Ruins that are not ruins, but hymns of luminous memory. 
— Hélène Cixous 

Peripeteia 
(n.) a sudden or unexpected reversal of circumstances; the point of no return 

Azrael POV 

Wading through the crowd requires monumental effort and a mind of steel. Monumental effort, because the sheer number of students and families milling around might just be enough to fill a tenth of the stadium at Dartmoor, and I've just reached my excuse me and pardon me limit for the day; at this rate, my pleasantries are going to turn into veiled insults far too soon. And a mind of steel, because squeezing through the crammed area has me reliving the memory of the last time I'd been crushed between bodies, though I suppose none of these plump English women are going to knock their joints into my ribs, so that's a mild relief. 

I hadn't known families could come through the archway, too. 

"Just my luck," I mumble as I wind through the fray. 

After braving the mob of witches and wizards, I'm finally inside the scarlet steam engine. Knox swoops back into my arms, his resolve to ignore me seemingly forgotten, and I absent-mindedly drum my fingers on his head. As I pass the occupied first few carriages, I spot more than a few pet owls, all caged. 

"Good thing Merlin blessed you with good manners or I'd have to lock you up like them, too," I whisper to my owl, stroking his favourite spot behind the head. He nips my fingers in response, just soft enough not to draw blood. 

"Let's find ourselves a compartment," I tell my trusted feathered friend, because talking to myself would signal insanity. 

I walk for a solid minute, unsuccessfully, before I slump against the wall of one of the carriages. 

So much for an empty compartment with some peace and quiet. 

"Oh, hold on— it's you!" A voice from a few feet ahead has my head lifting up from its sad droop. "Ariael, was it?" 

It's the brunette from the Quidditch Cup about two weeks back. The one I ran into when the Dark Mark was cast and all that strange stuff went down. Oh, yes, Draco said she and the other two boys with her were from Hogwarts as well! 

"Azrael," I correct her, smiling. "And you're Hermione?" 

She nods. That's when I notice the dejected slump of her shoulders and downcast profile. 

"Well, this is a jaw-dropper," she says, a brief, surprised smile driving away some of the unhappiness from her features. "How...?" she trails off, eyes darting from my face to my owl to my suitcases and back to me. 

"Long story short, I got expelled from Durmstrang, transferred to Hogwarts, now I'm here," I say, watching as she fidgets with the sleeves of her pink hoodie. "But we can talk about that later. You tell me why you look like someone just sucked the life out of that stunning face." 

Pink stains her cheeks as she brushes back some rogue strands of her adorably bushy brown hair. "It's nothing, really. You haven't found yourself a compartment yet?" 

"Change of subject noted," I say sportively, and shake my head in response to her question. 

"Oh, it's honestly quite stupid," she says, gesturing for me to follow her. She leads me back in the direction I just came from. "This charming boy came up to me. Well, no, I can hardly call him a boy; he was a proper rugged sort. The only thing boyish about him was his smile and his eyes, and we talked, and I'm sure I said something wrong because he just bolted mid-conversation." 

That story sounds awfully familiar. The girl before me is positively a brunette, I note. 

"Hermione, was he about five-ten, pale-skinned, with dirty blonde hair and hazel eyes?" I ask, "Beige jeans, polo shirt, sneakers, and all smiles and shameless flirting?" 

She stops dead in her tracks and whirls around, staring at me with a stunned gaze. Her hand, which had been reaching for the handle of the compartment to our right, freezes. 

"I think his running away had less to do with you messing up the conversation and more with the fact that he hadn't realised how young you were," I say, reassuringly patting her arm as she stares at me with a slackened jaw. "It's okay, you can resume your exchange at the end of October." 

She looks at me like I've grown two heads. Oops, Vik did ask me to keep my mouth shut about the Triwizard Tournament.   

"How do you—" 

"Magic," I whisper with a wink, peering into the compartment she'd been reaching for. Unsurprisingly, I find the knockoff Potter and ginger-haired floormat inside. I cringe at the memory of my cheek plastered to his chest when I tripped over him. 

She loosens a laugh at my response, and a quiet smile tugs at my lips when I look at her and find the previous tension in her posture gone. 

