kind of person that asks the wrong questions at the wrong times. I can't really stop myself, I just have this unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Everything I don't know intrigues me."

Mr. Goethe quickly jots something down on his notepad before asking, "So, can you show me your grades."

What if I don't have good enough grades... Calm down Ahri, you'll be fine.

Taking a deep, calming breath, I quickly show him my past report cards. He skims through the pages quickly, a small satisfied smile reaching his face not before long.

I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding in, smiling genuinely for the first time in what feels like an eternity when really it was just moments before.

Awaiting the next question, I am somewhat shocked when he just smiles kindly at me and dismisses me.

Did I mess up? Isn't an interview supposed to have more questions?

Panic builds up inside of me as I step back out into the posh and majestic yet cold and still halls of Beauxbatons. Yet I tell myself to just let it go, there's no point in it anyways.

Guess I'll see if I got in when they send me the letter...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tamara Anacourt

If I could choose one day in my entire lifetime that I would never forget, it would be the day when I was called for an interview hosted by experts from El Dorado and seeing a large ring of fire the moment I stepped foot in the interview room.

Of course, the fire itself was not the most important part. But the interview was something that I would never trade for another memory. It had definitely been the highlight of my day, if not the highlight of my entire life.

It all started as an ordinary day, actually. I woke up, ate breakfast, attended all my classes in the morning, and even took a midday stroll through the beautiful school grounds. There was nothing short of stunning when it came to my school, the Beauxbatons Academy of Magic, a school of magic situated in the majestic Pyrenees of France. If I didn't have that interview that day, I would have spent the entire day strolling around outside, or even doing my schoolwork and reading in the beautiful afternoon sunshine. But instead, I had to report inside to a classroom just close by the Grande Réfectoire, where I was supposed to meet a certain Cerise Chevalier and David Goethe, at three o'clock sharp.

At the time, I didn't know what would be in store. I had rarely been called upon like this to talk with strangers whom I had never met before. What would they do to me? Was I in trouble? I was so lost in thought that by the time I entered the classroom I almost walked right into the massive flames towering over me, obviously conjured by magical means. Suddenly aware of the heat in the room, I glanced up to see the tall orange and yellow inferno slowly spread through the classroom, and almost fainted. After all, I wasn't a fan of anything that happened out of the ordinary. Nonetheless, I still retained enough sanity to whip my wand out and douse the flames.

"Aguamenti," I commanded, summoning a clear stream of water to my wand and putting out the fire in only a matter of seconds. As the fire slowly died down, I eventually caught sight of two other people in the room: a short young woman with frizzy black hair and scarlet cheeks standing on my left and gazing at me as if I've conjured a snake; and a handsome young man with dark brown hair standing on my right who, however stunned he was, definitely looked impressed.

"You're...Tamara, right? Tamara Anacourt?" the man voiced quietly, his bright green eyes flashing as they bore into my sky blue ones.

I nodded slowly, stowing my wand away in my robes. "Yeah," I confirmed in a quiet voice. "I'm Tamara Anacourt. And you are...?"

"Cerise Chevalier," the woman introduced herself, her face relaxing into a relieved smile as she stuck out a hand to shake mine. "I do deeply apologize for the flames."

"No worries," I laughed, allowing myself to relax just a little bit as I shook her hand, safely putting the incident aside in my mind. After all, it was probably just a minor slip.

"And I'm David Goethe," the man added on, holding his hand out also. "C'est un plaisir de te rencontrer aujourd'hui."

"Merci madame, et monsieur," I responded naturally as I shook his hand, pleased that I could converse with them easily in French and English. Just to be friendly, I also offered them a small smile.

"Yes. Please take a seat," Madame Chevalier prompted me, and I obliged as I summoned a chair from a random desk with my wand and sat down in front of them, as they took the swivel chairs behind the teacher's desk.

"So, Madamoiselle Anacourt, how are you feeling today?" Madame Chevalier asked me first.

I shrugged lightly in response, raising a hand to my braid and tossing it lightly behind me. "I'm good, thank you. How are you?"

"We're good," both experts chorused, and I smiled in response.

"You did get the letter about our interview today, didn't you?" Monsieur Goethe asked me.

I nodded as I pulled out the letter from my book bag, which I received via pigeon a few days ago at breakfast. The black seal, already broken, gleamed in the afternoon sunlight.

"Do you know why you're here?" Monsieur Goethe inquired me further.

To this, I shook my head. "All I hope is that I'm not in trouble," I murmured quietly in response, coaxing a gentle laugh out of the both of them.

"No, ma chérie. You're not in trouble," Madame Chevalier assured me. "Do you know who we are? What we do?" she asked, gesturing to herself and her partner.

I shook my head again, unsure of where this conversation was heading. "Uh...no, I don't. Sorry."

