Tears are the truest demonstration of the heart set on fire. 
— d. Murungi 

Monachopsis 
(n.) the subtle but persistent feeling of being out of place 

Azrael POV 

"This is a bad idea," I say with the strongest conviction.

"None of us are exceptionally fond of the idea of having a fourteen-year-old child—" The word is spoken harshly by Keeper Lev Zograf, and a look that could kill is turned on Vik. "—on our team either, but we'll try to make do."

"I mean, she is exceptionally good for a fourteen-year-old," Chaser Vasily Dimitrov offers.

Vasily Dimitrov and Alexei Levski, also a Chaser, had been over at Viktor's manor last Christmas, and I'd had the rare honour of being introduced to two other players of the Bulgarian team besides Vik. We'd even played Quidditch on Vik's home pitch once—I, Dimitrov, and Vik were on one team, and Skylar, Cove, and Levski were on the other. 

"Though not good enough for a National Team yet," Levski butts in, "The Irish are gonna see her as a weak link and fuck her up worse than Clara."

"That's comforting," I mutter under my breath. Merlin, please keep the Bludger away from me.

"Alex, you're frightening her. Shut up," Vik interrupts. I do not know if I should smile at Viktor Krum or scowl at him.

After he walked out of the tent with his head hanging low in that concentrated rage of his, turned his gaze on Skylar and me, and said he needed another Chaser, I felt bad for Sky because I thought he would be the one taking to the skies since he's the obvious choice.

And Sky was going to do it, except he began freaking out and got all excited and started jumping and tried doing a handstand—that didn't end well. So, he sat down to take a breath, pinched himself to see if he really was going to play for the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team in the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup, realised it was all real, jumped on Viktor and hugged him, and then whipped out a celebratory chocolate from his pocket and popped it in his mouth.

And that's when it all went to shit.

I now discover that the unboxed box of dark chocolate back at the Krum Manor from one of Sky's admirers was mostly empty because Skylar had them all tucked away in his pockets. And the second he popped one in his mouth, I knew that the admirer in question had slipped something lovey-dovey into it, namely Amortentia.

The Bulgarian team's coach had him knocked out when he tried to kiss Vik and, by polite request of team captain Viktor Krum, dumped him on a bed in the Champion's tent.

And that's how the mantle of fulfilling the vacant Chaser's spot fell on me, to which the team coach reluctantly agreed because we were out of time; the crowd was waiting. With Dimitrov, Levski, and Krum—three players of the team—vouching for my survivable credibility, I was ushered into the Champion's tent and am currently being scrutinised by all team players.

Levski shrugs in response to Vik's words, and Volkov, one of the Beaters, looks at me and adds, "If facts frighten her, then maybe she shouldn't be here."

"She does not appreciate being spoken about in the third person when she's right here."

But as much as I disliked having my Quidditch skills questioned, I was surrounded by national players. I might be one of the best in my year, second only to Cove, but I don't think I have a chance against national players with far more expertise and skill than my fourteen-year-old ass.

"Tough luck," says Vulchanov, the other Beater, and shoves a bloody Firebolt into my hands. My eyes widen in sheer disbelief. 

This really is happening. 

"ALL OF YOU, ON THE FIELD!" The coach yells from the entrance of the tent, and I expel a deep breath. What have I gotten myself entangled in?

The team shuffles out, mumbling to each other about things I don't hear. I'm the third-last to leave, with Vik and Dimitrov right behind me. Their coach side-eyes me as I make my way out.

"Hey," Vik's hand on my shoulder makes me pause. I'm still staring at the ground, focusing on labouring my breath.

"Hm?"

He knocks his bloody Firebolt against my shoulder, smiling gently. "You 'ave got this. And if you think you do not, then it is okay for you to hover around the edge and stay out of the heat. You will be alright."

