Ireland VS Bulgaria

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

starbuster - fontaines DC 

Never wantingOnly wonderTo live out of reachSloping familyShort to tallOne to threeSwallow the keyIn their footprintsI will follow. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora steps out of the fireplace, coughing as she waves the dust from her face. She walks on the cold marble floor of the manor's grand salon and exhales, dropping her bag on the ground before resting her broom on top of it.

The house is silent. The windows are slightly open, allowing a gentle breeze to move the heavy curtains. Outside, birds chirp, and the rustling of leaves in the orchard carries a familiar sound.

Nothing has changed.

She knows it's foolish to expect otherwise. It's only been a month. But still, she can't help the disappointment curling in her stomach. Maybe she had hoped that something—anything—would be different. That she would walk in and feel like she belonged. That her mother would have changed. That this suffocating house would have changed. That her life, somehow, would have changed.

Her fingers trail along the wooden table beside the fireplace, brushing against the framed photographs lined neatly on its surface. Her grandparents on their wedding day. Viktor on his first broomstick. Viktor at training with their father. Viktor wining the cup of the InterHouse Cup at Durmstrang. 

Oh. A new one.

Viktor in his national team uniform. She picks it up, her fingers tightening around the frame before she realizes it. Her grip leaves marks on the glass, feeling the corners deep in her palm.

She sets it down before she can think too much about it. Viktor and their parents. Viktor, their parents, Zora, and her mother on holiday. Zora, barely four, sitting on their grandparents' knees.

That's it.

No picture of her father.

Her fists clench. No. Nothing has changed.

Dragging her bag behind her, she makes her way toward the entrance of the house.

"I'm back! It's me," she calls, but only silence answers.

She walks towards the staircase, taking the steps two at a time, passing the first floor, then the second, until she reaches her room. When she pushes open the door, she's met with the sight of Anna, the housekeeper, tucking in the sheets on her bed.

"Hey, Anna," Zora greets.

The older woman jumps slightly before turning, a warm smile spreading across her face. "Miss Krum! I didn't know you'd be back so soon."

Zora collapses into the armchair near the window. "Don't worry about it. How have you been?"

Anna smiles as she smooths out the duvet. "I'm well. The house felt empty without you, Miss Krum! How was camp?"

Zora raises an eyebrow and exhales. "Somehow, I doubt the house missed me. Camp was... good. Tiring. But good."

Anna nods knowingly before returning to her work. Zora watches her for a moment before shifting in her seat. "You can leave it. I'll do it myself." She pauses, then asks, "Where is everyone?"

"Mr and Ms Krum and your mother went for a walk on the estate. They should be back soon. They said they'd be here for lunch with you."

Zora forces a tight smile. "How thoughtful," she mutters under her breath. "Thanks, Anna."

Once the housekeeper leaves, she turns her gaze to the garden stretching out beneath her window. The perfectly organised lawn and french gardens extend to the forest. Everything in its place, everything controlled.

Laughter echoes from outside. Zora leans forward, watching as her mother, aunt, and uncle walk out from the woods. Her mother and her aunt are walking side by side, their heads held high, posture flawless, laughing out loud. Zora scoffs. Funny, when you know they can't stand each other. 

She pointedly avoids looking at Viktor's father. It's still too much. She isn't strong enough to face those eyes—the same as her father's, the same as hers. She wonders if she ever will be.

Instead, she spots a blur of black and white darting from the trees, tail wagging furiously. A grin spreads across her face before she even realizes she's moving.

She runs down the stairs, through the corridor and the kitchen, throwing open the glass doors leading to the garden. The second she steps outside, Nikita, her border collie, sprints toward her. The dog reaches her in seconds, nearly knocking her over as she kneels, laughing, scratching behind his ears.

Her father bought him for her tenth birthday. It feels like a lifetime ago and at the same time, like yesterday. 

Lost in the moment, she doesn't notice the figures approaching until a cool, familiar voice cuts through the air.

"Well, some of us are lucky," her mother says. "You've never been this excited to see me."

Zora rolls her eyes, still crouched beside Nikita. "Well, you're not a dog, Mother."

Her mother tsks, stepping closer and cupping Zora's face between her hands as she stands. "Cлънце*, how are you?" she asks before pulling her into a brief hug. It's fast, calculated. Zora barely has time to return it before her mother pulls back, inspecting her. "You've tanned! That's what happens when you spend all your time outdoors. And your hair—still a mess, I see. Oh! And what did you do to your leg? I told you to be careful!"

