You, who opened suns in my heart. 
— Alfonsina Storni 

Eesome 
(adj.) pleasing to the eye 

Azrael POV  

We make small talk for a while. 

"Durmstrang, huh? You know, I would have gone there too if Mother hadn't been so afraid of me being so far away. What's it like?" Draco Malfoy asks when I tell him I'm from that school. Or was. I don't mention my expulsion. 

I'm in the middle of bitching about Karkaroff when I realise Mr Malfoy here, being the one who initiated the conversation, isn't paying attention to me anymore. Rude much. 

"You know, you can just tell me to shut up if you're not interested, right?" 

But it doesn't seem like he registers what I say. I don't think he hears me at all. His eyes are trained straight ahead, and that's when I notice that the World Cup has begun. 

How did I miss Bagman's announcement? Merlin, I should shut up sometimes. 

The Bulgarians' Mascots are on the field, dancing, and I have to admit, they look ethereal. The veela, I realize, are what stole the blonde's attention, and he's staring at them with eyes so wide, I'm surprised they haven't fallen out of their sockets. 

It's when he slowly, almost unconsciously, gets up, like a magnetic pull is tugging at him, his eyes still trained on the field, that I realize he isn't the only one enraptured by them. Most of the men in the box are staring at them, entranced. 

When I see the brunette—so-called Potter—in the preceding row walk towards the wall of the box as if intending to freefall into their arms—that's when I realise how strong the veela's enchantment is. Also, I realise I don't particularly feel like losing the company of the gorgeous foreigner beside me, so I grab his wrist and pull him back into his seat in one harsh tug. 

"Merlin's bloody beard!" he exclaims, his ass hitting the cushioned velvet with a faint thump. He blinks a couple of times, his dilated pupils snapping out of a trance as he looks at me, and then the glare is back. "What the hell was that for?" 

Don't look at them, look at me :( 

Now, since I can't exactly say that out loud, I simply shrug, smiling coyly as I return my gaze to the pitch. "You looked like you were going to cartwheel out of the box just to get close to them. I saved your life." 

I wince as enraged protests resound through the stadium at the veela's departure. 

He rolls his eyes, resting his forearms on his thighs and leaning forward like me. 

"That's absurd," he mumbles as a ball of light whizzes through the stadium. Like a comet. The Irish team's mascots. 

A small smirk tugs at his lips at the sight. 

"You can't possibly find this amusing after the previous display," I deadpan. The fireworks are only mildly interesting compared to the last. 

"Slytherin colours," he says, gesturing to the green and gold sparks. "Well, the green at least. Personally, I prefer silver. Bloody Gryffindors and their gold." 

I understood fourteen out of the sixteen words he spoke. 

"Slytherin and Gryffindor?" 

His gaze flutters away from the pitch and towards me. "Oh, right. Forgot you're Durmstrang." The general air of superiority and annoyance is back in his tone. Or maybe it never left, and I was just way too distracted by those electric eyes to notice it. 

Merlin, end me. 

Before he can answer me though, we're interrupted by a booming voice, announcing: "And now, ladies and gentlemen, kindly welcome—the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team! I give you–" 

Scarlet-robed figures zoom out onto the field from an entrance far below. I sit up straighter, my lips spreading into a wide smile as I recognise Vik's team. The blonde beside me is forgotten. 

"–Dimitrov! Ivanova! Zograf! Levski! Vulchanov! Volkov! Aaaaaaand—Krum!" 

I burst into cheers as Viktor zooms into view, hooting and hollering like a madwoman. Beside me, Mrs Krum is doing the same, though in a marginally more dignified manner. 

"Go Vik!" I scream, cupping my palms around my mouth. 

I catch one of the ginger boys in the front row turn around curiously. His eyes land on me and widen impossibly, lips parted comically. 

I'm momentarily distracted from cheering for Viktor, and shoot the ginger a quizzical, though polite, smile, hoping he'll return to his business. He swallows hard, apparently with no intention of doing so, still staring at me, so I leave him to his own devices and return to the game. 

Viktor's eyes are distractedly scanning the stadium, and when he spots the top box, his gaze zooms in on its occupants. When he spots his mother, the acute concentration in his gaze relaxes and a wide smile dances on his lips. 

I see Mrs Krum tear up and blow him a kiss. Such a mama's boy. 

I scoot closer to Mrs Krum to attract his attention, and when I do, he rolls his eyes playfully. I shoot him a thumbs up and he winks in response at me, and at Cove too, before diverting his attention back to his game. 

The entire ordeal causes me to miss the Irish team's announcement. I settle into my seat once the formalities are done, and the referee, Hassan Mostafa, strides onto the field, broomstick and crate in hand. 

"Blimey, you know Krum?" the ginger who hasn't taken his eyes off me says, his astonishment making me feel mildly privileged. But Viktor never gloats, and he's been doing his best to instil his down-to-earth behaviour in Skylar and me because the two of us cannot resist any opportunity to gloat, so I decide to abide by his training and crack only a small smile. 

"We're friends," I say as if it isn't a big deal. 

The rest of the ginger's sputtering words are lost to the wind as Mostafa kicks open the crate and all four balls fly into the air. 

"Theeeeeeeey're OFF!"

