Coach Joe's military training

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

my favorite game - the cardigans 

And I'm losing my favorite gameYou're losing your mind again. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The sun is already beating down when Zora arrives at camp, her large backpack slung over her shoulders and her broomstick in hand. It's only nine in the morning, yet the golden rays almost burn her bare arms. She had missed the feeling of the sun biting her skin. She had missed summer in France. Her steps slow as she stops in front of the massive iron gate—the entrance to the training center she knows like the back of her hand now. 

She suddenly feels an ache in her chest as she thinks about how this is the last time she will be here. Last year of camp. Already. 

Her eyes travel over the delicate wrought iron design before landing to the old manor standing tall beyond the bars. The three-story estate welcomes the young Quidditch prodigies for the month-long training program. A familiar shiver runs through her as she spots the two Quidditch pitches behind the house and golden fields shining under the July sun.

Zora takes a deep breath. The morning breeze carries the well-known scent of honey and coffee from the kitchens, instantly comforting her. She hesitates before pushing the gate open, her thoughts drifting to Viktor. 

This is the first time she'll be away from him for so long. Even though his departure for intensive training with the Bulgarian national team still leaves a bitter taste in her mouth, Viktor is her other half, and she can't shake the feeling that things won't be the same without him.

Just as she reaches for the gate, a voice calls out from behind.

"Scared I'll steal the spotlight this year, Krum?"

A grin spreads across Zora's lips before she even turns around. "Johnson. Still as delusional as ever, I see."

Angelina smirks, and in a heartbeat, the two girls close the distance, wrapping each other in a tight embrace.

"Merlin, I missed you," Angelina sighs, squeezing her harder.

Zora steps back looking at her before finally pushing open the gate with her back. "Let's not get all emotional just yet, Johnson. We've got a whole month before you start crying about it."

Angelina rolls her eyes and pushes Zora with her hip as she strides past her. 

The two witches met during their first year at camp and instantly clicked with Adeline Durand. Since then, they've been inseparable—sisters in everything but blood. Every summer, they reunite, savoring each day, each second, each beam of sunlight, each shared laugh, before it all turns into memories, nostalgia, and an agonizing wait for the next year.

"So, you're not with Viktor ? You finally manage to kill him?" Angelina asks casually, smiling. 

Zora snorts. "I wish. Mr. Quidditch Star is far too busy with his precious Bulgarian team to grace us with his presence this year."

Angelina presses her lips together, suddenly remembering the countless letters Zora had sent her over the past few months, ranting about exactly that. "Shit. Sorry, I forgot."

Zora lets out a loud sigh. "It's fine. He deserves it."

She turns to Angelina with a dramatic sigh. "Merlin, it feels good to be here. I was starting to lose my mind at Durmstrang."

"Tell me about it. End of term at Hogwarts was a nightmare. Ollie wouldn't shut up after Slytherin won the Cup again."

Ollie.

Oliver Wood.

Zora's lip twitches slightly at the mention of his name.

"So, same old, same old?" she questions, raising an eyebrow. 

Everyone at camp, including Zora, knows Oliver Wood's reputation. Quidditch-obsessed to a borderline unhealthy degree, dramatic 24/7—whether it's about a missed goal or the way the wind slightly changed direction mid-play—socially awkward in a way that makes interactions with him either painfully hard to follow or unintentionally hilarious. 

 And above all, Oliver Wood will do absolutely anything to win. Rules, pain, exhaustion—none of it matters as long as victory is in sight.

Zora has seen it firsthand. The way he grits his teeth through injuries, his hands tightening around his broom. The way he'll stay up at night, going over playbooks, muttering to himself as if memorizing every possible scenario will somehow make his team untouchable.

And yet, despite all this—or maybe because of it—he's one of the best damn Keepers out there. And, much to her own irritation, Zora finds it almost... endearing.

As they reach the stone path leading up to the old house, a blonde head suddenly runs toward them.

"About time!" Adeline shouts, practically launching herself at them. "Did you two get lost on the way or what?"

Laughter erupts as the three girls pull each other into a tight group hug.

"Zorry here was too scared to enter without cousin Vic," Angelina teases.

Zora slaps her shoulder with a scoff before eyeing Adeline with an approving nod. "Nice haircut, Ad. Hot."

Adeline winks at Zora and squeezes her hand. 

They step inside the house, their footsteps echoing against the wooden floors. Without waiting, Zora leads them left, toward the director's office.

"Shall we go say hello to dear old Jacques?" she says before knocking twice and pushing the door open wide.

