He had the awkward tenderness of someone who has never been loved and is forced to improvise.  
— Isabel Allende 

Fustian 
(n.) pretentious talk or writing 

Azalea POV 

September breezes by surprisingly fast. I have my head buried in books and food for the most part. 

I may lead my class in Charms, Defence Against the Dark Arts, Transfiguration, and Potions, but I'm a lost cause in Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. And the History of Magic? Well, turns out, when you switch countries, history changes, too. The all-nighters I pulled trying to memorise facts and write essays are now positively useless. 

I don't know how I found my balls, but somehow, I strapped them on and marched up to Dumbledore's office, demanding my electives be switched from Care of Magical Creatures to Muggle Studies and Divination to Study of Ancient Runes. 

Dumbledore politely told me I could have approached Snape instead of going to all the trouble of trudging up to his office, but I'd rather eat slugs than interact with the Head of my House unless absolutely necessary. I don't tell this to the headmaster for obvious reasons. 

So now, instead of Divination, my elective is the Study of Ancient Runes, but Dumbledore denied my request to switch to Muggle studies. His reasoning: I grew up as a Muggle, so it, quote unquote, would be pointless and unfair to the other witches and wizards. In response, I told him to fuck right off. 

And that was that. 

The rest of September is a blur. 

I sign Quidditch broomsticks. 

I study ahead for next year's Charms class. 

I religiously write to Cove and Mrs Krum every Saturday. 

I develop a frenemy relationship with Pansy and a decent one with Daphne. 

I try (and fail) to smooth my relationship with Ron. 

I become the object of Hermione's adoration when she discovers I read books in my free time. I don't have the heart to tell her that it's not always textbooks and mostly includes an obscene amount of Muggle romances, literary classics, or Franz Kafka. 

I sit by the Great Lake on most evenings, talking with Harry. 

Merlin knows how, but I survive Millicent's snoring every night. 

I endure Draco's teasing insults, Blaise's unmasked flirtations, and Theodore's unreadable stares until it becomes a daily routine.  

I discover that the only time Ron won't bite my head off is when we're discussing Quidditch. 

I lie awake late into the night with Knox every day, barely getting a wink of sleep. 

I learn that Harry's a Seeker on Gryffindor's team and just as passionate about the sport as I am. We make a deal to meet on the Training Grounds every alternate afternoon. Madam Hooch, our Flying Instructor and Quidditch referee, is thrilled when she's introduced to me. 

I teach Harry the Wronski Feint, seeing as he plays as Seeker and could use that trick. Cove wanted to learn it last year, so I'd tagged along as she stalked every one of Viktor's practice matches until she got the technique perfected. The image of Harry's wide, delighted grin after he successfully pulls the manoeuvre is stuck in my head for the rest of that day. 

Harry grows more and more sceptical of the company I'm forced to keep. He doesn't try to hide his slight frown anymore when Draco swoops in and loops his arm around me and steals me away.  

I excel at Potions, resisting the urge to stick my tongue out at Snape every time he sneaks up to assess my cauldron, hoping to find something wrong. He never does.  

I'm introduced to Ron's younger sister, Ginny, who's also a Quidditch badass. 

Crabbe and Goyle sneer and shove me into walls whenever they spot me walking back after a solo trip to the library or Owlery. While I'm not entirely defenceless, I don't think I want to test my luck and skill with my fists and hexes against their mammoth builds. They may be daft ostriches, but they know enough dark spells to give Durmstrang's fifth year course a run for its money. 

Draco and Blaise's initial dislike waters down. They still make sport of me, but I bite back, too, and surprisingly, Pansy's steadily been joining my side against them, making our bickering less antagonising and more entertaining. 

Harry's upset when he realises I've grown accustomed to Draco's presence. Hermione's subsequent subtle hostility catches me off guard, but Harry tells me that Pansy has been a Class A bitch to her since year one, and seeing me and Pansy together doesn't sit right with her. Ron simply grins and gives Harry the I-told-you-so look and tells him that Slytherin was bound to poison me. 

