When one chapter ends, another begins. 
— Amy Fowler 

Mágoa 
(n.) a heartbreaking feeling that leaves long-lasting traces, visible in gestures and facial expressions  

Azrael POV 

"Guess who got expelled." 

None of the dull faces of my friends, dead with exhaustion, react. The most they do is dart their eyeballs to put me in their line of sight as I make myself comfortable on the grass of the Quidditch pitch. 

The stench of sweat has me subtly scooting away from the trio. 

"Not me," mumbles Cove Persimmons, my confidante and, occasionally, the most irksome XX chromosome alive. I don't mention the latter label because I know the next time we get on the pitch, she'd send a bludger flying towards my face for reading muggle books again. 

"Cherry Sands?" Sky says hopefully, his eyes pleading. "She broke into my dorm last night and was lying in a very questionable state when I arrived, smacked my behind when I tried throwing her out, and then tried slipping Amortentia into my breakfast today." 

Cove's older brother, Skylar Persimmons, was spread out on the pitch like a starfish, his head resting on his best friend's lap. The friend in question was the only one who looked remotely coherent, his eyebrow arched at me in response to my question. 

 "Karkaroff really eez not fond of you, is he?" Viktor Krum whispers, the only one who put his neurons to use and connected the dots. 

"No," I mutter, sighing loudly as I pluck a blade of grass. "No, he isn't." 

Skylar and Cove perk up on hearing our conversation and that's when the tide of realization pulls them under. 

"NO," she gasps. "Nuh-uh. Nope. Nada, girl. This is not happening." 

Cove ditches her spot under the goalpost and walks over to me, eyes narrowed, her bat in her hands threateningly. "You and I are marching our cute butts back to that old man's office and shoving a bludger down his throat and another up his asscrack, then holding his hand above the fireplace until he undoes your expulsion. Got it?" 

The silence that follows from the rest of us pretty much sums up my mild terror.  

"What did you even do?" Sky asks, sitting up straight. 

"That's what I don't understand. He said my grades in Transfiguration and Charms were way below average, and non-existent in Potions and Herbology. And that I'm a hopeless case in Care of Magical Creatures." 

"That's dragonshit!" Cove exclaims, kicking me in the shoulder from where she's standing. "You might be a lost cause in Divination, but you excel in everything else! I would know better than that evil wizard; I literally sit next to you every damn day." 

Sky tugs at the hem of his sister's robes, transferring the receiving end of her death glare from me to him. 

"You should sit down and let Az explain what happened before you scare her away, don't you think?" 

I shoot Sky a small smile when Cove relents and lowers to the ground beside me, pulling her knees toward her chest. 

"Right, so that's pretty much it. He dragged me midway through lunch, told me that my final exam grades weren't up to the mark and that he couldn't have parasites like me besmirching the prestige of Durmstrang, and told me to have my stuff cleared out of the dorms by the end of the day." 

Glancing at the sun that's slowly dipping into the horizon in the west, I realize I ought to zip up the last of my belongings soon. 

"But hey, on the bright side, summer's only three days away so most of my stuff is already packed. More time to spend with you guys." 

My attempt at lightening the mood is met with flat stares. 

"Sounds exciting," Sky mutters, his face showcasing anything but. Viktor and Cove mirror his enthusiasm. 

"Az-rae-el, you know I can talk to Karkaroff for you, right? You are von of the brightest witches I know; there 'as got to be a mistake." His offer was genuine; he would actually risk ruining his rep by associating himself with me. 

Karkaroff is going to believe I spelled him with the Imperius curse and come for my head.

"That would be wonderful. Thank you, Vik." 

Durmstrang has been my home for the past three years. 

Where else would I ever go? 

●⁍●⁍●

Although Vik said he'd speak to the headmaster regarding my expulsion, the paranoia in me still had me emptying my nightstand and closet of my belongings. You know, hope for the best but be prepared for the worst and all that shit. 

The dorm was empty, save for my feathered friend Knox, not that I expected otherwise; exams were over and the year too would end in a couple of days. 