Monsieur Goethe laughed lightly at my answer. "That's alright, dear. Not many people would know, and that's alright. Madame Chevalier and I—along with a few others—are explorers, currently conducting research to know the truth behind the lost city of El Dorado. Have you heard of it?"

El Dorado...now where have I heard that before? Professor Avant-Temps probably mentioned this before in History of Magic, and I even did some reading on it outside of class as well. The city is located on the Yucatan Peninsula—or rather, was. It had been a researcher's dream, an archaeologist's dream, to unearth once more the remnants of what was left of the city which had disappeared without a trace after the Mayan empire fell. It was a bit like a Muggle Atlantis—people have been searching for this city for ages, and even I, on the other side of the globe, knew bits and pieces about this particular place through light reading, whenever I wasn't doing homework. And admittedly, I too became quite interested in the topic.

So I nodded. "I have."

"Your school actually recommended you, as well as a couple other students, to come with us on this once-in-a-lifetime expedition," Monsieur Goethe told me now with the hint of a very entertained smile. "But we need to know a bit more about you before we could begin. From first glance we know you're smart. You also seem to be a very kind and gentle student. Is that all you can offer us about yourself?"

"Well..." I bit my lip in thought as I let the question mull a bit through my brain, trying to come up with the right things to say. What could I offer to this expedition? What was I, really? I swallowed as I slowly gave my response, the pressure in the room suddenly becoming so great again it was affecting my train of thought. "Yes, I'm a smart student; I'm actually one of the smartest students in my year. A few of my professors recommended me to study advanced forms of magic outside of class, because it was easy for me to excel in the things they taught me. I don't really like to talk a lot, but I do care about others. To most, I'm a friend; to others, I look like an outsider. But it was easy for me to ignore their taunting."

"And what made you so kind to others despite all the horrid things they must have said about you?" Monsieur Goethe asked.

This was a question I was ready to answer. "I don't think people deserve to be treated unfairly, but if people do have this unfair trait to them then I just allow it to conform to their character. What does it matter how they act? As of now we're still children, and we're always learning the longer we communicate and get to know other people around us. We still have a long time before we allow fate to help us decide what kind of person we truly are. Maybe people would regret being mean and apologize. Maybe they wouldn't. But right now I have learned to accept them for who they are. I'm not the type of person to hold grudges against others just because of one single trait that defines them."

"So...you're more of the forgiving type. That is, if it ever came down to that," Madame Chevalier clarified for me, and I nodded.

"Yeah. That seems just about right," I assured her, shifting slightly in my seat, hoping that what I have said was appropriate.

Monsieur Goethe nodded thoughtfully as he took my words down on a piece of parchment. "Okay, now we're just curious about your learning approaches. Do you prefer to learn through reading, or do you prefer to learn through practicality?"

"What?" This question, I'd admit, took me by surprise.

"Do you prefer to learn through reading books, or would you rather learn through doing something more hands-on?" Monsieur Goethe clarified.

Tense silence ensued as I thought this question through. "I do love reading," I finally said quietly. "The best part about reading is that you get to imagine. And it helps you conjure images in your head, think about how things are supposed to be, say for example, how this incantation performs this spell or something along those lines. Learning through reading does help to a degree, especially since when you perform a spell or hex it all happens too quickly, in the blink of an eye, for you to understand. But sometimes learning through practical means has its advantages. Some people would rather get to the point than understand the magic behind the magic."

"So you're saying that you like both methods?" Madame Chevalier asked.

I nodded, moistening my lips just slightly before continuing. "I suppose it depends on the situation, but in this exploration context I'd rather go out into the world instead of sit back with a book in my hand. Historians have attempted to illustrate what they know about the lost city which you seek, but have they been successful? Sometimes you can't fully trust what they have written. After all, research does involve theories, and if I had to bet, that was what they were coming up with as they try to accurately present what they already know. If one wants to actively find answers and actually learn about the lost city in the most precise way, then that is where learning through firsthand experience trumps over learning by reading another person's hypothesis. Only by finding out for oneself the mysteries behind this city's disappearance could they really claim, 'Hey, I know what happened in El Dorado, I have all the answers, I can tell you everything.'"

"That's actually quite true. Why else would we, as experts, go about doing this job?" Madame Chevalier laughed, and I joined in, feeling quite at ease with this conversation. "Alright, now, here's another question for you. You mentioned at the beginning that you've heard of El Dorado. Can you tell us what you already know?"

I nodded again, folding my hands in my lap. "My history professor taught us a little about El Dorado, and I did do some research over the past two summers. Like, I did a bit of reading outside of school. El Dorado is like the Muggle lost city Atlantis—it vanished with the fall of the Mayan empire. Once it stood proudly in the middle Americas, but now everyone is scavenging for this treasure in hopes of coming to the conclusion that yes, it had once existed. To locate findings from this city would reward archaeologists quite a fortune."

