We all deserve someone who stays and chooses us despite and in spite. 
— Uncredited 

Virago 
(n.) a strong, brave, or warlike woman; a woman who demonstrates exemplary and heroic qualities 

Azrael POV 

The Bulgarian team's coach bursts into the tent, his face pale, and an alarming sense that something horrible is happening outside glazes his eyes. The hand that clutches his wand is slightly shaking.

"APPARATE SOMEWHERE SAFE! YOU HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE!"

A silent chaos breaks out in the tent in the form of wide eyes, incredulous curses, intertwined hands, worrisome glances, anxious murmurs, and questioning gazes. 

"What's going on?" I ask as Viktor hauls me up and whips out his wand, holding it defensively as everyone gathers their things. 

"There are some terrifying people in masks wreaking havoc in the campsite and torturing Muggles. The Ministers believe they're followers of the wizard who caused the First Wizarding War; they have no idea why they're here. None of you are Muggle-born, are you?" 

I spot Levski subtly taking a step sideways so that he's in front of Ivanova, almost like he's shielding her.

"We can't leave, we've got to help them," Ivanova says with conviction, like it's a fact that isn't up for debate. Levski laces his hand with hers and shakes his head; so do several others.

"These people wouldn't bother lifting a finger to help us, let's not waste our time and risk our lives. I'd really rather not lose any of you." Coach's eyes sweep across the room. "Now, GET OUT OF HERE ALREADY!"

All occupants of the tent hurriedly try to squeeze out of the tent, causing a bit of a bottleneck at the entrance, and I hang back with Vik as Skylar and Cove make their way to us.

"Sky, can you get Azrael out? I 'ave got to find my mother."

Mrs Krum isn't with us. She could be anywhere in the frenzy. A shard of fear pierces my heart. "No, wait, I'll help you look for her!" Viktor shakes his head and says it's not safe.

"In case your adopted ass forgot, you don't know if you're half-bloof or Muggle-born; best to not take any chances." I slump in resignation at Cove's sensible words and link my arms through hers, while her brother mumbles something about always having to chaperone children. 

Durmstrang didn't admit Muggle-borns, though, so I was inclined to believe I was safe, but Cove was right—better not to take any chances. 

Skylar unlinks my and Cove's joined hands as we step out, and—before he can justify his actions—consequently gets a terrifyingly effective elbow in his abdomen from his sister.

"Bloody banshee–" I wince as Sky curses and clutches his stomach, glaring daggers at his sister. "Maybe pause to look around and you'll realise your hands are better suited to bearing wands than clinging to each other."

"Oh, shit." I curse. 

Towers of flames lick at the foundation of scattered tents, rising higher as they spread fast and claim more fuel. They light up the cold night, and although terror clenches my heart at the thought of the fire harming people, I'm at least not lost in the darkness thanks to the roaring flames. 

Absolute chaos is all I can see wherever I look. Witches, wizards, house-elves—everyone's running from something. 

"Both of you, stay close," Sky warns, eyes darting in all directions. "I'm not risking splinching either of you, so we have to get to the Top Box where I might have accidentally left my Portkey."

"You. Lost. A. Portkey." Cove shoots Sky a withering look. 

"I didn't lose it! I just... didn't think I'd need it, so I tucked the coin under the cushion of the chair for someone unfortunate to find. They'd have had a nice adventure; I was doing society a favour."

"Merlin, save us," I mumble, pulling out my wand and holding it before me as I eye the crowd while Cove and Sky continue to bicker. "We have more pressing matters at hand, you know, like not wasting time— is that Mrs Krum?"

A horde of people decked in Irish green shove past us, screaming and shouting, and I would have been swept away by the wave, too, if Sky hadn't been gripping my wrist with a bruising grip. I bite my lip to hold in my scream as someone crashes straight into my side, slamming an elbow into my ribs and crushing my foot with theirs.

"Hey, back off!" Sky's other hand brandishes his wand at the man who sneers in our direction before taking off in the opposite direction. Sky turns his gaze to where I pointed, and his eyes widen. "Yeah, that is Mrs Kru— COVE!"

I whip my head sideways and find Cove ripped away from us, clocking a wizard who shoved her to the ground in the chaos of the crowd, resulting in a fist knocking into her jaw by another witch accompanying the bastard.