"Levski and I can handle the Chasing, so don't worry," Dimitrov pipes in. "You are an outstanding player for your age, and I mean it, but Nationals is messy, and you are nowhere close to being trained for that. You can fly around distracting the Irish, or choose not to do anything at all, it's all cool. No pressure."

I know they were trying to be comforting, but I felt the opposite; I felt so much more nervous, now with the knowledge that even they did not believe in my skills. I mean, yeah, they spoke facts, but it unsettled my nerves nonetheless.

And so that's how I—an average fourteen-year-old witch who got expelled from school—ended up as a Quidditch Nationals player, all because I was friends with Viktor Krum and happened to be at the right/wrong place at the right/wrong time.

Do I still love having famous friends? Time to find out.

I station myself between Levski and Dimitrov, now officially a Chaser on the Bulgarian National Quidditch Team in the four hundred and twenty-second Quidditch World Cup. 

Levski pats my head, and says, "Don't know how the fuck you ended up here, but good luck, kid."

Fuck, this is really happening.

I can hear Bagman announcing that the Bulgarian Team has substituted Ivanova's spot, and will now be making their way on the field. I'm second in line to enter the stadium, after Dimitrov, and I'm acutely aware of how different the view was from the Top Box. 

And now I'm going to be playing, oh, Merlin. 

Suddenly, I forgot how to mount a broom. Until Levksi hisses from behind me and knocks his broom against mine, and I ungracefully almost fall off the bloody Firebolt. 

I will cry.

I settle myself onto the broom and finally zoom into the air, into the stadium, and the view blinds me. 

Lights, everywhere, and people everywhere I can see. All staring, waiting for the game to resume. Eyes zoom in on me, and Bagman announces something in a shocked tone, but I cannot hear it. 

There's a hum in my ears; I can't decipher anything I'm hearing. All the voices blur into one wave of white noise. Paired with the blinding lights of the pitch, a crowd of people staring and murmuring, and my completely impromptu, spur-of-the-moment appearance and lack of skill, I've been tossed into the cauldron of catastrophe.

Are fourteen-year-olds even allowed to play in Nationals?

Shut up, Azrael. Deep breath.

It's just a Quidditch game, you've played so many since last year. It's just another game. Just like back in school. It's just different players. And a different pitch. And a different crowd, and a different broomstick, and a National bloody game.

Shit. This is incredible.

Viktor, the last player to zoom into the stadium, arrives, and the crowd goes wild for him. Taking most stares off me.

I exhale.

What the hell have I gotten myself into? 

●⁍●⁍● 

Okay, I have to admit, this is fucking cool. 

Sure, the spectators went nuts seeing a child in the game, Bagman was having a field day announcing all kinds of stuff about me (the most repeated one being: who the hell is this witch), and the Irish were stunned and caught off guard momentarily, and their Beaters decided I was an easy target to knock out so there was one Bludger and one Beater, namely Quigley (the asshole who broke Ivanova's face), exclusively designated to knocking me off my broom and hopefully shatter a few bones here and there, which resulted in Viktor having to abandon his search for the Snitch more than once to save my ass from being Bludger-slammed, and our team getting a penalty when our Keeper—Zograf—ditched his assigned area to whack away another Bludger that was heading for my face. 

But it's still fucking cool. 

I have never ridden a bloody Firebolt and never played in such an intense game. I will slit my throat before ever calling playing with Cove, Sky, and Vik intense again.

There was no doubt we were losing. Horribly, might I add. I was glad the team didn't pressurise me; I'd probably sob in embarrassment if they did.

I did get my hands on the Quaffle once since I took to the skies, assisting Levski in scoring our second goal. I've never whooped and hollered so much as when I did when he made the goal. Another thing I've never done in my life is speak to Volkov, but when I flew past him, I high-fived him, because I was high on excitement and all. I think I weirded him out, but it's okay.

I helped Alexei Levski score ten points in Nationals, hell yeah!

That was honestly all I needed to settle into my element; the adrenaline, the subtle buzz of excitement, and the sheer improbability of the game hummed in my bloodstream. Playing Quidditch makes me feel alive, and this match is going to be no exception.