"Not only archaeologists, but possibly students like you now," Monsieur Goethe cut in. "You think you can be up for the job?"

"I've always thought of myself as one of the more inquisitive students," I told them, a tingle of excitement slowly making its way through my limbs. "And I guess the mention of El Dorado has really grabbed my attention. Really, it's the only thing that I really got engaged with. There are so many questions that one wants to have answered when they come across this subject. What happened? Why did it disappear? What made it disappear, almost invisible to the passing eye? How close are we to discovering what lies beyond the shroud that the city hides itself behind? The history that has yet to be unearthed, the need to search for it, is just way too intriguing. It's either you believe the myth or you don't. And for me, I believe it—not entirely, but definitely to some extent." I paused a moment to clear my throat before continuing. "As I've mentioned before, as hard as historians try, they could never be able to truly find the answers. I'm not trying to judge them all as a whole, but what if everything we have read all came from theories, simple hypotheses that have yet to be confirmed through firsthand observation?"

Suddenly, I felt the urge to spill everything I wanted to say in that one answer. I would never do this in front of anyone else, but I felt like now, with the experts listening, I had to. "People want answers. They want to know what happened to this city. If I'm not mistaken, it probably kept them on the ball for decades, maybe even centuries! And yet people could only do so much about this subject. They could either recline back in their chairs and hang on to every single word that they read from the theories the historians outline, or they seek the answers themselves. You ask me if I'm up to this job, and I have to say, with everything that I have read and everything that I have said, I feel like I am. And I hope to find the answers that I, like pretty much everyone else, wanted to find. El Dorado is a mystery for a reason. It's not something one simply can believe. It is questioned, it is analyzed, and eventually it would have its own conclusion. Did it exist or not? That is something everyone wants to know—and that is something I want to find out. And I hope this journey can help me answer that question."

I wasn't aware of doing random hand gestures as I spoke, but by the time I was finished talking I found my arms spread out on either side of me, when in the beginning I started off with them being in my lap. An awkward silence eventually filled the air as both experts glanced at me as if I've just finished a magic trick that had just gone wrong, and I cleared my throat again as I dropped my hands down to my lap, offering a shifty smile. "Désolé."

"No worries," Madame Chevalier assured me with a warm smile. "I really love the ideas you presented—you definitely have the inquisitive eye of a budding explorer."

This latest compliment made me straighten up in my seat, and I grinned, feeling the queasiness from the situation before melt away. "One can only hope, then, that it keeps up as we delve deeper into this expedition," I added.

"That's the spirit," Madame Chevalier encouraged, and I felt my smile widen with her words. "Now you are currently in sixth year, am I correct?"

"That is correct, madame," I confirmed.

"So that is to say that you're taking your Ordinary Wizarding Level exam at the end of this year. Do you think you can balance your academics with this internship opportunity?" Madame Chevalier asked me.

I nodded confidently. "Count on me to give you nothing but my best work for both my academic life and this internship. After all, I am one who takes dedication very seriously."

"Mhmm. That's good," Monsieur Goethe nodded, quickly scribbling my responses on his piece of parchment. "Well, those are all the questions we have for you," he added, furling his parchment into a tight roll.

Suddenly, the friendliness in the atmosphere dissipated with those words, and I blinked blankly, eyes widening at the two experts. "You mean—that's it? That's all you have to ask me?"

"Tamara, ma chérie, ne t'inquiète pas! You've been such a charming student, and we've had such a good time talking with you. We think we have a good idea now of what we're looking for," Madame Chevalier assured me, sticking her hand out once more to shake mine. "Though we do have one last thing to ask you—do you have any questions for us?"

"No, I don't," I answered with a slight shake of my head. "But I do want to say, merci pour votre temps, c'était un plaisir de vous parler aujourd'hui."

"Ah, et à toi aussi!" Monsieur Goethe responded as he too shook my hand. "We hope to see you soon on our expedition!"

"I can hardly wait."

I got up from my chair, placed the chair back by the desk where I summoned it from, and, with a final nod at the experts, left the classroom.

At the time, I felt that the interview had only opened just another window in my typical magical life. But now that I reflected on it, it had opened more than just a window. It was on this very day, that very day when I had that interview with the experts of El Dorado, when I realized just how lucky I have been, and eventually would be. At long last, I had the chance to embark on this journey of a lifetime, and now that I knew what I was going up for, I wanted this position more than ever.

This wasn't something that happened every day. This was an opportunity that anyone eager enough to discover the mysteries of the city of gold would gladly seize if they could.