Mr. Vural, the camp director, nearly jumps out of his chair. He's a former quidditch captain and keeper, one of the best of his generation. He won the Quidditch World Cup twice with his team. Now, he's just a nice old man with not much hair left on his head. 

He hastily adjusts his glasses on his nose before breaking into a warm smile.

"My dearest troublemakers!"

He walks toward them, arms outstretched. "What a joy to have you back!"

"And we're ready to give everyone hell," Angelina announces with a grin.

Mr. Vural wipes his brow and chuckles before coughing lightly. "You never make my job easy."

"Well, it's our last year—don't think we'll go easy on you, Jacques," Zora grins, placing a hand on his arm.

"Oh dear, your last year already!" he sighs, shaking his head in disbelief. "It feels like just yesterday you were all barely reaching my desk."

"The camp won't be the same without us, that's for sure," Adeline chimes in.

"Alright, alright, enough chatter—you're going to miss Coach Joe's briefing!" He waves them toward the door, chuckling. "Go on, off with you!"

The girls wave him off and head down the corridor, laughing and talking loudly.

"What's all this racket?"

At the sound of Coach Joe's stern voice, they instantly freeze, standing straight with their heads held high.

Coach Joe is the authority figure at camp. Tall, thin, black hair cut very short, she inspires only fear and nightmares. No one knows her full name, her age, her life. She is approximately between 30 and 50 years old. She has been coaching for the last few years and her key words are: discipline, respect and only stopping training when you are on the ground on the verge of death.

Coach Joe sighs. "Ah, Krum, Johnson, and Durand. I should've known. First day back, and you're already late, disturbing poor Mr. Vural, and making a scene."

The three girls lower their eyes, doing everything in their power to keep their laughter from escaping their tightly sealed lips.

"Quite the way to start your final year, huh?"

"Sorry, Coach," they say in unison. Zora's voice wavers under the threat of laughter, and Angelina can't help but let out a sound caught between a chuckle and a groan.

"Johnson, was I not clear enough?"

"Crystal clear, Coach."

"Good. I want you on the Quidditch pitch in ten. Understood?"

They nod and wait for Coach Joe to leave before walking up the stairs, laughing all the way to the second floor and into their shared room. Zora tosses her backpack onto her bed, which creaks under the weight, before flopping onto it herself.

"Damn, I really thought she'd have gotten laid by now and loosened up a little!" Zora sighs.

Angelina raises her eyebrows. "We've been hoping for that for six years. I think it's time to give up."

"I actually like her. If you ignore the cold stares, the blood-chilling voice, and the military training, she's not that bad," Adeline adds as she pulls out her training gear.

"Even the military would run from her, I think," Zora answers.

"Speaking of military," Adeline says, "I haven't seen Wood yet."

Zora suddenly sits up, the conversation having taken a much more interesting turn. She watches Angelina intently as she changes into her quidditch clothes, waiting for her answer. 

"He got here yesterday, you know how he is. He was terrified of being late," Angelina replies, rolling her eyes.

Zora mimics her. "If he could suck up to Coach Joe any harder, he would," she exclaims.

Angelina chuckles. "Go easy on him this summer, Zorry. He's already on the verge of depression after our loss—don't push him over the edge."

Unintentionally, she smiles slightly, the satisfaction of knowing she still has the power to throw him off far too tempting.

"Not my fault he's so easy to rattle, Angie. And besides, I have to beat my favorite Scots if I want to have a little fun. Just to remind him who his number one rival is."

Angelina grabs her gear and opens the door, with Zora and Adeline following close behind. "Trust me, he hasn't forgotten."

Zora doesn't respond, but she bites her lip and smiles.

When the three girls finally arrive on the field, all the other final-year players are already there. Coach Joe is already making her speech, hands on her hips, looking focused.

"Shit, she's so going to kill us," whispers Zora.

"This way," Angelina waves at them.

They start running quietly to their group gathered at one corner of the pitch. Out of breath, they try to hide behind their friend Andrew and Samuel. Despite their height, it isn't enough to shield them, and Coach Joe spots them.

"Krum, Johnson, Durand," she yells, making everyone jump and turn toward them. "Ten laps around the field. That'll teach you to be late on the first day."

Zora rolls her eyes and sighs but obeys, as the others half-hide their laughter.

"You're off to a great start this summer, Krum," Samuel whispers before she follows Angelina and Adeline.

Samuel Ntembe is from Uagadou. He's tall, shaved head, earring in his left ear, and a charming smile. He and Zora have always flirted—more or less—without anything ever happening, and without Zora ever knowing if it was real or just a game.