What. The. Hell.

Rage blinds me, and I lift my wand, ready to fire every hex I know, until Sky grabs my arm. "Go to Mrs Krum. She has a Portkey too. You'll be safe."

I would have protested if Cove wasn't being trampled upon by the crowd, but the blatant fear in Sky's eyes makes me instantly oblige. I take off, running towards her while Skylar shoves people out of his way and knocks the witch who punched Cove unconscious. 

"Mrs Krum!" I scream, trying to get her attention, but she's looking at the destruction, horrified. Too far, too far, she's too far. She's definitely searching for her son in the crowd. I just have to get to her and tell her that Vik's hunting her down right now, too, but— "By the bloody Cauldron!"

This is the third time I've crashed into a person today, and my nose takes the brunt of the impact again as I run straight into a boy, and someone in the background yells in pain. 

"Shoot, I'm so sorry—" I wave off the boy trying to apologise to me, but when I blink away the pain in my nose and open my eyes, I realise the flames burning the tents have been left far behind, and the black of the night has taken over. I curse in a language I don't think exists and sidestep the boy to wade through the darkness to Viktor's mother. A second later, I trip over something and fall flat on my stomach. 

Ouch. 

No, not something, someone. 

"...Oh, this is stupid—lumos!" A girl's voice says from somewhere above me. Light shines around us, and I discover that the oh-so-soft surface my cheek is pressed against isn't a smooth patch of soil, but a living, breathing, male chest. 

I scream and scramble away, mortification colouring my cheeks a mottled shade of red. 

A ginger-haired boy was lying sprawled on the ground, and he pushes to his feet too, staring dazedly at me as he mumbles a response to the girl, "Tripped over a tree root." 

Hold on, I recognise these people. They were in the Top Box in the row in front of me. 

"Well, with feet that size, hard not to." Another familiar, drawling voice mumbles from behind us, and I turn to find Draco Malfoy leaning against a tree, the picture of uncaring relaxation. A picture I'd kill to have a life-size portrait of. 

He glances at me and surprise creases his brow. 

The curses the ginger subsequently spews at Malfoy shamelessly inspire me. 

"Language, Weasley," says Malfoy, his pale eyes glittering. "Hadn't you better be hurrying along, now? You wouldn't like her spotted, would you?" He tips his chin toward the girl who'd cast the wand-lighting charm. 

I suck in a sharp breath when a blast sounds from somewhere in the campsite, and flashes of green lights momentarily light up the trees. Shit. I silently hope the green sparks are signals for help and not someone's soul getting sent to the sky. 

"What's that supposed to mean?" 

"Granger, they're after Muggles. D'you want to be showing off your knickers in midair? Because if you do, hang around. They're moving this way, and it would give us all a laugh." 

"Hey, what the fuck." Glittering eyes and angelic hair did not give anyone a free pass to unwarranted cruelty. 

Malfoy's gaze snaps to mine, and he raises an eyebrow mockingly. "And what are you going to do? Plop your pretty little bottom on a Firebolt and toss a Quaffle at me for treating Mudbloods exactly how they're supposed to be?" 

The words don't fully leave his mouth before I mutter "Flipendo" and knock him backwards, landing him on his plush white arse. He sneers and attempts to rise, but I keep my wand pointed at him, narrowing my eyes until he mutters, "My father will hear about this," and storms off. 

"I— thank you," Granger whispers, a bemused smile curving her lips. 

"No problem," I smile back and try to look around for the reason I split from Skylar, but the reason in question is nowhere to be found. No, no, no, no. This isn't good. 

"Wait, you're the girl from the game!" the boy I bumped into says, a look of astonishment contorting his expression. 

"Yes, I am," I say, my eyes darting around looking for Mrs Krum, Sky, Cove, Vik, anyone. I refuse to die here all alone. I will not die today, and I will not be killed either. 

"Are you lost?" The girl, Granger, asks, probably noticing my unsettled, darting eyes scanning our surroundings. My tongue falters as I assess the trio. They seem harmless, kind even, but I'm still uncertain and not in the mood to be thrown to the wolves if they turn on me. 