"Thanks anyway, I suppose I sort of needed to spill it to get over it, and those two in there aren't the finest listeners," she says as she slides the door open. The smile they send Hermione turns to wide-eyed blinks as they look at me. The redhead, whose name I can't quite recall, has the balls to rub his eyes like he's seeing things. 

"I hope you don't mind," Hermione says, sliding into the seat beside the ginger, leaving me to sit beside the knockoff wannabe Potter, Harry. 

"You're— you— what— bloody hell, how?" 

"Ron, don't be an arse." Ah, Ron, yes, that's what his name is. Hermione swats him with a newspaper and a book I hadn't noticed she'd been holding. The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 4, reads the spine. Oh, wonderful, if she's studying on the train to school, perhaps she can help me go over the previous years' syllabi in case they taught something I hadn't learnt at Durmstrang. 

"No, I'm just—" He shakes his head, appearing to be at a loss for words, and only mumbles, "Bloody hell." 

"Don't mind these two, Azrael, they were pricks when I first met them, too." Hermione tosses the newspaper to Ron and opens her textbook, shuffling through the pages. Beside me, Harry, who hasn't said anything yet, turns to face me, eyeing me with surprise and curiosity. 

"Hello," he says, confusion staining his grin. 

"Transferred from Durmstrang," I clarify, not mentioning my expulsion as I had to Hermione because I'm struck with the realisation that maybe going around revealing that titbit of information might not be the best first impression. 

My words earn me a set of two raised eyebrows from the boys. 

Harry opens his mouth to say something, but he's cut off with a loud shush from Hermione, who presses a finger to her lips and points at a neighbouring carriage. Through the open doors, I recognise the familiar drawling voice that speaks. My heart skips a stinging beat. 

". . . Father actually considered sending me to Durmstrang rather than Hogwarts, you know. He knows the headmaster, you see. Well, you know his opinion of Dumbledore—the man's such a Mudblood-lover—and Durmstrang doesn't admit that sort of riffraff—" 

I tune out the rest of his speech. I couldn't have possibly expected to reform him with a simple four-sentence scenario. Shit, maybe I was hoping I reformed him. I'm a goner. 

"So he thinks Durmstrang would have suited him, does he? I wish he had gone, then we wouldn't have to put up with him," Hermione says, scowling. 

I hadn't known this seemingly calm and reserved girl had it in her to be aggressive. I almost tip an imaginary hat to her. 

"Durmstrang's another wizarding school?" Harry asks, featuring a look of surprise as he turns to me. 

"Well, yes, you didn't think Hogwarts was the only one, did you?" 

The look on his face says he most certainly did. 

"I've heard it's got a bit of a... reputation. It puts a lot of emphasis on the Dark Arts?" Hermione looks at me for confirmation, her features slightly drawn, as if she carefully picked the words instead of blurting out whatever she wanted to. 

"Does Hogwarts not?" I ask, evading the question. 

My gaze strays from Harry to Hermione and then to Ron, who's still staring at me with saucers for eyes and a giant gaping hole for a mouth. I don't think he heard any part of our conversation. I shift in my seat. 

His gaze drops from me to the newspaper in his hands, and then back to me. Wordlessly, he holds up the parchment, and right there, plastered across the front page in big, bold lettering above an image of the Dark Mark, is the headline of the attack on the Quidditch World Cup. 

SCENES OF TERROR AT THE QUIDDITCH WORLD CUP. 

Harry stiffens beside me. 

"Oh. I hope you three didn't get into much trouble." After I left with Draco. Shit, what did happen after I left? I escaped unscathed; did they get taken to the Ministry and questioned? I know for a fact that they hadn't cast the Mark; there had been a spindly silhouette in the bushes who had done it. Did I, in letting myself be saved, leave them for the hawks? 

"It's not worth repeating," Harry answers as Ron pops his head forward to look at the text facing me before muttering a curse and flipping it over so the bottom half of the paper is visible. Now, I find myself staring at a clip of me as I bring my hand to the back for momentum and toss the Quaffle into the hoops, the force of my throw taking the Irish Keeper with it too, right as Viktor, in the background, catches the Snitch, and scarlet fills the stadium. 