I'm lost in a little bubble of my own, soaring and experimenting with speeds on the Firebolt because I will never get to ride this baby again. And because I'm lost in said bubble of excitement, happily zooming through the sky and making faces at Quigley, provoking him because it was just way too much fun, I don't hear Dimitrov calling my name from above until the Quaffle lands square on my lap.

I'm startled, and I look up from where it free-fell into my hands, but all I see is one worried Dimitrov wincing at my lack of attention and three angry Irish Chasers flying down towards me with an intention to kill.

Yeah, shit.

"POTTER!"

This time, I do hear my name being called out. I get my head back in the game and fly the fuck away from the Chasers, narrowly dodging Quigley's Bludger. I swerve around the other Irish Beater whose name I don't know, and pass the Quaffle to Levski, who catches it and races for the hoops.

I realise that I was quick enough to dodge Quigley's Bludger, but Vik wasn't. I turn around and watch the Bludger break his nose, blood splattering everywhere.

Shit, shit, shit shit shit shitshitshitshitshit ON TOP OF A PILE OF SHIT.

"VIK!" I scream, flying up to him, intending to ask if he's alright, but from the corner of my eye, I see Lynch—the Irish Seeker—dive downwards, with targeted precision, which can only mean one thing.

"I'm fine Azr—"

"THE SNITCH!" I point towards Lynch, and before the words can even fully leave my mouth, wind whips my face as he zooms away on his Firebolt.

"You're welcome, I guess," I mumble, returning to the game. My assist was clean, and Levski aimed pretty well, but the Irish Keeper managed to block the Quaffle anyway.

But no one's focused on the game anymore; everyone's watching Viktor and Lynch race for the snitch to see who will catch it and end the game. I glance at the scoreboard.

170-20.

Even if Vik caught the Snitch, we still wouldn't win; it would be a tie. And I don't know how Quidditch tiebreakers work, but I wasn't about to find out today. I'm hovering beside Dimitrov, who also has his eyes trained on the Seekers.

No one—not the Irish or Bulgarians—has their minds on the scoring anymore; they're all watching the Seekers to see who'll catch the Snitch.

"Hey," I whisper to Dimitrov quickly and then point at the scoreboard. "Screw that, we need another 10 points."

And without waiting for a response, I dash off towards Troy, one of the Irish Chasers, who has the Quaffle in his hands but is conveniently distracted by the Snitch.

I snatch it out of his hands and race for the hoops, my eyes darting around for Dimitrov and Levski. I don't trust myself to successfully make the goal.

I exhale, relieved when each of them comes up beside me, in a Hawkshead formation.

We've caught the attention of the players by now, who ditch watching Lynch and Vik and get back to the game when they realise we're still playing. Two Bludgers come from each side. What the hell are Volkov and Vulchanov doing?

An involuntary scream leaves me, and I duck, flying downwards to avoid being hit. Levski and Dimitrov both fly upwards.

I hold onto the Quaffle for dear life as Moran—another Irish Chaser—comes right at me, looking pretty pissed because I stole it from her team, and I toss the Quaffle up. Dimitrov, Levski, someone catch it, please.

Dimitrov does.

I exhale and rush towards the hoops, Levski doing the same on the other side of Dimitrov, flanking him. I don't know what I'm doing, but whatever it is, it's working.

A Bludger hits Dimitrov square in the back, knocking him straight off his broom.

"FUCK!" Levski roars and dives to catch Dimitrov, glancing at me for a split second with a pleading expression.

Shit, shit, shit, the Quaffle.

It's in Moran's hands, who smirks at me, looking way too confident for her own good. I smile the sweetest smile I can, which isn't that hard because Moran is pretty and I like smiling at pretty people, and then fly right into her and tackle the Quaffle out of her hands.

I don't think she expected me to do that, because she's caught off guard, and the Quaffle slips right past her hands. Wonderful.