On more than one occasion, I glimpse my twin across the hall watching me with a tight, narrow gaze during mealtimes when I'm laughing with my friends in Slytherin. 

On the last evening of September, Harry and I get into an argument. Unsurprisingly, the subject is regarding the casualness with which I've grown to deal with Draco, Blaise, and Pansy. 

On the second evening of October, with a nervous flush to his face, a downturned mouth, and scratching the back of his neck, Harry apologises with a box of my favourite pineapple-flavoured Muggle muffins. No matter how hard I drill into him, he refuses to tell me where he got it from. 

I count down the days till the thirtieth of October. 

And then it arrives. 

Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes YES! 

For the rest of the week, I don't get a wink of sleep. Not even Draco's jabs can dim my excitement. Even Pansy's second-rate pranks can't stop the bounce in my step as I race down the grand staircase at half-past five to the front of the castle. 

"From the way she's been jumping all day, you'd think she's been crowned with Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award," I hear Blaise mutter to Pansy, and that splits my smile even wider. 

"You think my smile's charming?" I ask Blaise as I pass the duo, casting him a sideways, teasing glance before skipping off, his sputtering response lost to the wind. 

"Someone's in a nauseatingly good mood," Draco says, sliding into step beside me with all the fluid grace of the winged, skeletal horse that pulled the carriages to Hogwarts back on my first day. 

"I'll give you a free pass to Crucio me tomorrow if you don't ruin today for me," I say, looking pointedly at the conniving gleam in his pale features. Under the approaching twilight sky, those features softly glow. 

"Do I get to make a show out of it in the common room?" he asks, a rogue smirk splitting his face. 

I roll my eyes. "Ever the gentleman," I mumble. 

The only reason I haven't petrified him and turned him into my favourite surfboard is because this month, he's used the word Mudblood only once, which was at the beginning of the month, which is a massive reformation as opposed to seventeen in the month of September. Naturally, I could tally the count only if he cursed in my presence, but from what I know, he hasn't gone around spitting insults at Muggle-borns as much this month. 

Although I think it can mostly be attributed to my temporary flirting with him in one of the Care of Magical Creatures classes, shyly asking for help, causing his pride to lower his guard. He walked away with a nasty burn on his hand from a rogue Blast-Ended Skrewt I accidentally let loose. 

That resulted in Crabbe and Goyle taking personal offence on his behalf and conjuring a clutter of spiders, shoving me into Snape's office, which was filled with them, and promptly locking me inside it for a fourth of a day. Snape eventually returned and gave me a week of detention and banned me from visiting Hogsmeade for a month. 

But anyways. 

"Lovely ladies deserve proper men, don't you agree?" Draco says, using my shoulder as an armrest as he glances down at me sideways, slyly smirking. 

That organ in my chest flutters. 

"I think you're getting unattractively comfortable," I tell him, shaking his forearm off my shoulder. The irrational part of me laments the loss of contact. 

Draco straightens, his arm slipping from my shoulder as I shove it off, but the smirk never leaves his face. He steps closer, crowding into my space, his breath cool against my cheek as he leans down, his voice dropping to his trademark low, lazy drawl.

"Watch yourself, Potter," he murmurs, his grey eyes gleaming with that infuriating blend of mischief and challenge. "If you keep pushing me away, I might just have to find other ways to... hold your attention." 

I force myself to hold his gaze, unwilling to give him the satisfaction of seeing the heat creeping up my neck. His hand, now no longer resting on my shoulder, drops to my waist as he tugs me out of the path of a band of overeager, sprinting first years. There, his hand lingers at my waist for a beat too long, his thumb brushing the fabric of my cloak. 

"And if you keep testing me, Malfoy," I drop my own voice to a low whisper, "I might just find a way to permanently rearrange that pretty face of yours."

"You certainly could try." His eyes flash, a ghost of a grin playing at the corner of his lips. "In fact, I'd prefer it if you did. It would make things interesting and give me a reason to put you in—" 

Before I can bite back with another threat or Draco can finish his questionable declaration, a familiar, incredulous voice cuts through the thickening tension. 

"Am I interrupting something?" 