Zora clenches her jaw, biting back her irritation. "Missed you too, Mother."

She turns toward her aunt and uncle, quickly embracing her aunt, who pulls her into a real hug. "You look well, Z," her aunt says warmly. She has always been more grounded than Zora's mother, more understanding. The only person in this house Zora feels actually listens to her. "How was camp?"

Zora sighs. "Good. But different without Viktor."

Her aunt offers her a knowing smile, squeezing her arm. "He's coming back tonight. We're having a big dinner, some friends are joining. Your mother's idea."

Zora fights the urge to groan. Of course. She barely sets foot back home, and there's already an event to attend. No quiet evening with the family, no time to breathe. No, of course not. Zora is home—time to show her off.

No doubt the Vassilievs will be there, which means an evening of forced smiles and fake politeness. And the thought alone makes her want to shoot herself.

But at least Viktor will be back.

She nods instead of answering, falling in step with them as they walk toward the house, Nikita trotting at her side.

Nothing has changed. And somehow, that makes her want to scream.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The dining room feels suffocating for Zora, despite the windows open and the soft breeze of the night. Voices rising and falling over the clinking of silverware against fine porcelain. Chandelier casting light over the long mahogany table, where crystal glasses glint under the light. 

It's the kind of dinner Zora has sat through a thousand times—her mother and uncle exchanging pleasantries with their guests, the conversation drifting between politics, business, and, inevitably, gossips.

Zora sits at the end of the table, her chin resting heavily in her palm, elbow propped up in a way her mother would disapprove of if she cared to look. Her other hand turns a fork absently through the rest of her meal, pushing vegetables back and forth like they're chess pieces in a game she has no interest in playing. 

Across from her, Alexei Vassiliev sits with perfect posture, his black hair neatly pulled back, his expression effortlessly arrogant. Zora wonders how he manages it. 

To be this obnoxious just by the simple act of breathing. 

Since the time he was still in Durmstrang, she had almost forgotten how ugly his behavior made him. That all he has to do is open his mouth and his face becomes disgusting to look at. He hasn't said much since the beginning, only nodding at her uncle's joke and smiling to her mother. But he doesn't need to. 

His presence betrays someone raised to believe the world should bow at his feet.

Tonight, the topic is the latest Ministry gala in Bulgaria.

"Oh, it was simply exquisite," her mother is saying. "The Minister spared no expense. Champagne all night long, orchestras flown in from Paris, and the decorations—absolutely divine."

"It was lovely indeed," Alexei's mother adds. "And did you see that Ms-"

Zora isn't listening anymore.

Her mind drifts instantly elsewhere. Rain hammering. Soaked dress. The scent of damp wood. And Oliver—his arm tight around her waist, his hand firm around her thigh, the warmth of his presence. Her fingers tighten around her fork and she inhales deeply to make the thoughts go away. 

"Zora," her mother's voice snaps her back to reality. She straightens instinctively. Her mother nods toward Alexei's father. 

He is watching her with polite curiosity. "I was just asking," he says, "I heard you play Quidditch?"

Zora exhales, relieved. Finally, something she actually cares about and wants to talk about. 

"Yes, yes I do," she answers. "I've been playing for years. I started at the same time as Viktor, actually. I was at the summer camp this year— I just came back. Grueling training, but completely worth it."

Alexei's father nods approvingly. "Good, good. Training is everything, after all. And what position—"

"Anton, dear," her mother cuts him, "if you want to talk about Quidditch, you must wait for Viktor. Our star will be here soon."

Zora's mouth open and she glares at her mother. A heavy silence settles at the table. 

Of course. Because her mother always has to remind everyone that Viktor is the real star here. The real athlete. The real success.

Across the table, her aunt offers her a small, sad smile. Zora swallows down the frustration rising in her chest.

And then Alexei speaks.

"Surely," he says, swirling his wine in his glass, "you're not actually thinking of making a career out of it?"

Zora turns to him slowly, raising a brow. "Oh? And why not?"

Alexei leans back in his chair. "It's just... professional Quidditch is a brutal, unforgiving world, isn't it? And well—" he gestures vaguely at her, "it's not exactly a woman's sport."

Zora turns the fork into her hand, not leaving his gaze. "Not a woman's sport ?," she repeats, as if turning over the words in her mouth.