I clutch it, don't wait, and shoot with all the aim and strength I've gathered in my two years of playing Quidditch.

The Quaffle batters through the air, slamming into the Keeper's hands.

No.

But the force is too much; it slips past his hands and slams into his chest, and goes straight through the hoop, taking the Keeper with it, right as someone catches the Snitch and Mostafa whistles, declaring the end of the game.

A Bludger finally hits me, right in the temple of my head, and the last thing I see is Quigley's raging expression turn into one of morbid satisfaction as my vision blurs and I lose grip on my broom and fall. 

●⁍●⁍● 

I've never fallen from a broom.

I've been the second-best player on my team since the first day I mounted a broom, and have always played well. Always had my head in the game, always abided by my and Cove's foolproof gameplans, and have never been hit by Bludger.

Not once.

I guess there's a first for everything, I tell myself as I'm knocked off my broom and sent hurtling through the sky. Wind rushes at my face, and my ears ring from being so hard hit. My head hurts.

I hate Quigley. 

I'm gonna die. 

I scream when I see the blur of green become clearer and come closer, and I'm pretty damn sure the next Quidditch match I'll be playing will be with Merlin or my dead ancestors. 

"Ow—" The breath is knocked from my lungs, as my stomach crashes into a broomstick. 

A hand fists my jersey and prevents me from flying off into the air again, and we dive down towards the pitch, where my saviour dumps me on the grass. 

I think I died twice up there.

"Good game, girl," A fist knocks against my motionless knuckles, and I look up to find Moran— the damn Irish Chaser—grinning at me with the most gorgeous grin I've seen a girl sport. She pats my back before walking away towards her own team, who have just landed on the ground.

Woah.

Now that was incredible.

I blink the haze away from my eyes and bring my hand up to feel the spot on my temple where I got hit, and wince. 

"Azrael!" 

Vik lands a few feet away from me, ditching his broom the second his feet land on the ground and rushing up to me. I crack a smile when I see him. 

"Are you alright?" he asks, a hand on my shoulder, assessing potential damage. I disregard his question because the sight of him brings me back to the game.

"Did you catch it?" I ask, "The Snitch?"

"HELL YEAH HE DID!" A hand grabs my arm and pulls me up unceremoniously, and I'm squeezed into a bone-crushing embrace.

I recognise the voice as Volkov's, and when he releases me from the hug, I see the widest smile etched across his face. Okay, guess my high-five didn't weird him out after all.

"BLOODY HELL, WE WON?"

Vik nods, and I pounce on him to hug him, and then Levski pounces on him from behind, Dimitrov on the right, and I quickly separate myself from the hug as they all throw themselves on each other and whoop in joy.

Merlin's star-damned beard.

What in heaven's name did I just go through?

"THAT WAS THE COOLEST THROW I'VE EVER SEEN!" A voice screams from behind, and I whip my head around to see Clara Ivanova running across the pitch, face fixed and completely healed. "WHO THE DEVIL'S CAULDRON EVEN ARE YOU?!"

It takes me a second to realise she was talking to me before I'm pulled into another spine-crushing hug. She holds the hug for a moment, then pulls back and kisses me on the cheek, and I'm left standing there, too stunned to speak, when Levski pushes past me and whisks her into his arms and latches his lips to hers.

Oh.

I see. 

They look hot together; they're suddenly my favourite power couple. 

Levski pulls away for a second, pats me on the head, saying "You were fucking crazy out there, kid, amazing job," and then spins me around one-eighty degrees so that I'm not staring the fuck out of them and goes back to loving his girl. 

"Hi, did I miss Bagman announcing us as the winners?" I ask the others. 

"Well, you were busy pulling an Ivanova, you know, getting hit by Quigley and falling from the sky and all that, so not your fault," Lev Zograf shrugs, holding his fist out. I knock mine against his, and I suddenly feel like a star. 