And this wasn't something I was willing to lose.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Valdis Kvaran

In a room with speckled-brown wallpaper and reeked with cheap perfume, sat two figures, across a table of mahogany. One was a woman with curly brunette hair, eyes the color of jade, wearing spectacles and an expression of disapproval. The other was a girl with dark cropped hair, eyes the color of the sky as a storm approaches, wearing dangling earrings and an expression of "I don't give a fuck."

The woman was a certain Professor Diekenhoff, who was busy skimming over a file clutched between her bony fingers, and the girl was a certain Valdís Kvaran, who already looked bored and was keeping herself occupied by popping a piece of gum into her mouth and loudly smacking it against her lips. This action, of course, caught the attention of poor Professor Diekenhoff, who, in her two years of teaching, had been blessed by the gods above for not receiving Valdís as her student. Now, however, she was in charge of directing the interviews, and it was to her great chagrin that Valdís' name had been scrawled on the sign-up sheet – three times, to be exact. Placing down the girl's academic file gently on the polished wooden surface of the table, the professor proceeded to clasp her hands together, shoot a short prayer up to the skies for luck, and politely asked, "Miss Kvaran, you know chewing gum at school is against the rules."

As expected, Valdís paid no mind to the teacher's words, and just to show off her incompetence, blew a large, pink bubble which popped soon after. She was already beginning to enjoy this, and the way that Professor Diekenhoff's face twisted upwards into an expression of frustration made her want to burst out in a fit of wild laughter. Even when the woman angrily ordered for her to spit out the piece of candy or receive two weeks' worth of detention, she still continued smirking, though she did slowly pull the sticky piece of gum out of her mouth. However, instead of throwing it away like Professor Diekenhoff had ordered, she instead stuck it behind her ear, to save it for later. After all, she thought, comfortably leaning back against her chair. Waste not, want not. Except I actually do want a lot.

Professor Diekenhoff sighed a long, weary sigh, and for a brief second, Valdís wondered if she would actually be receiving detention. However, to her relief, the woman did not push it any further, and instead picked up a clipboard resting on the table. About time, she thought, as the woman put on a pair of half-moon spectacles and proceeded to skim over the paper. I was beginning to wonder when this interview was going to happen. She crossed her arms and waited. She did not have to wait long, though, before the first question was spoken, "Miss Kravan, why did you write your name three times on the sign-up sheet?" The Professor waved a piece of parchment in her face, "I had students complain to me becase you were taking up all the space."

She shrugged her shoulders, her fingers itching to grab that piece of gum and continue chewing it once more, "I guess I was just excited." Her words were deliberately short and curt, knowing that it would agitate Professor Diekenhoff even more, and patiently waited for a reaction. That's always funny.

"Well then, Valdís, why are you excited for this expedition?"

A snort escaped Valdís' nose at the stupid question, and she shot Professor Diekenhoff a look that plainly asked, "Are you serious?" Rolling her eyes, she leaned back against the chair and placed her legs up on the table, trying not to smirk when Professor Diekenhoff visibly recoiled, then proceeded to answer the question, "Why wouldn't I be excited? It's a great trip. You know, trekking in the jungle, probably getting eaten by piranhas, a million mosquitoes attacking you every night –"

"You don't seem excited," Professor Diekenhoff cut in. Her polite demeanor had faded like a wisp of smoke in the infinity of air. Instead, she now looked like as if she wished the interview was over. "Also, please get your legs off the table."

Complying only because Valdís also wanted to escape the suffocating aura of boredom in the room and also continue chewing her gum, she shot back, "It's called sarcasm, woman, and I would rather get eaten alive by some wild animal than sit through one of your Charms lessons. You know everyone hates those, right?"

The girl watched with satisfaction as Professor Diekenhoff's body stiffened and eyes narrowed, before pointing a slender finger at the girl and warning, "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. Now," she picked up the clipboard again. "Let me restate the previous question, and this time, answer truthfully."

"Or what?" Valdís couldn't help but let those two words escape her lips as she stared – or rather, glared – at the teacher. The question was one of the most common phrases that left her mouth, rivaled only by 'Your Mama' and 'Fuck.'

"Or," this time, it was Professor Diekenhoff's time to smirk. She picked up the sign up sheet in one hand, a feather quill pen in another, and then proceeded to cross one of Valdís' names off of the parchment. "I'll make sure you don't go at all."