Alexei shrugs. "Come on. Surely you see it? The men are faster, stronger, more aggressive. I mean, look at the statistics—how many women do you see at the top?"

Zora hums, tilting her head. "How many women do I see at the top? Well, let's see. Gwenog Jones, seven-time League champion. Valeria Torbinsky, best Seeker in Russia. Oh, and let's not forget Madeline Comer, who created one of the most difficult formation to that day. But you're right, Alexei, we women should just leave the sport to the men. Clearly, they need the confidence boost."

Zora hears her mother clearing her throat awkwardly. Alexei's smiles falters slightly, but he recovers quickly. "You have spirit, I'll give you that. But talent is another thing entirely."

Zora lets out a low, amused breath. "Talent?" she echoes. "Alexei, remind me—what team do you play for again?"

Silence.

Alexei's jaw tightens and looks at his plate, and Zora just smiles sweetly.

Before he can come up with another response, the door swings open.

Viktor is here.

Perfect. 

She pushes her chair back, the legs scraping against the floor as she rises. She feels all eyes on her as she steps next to Viktor. She claps his back. 

"The hero is here," she announces dryly. "Good evening."

She turns and strides out, without forgetting to slam the door behind her. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora is still in her dress, sprawled on her bed. The dog is sleeping, curled against her side as she absentmindedly strokes behind his ears. Her room is quiet and the distant murmur of conversation from downstairs is muffled by the heavy walls.

Then, footsteps on the stairs. Slow, measured. A soft knock on the door.

Zora doesn't bother answering, but the door opens anyway.

Viktor steps inside, his tall frame walking slowly towards the bed. He doesn't say anything at first—just takes in the sight of her. Then, with a quiet sigh, he walks toward the bed and lowers himself onto the edge beside her.

"I am glad nothing has changed," he says. "Still leaving with a scene."

Zora rolls her eyes. "Bet Mother excused herself for my 'behaviour.'"

Viktor exhales a small laugh, shaking his head, and when he looks at her, there's something warm in his gaze. 

Zora frowns. "What?"

His lips twitch into a rare smile. "I missed you, слънце."

Zora sighs and stands to put her head on his lap. "I missed you too, V." 

For a moment, they stay into a comfortable silence until Zora speaks. "I'm sorry for earlier. It was against you." 

"I know, слънце. So," Viktor answers, "tell me about camp."

Zora groans dramatically. "Where do I start? Long days, brutal training, barely any time to breathe." Then she grins. "I loved it."

Viktor lets out a low chuckle. "Of course, you did."

She stands again and rolls on her side, propping her head on her hand. "It was tough, though. I thought my legs were going to give out at least twice a day. And don't even get me started on the drills. They had us doing precision passes for hours in the heat until I thought my arm would fall off."

Viktor nods knowingly. "That is how you get better."

"Yeah, yeah," she waves a dismissive hand. "I know the whole 'pain builds champions' speech."

Viktor gives a slow blink. "I was not going to say that."

Zora smiles. "Maybe not out loud."

He tilts his head. "Did you improve?"

She sits up a little, crossing her legs. "My aim? Deadly." She flicks her fingers like she's firing a shot. "Ask Wood about it."

Viktor raises an eyebrow. "Wood? Don't tell me you made his life a nightmare again."

She waves a hand, completely unbothered. "Me ? I wouldn't dare, you know me."

Viktor narrows his eyes and pauses. Then he leans back slightly, arms crossed, his tone casual. "Funny you're talking about Wood because I heard you slept with him in a wooden cabin?"

Zora chokes on air. "What the-?" She stares at him, completely thrown off. "How- How do you even know that?"

Viktor looks entirely unbothered. "Andrew told me."

She groans, dragging a hand down her face. "God, I'm going to kill him."

Viktor raises an eyebrow. "So it is true?"

"No," she snaps immediately. Then, realizing how fast she answered, she shifts uncomfortably. "I mean... we didn't sleep together. We just fell asleep in the same place, it happens."

Viktor just watches her, unimpressed.

"It's not what you think, alright? It was just—"

He hums, tilting his head. "Just?"

Zora points at him. "You're annoying."

He smiles. "And you are avoiding."

She scowls. "I hate you."

Viktor just shakes his head, amused. "And the others? Ntembe? Johnson ? Durand ?"

"Still the best ever. We had a lot of fun. Good parties. Good games. The usual."

Viktor hums approvingly. "Good. I like them."

Zora tilts her head. "That's rare."