"OKAY, HI EVERYONE, I'M ALIVE, BUT DID YOU SEE THIS KID SAVE US FROM A TIE?!" Ivanova screams as she and Levski join the group, lips no longer attached. I blush at her words, only now realising that my heart's been racing a marathon all this while. I just played in Quidditch Nationals and won, fuck. 

"You know, Krum, watching you catch the Snitch wasn't half as entertaining as seeing her make that goal," Dimitrov says, knocking his shoulder against Vik's. I break another smile, and so does Vik and everyone else. Dimitrov turns to me and says, "And your Quaffle took Ryan with it, how did you even do that?" 

Ryan, I'm assuming, is the Irish Keeper. 

The team bursts into laughter, and while they gush over our victory as we make our way back to the Champion's tent to freshen up before getting the Quidditch Cup and pictures for headlines while the veela head onto the pitch to celebrate the Bulgarian victory, I chance a glance at the Irish team, who look mad. Guess they're not used to losing. 

I can't blame them, because I'd be that way too if I lost a match, which I, to date, haven't.

I lock eyes with Quigley, and his glare says enough. He wants me dead. And when I look away from him because he was just creeping me out, I lock eyes with Ryan, their Keeper, who is seething, to say the least. He narrows his eyes at me, and his lips curl upward in the crudest manner, promising death.

Oh no.

I look away and stare straight ahead again, eyes back on the ground instead of assessing my rivals.

"Hey, I saw that," Ivanova whispers to me. I look up at her, and she's got a mildly irritated look in her eyes, though it doesn't seem to be directed at me.

I shrug. "I mean, I did make faces at one and launch a Quaffle at the other, so it's understandable."

The way her lips press into a line says she does not agree with me.

She turns away from me, pulls at Levski's jersey to grab his attention, and whispers something in his ear. He listens carefully, pulls back, glances at the Irish, who are also walking off the pitch, and narrows his eyes at them before smirking.

"Fuck yeah, baby. After pics though, or we might get into trouble."

I want a guy like Levski. Ivanova is one lucky lass. I don't even know these people, and I already love the way they smile at each other. 

I pause once we reach outside the Champion's tent. I'm overwhelmed with congratulations from the team, a stark contrast to how they treated me with apprehension before my unplanned appearance. 

They all head in, and I awkwardly stand aside, watching them go inside. 

Vik hangs back with their coach, waiting until they've all gone in before turning towards me with a smile so wide that it rivals the smile I saw on the face of the cat in one of the Muggle books I was reading. 

"Azrael Potter," says their coach, assessing me like an artist contemplates a canvas. "You have truly outdone yourself." 

And he says it with such conviction, I nearly melt into a puddle of sunshine. I bite back my excitement and awe and politely say, "Thank you, sir."

"The only people in whom I've seen such talent as yours are the seven players on the team, as you can see. You... lack finesse, but you have the brightest potential to become just as successful as your friend Viktor here."

Vik stands beside him, lips pressed together to suppress a smile. His eyes sparkle when he looks at me with a childlike excitement.

I swallow a lump in my throat and look back at the Bulgarian Coach.

"I have never done this before, but I am formally offering you a spot on our team the day you turn eighteen. As long as you keep up the good game and hone your already impressive skills, I do not doubt that you will be playing many more National Quidditch games to come."

Merlin's offspring's saggy socks.

"Have a good day, Miss Potter. You are more than welcome to join your team when they head to collect the Quidditch Cup." 

Your team?

And then he heads into the Champion's tent. And I'm standing there, muscles locked, jaw on the ground, eyes wide, staring at Viktor like that did not just happen. 

"So that happened," he states, a smile tugging at his lips. 

Skylar walks out of the tent, dazed and lost and stumbling. He sees me and Vik, and suddenly his eyes sharpen and his legs reclaim their ability to jump and kick the air. "You. Both. Kicked. ASS!" 

So that happened. 

I bring a fist to my mouth and squeal into my skin.