She simply winks at him before jogging off. As she runs past Oliver, he eyes her up and down with his arms crossed. Zora can't help but smile and slow down in front of him.

Oliver raises an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Late on your first day, Krum. Classic."

Zora grins. "Hello to you too, Wood. Long time no see. Missed me ?"

He scoffs. "Ten laps running. Enjoy."

She tilts her head, stepping back. "Oh, I will. Nothing like a little warm-up before kicking your ass later."

"Krum !" Coach Joe's voice rings through the entire pitch and Zora swears she made some birds fly away. "Should I speak Bulgarian for you to understand and do what you're told ?"

Oliver shakes his head, watching her jog away laughing. Typical. She always has this way of turning everything into a game, as if rules are mere suggestions and trouble is just another form of entertainment. It drives him insane.

Their rivalry has been going on for years. She challenges him like no one else, pushes him to be better, or the worse and damn it if he doesn't hate how much he thrives on it.

She's the only person who makes him nervous. It infuriates him. No matter how much he prepares, no matter how sharp his comebacks, she always manages to knock him off balance. He can be focused, composed, completely in control—until she smiles at him like that and suddenly, all the words he wants to say tangle in his throat. 

They're never quite friends, never quite enemies, and certainly never anything more. Just... something in between. A game with no clear rules, no real winner. 

He sighs and focuses back on Coach Joe. 

"Before we start, let me introduce Jane Turner. She'll be replacing Viktor Krum for the summer."

A few heads nod in acknowledgment, but no one really reacts. Oliver looks at the new girl smiling to everyone. He thinks she doesn't really have the build to be a Seeker but shrugs. 

"Off on the pitch, everyone! I want to see brooms flying, not your stupid faces!" Coach Joe barks.

Without hesitation, everyone mount their brooms and take off, the rush of wind on their faces as they fly into the sky. The first training session of the summer kicks off with laps around the pitch, their bodies adjusting to the familiar yet exhausting rhythm of flying. 

Once the warm-up is over and the three girls joined the rest of the players, Coach Joe moves on to targeted drills. The Beaters are handed bats and immediately get to work on their precision and strenght, beating at enchanted Bludgers coming at them unpredictably. 

The Chasers focus on passing drills, flying through obstacles and catching the Quaffle mid-air, their reflexes tested. 

Meanwhile, the Keepers—Oliver and Samuel—work on reaction drills, facing relentless shots from both teammates and bewitched Quaffles that shoot toward the goalposts at impossible angles. 

The Seekers, on the other hand, are put through agility and speed exercises, racing after Snitches. 

By the time Coach Joe finally calls for a break, the entire team collapses onto the ground, their chests heaving as they try to catch their breath. Their bodies sticky with sweat, muscles aching from the intense session.

"Get up! You lot are supposed to be the most promising players out here," Coach Joe scoffs, pacing in front of them. "I'll let you off for the afternoon, but I expect to see you back here tomorrow, same time. No excuses."

A collective groan rises through the group as they force themselves onto their feet.

"Merlin, it gets worse every year," Angelina complains, one hand pressed against her side to ease the sharp stitch in her ribs.

"I think I might actually be dying," Adeline adds in dramatically, wiping sweat from her forehead.

Zora lets out a laugh. "This is just the first day. You lot are in for a world of pain, trust me."

Samuel and Andrew walk over to them, looking just as exhausted but smiling.

"Lake this afternoon?" Andrew asks.

Angelina doesn't hesitate. "Oh, absolutely. I need a full afternoon of sunbathing after this torture."

Adeline nods along in agreement. Andrew turns to Zora, who has remained quiet.

"What's wrong, Krum? Lost your tongue?"

Zora shrugs, taking a sip of water. "I need to wax my new equipment."

Samuel raises an eyebrow. "That's your excuse? Since when are you so serious?"

She rolls her eyes. "I just have to break in my new gloves and broom properly. Mum got me a bunch of new gear to make me forget Viktor made the national team and not me," her voice sharpens at the end.

Samuel nods. "How nice of her."

Zora just rolls her eyes. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

After a quick lunch and a much-needed shower, Zora digs through her bag, pulling out her new equipment and laying it out on the bed.

A brand-new broomstick, its polished handle shining under the afternoon light. Handmade leather gloves. A new pair of Quidditch goggles, the latest model.

She exhales sharply.

Zora hates being bought. Hates it even more when it's meant to compensate for something—like her family's lack of real support. 

A bribe wrapped in expensive gear.