Viktor shrugs. "They are good players. And they respect you."

Zora scoffs. "Obviously."

Viktor sighs. "We will see then, if you improved."

She gasps. "Doubt? From you? My own flesh and blood?"

"I will believe it when I see it."

Viktor pauses and adds. "When you'll make the national team next year."

She lets out an exaggerated scoff. "No. Never going to happen. Seems to me there's only one spot for one Krum."

Viktor's expression turns serious, his voice steady. "No. You deserve this as much as I did."

Zora looks away, shifting uncomfortably. "Please. Let's not talk about it."

A beat of silence stretches between them. Viktor stands up. "What about the new players at camp? Was there any ?"

Zora makes a face. "Eh. Some were decent. Jane who replaced you was fun. Some were idiots."

Viktor lifts an eyebrow. "Idiots?"

"One of them called me 'Krum's little cousin' for the first two days like I didn't have a name."

"And?"

"And I knocked him flat on his ass during the first friendly game."

Viktor actually laughs at that, deep and quiet. "Good."

She smiles and looks at him. "What about you? How's training? Are you ready for the World Cup?"

Viktor exhales slowly, considering his answer. "It is harder than before. They push us past limits we did not think we had. I have never been this exhausted."

"You think you're ready ?"

His expression is unreadable for a second before he says simply, "Not yet."

Zora raises an eyebrow. "But you will be."

His scoffs. "Of course."

She snorts. "Cocky bastard."

Viktor shrugs. "Just honest."

Zora watches him for a moment longer before flopping back onto her pillows. "Well, just don't forget about us mere mortals when you're off being Bulgaria's golden boy."

Viktor shakes his head, reaching over to give Nikita a slow stroke down his back. "I will never forget. How about a night walk ?" 

Zora nods. "Let me just change." 

"Let's meet in five downstair," he says before walking to the door. 

"Hey, V," she stops him. He turns, raising an eyebrow. "I'm proud of you." 

He smiles and closes the door behind him. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The last match of the World Cup.

Finally. 

Zora steps onto the stands, her fingers tightening on the railing as she takes in the raw energy of the crowd. Half the stadium is a sea of red and black, Bulgarian flags whipping violently in the wind, the sound of thousands of voices merging into a deafening roar. She takes a slow breath and smiles. 

One more week. In seven days, she'll be back at Durmstrang for her final year. It doesn't feel real. The past few weeks have been a blur—camp, home, the madness of the World Cup. And now, today, she's here for the culmination of it all.

Viktor's final against Ireland.

She shifts on her feet, looking down at the pitch. She's proud. Of course, she's proud. Viktor has worked for this moment his entire life, and if there's anyone who deserves to be on that pitch today, it's him.

But still—

She presses her lips together, stomach twisting.

It could have been her.

She drops her head. It's ridiculous. Petty, even. She refuses to be jealous of Viktor. She won't allow herself to be. He deserves this, and she would never—could never—take that from him.

And yet, she can't stop the sting in her chest as she watches the teams warming up, as she imagines herself down there, focused, adrenaline burning through her veins.

A bitter taste creeps up her throat.

She hates herself for this feeling.

But it's hard. To see Viktor living her dream. Him on the pitch. Her in the stands. 

With a frustrated exhale, she pushes through the crowd, walking between people until she reaches the tunnel leading to the players' area. Security gives her a nod—she's been back here enough times now for them to recognize her—and she slips inside.

She finds him just before the entrance to the locker room. He's standing with his back to her, already in his uniform, head tilted downward as he adjusts the bandages around his fingers.

"V," she calls.

Viktor turns at the sound, his dark eyes locking onto hers. A small but genuine smile appears on his lips. "Z. You're here."

She steps closer. "Obviously. Did you think I was going to miss my favorite person on this planet making history?"

He hums, tilting his head. "I thought Nikita was your favorite person on this planet."

She smiles. "You know me. It changes depending on who is in front of me." 

Viktor smiles, finishing his bandages. 

"You ready?"

Viktor exhales, glancing towards the entrance to the pitch. "It is just another match," he says eventually, though she can hear the tension behind his calm tone.

Zora snorts. "Yeah, and I'm the Minister of Magic."

His lips twitch. "You would be a terrible Minister."

"And you're a terrible liar."

Viktor huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head. Then, after a beat, he looks at her. 

She frowns. "What?"

He shrugs, his voice quieter now. "I'm glad you are here."

