You are all the colours in one, at full brightness. 
— Jennifer Niven 

Pulchritude 
(n.) physical beauty 

Azrael POV 

"Darlings, are you two ready?" 

I swerve around Cove's frustrated figure at the vanity who's trying to make her hair curly blonde hair look less I-just-got-attacked-by-a-pack-of-werewolves and more I'm-the-daughter-of-the-sun-and-moon-and-radiate-starlight (even though it was only a Quidditch match we were going to). 

Unlocking the door, I find Mrs Krum waiting for the two of us. 

She spots Cove's saddening dilemma, and when she whips out her wand and transforms her hair into angelic curls that set perfectly, I smile silently to myself. Cove's absentia mother and father had led to her living a pretty much rogue and occasionally teary life. 

Mrs Krum was a blessing, seeing as the piles of ministry work didn't spare the Persimmons a moment to live as a family. 

And when she pulled me in for a hug, my walls came down only for her. 

Parental love is hard to find when you're abandoned at the doorstep of a muggle orphanage in a remote village in the Sweden hills. 

"Viktor and Skylar have already headed out. Their substitute Chasers have something strange going on with them, so we're on our own, girls." 

As we head downstairs to where the portkey is, I spot an unboxed box of dark chocolate at the table, mostly empty. It's dark chocolate, so of course, I sneak up to the table and am about to pop one in my mouth. About to. Mrs Krum's voice rings through the hallway as she says, "Those were addressed to Sky from one of his admirers. I don't think touching those is the best idea." 

Remembering the Cherry Sands incident, I decide, yes, it probably isn't the best idea, and drop the confection regretfully. 

●⁍●⁍● 

"Azrael Potter," Viktor says in a suspiciously calm manner. "You have ruined my hair." 

I blink, trying to gauge if he's shitting me or being serious. 

He isn't shitting me, I realize. 

"It's a buzz cut, Vik," I flat-out deadpan. For someone who's supposedly one of the top of his class, he can be awfully daft at times. "There is nothing to ruin." 

He turns to a mirror in the stand, smoothening a crease in his trousers before picking up his Firebolt. "You are clearly steering off-topic. You will not get away with this." 

It's the accent and the impassive expression in his features that makes me burst out laughing. I simply cannot take this oaf seriously. 

"Break a leg out there, Vik." I give him a quick hug before the match starts, though when I pull back to leave, he grabs my wrist, perplexed. 

"You wish for me to break my leg?" There's genuine concern and dismay on his face, and I can hear the Cove's voice in my head, rebuking me for reading muggle novels yet again. 

"No it's a muggle phrase– never mind. I know you'll do amazing out there. All the best!" 

I duck out of the tent as soon as I see the sea of reporters attempting to push past its wards. I'm not cut out for the whole fame shit. Skylar though has no problem in taking my former place beside Krum, lips spread in a smile as he awaits his face being plastered over the Daily Prophet. 

I don't think he's allowed to be in there. 

Well, neither was I, so I can't exactly say anything. 

Mrs Krum had been invited to the Top Box—being Viktor Krum's mother and all—, but seeing as Sky would probably be sneaking around the players' tents, cheering for his best friend, she did not want to leave me unchaperoned. The Persimmons were important enough in the Ministry to have seats for their family reserved, so I was the odd girl out. 

The next day, another seat, beside Mrs Krum, had been reserved for me. 

Now, sitting in the plush velvet seats of the Top Box in the companion of the Ministers for Magic of Bulgaria and Great Britain, and Europe's who's who, I felt oddly privileged. 

It's not every day something like this happens to your average Swedish witch. 

I love that I have rich and famous besties. 

"My, what a pleasant surprise." A soft voice captures my attention and my wandering gaze. I tilt my head and find a gorgeous woman with half-black, half-blonde hair sitting down beside Mrs Krum. Mrs Krum appears to know the woman as they exchange pleasantries. 

"Lady Malfoy, it has been quite a while! I did not expect to find you here." 

Seeing as it's probably just an old acquaintance, no one's in mortal peril, so I go back to absently scrutinizing the stadium as I wait for the game to begin. 

A lot of money will be lost and gained today, I realise, as I watch people recklessly place bets on either of the teams. 

My money was on Bulgaria because Vik was going to crush this. I simply knew it. 

"Oh, this—" Mrs Krum's arm wraps around my shoulder, drawing me into their conversation. "—is Azrael Potter. One of my son's friends." 