I tear my gaze away from Draco's maddeningly close face to find Harry standing a few feet away, his green eyes flicking between us with a mixture of disbelief and... is that a hint of betrayal? His jaw is clenched so tightly I can almost hear his teeth grinding. 

Draco's head swivels towards Harry, and for a split second, I feel his fingers tighten at my waist, a movement that sends a jolt through my veins. But then he lets go, stepping back with a slow, unrepentant smirk. 

"Ah, if it isn't the undesirable Potter," Draco drawls, the cold, mocking edge slipping back into his tone as he straightens, dusting off his sleeves like he's brushing off some minor inconvenience. "Come to keep an eye on your wayward sister, have you?" 

Harry's eyes are blazing, his fists clenching at his sides as he snaps, "Shove off, Malfoy. I'm sure Parkinson's probably missing you already." 

Draco raises an eyebrow, his smirk widening. "In a mood, are we, Potter?" 

I quickly step between them, firmly grabbing Harry's forearm before he can whip out his wand and hex Malfoy again. I've had enough detention these past two months to last me a decade. "Don't," I hiss at him, meeting his scathing gaze. "He's not worth it." 

Harry's jaw tightens, his glare never leaving Draco. "Stay away from her, Malfoy. I'm warning you." 

Draco chuckles. It's a low, mocking sound. 

"Oh, I'm terrified, Potter," he sneers, his eyes flicking to mine for a brief, electric moment before turning back to Harry. "But perhaps you should be the one watching your back. You never know who might be whispering in your sister's ear." 

And with that, he turns on his heel, his cloak sweeping dramatically behind him as he saunters away, Blaise falling into step beside him with a dark chuckle. 

I let out a breath I didn't realise I was holding.  

Harry watches them go, barely contained rage blotting his clumsy boyish aura. His hands are still balled into tight fists, and I consider the merits of offering him a Chocolate Frog. When I note the profound distaste marring his green eyes that mirror mine, I come to the conclusion that a Chocolate Frog isn't going to be much help right now. 

"Azalea," Harry demands, his voice sharp with frustration as he grabs my shoulder and spins me to face him fully, "What the hell was that?" 

I jerk my arm out of his grip, the lingering echo of Draco's touch still warm at my waist. "Don't. I'm fine. It's just Malfoy being Malfoy." 

He steps closer, his gaze searching my face, his anger now mixed with a flicker of worry. "Fine? Az, he had his hands on you. What is going on with you and Malfoy?"

I roll my shoulders as if to shake off the ghost of Draco's touch. "Nothing is going on between us. He's just a prat with too much time on his hands."

Harry's eyes narrow, his clenched jaw pronouncing the pulse jumping beneath his skin. Maybe Harry and Draco aren't that dissimilar, because they look awfully alike when they're unhappy. Or maybe it's just a guy thing. 

He raises a challenging eyebrow at my words. 

I bite back a frustrated sigh, pushing past him to weave through the mob of first, fifth, seventh, sixth, third, and second years to get to the first row in the front of the castle. "You're not my keeper, Harry. I can handle Malfoy."

He takes a step closer, his shadow swallowing mine in the dimming light. "I know you can handle yourself, Az, but he's not a good person. He'll chew you up and spit you out the moment it suits him, or even just for sport." 

A bitter laugh escapes my lips before I can stop it. "And what, you think I don't know that? You think I haven't noticed the way he and his cronies keep circling me like vultures?"

Harry's fists clench again, the skin over his knuckles turning white. "Then why let him get so close? Why let him put his hands on you?" 

The frustration boiling in my chest finally spills over. 

"Because I don't have a bloody choice, alright? This castle is a snake pit, and I'm stuck in the middle of it! You have your friends, your safety net, your bloody golden trio, but me?" I jab a finger at my own chest. "I've got nothing. No allies, no backup. Just me. And Knox, if I'm lucky and Snape doesn't get his way." 

Harry recoils slightly, his eyes wide with a mix of hurt and anger, and for a moment, guilt claws at my chest. 

But I don't have a choice. 