Zora smiles tenderly. "Well, yeah. Who else would tell you not to fuck it up?"

He lets out a proper laugh at that. Then, before she can react, he reaches forward. "Thank you, Z. I'll try not to fuck it up." 

She hesitates for a fraction of a second before nudging his arm. "You're gonna kill it out there, you know?"

"I will try. For you, слънце."

She squeezes his arm. "Good. Otherwise, I'll have to take your spot next year."

Viktor chuckles, shaking his head. Zora clears her throat, shifting back to her usual smirk. "Well, I should let you focus. I know how you like to go all dark Viktor before a match."

He shakes his head and rolls his eyes. She hugs him and feels his arms tightening the grip. 

She steps back, giving him one final nod. "Good luck, V."

He lifts an eyebrow. "That is all I get?"

She smirks. "Don't worry, Mother will be here soon to boost your confidence with cheesy things."

Viktor chuckles, then turns, walking towards the locker room. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver adjusts the green jersey over his shoulders, excitement burning beneath his skin as he takes a sip of his drink. The stadium is alive, buzzing with energy, everyone wearing the color of their supporting team. 

This—this is what he lives for. The best players in the world, the peak of the sport, and he's here to witness it. He didn't forget to take his notebook to write down every formation, every tactic, every move that could be adapted for the Hogwarts Interhouse cup. Every second of this match will be a lesson, and he intends to learn from the very best.

He thinks about Viktor—he can't help but feel a bit proud. They never were bestfriends, as both of them aren't really into social relation of any kind, but they always respected each other and their way of playing. It's strange, seeing someone he trained alongside on this pitch. But if anyone deserves it, it's Viktor.

"Oi, Wood, stop looking so serious, mate." Fred nudges him, smiling as he passes him another drink.

"Yeah, you look like you're suffering," George adds, taking a sip of his own.

Oliver rolls his eyes. "I'm just excited, alright?"

Lee frowns. "Well, what face do you make when you're sad, then ?" 

Ron, standing beside them, lets out an exaggerated sigh. "You're excited? Imagine how I feel! I'm about to watch Viktor Krum, the Viktor Krum, in the World Cup final." He clutches his chest dramatically. "I think I might faint."

Fred snorts. "If you do, we're leaving you here."

They laugh, and Oliver shakes his head, glancing around the crowd—

Then he sees her.

Zora.

She's standing a few feet away, leaning slightly against a stand, talking to a man he doesn't recognize. Her expression is carefully neutral, but Oliver knows her well enough to see the subtle signs—eyes slightly narrowed, fingers drumming absently against her arm, weight shifting as if she'd rather be anywhere else. She's bored to death. 

He frowns.

He watches her, eyes tired, hair messy in a loose ponytail. Wearing a jersey of the National Bulgarian team with Krum written on the back. 

Oliver takes a sip of his drink, thinking. And suddenly, his thoughts drift too far. What would it feel like to see her wearing his name on a jersey?

He shakes the thought away almost immediately. Stupid.

He glances toward his friends, back to her. One more time. He takes another sip of his drink and starts walking toward them. 

He reaches her just as the man finishes some long monologue about God-knows-what. Oliver stops in front of them, opening his mouth—

And then nothing.

Brilliant.

Zora blinks, startled for half a second, before her lips curl into something almost resembling a smile. Genuine. Even if she looks like she doesn't want to acknowledge it. Her face finally lights up. 

"Wood," she says, tilting her head slightly. "Didn't know you'd be here. What a pleasure."

Her eyes flicker to his jersey and she huffs an amused breath. "Wrong color, though."

He just smiles, shaking his head. 

Before Oliver can answer, the man beside her turns, looking between them with interest. "You don't introduce me, Zora?"

She exhales through her nose before turning to him, smiling. "Hm, I could. But I think you'll be able to do it for yourself, right ?"

Alexei smiles at her before turning to Oliver. "Alexei Vassiliev," he says, extending a hand. 

"Professional Quidditch advice giver, despite never flying on a broom for more than four minutes," Zora adds, earning a glare from Alexei. 

Oliver raises a brow, shaking his hand firmly. "Interesting profession, I guess. Oliver Wood." 

Alexei clears his throat awkwardly. "Well, I should go find Mother. Zora, I'll see you for the match. Oliver, a pleasure."

She hums, rolling her eyes, and with a final glance between them, Alexei disappears into the crowd.

And then it's just them.

Zora exhales, shaking her head slightly. "Sorry about him."