A SHOCKING TWIST SECURES BULGARIAN VICTORY, reads this headline. 

I sink into my seat, watching as the scene rewinds. Bloody hell, my hair makes me look like I just crawled out of a flaming cauldron. 

"You were marvellous out there," Harry confesses from beside me. 

"Marvellous? Blimey, she was bloody brilliant, I'll tell you! Weren't you in the Top Box with us? How'd you end up in the flippin' game?" 

"It's a messy story," I say, their compliments making my heart swell with warmth. Over the past half-month, the rush of the game had faded into a quiet, exciting memory. 

"How weird will it be if I ask for an autograph?" Ron asks. I laugh, but stop when I realise he's being serious. I look to Hermione, sitting beside him, for help, who has shut her textbook and is watching our interaction with an inquisitive gaze. 

"You boys honestly have no manners," Hermione chides them, snatching the newspaper back again. "Don't you have anything to talk about besides Quidditch? That's all that's come out of your mouths since the Cup. Give the girl a rest." 

"Sorry, we're just—" Harry scratches the back of his neck, flashing an uncertain, toothy grin. "You were up there, now you're here, and— this is all just rather surprising." 

Hermione's stern gaze has them abandoning the subject of Quidditch, and the conversation drifts to light, harmless topics. Harry introduces me to Hedwig, his snowy owl, whom Knox stares at with rapt fascination. Hedwig's cage is on the seat in the space between me and Harry, and Knox takes it upon himself to perch atop the cage. I decide I don't want to know what the two owls are talking about amongst themselves. 

"Looks like Hedwig's finally found a friend," Hermione says, smiling as Knox nips Hedwig's head through the bars in the playful manner with which he pecks at my fingers. "Harry, perhaps you should let Hedwig out of her cage. She can't be too happy being cooped up in that horrible thing." 

Ron pales at her suggestion. "And have her tearing apart everything with that razor-sharp beak of hers? I'll pass." 

Hermione and Ron start bickering about animal cruelty and the horrible ramifications of keeping them locked up. 

"While they're at that," Harry says, "I think I'll be begging my stars to make the Sorting Hat put you in Gryffindor. Any other house and our chances at winning the House Championship will be smashed to bits." 

At my questioning gaze, he adds, "Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin—the four houses of Hogwarts. There's a Sorting Hat that decides which house you'll be sorted into based on your character. Gryffindor's our house: the house of courage and chivalry; Hufflepuff, loyalty and fairness; Ravenclaw, wisdom and wit; and then we've got Slytherin, the house of cruelty and cunning and wicked worms." 

"Worms?" 

A distasteful look crosses his face momentarily before he neutralises it to mild dislike. "There isn't a single witch or wizard who went bad who wasn't in Slytherin." 

"Well, that's morbid. So, hypothetically, if I'm tossed in Slytherin, I'm doomed?" 

"Hypothetically, I'd say you wouldn't be entirely doomed if you didn't hang out with the wrong crowd. And that's speaking hopefully. Slytherin's quite reputable for producing dark wizards. I don't think you're the evil sort, so you shouldn't worry about being sorted into that..." A pause. "You're not evil, are you?" 

"Only to those who treat me like a second-rate squib." He offers me a chocolate frog as I reply, and I beam, accepting it. "You might just become one of my favourite people if you keep this up." 

He grins, and when he turns to Ron to say something, we find that his argument with Hermione has deviated to the insensitivity with which house-elves are treated. 

"We should probably stay out of that," Harry mutters, turning back to me as he runs a hand through his hair, revealing a scar above an eyebrow. "Mind if I ask something?" 

"I'm not promising a response," I warn as I bite into the chocolate. 

"How close are you with Malfoy?" he asks, catching me off guard. I choke on my chocolate, coughing, and Harry winces. "You know, because during the Quidditch Cup, he showed up and swooped you out of trouble. And all that. Just asking." 