She pressed her lips tightly together, fingers stiffening as she narrowed her eyes into tiny, feline-like slits. "You want to know the truth?" Her voice was dangerously low, and for the briefest second, Valdís thought she saw a flicker of uncertainty cross Professor Diekenhoff's face. She latched onto that little piece of uncertainty, the woman's weak point, and spat out her next words like they were poison in her mouth, "Some legends are told, some turn to dust or to gold, but I want the whole world to remember me." Subconsciously, she leaned forward, scraping the wooden chair legs against the floor as she dragged herself closer towards Professor Diekenhoff. "I want to be known as the legendary Valdís Kvaran, the one who discovered the secrets of El Dorado, who changed the world. Not some random student at Durmstrang. Do you understand me?" With force, she banged her fist on the table, producing a soft yelp of surprise from Professor Diekenhoff, and hissed,

"I want to be remember for centuries."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Markéta Cermák

The first time she heard Liebestraum composed by Franz Liszt was when she was seven, during a summer trip to the Spanish Alps to visit her grandmother, who lived in a quaint cottage devoid of any sort of muggle technology and bore vines that trickled up the side of the house until it encased the roof with a loving vice. The Čermák family was a noble one, aged in wizardry since the fourth century. They celebrated their status and yet throughout the millennia they developed the taste for the finer things that muggles brought. Several became prodigious talents throughout the muggle and wizarding world. Liszt was a second cousin once removed to Markéta's great-great-grandmother, and he was fondly remembered by several members of the family until the purge of many Romani and wizarding folk in the early twentieth century led to the Čermák's to renounce him and any other influential member that participated in muggle affairs. And yet, they still did enjoy their pleasures.

Her grandmother was once a silent star in the Romani Pictorial News, which was a paper delivered to rural wizarding families and had several minute long clips of her and several other dancers and actors on the page. When it was abolished in 1932, Alida retreated to the mountains of the Spanish Alps, as the rest of her lineage returned to where she began. Her house had not been cleaned since 1997, the windows were grimy and dirt-ridden and yet the inside of the house was cozy and spick and span, due large in part to the fact she still did not like to clean herself, and so entrusted her wand to do the work.

Food was delivered weekly by an assortment of animals and creatures of the most magical kind—one week she was greeted by a young Freyndwyre, half-horse and half-falcon, only the size of half her tiny body. When Markéta Čermák and her family would visit, extended family from out East would also pop in. One of them, an acclaimed pianist, was fond of playing Liszt, regardless of the glares she was provided by Alida. A dusty old piano would sit unused for the majority of the year, until summer rolled around and the family gathered and she played the piano for them to dance to.

The first time she heard it, she was sitting on her mother's lap and whinging and whining over why she had to be there and why her grandmother couldn't adapt to having some sort of little muggle luxury in her home. Her mother had scolded her, and slapped her upside the head until she turned back to listen to a cousin or a second-cousin or a whatever-number-cousin-whatever-removed play the piano. And then all of a sudden the melody of the song hit her ears and she was entranced. Her magical ability had shown when she was a baby, but had pittered out until then, when she found herself opening the windows and doors and opening the piano lid so that those wonderful, tantalizing notes could float out, out, out, all the way down the mountain, until some other passerby became entranced as well.

She supposed it could have been a relief for her family, her brother and sister had exhibited magical ability when they were far younger, and far more consistently. Now, ten years later, the same music drifted out from an ancient gramophone hidden in the copse at the far end of the Headmaster's office.

The quarters of Anton Pajari were the same as who he was: refined and elegant but with a hint of conservatism. His office was situated as an addition to the school, a domed ceiling reaching fifteen feet into the sky that was decorated with the finest gold and painted with the most delicate thestral hairs, so that the ceiling was constantly endowed with unmoving yet forever vibrant and shimmering colours. Several archways and towering columns made of the finest rock from the basin of an ancient lake in Denmark framed the room. His desk as an ornate piece of oak, his chair crafted using only the most pristine of fabric. Bookshelves on past Headmasters, teachers, students, spells, and potions, lined the empty walls, the only thing breaking from the high shelves being the photo of himself he hung directly behind his desk.

Anton himself was of a menacing stance. Five foot seven, he wore black heels that clicked as he walked, and a questioning look in his dark brown eyes wherever a student passed. A mahogany cloak and dark, ebony, hair, meant he was of a higher status but not from the Durmstrang area. He seemed to have no nation of origin, his voice traipsing from one accent to the next. He sat at his desk, fingers cupped to his chin, papers neatly stacked at an even height in three rows on his desk.

Markéta sat, pulling a chair smaller than that he was encased in closer to him. The music continued for a moment, and then stopped as he spoke.

"You are one of our finalists for the expedition. Your marks are well. You have demonstrated considerable achievement at this school. Why do you wish to go on this expedition?" He didn't need to look down at his papers; he didn't need to shuffle them around to demonstrate that he knew more about her than she did.

She had only met him once before. She had seen him plenty of times, of course, in the halls or on a rare occasion on the field for the odd match or two of some sort of sport. A rumor was that he was an Animagus, capable of transforming into a crow or raven who would spy on the students as they slept or walked to their class. It was just a myth, but at the same time, as she watched his hooked nose and beady eyes stare at her as he waited for a response, she questioned if there wasn't just some hint to truth to the rumor.