I smile politely, because what else am I supposed to do or say? My social anxiety is killing me right now. 

Her brow, however, furrows in confusion. It's the man in the seat beside her—who halts his conversation with Ludovic Bagman (I recognise him only because Mrs Krum made me memorise all important figures before coming) and a ginger-haired family in the row before us, to look at me with a suspicious gaze—who speaks up. 

"Potter, you say?" 

"That's me, yeah," I say a little confusedly, wondering why the couple was now looking at me with careful eyes, examining me. My forehead, to be precise, which sort of weirded me out. 

"You wouldn't happen to be associated with that particular Potter, would you?" He jerks his chin towards the front row at the only non-ginger boy in the front row. I only see the back of his head, but I positively have no clue who he is. 

"Err, no, Sir, I do not know who that boy is." 

I consider asking why, but the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly at me has me deciding otherwise. 

"Very well," he says, casting me one last glance and tossing his head in the other direction, his shoulder-length blonde hair whipping in the breeze. 

The woman who Mrs Krum called Lady Malfoy, too, looks at me thoughtfully for a moment, then at the boy with dark brown hair, back at me, and resumes her conversation with Mrs Krum, who appears totally unfazed by the exchange. 

"They're an eccentric lot," she whispers to me when no one's looking. 

I look at the brunette again, wondering who he is, and why a random blondie would assume I was associated with him. 

Well, probably just a slight, albeit strange, mix-up, that's all. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I see the man who I assume is Lady Malfoy's husband, conversing with a familiar couple. Mr and Mrs Persimmons. 

And with them is Cove, forcing a smile, looking like she'd rather be anywhere but. Skylar was one brilliant bastard. Brilliant, because he escaped the pains of socialising; bastard, because he'd left his sister behind for the wolves. 

The match would start soon, so hopefully she'd be able to slip away in a few moments. 

I was saving the seat beside me for my best friend, and I was pretty fucking intent on biting whoever's ass dared to steal her spot until my gaze locked with spellbinding, lethal, silver eyes that pierced my soul. 

"I apologise for my intrusion," the boy mumbles, weaving his fingers through this platinum-blonde hair. The gesture pushes back most of his hair, except for a few rogue strands that lazily tumble across his forehead. 

Gesturing towards the Persimmons, he says, "My father wishes to speak with the Auror and the Curse-Breaker, so my seat's been stolen by them." 

"I see," I mumble because as it turns out, I'm the shittiest person alive when it comes to conversing with beautiful blonde dudes that fate drops into the seats beside me. 

And then he turns his gaze to the Quidditch pitch, his legs crossed and hands threaded on his lap. The black suit jacket very much compliments his shoulders. 

His eyes dart in my direction, and that's when I realise I've been caught staring. 

"Is there a problem with my sitting here?" he asks, and that's the first time I notice the sense of superiority and general annoyance in his voice. Like he couldn't care less about anything in the world. 

His eyes have distracted me for far too long. 

"No, no, no problem at all." I say hurriedly, stumbling over my words, and curse at myself for being a blathering fool. 

Upon my saying that, his eyes widen ever-so-slightly, his voice genuinely concerned as he asks, "Is my hair a mess again?" 

And he's muttering curses to himself as he runs his hands through his hair again, attempting to tame them into submission. 

I can't help but giggle at the sight, causing his gaze to shoot towards me with a glare. 

"Think this is funny, do you?" he spits at me, and that's all it takes for me to burst out laughing completely, my shoulders shaking as I try to reign it in. 

"I mean, honestly? Yes. You're such a sight for sore eyes." I'm still chuckling as I tuck a wayward lock of my hair behind my ear, watching his expression go from irritated to pensive. 

A thoughtful look crosses his face, and he shakes his head in agreement. "Well, that's something I can't disagree with." Then, after a pause: "What's your name?" 

I'm taken aback by the fact that he bothered continuing the conversation. My behaviour didn't exactly scream look-at-me-I'm-a-social-butterfly-!. I don't mind it, though.

"Azrael. And yours?"

"Azrael," he mumbles, as if testing how the syllables roll past his lips.

He extends a hand, a not-so-annoyed look on his expression now. Almost akin to a lazy smirk. "I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."

I slip my hand into his, the cool metal of his rings sending goosebumps across my skin.

"Pleasure to meet you, Draco Malfoy."