The rush is unlike any other game. Keeping my eyes trained on one single player is out of the question—their speed is impossible to keep up with. 

What I can notice, though, is that Quaffle is only bouncing between the Irish as they whizz past in a blur of green. The Quaffle slams in through the hoops and Bagman roars, "TROY SCORES! Ten zero to Ireland!" 

My shoulders slump. 

If you look closely, you'll see that my scarlet face paint has turned to a sad shade of maroon. 

Malfoy nudges my shoulder with his. "Are you honestly friends with Viktor Krum?" For the first time since the beginning of our interaction, I hear genuine curiosity and awe in his voice. It's very subtle, but I catalogue it nonetheless. 

"You don't sound so high and mighty anymore," I tease. "Where's the superiority complex gone?" 

"I do not have a superiority complex." The smile I sport at his statement suggests that I don't, not even minutely, agree with him. 

He takes offence to my response and leans back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other and staring straight ahead. I'm a little let down because I'd come to enjoy his company. 

Ten minutes later, we're still zero while the Irish have established a comfortable lead of thirty. Given the current trend of the score, it's no surprise to me when Volkov and Vulchanov, the Bulgarian Beaters, say fuck it and begin whacking their Bludgers at the Irish Chasers with a ferocity I've never witnessed before. 

And then it all happens so quickly. 

Bulgarian Chaser, Ivanova, manages to break through the Irish's ranks and dodges their Keeper; I'm at the end of my seat in an instant watching her seconds away from scoring a goal. 

The Irish Beater Quigley spots her. 

Ivanova aims, and the Quaffle leaves her hand, battering through the air and towards the hoop, right at the moment Quigley sends a Bludger flying at her with such sheer force, it knocks her right off her broom. No one has time to realise what's happened until it has. 

Silence and screams simultaneously ring through the stadium as she plummets downwards. 

Levski—one of the Bulgarian Chasers— springs to action; he veers around from the other end of the stadium and races down, catching her limp body mid-air, and Mostafa calls for a time-out.  

There's blood splattered all over her face. 

For ten seconds that feel like sixty, I'm stunned, my hands before my mouth to hide my silent gasp. The Irish regroup on the pitch and Mostafa strides up to them. Bagman's announcing something but I don't hear it. 

I whisper an "Excuse me," to Mrs Krum and, without waiting for a response, push back Malfoy's designer shoe-clad feet to make room for me to leave. His hand darts out and grabs my wrist before I can go. 

"Wait," Malfoy sputters, just as confused as I am by his reaction. I raise an eyebrow in question. "Where are you going?" he asks. 

"I'll be back," I mumble and pull my hand out of his grip, racing out of the Top Box, through the stands, through the crowds, until I reach the Bulgarian Players' Tent. Skylar is there, holding the two flaps together with only his neck sticking out, watching the match. Or, at least was watching it. 

"Where are they?" I ask worriedly. His gaze snaps to me, surprised by my unapprised appearance. He points his chin behind me, towards my right, and I turn around and see a bleeding Ivanova being carried to the tent, surrounded by her raging teammates. A close-up look allows me to properly see her blood-splattered, disfigured face. Fuck, it's worse than I imagined. 

I step aside to give the group space to walk in, a nauseous feeling bubbling inside me at the sight of Ivanova. Skylar does the same, stepping out to give the team privacy and joining ranks beside me. Viktor shoots us a smile, the last to enter the tent once everyone else has. He pulls open the flap to duck in and I wince as I catch another visual of scowling, seething Bulgarians. 

"That was some fucked up shit," Skylar whispers to me as another mediwitch rushes into the tent. There's enraged shouting from inside the tent, though I hardly think they're shouting at each other. 

"That was some fucked up shit," I reaffirm, shuddering as the image of her mangled face reappears in my head. "Merlin, I hope she'll be alright." 

"Doubt it," Sky says pessimistically. 

But we have magic, for crying out loud. 

And then a thought hits me. "There are no substitute chasers." That's what Mrs Krum said when we were leaving, right? 

"Merlin's fuckin–" Skylar buries his face in his palms, cursing. "No, there aren't. They ate something a pair of ginger-haired twins gave them and have been thoroughly head-fucked since then. And the team voted against 'wasting time finding new subs' because they were so sure of their gameplan and strength." 

"Yeah, well that's worked wonders so far," I mutter, unconsciously digging a hole through the soil with the toe of my shoe. "They should be able to fix Ivanova, right? What good is magic if it can't magically heal things?" 

"Mhm," Skylar sounds less hopeful than me. 

I glance towards the pitch. The tent is sheltered from most eyes, so we're able to see the stadium pretty well, but not vice versa. 

There's a state of disarray in the crowd. The Irish are taking the time to regroup and strategize. I don't know if they got a penalty because I was busy tearing through the crowd to reach here then. They should get one. More than one. They cannot just get away with hurting a player that bad. 

Viktor walks out of the tent, head hanging low in concentrated rage. It's a sight I haven't ever seen. He walks over to us and crosses his arms, his gaze alternating between me Skylar. 

"What... did we do?" Sky asks from the receiving end of Vik's piercing gaze. 

"Us Bulgarians need another Chaser.