"Well, I think I could be of great value to the team. My age is right in the middle where I'm not childish like those little ones, and I'm not as rude as the ones above me. Every team needs someone who doesn't rely on others to make the choices, you know. All these other ones, they're very little or they're very weak. If I'm being honest with you, Professor Pajari, all these other ones don't embody what Durmstrang was meant to. I can," she said. An array of answers to questions had already been on her mind, and though this was one in which came out less eloquent and less defined than what she wanted, she hoped the rest of the interview would make up for it.

Her fingers rested in her lap and she fiddled with the hem of her black blouse ever so slightly, gauging Pajari's reaction by a quick glance up through her hair that was falling in front of her face in a few delicate strands. He continued to stare at her, not a single muscle twitching.

"Ms. Čermák, I'm going to need an elaboration on your answer. We are looking for the most dedicated and reliable students who can take initiative, especially on the spot. So, again, why do you wish to have us spend our resources on you when there's other able-bodied witches and wizards just as capable, if not more so?"

It was then that Markéta began to fidget, if at least on the inside. This was not in her plans. She came in confident and ready with a slew of perfected answers, ready for the piercing stare, the silent body of a hawk. She was not prepared to not be prepared.

"Well, like I said," she stammered, looking only at his elbows resting lightly on the papers as if his bones were but a feather, "I think no one else at this school has the type of drive and wit I have. Not only that, but my blood lineage is the purest it can be—my entire extended family since my great-great-grandmother have been married only to Purebloods—unlike many of the others applying. There're studies being shown that blood status affects ability later in life, if you were not aware. I don't know what else I could say about why I want to go on the trip: it's an amazing opportunity to bring me out into the public eye, and I think it would be a great experience."

"Is that all, Ms. Čermák?"

By now, she was wondering if this was just some sort of joke, some sort of façade because surely there had to be something more than just this question. Maybe it was just a quick test, and she would be alerted she had made it onto the team right after. He stared at her, still unmoving, his figure still as precise and sharp as ever.

"Yes?"

Her answer was not confident, and he tutted as he finally moved his hand, only to grab a pen and scribble something onto an already full piece of paper. She did not know how tense she was, nor how she mimicked his frozen movements, until he moved, for she felt her back release from the pressure held against the chair.

"That is all, then. You may leave."

"Are-are you sure, Sir?"

He broke his concentrated gaze form his paper to glare at her, and she scrambled from her chair. She may have been arrogant and haughty to many, but to her Headmaster, she was not. He beat her at her own game.

"Did I stutter, Ms. Čermák ?"

Markéta shook her head with vigor, sending her braided hair flying into little strands, releasing it from its perfect twist. "No sir, not at all s—"

"Then you may leave."

The music resumed as she left, swooping and dipping in the air like a tantalizing pleasure she would never experience again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sanna Lindström

Today ends with one question:

"Why do you want this so badly, Sanna?"

It's a simple question with a complex answer. It's not often that I find myself at a loss for words. Anyone who has met me knows that my periods of silence are few and far between. Some Lindström witches have been gifted with an affinity for hexes or a penchant for divination. Instead of being born with such gifts, I was given a silver tongue and a talent for conversation. Anyone who has met me can attest to my social skills. And also to the simple fact that I never shut my mouth.

Professor Bergfalk was the first of my teachers to tell me that my family name meant nothing to her. Negative or positive, the notoriety associated with the word Lindström had no effect on her opinion of me. In the end, I suppose that's why I connected so well with her when we first met. It's rare to find people in this world who don't care able names or labels. Adults and students alike have always tried to use my family ties to their advantage. Meeting Professor Bergfalk was a welcome deviation from this pattern.

I hadn't expected much out of my conversation with her when she stopped me after class. She told me that she was just interested in hearing how I felt about the El Dorado expedition. I was relieved to know that it was going to be that kind of talk instead of one about my lack of focus in her class lately. So of course, I stayed to chat. I wanted to talk with her about the adventure I was preparing to embark on. Who else would want to hear about it? Out of every person here at Durmstrang, Professor Bergfalk has always been the most interested in what I'm doing with myself. Many people care about me because of my name but it doesn't mean that I actually matter to them.

She asked me about the application process and the work that had gone into preparing for the expedition. Really, I told her, it was convincing myself to apply that had been the most difficult part. Once I had gotten over my initial doubts about whether or not I should even try, things had been much easier. We talked about my classes and if I felt they had prepared me for the journey or not. I didn't have the heart to tell her that her class would probably be the least useful to me on my trip. After all, what can you really do with a talent for Charms?