"Oh," I say, once the coughing subsides. Right, rivalry. Draco and this trio do not like each other. Let's not explicitly side with Draco's pretty face. "No, we met just that once." Something tense in Harry's shoulders relaxes at my words. "Seatmates in the Top Box and all, and after I wandered off during the attack, his father offered to send him scouting for me. I'd hardly go so far as to call ourselves acquaintances—" 

"Right. Just gut me next time, why don't you?" 

That drawling voice. That cool tone that sends a jolt of awareness through me. The veiled mockery. Just like the three others in the compartment, my head snaps to the doorway, where Draco Malfoy stands, leaning against the frame. 

"Shove off, Malfoy!" Ron says, getting to his feet with balled fists. 

Draco's gaze doesn't stray from me. 

"No warm words of welcome?" Despite myself, I might have cracked a smile if the two lackeys at his side hadn't been hideously glaring at Harry. "Oh, Scarlet, and here I thought we were friends." 

It's the condescension in his voice that makes me scowl. Makes me ignore the strange sensation when he calls me Scarlet. Like he remembers that day just as vividly as I do. 

"Don't remember asking you to join us, Malfoy," Harry says with a surprisingly cool tone, void of outright dislike. 

Still, those unnerving electric eyes stay locked on me. 

I borrow a page from Harry's playbook and decide not to throw a hissy fit like Ron. "Is there something you need, Draco?" I ask, and in that moment, I realise that everyone notes it. I called him Draco, not Malfoy. Draco beams. 

"I've returned for a second take on last... encounter," he says, hands crossed as he. Fucking. Winks. He honest-to-Merlin winks at me. "You know, rescuing you from the usual messes." He tilts his chin to gesture toward Harry, Hermione, and Ron, eyes not leaving mine for even a moment. 

"The only thing I need rescuing from is your colossal sense of self-importance." 

Laughter breaks out in the compartment, and I eventually join in. Draco's teasing smile dissolves into a disdainful sneer. He uncrosses his arms, his fingers flexing like he might just follow in Ron's footsteps and indignantly fist them. 

"Oh, I like you," Hermione says, still laughing as she looks at me. 

"Shut your filthy Mudblood mouth," one of the cronies behind Draco says, pulling out his wand. All laughter instantly dies. That makes Draco's lips twitch upwards in a satisfied smirk. 

"Get out, Malfoy," I snap, "And take your asswipes with you, too. Merlin knows you'll need them more than ever to tend to your bruised ego." 

Ron coughs, barely concealing a snigger, prompting a grin from me. The wand that had been pointed at Hermione now turns to me. 

"Won't be so funny when I slam you into the wall, will it?" 

"Crabbe," Draco warns, snatching his bootlicker's wand in a fluid motion without so much as breaking my gaze. I resist the urge to outright scowl at him. He and his wretched blood purity beliefs are getting on my nerves. 

"Leave, Malfoy. That wasn't a request," Harry says, his fingers dangerously close to pulling out his own wand. "Or has your precious Slytherin lot stopped listening to your nonsense?" 

Draco, by some extraordinary restraint, doesn't react to Harry's jab. "Oh, relax. We were just having some fun, weren't we, Scarlet?" 

"Hate to break it to you, but your presence has a remarkable talent for draining the fun out of absolutely everything. Perhaps if you finally took the hint and got lost, like we've asked you countless times, you could save us all from this tedious exchange." 

I hold his glare, refusing to baulk under his seething gaze. 

"Anything from the trolley, dears— oh, would you boys please move a bit?" 

An old, grey-haired woman bustles through the gangway, stopping a few feet away because Draco and his cronies have crowded our doorway with their senseless, insulting bullcrap. The trolley she's pushing is overflowing with all kinds of sweets. 

Draco holds my stare for a second longer, and then mutters, "Blood traitors, half-breeds, and Mudbloods," and walks off, his chin held snobbishly high as he passes the old woman. 

Crabbe, the slimy git who'd brandished his wand at me, outright snaps something offensive at her before storming off, making the poor woman shrink away. 

"A— Anything from the trolley, dears?" she asks, pulling herself together. I smile at her, hoping to banish her uneasiness. 

The rain is heavier now, beating down gloomily. I hadn't realised the sky had become so dark; several lanterns have been lit, and it's only midday. Harry buys a large stack of Cauldron Cakes. 