Silly pranks and surface-level insults are enough to keep Draco on his toes at a pace that holds both our interests. But the second I really, truly piss him off, I'm done for. 

Bartemius Crouch Senior is going to be there for the Triwizard Ceremony. I know as much from Cove's latest letter, since Skylar spills every piece of classified information he discovers to her. I bet fifty Galleons he sucked up to Karkaroff and wrung him dry for whatever information about the Tournament he could. 

I can't risk getting myself into trouble when I've made it these two months without a whisper of serious action. I'd gone through the laws laid down by the Wizengamot after Draco's first threat. 

Attacking a ministry official is not something to play about. 

"That's not fair," Harry says, his voice shaking slightly, and I realise he's more hurt than angry now. "I'm trying to be here for you, Az. I'm trying to keep you safe." 

I press the heels of my palms against my eyes as I reach the parapet, trying to force back the prickling heat. "I don't need your protection, Harry. I need you to trust that I can handle myself."  

Despite the cacophony of the castle, a heavy silence hangs between us. 

Harry's shoulders sag, the fight draining out of him. "Fine," he says quietly, his gaze dropping to the stone floor. "But if he ever tries something like that again, I won't stand by." 

I release a breath. "Fine." 

I suppose that's the most I'll get from him. We're in the process of getting to know each other, though it's been rather easy to fall into a comfortable conversation with him, like slipping on a perfectly fitted glove. From the time I've spent with him, I've discovered that Harry's fiercely protective of his own, something I admire him for. But right now, it's grating on my nerves because it's jeopardising my status as a free witch. 

With a final, tight nod, Harry rests his arms on the parapet, staring into the distance as we wait for our guests to arrive. 

I stand on my toes and barely manage to rest my chin on the stone structure, scanning the horizon for any signs of whatever grand entrance Karkaroff has planned. That is one morsel of information Viktor denied telling me, despite my best efforts. 

Harry snorts, and I swat him before he comments on my height. 

●⁍●⁍●   

It's a bloody ship. 

Durmstrang arrives in an honest-to-Merlin ship. 

A crumbling, straight-out-of-a-horror-movie, skeletal wreck of a ship, but a ship nonetheless. 

I grin, vibrant and wide, as it reaches the bank and drops the anchor. A plank thuds onto the bank, and the familiar blood red uniform makes my heart unconsciously pang as students spill out of the ship.  

While Karkaroff ascends the staircase and greets Dumbledore, my exalted gaze bounces between every face, far too quickly for me to note any of their features. My eyes retrace their path when I realise that, and this time, when I scan the group, I spot two very familiar faces. 

"Harry—it's Krum!"  

A figure abruptly pushes through the crowd behind us, and then a redhead is shoving me to the side to barrel into the gap between me and Harry. I stumble as the ground tilts, and I catch myself before I go sprawling on the floor. 

No, I don't catch myself; someone else does. Warmth. A firm, steady grip. My gaze jerks up

"Careful, Potter," a deep, steady voice says, gentle and refined with a hint of teasing. 

I spin around, mortified, and an apology spills past my lips. "I'm sorry—"  

My words die in my throat when I lock eyes with the wizard. 

I've seen him before, of course—on the Quidditch pitch, darting through the air with his signature blend of grace and power. Up close, though, he's something else. An absolute eye-candy of a sixth-year, with a strong build and chiselled features that are shaped just right. A jawline sharp enough to cut glass, eyes a warm shade of grey that seem to shimmer in the fading light. He offers me a small, concerned smile. 

Heat flushes my cheeks. 

"Yeah, sorry about that," I quickly mumble, averting my gaze right as Cedric Diggory smiles and shakes his head. Now that is someone who, without question, deserves Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award. 

"Ron," Harry says, frowning at his best friend. "Try to watch where you're going, yeah?" 

Ron uninterestedly spares me a fleeting glance, his eyes fixed ahead at Durmstrang's crowd, his expression vaguely annoyed when he looks at me. "Not my fault she's so short, she isn't even in my line of sight," he mutters distractedly, eyes darting back to whatever had so thoroughly snagged his attention. 