The window was wide open and I cursed at whoever left it open, quickly shutting it as a gust of wind blew in and scattered the papers on Cove's nightstand. 

My owl, Knox, was basically Nox with a K, which I found fitting—given its obsidian feathers, and eyes that seemed to absorb the light entirely. Unlike other living organisms, whose eyes glistened when light fell upon them, Knox's seemed like a strange sort of matte that swallowed the rays whole. 

The initial horror upon locking eyes with the nightmarish creature has subsided to quiet, familiar comfort now. 

Presently, Knox is picking at something lying on my bed. 

An envelope. 

"What's that?" I ask aloud, batting away his beak before he tears the paper. Unlike putting up a fight as usual, he gladly hops aside, swooping under my comforter and sinking into the sheets.  

Hmm. I don't remember getting mail today. Maybe another owl dropped it off? It would explain the open window. 

Inside the pristine envelope is a piece of parchment that does not smell like fresh new paper. The faint traces of mould on it explain the god-awful smell. 

The ink is smudged—like the parchment had been in the heart of the Wizarding War and somehow survived—but I manage to make out the words.

Ms. A. Potter 
4 Privet Drive 
Little Whinging 
Surrey 

HOGWARTS SCHOOL of WITCHCRAFT and WIZARDRY 

Headmaster: ALBUS DUMBLEDORE 
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards) 

Dear Ms. Potter, 

We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Please find enclosed a list of all necessary books and equipment. 

Term begins on September 1. We await your owl by no later than July 31. 

Yours Sincerely, 
Professor Minerva McGonagall 
Deputy Headmistress 

I stare at the letter in horror. 

Little Whinging? 

The parchment slips past my fingers and flutters onto the mattress. 

Little Whinging. 

Suddenly, expulsion and separation from my friends aren't at the forefront of my mind. 

All I can remember is the nauseating feeling of someone threading their fingers through mine, the mind-numbing pain of being forced through a coin-sized tube, and then being deposited outside 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging. 

I had those words memorized by heart from my two inexplicable annual trips. 

And the boy. 

There was a boy there. 

He always looked like he needed a hug. 

Knox flying out from under my duvet and propping atop my head drags me out of my thoughts. 

I shake my head as I reread the letter. 

Ms A. Potter sounds like me. I know Hogwarts because of its rep as one of the best wizarding schools in Europe, where something goes wrong every year. 

Why this letter is addressed to me, I don't know. Why is it addressed to 4 Privet Drive is even more baffling. And so I pull out my quill and a piece of parchment and begin writing a letter to whoever Professor Minerva McGonagall is, demanding answers. 

●⁍●⁍●  

Five days later, at the Persimmons manor, I discover that Viktor Krum, Igor Karkaroff's star student and prized pupil, was unsuccessful in his endeavour to salvage my spot at Durmstrang. 

I spend Christmases and summers either with Cove or, if her brother is hosting morally questionable parties that we're too young to be invited to, at Krum's. I never minded it; Mrs Krum loved having us over. I much preferred either of the two manors over my wretched muggle orphanage.  

"He offered me a seat and a drink, and we joked around—the usual. But when I mentioned you... Merlin, I've never seen a man switch personalities so quickly. He vos seething. And he vos afraid. I do not know what 'as gotten into him." 

For a man who adores the Quidditch player, Karkaroff raising his voice at Krum means that, without even realizing it, I've royally screwed up. 

"I am sorry I could not help you," Viktor says, sporting a disappointed smile. 

"Don't beat yourself up over it. He's had it out for me since Year One. I'm surprised I made it this far." 

"That eez true," he says, the amusement in my tone cracking a not-so-disappointed smile on his face. The way he stretches the word "is" gets me every time. 

"Cove's gonna be devastated," I mumble, mounting my broomstick on the open lawn. "Wanna warm up before she and Sky show up?" 

We take to the skies, and it's mostly filled with him trying to score the quaffle, and me stationing my sixteen-inch shoulders half a foot away before the hoops and refusing to move. 

"You are a shit player." 

"Hey, I'm fairly good at Quidditch, alright. Not everyone's a star." 

He's going to slam that thing into my ribs any time now. 