"I'm fine," I say, though when I aimlessly look from one end of the campsite to another, having lost my bearings, I wonder if I'm better off asking for help. 

"No, you're not," says the boy I bumped into. "It's alright. We can help. I'm Harry Potter, and these are my friends Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger." 

Harry Potter? 

So that's why the man from the Top Box—Draco's father—asked if I was related to him. 

Having grown up in an orphanage all my life, with no recollection or idea of who my family was, I'd come to terms with being on my own. But there's always been a small, relentless spark that looked for familiarity in every face; something that kept me hoping that one day I might find a place I belonged with people I shared blood with. 

Hearing that last name, the spark flared. And hope blossomed. 

Hope is a fickle thing. I hate when it has power over me. 

I assess Harry's face, and there's not much I find in common, with the exception of his striking green eyes that eerily match mine. But that's hardly an indication of blood relation, so I dampen that hopeless spark and snuff it out the best I can. 

"I'm Azrael Potter," I say, and all three pairs of eyes bulge. "Yeah, same last name. What are the chances, right?" 

My laugh isn't contagious. It's the opposite of contagious. Well, at least for Harry. He stares at me, white as a sheet, like he's locked eyes with a ghost, until Hermione smacks his head with her wand. "Honestly, Harry, stop staring at the poor girl like that. It's not uncommon to have the same last names. Now, if we don't get out of here right away, we might just end up dead." 

She punctuates her speech with an expectant raised eyebrow, as if waiting for Harry to pull his shit together and move. The ginger-haired boy—Ron Weasley—discreetly slinks into the shadows, out of Hermione's line of sight. 

"Uhm, yes, right. We should get going. Sorry about that, Azrael." He smiles sheepishly at me and then trudges forward. 

I keep an eye on the lookout for any familiar faces, but the four of us make a grand total of seven steps out of the thicket and into a clearing before it's suddenly uncannily silent. My breath hitches. 

I look to the trio to see if I'm just imagining things or onto something. 

Ron looks unabashedly oblivious, fingers laced with Hermione's as we walk, who's concentrating on her footing with crude determination. A smile tugs at my lips, but I smother it before they take note. They don't notice my smothered smile, but Harry does, and he returns a silent grin. 

A twig snaps, and the sound stands out starkly amidst the steady thumps of our footfalls. 

"Did you hear that?" I whisper to Harry, examining the clearing with an alarmed gaze. It's too dark to see anything clearly, but I swear that's an outline of someone— 

"Hear what?" 

I shake my head. I'm being paranoid. All I need to do is get back to Krum Manor and get a good cup of tea. Then send an owl to Professor Minerva McGonagall regarding my transfer to Hogwarts in response to hers. 

"Nothing, it was probably an insect or something." 

We pause after a few steps—well, Ron pauses to wrench his foot out from an aerial root, Hermione and Harry stop to rebuke his carelessness, and I watch with a grin. And then, from the darkness where I thought I'd seen a silhouette, I hear a voice. 

"MORSMORDRE!" 

●⁍●⁍● 

The sky now sports a new constellation, except it isn't a conventional cluster of stars. 

This mark in the sky is made of plumes of green smoke shaped like a skull with a snake protruding from where the mouth should have been, a sorry substitution for a tongue. The haze of green lights up the pitch black sky, like a twisted rendering of the northern lights. 

"Harry, Azrael, come on, we've got to move!" Hermione's voice reaches my ears, and I feel a tug on my wrist. 

"What is that?" I ask at the same time as Harry, looking up at the skull. In the distance, screams resound through the air, and beside me, Hermione and Ron stiffen. I gather that it isn't anything good. 

 My question isn't answered; before anyone can say anything, a series of popping noises—pops I recognise as the sound of Apparition—echo around us, and then we're surrounded by almost two dozen wizards. 

I could really use Skylar's proficiency in the Dark Arts right now. 

All wands point at us, someone screams "DUCK!", and Harry grabs my arm when I fail to react and pulls me down as spells fire. 

"You have no sense of self-preservation," he hisses, but I can be embarrassed at my failure to react to a life-or-death situation later when I'm out of said situation. 

"STUPEFY!" 

I squeeze my eyes shut as the wizards roar the spell and send red flashing in all directions. 