"To celebrate telling Malfoy off," he clarifies. 

"Now you might really become one of my favourite persons," I tell him, resisting the urge to moan like a raving lunatic as I bite into one of the cakes. I absolutely adore life. 

●⁍●⁍● 

I'm dressed in my school robes when the Hogwarts Express rolls into Hogsmeade station in pitch-darkness. 

Leaving my luggage on the train to be separately taken to Hogwarts, I descend the stairs and am instantly met with the sight of a storm battering the earth. Thunder rumbles in the sky, and Knox burrows deeper into the crook of my neck from where he's perched on my shoulder. 

I cast a quick Impervius Charm to shield myself from the elements and jump off the train onto the platform, tugging my cloak around me tighter as a cold wind barrels through the air. 

"How on earth are you doing that?" Hermione asks as she gets off the train after me and bundles her cat in her cloak, sputtering as the rain beats down on her, like entire buckets being emptied on her. Behind her, Harry and Ron aren't faring any better. 

"Impervius Charm. Don't they teach you that at Hogwarts?" 

"Would we be bloody drowning if they did?" Ron snaps. 

Well, shit. 

I grin. 

Despite themselves, Harry and Hermione laugh, too. 

"Hi, Hagrid!" Harry yells, and my attention is drawn toward a mammoth silhouette at the end of the platform. Hagrid. That name sounds familiar. He's— he's— Merlin's bloody breeches, where did I hear that name— Keeper of Keys and Grounds. 

YES! 

"All righ', Harry?" Hagrid bellowed back, waving. "See yeh at the feast if we don' drown!" 

I let Knox swoop into my arms and huddle in whatever warmth he can find, and let the lot lead the way, since I'm positively clueless about where to go. Hermione comes up beside me and smiles shakily, shivering under her cloak. "Looks like you've drawn the longest stick." 

"I'd extend the charm to the three of you if only I knew how," I admit, feeling mildly shitty that they all hobbled like wet rats while I sauntered, crisp and clean. I've only ever practised extending charms to Knox. 

"'S Alright," Harry says, playfully shoving Hermione's back and asking her to stop strolling and walk faster so they could get out of this thunderstorm. Hermione turns around and sticks her tongue out at the boys. 

"I think I like you, too," I whisper to her with a grin, linking my arm through hers. I wince when her ice-cold robes come in contact with mine. Goosebumps skitter across my skin, and I unlink our arms with an apologetic smile. 

Outside the station, a hundred carriages stand waiting. Each carriage is pulled by a large, winged horse-like creature. Up close, their black hide has a reptilian sheen to it, and their eyes are soulless white. I flinch as we near a carriage. 

"You alright?" Hermione asks, eyes darting between me and the horse. 

"Yeah, they just look... unsettling. What are they?" I ask. 

Hermione eyes me strangely. "What are what?" 

"If you girls don't get in this instant, we'll leave you to share a carriage with Crabbe and Goyle," Harry announces, already in the carriage with Ron. A look in the direction his head had been tilted reveals Draco's lackeys clambering into the next carriage. 

I hold Hermione's pet cat—Crookshanks, she told me, was its name—as she clambered onto the carriage in her wet, heavy robes, leaving a sore-looking Knox retreating to my shoulder. I knock my head against his at his cross expression, earning myself a disgruntled hoot. 

"The horse," I reply to Hermione's question once we settle in and the horse-thing starts moving. "Or whatever the skeletal-looking creature is." 

I get a set of three confused looks. 

"What are you talking about?" Harry asks. 

"The creatures pulling the carriage." 

"Azrael, nothing's pulling the carriage. It's pulling itself," Hermione says, looking at me even more strangely as she takes Crookshanks from my hands. Knox gladly swoops back into my arms, luxuriating in my body heat. 

"Are you honestly—" I turn in my seat to look at the black creature. Yes, it's pulling our carriage. I almost reach out to trace my finger down its leathery wings. "It's right here." 

Ron and Harry sit across us, and Ron leans in to poorly whisper in Harry's ear, "Think that one's a little mental. Perhaps the Irish's Bludger hit her too hard." 