I grit my teeth, my blush from Cedric's touch twisting into something else entirely, but before I can snap back, the crowd around us surges again, a wave of excited whispers cresting as the Durmstrang students file into the castle. 

No picking a fight. Not now. Not when my friends are about to arrive. 

When I return my gaze to the foreign students, Viktor catches my attention first. Karkaroff's pulled him into his conversation with Dumbledore. Unsurprising, considering that Vik's his prized pupil. 

I smile when I see the five-ten broad-shouldered wizard impatiently shift on his feet. 

It's easier to find Skylar. He's smoothly slipped into a circle of Beauxbatons' witches, and I watch as he flashes one smile at them, and then the lot is swooning. 

Pig. 

Some things never change. 

I shake my head and rest my brow on the parapet, trying to wrestle my smile into submission. When I raise my head, I find that Hermione's made an appearance as well. Ron's looking at her with a disbelieving gaze. 

"—I had no idea he was still at school!" 

Dumbledore gestures for Beauxbatons and Durmstrang to head inside, and as Hogwarts's student body follows them, I squeeze between their frames and sprint ahead, nearly knocking a first-year Gryffindor into a stone pillar. 

I mouth a quick sorry as I slip past the rest of the students, but stop as I realise that perhaps storming into the crowd of another school's students might not be socially acceptable. Especially a school from which I was promptly, unfairly expelled. 

Karkaroff's steely gaze sweeps over the sea of Hogwarts students like a searchlight, sharp and assessing, and I instinctively duck behind the taller Slytherin in front of me. No point in advertising my presence when I'm certain I'm the last person he expects to see here. 

Unless he already knows it. 

Let's hope he doesn't. 

The Slytherin in front of me shifts, half-turning, and my heartbeat wobbles. Sharp eyes like the steel of a dagger lock onto mine. Draco.  

"Hiding, Potter?" he taunts, his breath stirring the loose strands of my hair. "And here I thought you thrived on attention." 

Why is he everywhere I go? 

Can't get a moment's peace in this fortress of a castle. I scowl, straightening despite the unease creeping up my spine. "I'm avoiding unwanted attention. Subtle difference. Maybe try it sometime." 

He leans back, his eyes never leaving mine. "Harry let you off on your own? I thought for sure he'd be tightening your leash so you wouldn't go around hunting for me again." 

Oh, this self-absorbed, silver-eyed bastard. 

I should shove past him, shoulder him aside and vanish into the throng of students before Karkaroff's hawkish eyes land on me, but Draco's smirk holds me in place, like a perfectly executed Stupefy. 

"Relax," he whispers, voice low as he spares Karkaroff a second's glance. "I won't tell. Yet." 

Merlin, I hate him. 

"Choke on a Blast-Ended Skrewt, Malfoy. I'm going to go find my friends," I tell him, entering the Great Hall. Draco follows me like a very white shadow. Go figure. 

Beauxbatons is already seated at Ravenclaw's table, but Durmstrang's students linger near the doorway, as if unsure of where to sit. I can solve that problem. 

Skylar spots me the same second I do him. He's separated from the entourage of Beauxbatons' witches and is at the edge of his school's crowd when his gaze locks onto mine, eyes widening before his face breaks into an uncontainable grin. He elbows Viktor sharply, muttering something, and the Bulgarian's head snaps in my direction. 

Viktor's grumbling, stony expression lights up, and I've barely taken a step before he slips away from the red-robed crowd, crossing the few feet between us in a blink. He wraps me in a hug so fierce, he might just end up snapping my spine like a twig. I think an air bubble in my shoulders just popped.

"Hi," I croak out, trying to breathe through the iron grip of his biceps. "Vik... ribs... fragile... remember?"

He releases me with a grunt, setting me back on my feet as Skylar swoops in for his turn, arms flung wide in a dramatic, sweeping motion that nearly takes out a small second-year Hufflepuff to my left.

"Azzy! My dark little harbinger of chaos!" he crows, clutching me to his chest with an exaggerated flourish. "You've no idea how dead boring the ship's been without you!"

Oh fuck.

Oh no.

This BLOODY bastard.