Shaking off the frustration rising in her chest, she grabs the gloves, the broom, her broom polish and a tin of wax before heading to the common room. She just wants to get this over with.

But as she steps inside, ready to drop her things onto the nearest table, her eyes catch on a familiar figure already sprawled across the couch, focused on polishing his own broom.

Oliver Wood.

A slow smile appear on her lips as she sinks into the seat across from him.

So focused on his task Oliver doesn't even see Zora coming. She follows his every movements, narrowing her eyes. His large hands move with precision, smoothing the handle until it shines under the light. The muscles in his arms that contract with every movement.

He's always been like this—focused, meticulous, borderline obsessive. It should be annoying. It should be ridiculous.

Instead, Zora just finds it entertaining.

She smiles, taking her time before dropping her things onto the table with a loud noise. Just to make sure he notices.

"Well, if it isn't Oliver Wood."

Oliver jumps in surprise before his head lifts. His eyes meet hers. He blinks, like he needs a moment to focus, then exhales through his nose.

"Krum."

Short. Clipped. Like she's already testing his patience.

She nods toward his broom. "You really don't know how to switch off, do you?"

Oliver shakes his head and returns his focus to his work, not bothering to answer. Zora noticed his jaw tensed slightly. 

She leans forward, resting her chin on her palm, studying him. "You're polishing that thing like you're going on a crusade with it."

That finally gets a reaction. He huffs. "I like to be prepared."

Zora shakes her head. "No, this is not prep'. This is obsession."

His grip tightens just slightly. But he doesn't argue. 

She waits, enjoying how he shifts under her gaze. It's rare to get Oliver Wood flustered—he's always so in control, so precise. But Zora seems to be the lucky one because everytime she talks to him, she gets to see him unsettled. 

Zora lets the silence stretch and tries to focus on her own gear. 

After a while, he clears his throat, clearly feeling uneasy about being with her alone in silence. "New gloves?"

Zora smiles and looks at him. Out of all the topics of conversation he could have picked, since they haven't seen each for a year now, he chooses her new gloves. She rolls her eyes. 

"Yeah," she scoffs. "Bribe from my mother."

Oliver lifts an eyebrow, finally looking at her properly. "That easy to buy, huh?"

Zora smiles. "Not in a million years."

He studies her for a second longer and gets back to his broom. 

"You know," she adds, stretching her legs out on the table in front of him, "for someone who talks so much on the pitch, you're surprisingly bad at conversation."

Oliver exhales sharply, still not looking up. "I talk when necessary."

"Oh, right. Forgot you were a man of few words." Zora grins. "Must be hard for you, sitting here with me, knowing I can outtalk and outplay you."

He finally raises his head, about to answer but stops, mouth slightly open. She notices that he swallows hard when he finally sees her long bare legs stretched out on the table right in front of his eyes.

Oliver shakes his head and looks at her, eyes narrowed. "Outplay me?"

Zora shrugs, spinning her gloves between her fingers. "You heard me."

"You planning on finally beating me this year ? Last chance for you, Wood," she adds. 

Oliver exhales sharply, running a hand down his face. "You're exhausting, Krum."

Zora smiles. "No, I'm not."

Oliver opens his mouth, then closes it, clearly realizing there's no winning this one. He just huffs, returning to his broom.

Zora smiles wider. "That's what I thought."

She taps her fingers on the table, waiting for him to maybe answer, but he just focuses harder on his broom like it might save him from this conversation.

"So, Wood... you coming to the bonfire party tonight?"

Oliver freezes for just a second, his brows furrowing as he looks at her with a hint of confusion. "The bonfire party?" he repeats.

Zora leans back in her chair again. "You know," she answers, "The one you've never been to yet. It's mostly chatting, alcohol, and, what's this word again, ah, yes ! Fun? You know it ?"

Oliver doesn't respond right away. 

"Yeah, well, I've got a lot to think about with the next training session at Hogwarts," he mutters, avoiding her gaze.

Zora raises an eyebrow. "Oh, I see. So you're not going?"

He opens his mouth to say something, but the words seem to get stuck in his throat. 

He meets her gaze, a slight frown forming on his face. "I- I don't know," he says. "Maybe I'll stop by. If I finish with... whatever it is I'm doing." He doesn't sound like he's convinced himself, let alone her, and she can tell he's not exactly thrilled by the idea of going. "I'll see."

Zora smiles, surprised he didn't answer with a no, and pushes herself out of the chair, tapping her fingers against the edge of the table. "Alright, Wood. See you tonight then."

With that, she turns and heads for the door, the faintest hint of a victorious smile tugging at the corner of her lips.