I scowl at the redhead. 

Harry shoots me an apologetic smile. "Hermione's right, though. There's nothing pulling the carriage." 

They can't be serious. 

I turn again and reach out a tentative hand, carefully placing it on the creature's back. It bristles slightly, but doesn't shake it off. Sure enough, I feel a solid, cold surface under my palms. I stroke the hide gently, and the creature chuffs in response, lifting its neck a little higher. I trace the skeletal ridges with my hand, its shiny neck catching the dim light, until Hermione coughs from beside me. 

"Azrael, are you quite alright?" 

My gaze flicks back to them. 

If they'd been looking at me strangely a minute ago, then now they're eyeing me like I've just broken out of a loony bin. 

"You're playing with the air," Ron says flatly, "Need a trip to St Mungo's?" 

I don't know what St Mungo's is, but judging by his tone and the rebuking glances the other two send him, I gather it isn't the best place in the world. 

I'm mostly silent after that. Harry, Ron, and Hermione talk amongst themselves about things I don't understand and don't bother paying attention to as the carriage splashes against the cobblestone path towards Hogwarts. 

●⁍●⁍● 

I'm exhausted by the time we arrive. 

My jaw had dropped when the looming castle first came into view, but since most of my energy and focus is directed towards keeping myself and Knox safe from the elements as the wind picks up speed, the awe dimmed down pretty quickly. 

Lightning flashes across the sky, making a smile pull at my lips. Stunning. 

"Blimey," Ron's voice shatters my appreciation of the sky. "If that keeps up, the lake's going to overflow. I'm soak— ARRGH!" 

My head snaps up, just in time to see another water balloon heading straight for me this time. The cavernous hall is packed with students forcing themselves inside for a reprieve from the pelting rain, so there isn't anywhere I can run to escape the incoming threat. 

I throw my all into my Impervius Charm, squeezing my eyes shut as the balloon explodes. When I crank one eye open, I'm still perfectly dry. 

Harry's shoes and socks are now drenched. 

"PEEVES!" An angry voice yells from a distant corridor, nearing the hall. "Peeves, come down here at ONCE!" 

A tall, black-haired witch in emerald robes comes dashing out of a large pair of double doors. She nearly loses her footing as she enters the hall, skidding on the wet floor. I wince. She rights herself and sets her square-rimmed spectacles, eyes narrowed. 

"PEEVES!" she yells again, stalking forward, but pauses when her eyes land on Harry. She smiles broadly. "Hello, Harry." And then her eyes fall to me. She regards me for a moment. Staring at me like I'm a puzzle she's forgotten how to solve. 

"You seem a bit old to be a first year," she remarks. 

"Year four. I transferred." 

She gasps. 

"Hello, Hermione, Ron," she spares them a greeting, and then she claps my and Harry's shoulders and pulls us along with her out of the torch-lit entrance hall, guiding us towards an imposing grand staircase before either of us has a chance to protest.  

"Professor McGonagall, what's going on?" Harry asks, surprise creasing his brow. 

Professor Minerva McGonagall. 

She's the one I've been corresponding with. 

She turns around and looks down at me through the glasses perched upon her nose, noting my look of realisation. "I see you two have met." 

She leads us up staircases, across hallways, and through corridors, and then we're standing before the massive statue of a gargoyle. This castle is huge. I have no idea how I'll find my way around here. I've already forgotten where the nearest staircase is. 

"Are we going to see Dumbledore?" Harry asks. Professor McGonagall nods. His eyes dart to me. "Why's she being hauled along?" 

"Wonderful question," I add, because she's said nothing more than the six words she did after pulling us away from the crowd. 

"Professor Dumbledore will be waiting for you," she says, gesturing towards the gargoyle. Harry walks to the base of the statue. I stand there like a lost child. "You too, Azalea." 

"Azrael," I correct her, falling into step beside Harry, who, to my relief, looks just as lost as I am with this ordeal. 

Professor McGonagall doesn't grace me with a response, instead turning to the statue and saying, "Acid Pops." 