I might have missed this dickhead, but I cringe away from what's no doubt his master plan at embarrassing the living life out of me. There's no Cove to suffer the brunt of it this time.

"I think I regret missing you," I declare when Sky releases me.

I brush my now slightly crumpled Slytherin robes back into place, only to catch them both eyeing Draco, who hovers just a step behind me, his pale eyes narrowed and jaw set.

The reserved awe with which he'd looked at Vik dissolves to prominent apathy when his eyes turn to Sky.

Skylar's grin fades, his posture shifting from overdramatic weirdo to something different. Viktor's expression hardens, his thick brows knitting together as his eyes drift from Draco's pointed, aristocratic features to my own, silently asking for an explanation.

"Oh, him?" I mutter as I point a thumb in Draco's direction. I recall Viktor's description of Draco back in the summer. A kid, he'd called him.

"I don't like him either," I say, "He's just a persistent thorn in my side. Keeps following me around, making my life thoroughly miserable."

Skylar's grin returns, but this time it's all teeth, his hazel eyes gleaming in a manner that reminds me of Cove. "Is that so? I thought Durmstrang had all the sadists."

Viktor crosses his muscled arms, giving Draco a stare so frosty it might as well be a Dementor's kiss. "Should I eliminate the problem, Az?" he asks in his heavy, accented voice.

Draco, to his credit, doesn't flinch, but I can feel the subtle shift in his posture, the slight tightening of his jaw as he sizes up my friends. He's no fool. He knows better than to pick a fight with them. 

Especially after Skylar voices his proficiency in the Dark Arts.

A laugh bubbles up my throat before I can contain it, and I grin like an unhinged witch as I shake my head. "Tempting, but I'm fine. He's mostly just irritating. You know, living off daddy's money with a superiority complex."

Skylar's grin sharpens further. "Alright then, but if you ever need it, just say the word. I've been itching to try out some new curses. Cove wouldn't let me try them on her Puffskein."

I roll my eyes. "Save the theatrics for the Tournament, Sky."

Viktor snorts, clapping one massive hand on Skylar's shoulder and the other on Draco's. It's the first time Draco doesn't look all high and mighty—he looks exactly like what Vik called him: a kid.

Draco glares at me, and I return a smile. 

This is fun. 

"I suppose ve vill be sitting at your green table?" Vik asks, gesturing towards Slytherin. 

Viktor does not let go of Draco's shoulder as I guide him to Slytherin's table, the rest of Durmstrang following suit. He even goes so far as to make sure Draco is sitting right beside him. 

Sky sits to Vik's left, and I sidle into the seat to Sky's right, regretting it when Pansy, accompanied by Blaise and Nott, drops into the seat right across from him and falls prey to Sky's flirtatious smile. She smiles right back at him suggestively. 

"She's fifteen, too," I whisper to Sky, basking in the glow of a job well done as horror crosses his face and he quickly apologises, much to Pansy's dismay. 

When I glance past Sky and Vik at Draco, I find him stewing in his bruised pride. When our gazes lock, he's glaring daggers right into my soul. 

Oh shit, is what runs through my head as he flicks his eyes to the Head Table, where Bartemius Crouch now sits with Dumbledore and... Bagman. 

Isn't this lovely. 

I beg my stars to save my life. 

●⁍●⁍●    

The Great Hall buzzes around us, the glow of floating candles reflecting in the enchanted ceiling above, which is now dark and stormy. Vik spends a good minute looking at it appreciatingly until Crabbe says something about me sucking Durmstrang dick and ends up with vines tightening around his throat. Sky, Vik's trusty sidekick, steals away Crabbe's ability to shout for help while Vik's vines strangle him. 

"Amateur mistake," Skylar mutters, twirling his wand idly between his fingers, eyes flicking to Crabbe's reddening face. "You don't insult someone who can conjure Devil's Snare on a whim." 

Bloody. Hell. 

I have to ask him to teach me that spell. 

"I—didn't—" Crabbe claws at his throat, and though a part of me winces, I find myself enjoying this. "—insult—you!"  