A figure rushes past him on a broomstick and before he has time to blink, Cove's snatched the quaffle out of his hands and hovers beside me, spinning the ball in her hand like the badass her fourteen-year-old ass is. 

"Hey!" Viktor's composure falters momentarily, a frown on his face until he realizes it's just the squad's hellion. 

"Suck on that," she says in the most angelic, down-to-earth tone there is. Sky mounts his broom a moment later and then he's beside his best friend, a smirk on his face. 

"Ready to lose again?" he mocks his sister and me, sharing a superior sort of laugh with his friend. 

"Get the quaffle into the hoops or smash it into their faces?" Cove whispers to me, hovering closer. 

"Definitely those smug faces." 

Let's just say that, that night, the atmosphere at dinner reeked of distress-induced testosterone trying to make up for the deflated male egos.  

●⁍●⁍● 

Cove does not take the news of my leaving well, as I'd predicted. Maybe I'm not so bad at Divination after all. 

For seventeen consecutive hours, she has me locked in her room with her as she sobs her soul out on her divan, her armchair, her bed, her duvet, and finally me. A particular part of my t-shirt around the shoulders is covered in snot from her (and maybe my) incessant wailing. 

She finally relents and unlocks the door in the eighteenth hour because we're both starving. 

About a week later, I'm perched upon the terrace with her, watching the sunrise. The early August breeze combs through my hair, what may be my last stay here kicking off with quiet serenity. 

Sky is there too, under the pretence of annoying us because he has nothing better to do, but I know that he's here simply because he's going to miss having me around. 

When I mention this, he merely scoffs and says, "It's just going to be hell without you here to handle little Cove's mood swings. That's all." 

"That is all," I reply in a tone that implies that is not quite all, smiling widely as he rolls his eyes. 

Cove swats him for calling her little. 

When an unfamiliar owl dives from the skies and lands beside us with a rush of air, the first thing I notice is the envelope tied to its legs. 

The familiar seal of Hogwarts that I recognise from the mould-infested letter catches my attention. 

"That's strange, they've never delivered anything to the rooftop," Sky says, plucking the envelope from the owl. 

"I think it's for me." 

I jump off the parapet and snatch the letter from Sky before his nosy ass starts snooping. Except it's not addressed to Ms A. Potter this time; it's addressed to Ms Azalea Linnaea Potter, who I most certainly am not. 

Although, Azrael and Azalea do sound similar, so maybe the sender misspelt my name? 

Sounds likely. 

Unlike the previous one, this letter does not contain the same formalities. Instead, despite being of admirable penmanship, it's a quick scrawl, the words squeezed together like they'd been written in a hurry. 

Dear Azalea, 

I would like to meet with you. We have a lot to discuss. Kindly write down your current residence in your response so that our Care of Magical Creatures teacher, Professor Rubeus Hagrid, can bring you to Hogwarts. Term begins on September 1, and you are, of course, welcome, if you choose to transfer. 

Also, please enclose the envelope you have told me about it in your previous correspondence. 

Yours sincerely, 
Professor Minerva McGonagall 

That's... odd. 

Very odd. 

"Girl, you good?" Cove peers over my shoulder, and I instinctively crush the letter in my fist before she can read it. 

"Woah, okay, I see how it is," she says light-heartedly as she steps away. The same cannot be said for Sky, who, by the grace of his towering height, managed to read everything from above my head. 

"Since when's your name Azalea?" 

"Bitch," I hiss. Dude needs to learn the concept of privacy. 

"You wound me, Rae." 

Only Cove's allowed to call me that. 

If I was in Year 7 like him too, I'd be shooting every spell I'd have learnt in Dark Arts straight into his skull. 

There's a sound of footsteps pounding against wooden floorboards, and we all turn our heads toward the trapdoor as it swings open, revealing Viktor Krum, covered in soot I assume is from the fireplace, sporting the widest of grins I've ever seen. 

"Guess vot?" he says excitedly, shutting the trapdoor behind him as he crawls out, his gaze mostly on Sky. 

"What?" 

"Two words. Triwizard Tournament."