I'm going to die. I'm going to die and I'm never going to find my family or play Quidditch with Vik and Sky or do dumb shit with Cove ever again. I'm not going to live to get a genuine spot on a Quidditch National Team or live to learn new hexes or charms or finish the Muggle romance I was reading, and I'll never know if they found a way to live happily ever after—

"STOP, that's my son!" 

The next few moments pass in a blur. 

"Ron, Harry, Hermione!" An older ginger-haired man, who I assume is Ron Weasley's father, pauses when he looks at me, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. 

"Hi?" I croak out, regretting the pathetic action the second it leaves my throat. Beside me, Harry coughs to cover up his snort. 

"Out of the way, Arthur. Which of you conjured it? Which of you conjured the Dark Mark?" 

I stand there, completely and woefully clueless as Harry, Hermione, and Ron sputter nonsensical responses. 

"Do not lie, you have been discovered at the scene of the crime!" 

"Barty, they're just kids." 

"What crime?" Harry asks, confusion twisting his features. 

"It's the Dark Mark, Harry," Hermione whispers. "It's his mark." 

"Voldemort?" 

A collective gasp from everyone around as he says the name. 

"Barty, she's a Muggleborn, you know what you-know-who thinks of Muggles and Muggle-borns; Ron's my son, he wouldn't even know the incantation for the spell; and Harry, well, he's Harry Potter! He's the one who defeated you-know-who the first time!" Ron's father, Mr Weasley, says in an attempt to dissolve Bartemius Crouch Senior's probing gaze. I send a wordless thanks to Mrs Krum for yesterday's lesson on important persons I might encounter. 

I blink as they argue amongst themselves, and then Crouch's eyes fall on me. "You!" 

"Me?" 

"You did it!" The tip of his wand is only a precarious two inches away from plucking my eyes out. All eyes fall on me. Beside me, Harry flat-out scoffs in Crouch's face. 

"Excuse me?" I mumble, still lost. 

"Identify yourself!" Crouch hisses, and I'm hit with the sudden urge to outright laugh in his face at the sheer stupidity of the situation. "Immediately, or we will have you detained in Azkaban and interrogated!" 

"Barty!" Mr Weasley gasps in shock. 

Azkaban? 

"I— I'm just a girl!" I sputter, stumbling over my words when my heart rate ascends. Okay, death might have been marginally preferable. 

"Since you refuse to identify yourself, we have no choice but to arrest you," Crouch announces, and the decree makes my stomach plummet. What the fuck? 

"But Sir, she was with us this whole time," Harry says in my defence, and I could cry in relief. I'm a complete stranger, yet he's still helping me. Thank you, Merlin. 

"So you're an accomplice! All of you, Azkaban!" 

"NO!" All four of us cry out at the same time, and along with my terror, there's a tiny part of me that's wondering if he's had anything to drink. I don't think he's quite alright in the head. 

"Barty, my son and his friends would never! Harry Potter would never! Stop scaring them!" Mr Weasley is starting to get on my nerves. He's practically offering me up on a silver platter as a scapegoat. 

There's a beat of silence where the wizards—who I assume are part of the British Ministry of Magic, seeing as Crouch is present—narrow their eyes at me, visually dissecting me like that'll prove I'm the cause of this madness. 

The trio don't dare to defend me after the threat Crouch throws at them. 

"We will have to take you in for questioning, and maybe then you'll decide to tell us how you cast the Dark Mark." Crouch gestures toward some wizards behind him, calling them forth to bind my hands. 

Fuck politics and power. 

I clock Bartemius Crouch Senior in the jaw in pure Cove Persimmons style, ignoring the stinging throb in my knuckles, realising just how much that screwed up my situation even more only after the punch lands true. 

A symphony of collective gasps sounds from everyone, almost as if they'd rehearsed it. Yeah, shit. 

Merlin, got a spare scrap of luck to save me? 

Someone slowly, almost mockingly, claps from a few feet to our right, and I turn my head to find Draco fucking Malfoy standing there, casually leaning against a tree in his midnight-black three-piece suit, his tousled hair tumbling boyishly over his pale, glittering eyes as a smirk dances on his beautiful pink lips. 

"Now that was unexpected."