"Semantics," Sky says, rolling his eyes while Vik flicks a vine dangerously close to Crabbe's eyes. 

Blaise, sitting beside Crabbe and Goyle, looks torn between hexing Skylar and bursting into laughter. Pansy doesn't even bother to hide her delight. 

Crabbe's face turns into an alarming shade of purple, and I decide that that's enough. "Vik, I really don't want to have to explain a strangled classmate to the Head of my House," I say, then whisper the last part, "He isn't exactly my greatest fan."  

"Karkaroff number two?" Vik asks in a low voice as he lazily flicks his wand. The vines retract, slithering back into the shadows beneath the table, and Crabbe collapses against the bench, wheezing for breath as Goyle thumps his back. 

"Yep," I tell him. 

Viktor leans back, crossing his arms over his broad chest as he watches Crabbe recover with all the interest of a dragon sizing up a wounded deer. "Perhaps now you vill learn to keep that forked tongue of yours in check" 

Crabbe splutters, his gaze darting between the Durmstrang boys. 

I miserably fail at biting back my grin, so I reach for my goblet instead, taking a long sip of pumpkin juice. When I look straight ahead, across me, Pansy is doing the same. Both our grins grow wider as we lock eyes. 

She may not be the best witch on this continent, but at least she's team anti-Crabbe-and-Goyle. 

 "Where did you even learn that spell?" Pansy asks Vik, abandoning her pursuit of Sky when he doesn't so much as spare her a hint of his earlier, flirtatious smile. 

"Oh, ve've had years of practice." 

"Wasn't that just one time at the Lake of the Dead?" I muse, casting a sideways glance at Viktor, whose stern countenance offers a small chuckle. 

"DA," he says as he picks up his fork again. Sky adds, "And that time in Transfiguration when we cursed that Romanian twat to speak in backwards gibberish for a week."  

That is something I did not know. 

I'm so learning that spell from Sky as well. 

Crabbe, finally regaining his breath, glowers at the three of us, his eyes still wide and wild, a faint purple bruise already forming along his jaw where the vines had tightened the most. "Bloody hell," he rasps, rubbing his throat. "You lot are psychotic. Just like fucking Potter." 

I choose to take that as a compliment, and so does Sky, as affirmed by the grin on his face. Vik doesn't bother responding to the fourth-year and instead busies himself piling his plate with food. 

Draco, beside Viktor, is still paler than his usual self, knowing now that he is thoroughly outmatched both physically and magically. 

I watch as Vik deliberately swipes everything Draco is reaching for off the table and places it on his own. 

I kind of pity the blonde now. 

Dumbledore's speech is drowned out when a group of squealing fifth and sixth-year Slytherins ask Vik for his autograph. One girl flat-out asks him to sign her cheek in lipstick, and I bury my face in food. 

Conversation resumes, but I don't need to look to know Crabbe and Goyle are glaring into my soul, plotting their next move. 

Viktor and Sky catch me up on the situation back home. 

"It's been dead dull without you at Durmstrang. Cove's either been annoying me to death or lying on the roof and staring at the stars," Sky says, a sad smile curving his lips at the last part. My heart clenches painfully. Cove's entire personality is light and life; I can't imagine her being silent. 

"Don't worry, she is okay. Keeps threatening to smuggle herself onto the ship if I don't send her daily updates on you," Vik says, "She does not trust her brother to tell her everything."  

I laugh, knowing fully well that she would do it. "That's Cove for you. Flair for dramatics, just like Sky."  

"Don't I know it," Skylar mutters, swiping his goblet off the table and leaning back with a devil-may-care grin. "Last I heard, she nearly hexed half her year for suggesting that Karkaroff had fed you to a Grindylow or something."

I choke on my pumpkin juice. That's absurd.  "Grindylow? Really?" 

Skylar nods, tearing into his chicken leg. "She's convinced that now that they've jinxed it, you'll somehow find a way to die horribly in the most mundane of situations and begged me to teach you more charms. Last week, she was certain you'd accidentally wandered into your school's Forbidden Forest and been adopted by a pack of Centaurs when you didn't owl her." 