The blasted statue comes to life as it hears those two words and hops to the side. The wall behind it splits into two, revealing a spiral staircase moving upwards. Harry steps onto one of the stairs. I turn around to see what the abnormally tall professor is making of this situation, but she merely gestures for me to follow Harry. 

"These aren't the stairs to the seventh circle of hell, right?" I mutter to Harry as I let the spiralled staircase take me to whatever awaits above. 

Harry snorts and shakes his head. 

"Professor Dumbledore is the headmaster of Hogwarts. You didn't hex anyone in the train or anything of the sort, did you?" 

"If I did, that still wouldn't explain why you're here." 

"Bet ten sickles someone's plotting my death this year, too," he mutters. An invisible string yanks my mouth open, my jaw unhinged in disbelief. Upon seeing my reaction, he adds, "Long story— agh—" 

His face pulls together in a grimace as he rubs his forehead. 

"You alright?" 

He nods, shaking it off. His hand falls back to his side, and that's when I get a peek at the scar on his forehead, which I'd noticed earlier on the train. 

He catches me staring and quickly flattens his hair over it. 

"Can't I see?" 

"Do you want to?" 

I level a look at him that says no shit, captain obvious. He tentatively pushes his hair back, revealing the scar that I now note is shaped like a bloody lightning bolt. 

"Badass," I mumble, my raised eyebrows betraying my astonishment. My reaction startles Harry, who flattens his hair, scar out of sight once again. 

Up, up, and up, in endless circles. A wave of dizziness laps at my feet. And then the staircase stops, right before a gleaming oak door. I don't have the energy to catalogue much else. Harry steps off the staircase and raps a griffon-shaped brass knocker against the door. 

The door swings wide open on silent hinges. The headmaster's office is a large circular room. Portraits cover the walls, and a number of funny little noises fill the office. 

And I'm about to fall asleep any second now. 

Professor Dumbledore is an old man with long white hair and a long white beard. His fingers are interlaced together, his elbows resting on the desk, and his chin resting on those interlaced fingers. He doesn't look like it, but if he's anything like Karkaroff... I send a prayer to my stars just in case. 

"Hello, Harry. Did you have a pleasant ride to Hogwarts?"

Harry nods, but doesn't waste time exchanging pleasantries. "Why are we here, Professor?"

Dumbledore raises a white eyebrow.

"Are you sure you want to plunge straight to business?" he asks, pushing a plate across his desk towards us. "At least try an Acid Pop."

Not anything like Karkaroff at all, then.

I would have jumped at the offer if I hadn't been so drained. Maintaining the Impervius Charm has exhausted my already spent body, and I'm pretty sure Knox has fallen asleep in my arms. I gently stroke his head and, sure enough, he doesn't stir.

As a result of my lack of energy, I can't be bothered to wonder why I've been summoned to the headmaster's office anymore.

"No, thank you, sir," Harry says politely. I shake my head because talking is too much work.

Professor Dumbledore exhales and motions for us to take a seat opposite him, before the desk. Harry complies, confusion evident in his features, while I, wishing I'd slept on the ride here, gladly sink into the cushioned armchair.

"Azrael, is it?" the headmaster asks, facing me. I nod. "Well, Azrael, I'm going to tell you something, and it may come to you as a shock. Feel free to take an Acid Pop if it's too much to handle," he continues, his tone delicate and cautious. 

Okay, this man is not like Karkaroff at all. 

"I apologise, but I'll have to make this quick because the first years are waiting."

I glance at Harry, gauging what he makes of all this, but he simply shrugs, just as clueless.

"Azrael, you grew up in a Muggle orphanage, did you not?" Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I'm supposed to be what-the-hell'd out by his knowledge of my backstory, but I'm sleepy, so I merely nod again. "And you do not know who your parents are, do you?"

I sit up straighter, the exhaustion retreating by a fraction.

Harry... Potter was the name of the boy beside me. 

"Your name is not Azrael," Dumbledore says, a sympathetic smile curving his lips. The exhaustion retreats completely, and I stare and stare at the old man before me as he continues, "Your birth name is Azalea Linnaea Potter, daughter of Lily and James Potter—" In the chair beside me, Harry sucks in a sudden, sharp breath. "—and Harry is your brother."