It was a perfectly ordinary conversation until she hit me with that big question. Why do you want this, she asked me, why are you doing this? Everything she'd asked before that had been coming from a place of polite interest but I could hear a genuine curiosity in her voice. It was just like her to steer a friendly conversation to a serious place with only a few words. I'm still not sure why I was so caught off guard. Maybe it was because nobody has asked me this question yet. Maybe it was because I wasn't really proud of the answer.

She seemed disappointed in me when I stammered through some muddled excuse about Ancient Ruins. She knew that I didn't care much for Ancient Ruins. Nobody did; it was a dull class with a miserable wasp of a teacher and anyone who took it did so regretfully. I've never been a fan of lying, especially not to the only teacher who cares about me for me, but I couldn't admit to why I really wanted to go on the expedition to El Dorado. I ducked away from her disbelieving gaze and tried to make up from my pathetic answer by saying how exciting the journey would be if I made it. She didn't seem satisfied with this but she said nothing else on the topic.

The conversation turned to more mundane things after that, until it was dark outside and I told her that I needed to catch some sleep before my big dueling lesson tomorrow. This is not necessarily untrue. I do plan to sleep, just not because I care about dueling. I don't remember the last time I won a duel. But that's a topic of discussion for another day. Professor Bergfalk was disappointed to let me go but she wished me luck in my hopes of going on the grand adventure to El Dorado and told me that after this talk, she'd put in a good word for me. I didn't know how to tell her that I didn't want her help so I just said goodnight and went back to my room.

Marielle asked me about it when I got in, she told me that other candidates had been speaking to teachers all day to assess whether or not they were worthy of a spot on the expedition. My heart has been in my stomach ever since because while I know that Professor Bergfalk thinks highly of me, my conversation with her was less than impressive in terms of an interview. Anyone listening to her tell of what I said today will be disappointed. However, I'm hoping that she will indeed put in a good word for me. Despite what I said to her, this trip does mean a lot to me for reasons other than Ancient Ruins.

I've yet to tell anyone except Marielle this but this trip could be a chance to make my own legacy. This could be the thing that sets me apart from the other Lindströms, that makes me my own person. My family is not known for our good deeds and positive achievements but I could be. I, Sanna Lindström, am on the edge of something great. I could do something with my legacy that really matters. It's stupid, I know, but it's the real reason that I'm pursuing this with such zeal. I have one shot to make something of myself and I'll regret it for the rest of my life if I throw away that shot. I have to do this.

Hopefully things work out in my favor. They often do. I may not have the gift of divination but I can see myself going on this grand adventure. I can almost feel the warm tropical air. My mind is alive and buzzing with the idea of adventure. Hopefully Professor Bergfalk speaks well on my behalf. Hopefully what I've done so far will be enough to get me closer to my goal of achieving greatness. Sometimes the best thing to do is have a little hope, a little faith in yourself.

-Sanna

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Vendetta Moroz

I, Vendetta Moroz, am amazing.

With all the essays she had written recently, she could have almost gotten herself through just with a few, carefully phrased words. For she knew she walked along the thinnest of tightropes as she applied for the expedition. One misplaced step and she was doomed, lost her chance at making it across, tumbling to the horrors that awaited her below, reaching out to gobble her up. But she wouldn't make that wrong step, no matter how much she shook on the inside. Even though she was trembling fiercer than if she had been trapped in a blanket of ice, infected by particles of cold that seeped through her skin, freezing her from the outside in until it wrapped around her weak heart and terrified mind, stifling their activities with a simple layer of snow, she would not fall.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am flawless.

Even when they thought she made an error- a missed assignment, late to a class, whispering as the professor taught- there was always a reason behind her actions. She always had reason on her side, fighting in the war against chaos. Despite her constant whirlwind, she was controlled, always calculating her moves as though life was a game of chess. Yet she played all the roles at once, switching pieces constantly, king one round and pawn the next. It was all very careful planning, her game- but the game never ended, just repeated in an endless cycle of calculations, moving, sacrifices and captures.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am bored.

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Her hand drummed anxiously against her knee as the clocked continued its downward spiral, darting from one number to the next at a speed so consistent she envied it. She was so inconsistent, couldn't keep a beat with her personalities. There was no repetition, no calming tick that moved so slowly, yet so quickly as she transformed from one person to another.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am surprising.

She was not nervous- she couldn't let her anxiety destroy her chances, couldn't let it destroy her persona. She was calm, as serene as the ocean peacefully lapping against the sand. She was cool, easygoing and smooth, waves that just went with the flow as they were pushed forward, never fighting back against the direction they were pulled. She was collected, proper and immaculate, a surely impressive appearance for someone so young. They would love her. There was absolutely no reason for them to feel anything else.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am satisfactory.