Without thinking, Oliver asks, the words burning his lips, "Your boyfriend?"

The laugh that escapes her is loud. "God, I'd rather die."

His lips twitch, feeling his body relaxing without knowing why, but before he can say anything, she nods toward the group behind him—Fred, George, Lee, Hermione, Ron, and Harry, all watching them with thinly veiled curiosity.

"Is it your friends?" she asks, arching a brow.

Oliver glances over his shoulder, sighing. "Yeah."

Zora tilts her head and smirks. "Didn't know you had friends, Wood." 

He rolls his eyes and Zora chuckles. "Tell them it's rude to stare."

Oliver clears his throat. "So—how's Viktor? Is he ready?"

"Yeah. I mean, as ready as he can be. He won't admit he's nervous, but I can tell."

Oliver nods. He gets it. As he should be. 

He glances back at Zora. She's watching the pitch, but there's something else in her expression. Something heavy. He remembers his word at camp and the way her face fell. 

"You alright?" he asks. 

She blinks, turning to him. "What?"

"You-, hum, you just look..." He trails off, unsure how to phrase it.

She watches him for a moment, then exhales, crossing her arms. "I'm fine, Wood."

Liar.

"I just need a drink." 

She then moves closer to him, her fingers curling around the cup and taking it from his hand before he can react.

"Hey—" he starts, but she just smiles, holding his gaze as she takes a slow sip.

Oliver swears his heart stops for a second.

She lowers the cup, a trace of light lipstick where her lips have rested, then – Merlin helps him – she holds it out towards him.

He reaches for it, swallowing with difficulty. Their fingers brush, warm and lingering, neither of them pulling away.

His breath catches.

She doesn't move.

They're close now—too close. He can see the exact shade of her brown eyes, the way her pupils dilate just slightly. He can hear the faintest hitch in her breath, the way her lips part just barely.

His fingers tighten around the cup, but she doesn't let go.

The noise of the crowd fades into the background, barely a sound compared to the pounding of his heartbeat.

She tilts her head, just a fraction. He doesn't know if it's intentional or if she's about to say something. She watches him with those damn eyes and those damn long eyelashes. 

The referee's whistle suddenly rings through the stadium and they both step apart.

Zora drops her hand. Oliver clears his throat, stepping back.

She blinks at him, then exhales sharply, lips pressing together.

He shifts, rubbing the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at her.

For a moment, neither of them says anything.

Then—

"Enjoy the game." She turns, walking back toward the stands.

Oliver watches her go trying to get his breathing back to normal. He barely has time to collect himself before he hears Fred's voice.

"What the fuck was that, Wood?"

He sighs as he turns back to his so-called friends. They're all staring at him—Fred, George, Lee, Ron, even Harry. Hermione is pretending not to listen, but he can tell she is.

"What was what?" he mutters, already regretting coming back.

"Oh, mate," George says, shaking his head. "Don't even try to play dumb. We saw that."

Fred leans in. "Didn't know you knew such a pretty girl."

"Pretty ?" George scoffs. "She's hot as fuck." 

Oliver scowls. "Piss off."

"What's the name of this lovely lady ?" Fred asks. 

"Zora." 

"Zora," Lee echoes. "Merlin, I know this name. It's Angelina's friend ! Didn't know you knew her that well."

Oliver crosses his arms. "What's that supposed to mean?"

Fred snickers. "That you were standing so close we thought you were about to bloody snog her in front of the entire stadium."

George waggles his eyebrows. "That's what it means."

Oliver rolls his eyes, but his ears are burning.

Ron, who still looks vaguely overwhelmed, shakes his head. "Hold on. You know her?"

Oliver shrugs. "Yeah, we've been at the same Quidditch camps for years."

Lee nudges him. "And how come we never heard about this?"

"Because there was nothing to say," Oliver says.

"Oh, really?" Fred says. "Because from here, it looked like there was plenty to say."

George hums. "Yeah, like—what was that drink thing?"

"It was nothing," Oliver grits out.

Harry, ever observant, tilts his head. "But you were really close."

Oliver exhales sharply, rubbing his temples. "Seriously ? Potter ?" 

Lee throws an arm around his shoulder. "Ah Wood, nice job."

Oliver groans. "God, we're not even friends."

"Do you think you could ask her if I could meet Viktor ?" Ron asks. 

Oliver mutters something under his breath and shoves past them, heading back to his seat. 

--

слънце : sun.