I roll my eyes. "She's far more likely to end up duelling a Dementor out of sheer boredom than I am to die. And the owl was one day late." 

A while later, Skylar and Viktor turn to a seventh-year Durmstrang witch and begin talking about something Triwizard Tournament-related. Draco and Nott converse in low voices and muttered curses, while Crabbe grumbles about his bruises to Goyle. I decide to indulge myself in the French cuisine that the elves specially made in honour of Beauxbatons. 

"You know, you're fraternising with the enemy right now. You're supposed to be on Hogwarts's side," Blaise says from across me, snatching the dessert I'd been reaching for. Arsehole. "They're Durmstrang." 

"And you're a Slytherin," I counter, sliding Sky's untouched bowl of some sort of shellfish stew onto my own plate. I thank my stars when he doesn't notice. "You're supposed to value cunning and resourcefulness over petty rivalries." 

Though I'm sure their stark dislike for my last name is enough to say that they love petty rivalries. 

"I think I've figured out where Potter gets her superiority complex from," Pansy says to Blaise in a pathetic excuse of a whisper. "She isn't the problem, it's just Durmstrang." 

A backhanded compliment. 

Skylar hears what Pansy says, and he pulls away from talking with his friends to stare at Pansy with a tilted head. "Superior? No, we just know how to get what we want." 

"That's Parkinson, by the way," I tell him. I'd ranted unabashedly about her chafing attempts at ending my life in my letters. Sky's macaron drops back to his plate as he levels an are-you-bloody-serious look at me. 

"That wretched, second-rate creature is the one who's been pissing you off?" He looks half horrified and half horribly disappointed as he mumbles, "Az, you do realise that you can just wipe that sorry excuse of a witch off this planet with a well-placed fist in the back of her head, right?" 

"I wish," I mutter, wincing as Pansy laughs painfully loudly in response to something Blaise says. Who needs a howler when you've got a Pansy Parkinson at your disposal. 

"Az-rae-el, is there a Quidditch pitch that ve can play on here?" Vik asks me, finally having abandoned his resolve to make Draco squirm. I smile as I spot Draco slumped in his seat in relief. 

Azrael. 

Merlin, it feels like it's been a lifetime since I've used that name. I've slipped into the role of Azalea Potter far too comfortably for it to be normal. 

I don't correct Vik about my name, not right now. 

"Of course there is and— oh! You simply have to meet my brother. Remember, the one I told you about in my letters? Yeah, that one. He's a Seeker for his house, and he'd be thrilled to meet you. You could probably teach him some kick-ass moves when you're not busy with Triwizard things!" 

Vik and Sky arch twin pairs of raised eyebrows at me. 

"Yeah, your so-called brother, who got airdropped into your life out of the blue," Sky states, looking at me distrustingly. "Is he an okay person, or do we have to add him to the Kill List, too?" 

"No! For fuck's sake, Sky, he's wonderful." Despite the occasional arguments over a certain sabotaging platinum-blonde. 

"Wonderful?" Skylar echoes, expression dry as toast. "Azrael, I trust your taste in owls more than I do in people, and even then, that bird of yours tries to murder me at least twice a week." 

"Because you keep trying to feed him Pocky sticks," I mutter. 

"Knox has taste," Viktor says approvingly. "Also, claws. You forget claws." 

Vik politely smiles as an excited group of third-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors skip back to their tables with a variety of signed articles. He returns Sky's quill to him, looking thoroughly done with autographs. Signing stuff hasn't stopped him from eavesdropping, though. 

"I quite pity your Harry Potter, though. If he is a nice, quiet boy, I do not think he vill be able to survive you." 

As the Hall around us continues to buzz with chatter and clinking silverware, I catch Draco glancing at me from the corner of his eye, his expression no longer accusatory or cruel, but instead unreadable, a faint furrow in his brow. 

Oh, Merlin, what fresh hell is he plotting now? 

Crinkly old, secret-keeping Albus Dumbledore rises, rousing me from thoughts of Draco. 

"The moment has come," he says, smiling at us. "The Triwizard Tournament is about to start."