Soundlessly, the solid oak door she sat outside of opened, and a head came peering out, searching for the next victim to enter. Eyes flitted briefly throughout the hall before landing on her, and she was almost caught off guard as chartreuse irises revealed themselves- striking, with a certain intimidation factor. She maintained her composure with significant effort- calm, cool, collected. There was no reason for her to stumble over her words, fall prey to clumsiness due to only startling eyes that she doubted had any link to the man's personality at all.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am fantastic.

He gave her a curt nod, and she rose, posture lengthening vertically until she stood at her full height, reaching just slightly less high than the interviewer. Boiling slightly inside, she focused her energy towards gracefulness rather than intimidation. Strategy was vital, and her best shot at giving a good impression was to stay as indifferent and crisp as possible. She could not switch roles in the blink of an eye, could not let her emotions run wild no matter how much the stress ruled over her, weighing down on her mind with almost too much pressure for her to handle without exploding. But she would not disintegrate during this interview, consumed by the strain. She would not.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am unconcerned.

She stepped inside as the door was opened wider for her, a queen's entrance. Her steps light and formal, sultry brown eyes scanned the office, darting over majestic gold plaques that lined the chestnut walls. A dominating, black cherry desk had been positioned in the center of the space, angled slightly towards the doorway, and twin armchairs rested on either side- one for student, one teacher, she knew. But what caught her attention most was the stack of files neatly arranged on the table. Hers was somewhere in there, amongst all the others who hoped they would be chosen for the expedition. What would make her folder stand out, be different from all the other ones in the pile?

I, Vendetta Moroz, am exceptional.

If she hadn't stopped a hand, she would have reached up to twirl a strand of her hair nervously, but stifled the action, sure the slightest sign of agitation would ruin her persona. It had been tied in her latest knot, one on the simpler side to give off a professional aura, so neatly fastened in place but incredibly fragile the slightest wisp of a touch would send dozens of hairs loose, something she could not afford to risk. Gently lowering herself into the seat as the sturdy door shut, she settled into a comfortable stance- spine erect, but hardly on the edge of her seat. Crossing her legs, she mimicked the courtly pose she had always remembered her mother in, the most ladylike of all the ladies.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am dignified.

It was often a question in her head of how much her mother had influenced her. Too often the interactive pictures of her mother as a teenager were strikingly similar to Vendetta. But times when she could stare, intrigued, at who that person had been had long passed. She would not be the same as that woman, no matter what path life led her down, and besides, new opportunities had arisen. First, her studies, consistently holding a position at the top of the class. Intellectuality had been followed by spells, which she easily mastered. Manipulation had been her main goal for quite a while when everything else became too easy, but even that was losing its thrill. And finally, the expedition.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am gifted.

She glanced back at chartreuse eyes with her own steely gaze as he rounded the desk, taking his place on the other side. Meeting her gaze, a soft smile spread across his face- meant to be reassuring, she sensed, though it was a tad forced. Perhaps his mouth had made the same movement for all the students before her. Could he not tell she wasn't like the others? Could he not tell she was far from apprehensive?

I, Vendetta Moroz, am confident.

Giving her a sidelong glance as he reached for the stack, his smile faded rapidly, clouds snuffing out the rays of sunshine. For a moment she was only met with a stare; raising an eyebrow expectantly, the student maintained her stillness, waiting. Words flowed from his mouth smoothly, though she sensed a tad of brusqueness. It was no wonder he was exhausted of interviews by her time. "Who are you?"

I am Vendetta Moroz.

"Not your name, I know that. Who are you?" He stared at her as though she had an answer. Her mouth dropped open slightly, wheels in her mind rotating at a pace she didn't think they had ever sped up to before. Who was she? What kind of a question was that? She had not prepared herself for an interview with questions like that. She was slipping, wasn't she, allowing her shock to puncture the diligently crafted identity. Panic that had been watching the show with only a faint whisper here and there had taken over the main role. Where were calm, cool and collected? Beads of sweat crawled across her palms as her face creased in bafflement, a flaw in flawlessness. Who was she?

Who is Vendetta Moroz?

He watched intently as she struggled to form words, a hint of curiosity in the chartreuse that she couldn't stand. How was she possibly collapsing at one simple question, one terribly easy question for anyone else to answer? Tearing her gaze away, she broke the thin binding that had held her to self-assurance, directing her gaze into her lap, where she studied the smooth-edged, polished nails that lined her fingertips. Tomorrow, she decided, the polish would be removed, for was she really this girl with the perfect appearance? Was she really as professional as she acted, as proper as she seemed? The question bit at her and she hated it, but who was she?

I, Vendetta Moroz, am amazing.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am flawless.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am bored.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am surprising.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am satisfactory.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am fantastic.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am unconcerned.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am exceptional.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am dignified.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am gifted.

I, Vendetta Moroz, am confident.

But I am not Vendetta Moroz.