GRYFFINDOR vs SLYTHERIN and the aftermatch

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

let it happen - tame impala

It's always around me, all this noiseBut not nearly as loud as the voice saying"Let it happen, let it happen" (it's gonna feel so good)"Just let it happen, let it happen".

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Funny how an almost-kiss lingers much longer than a real one.

It's been a week and a half since the night on the balcony — since the closeness, since the shadow of his lips brushing hers, the ghost of his warmth against her body, the image of his eyes locked in hers.

Reality hits Zora hard. A week and a half since the New Year's party, and everyone seems to have gone back to their routines. Classes have resumed, and so have practices. Zora is doing better — her body has recovered, even though she's still trying to take it slow and give it time to fully heal.

For a week and a half, she's been trying — with more or less success — to throw herself back into the race for the Cup, back into lessons, back into training, back into nights with the girls.

For a week and a half, she's been trying to forget the holiday break, the dance at the Yule Ball, the morning in the infirmary, and the New Year's Eve night.

But it feels impossible. Unbearable.

Not even a glance. Not a single stolen look in a hallway. Nothing.

Zora sighs and wonders if everything that happened over the holidays was just alcohol and adrenaline.

She almost laughs. No, she felt it. All the way to her fingertips against his skin, to the pit of her stomach, to the way her breath caught and her heart warmed.

As she walks toward the Durmstrang ship to spend the evening with Viktor, two arms block her path. Zora jumps and looks up — only to come face to face with Angelina and Adeline. They each grab one of her wrists and drag her into a quieter corridor.

"What—"

The two of them stare at her, arms crossed, eyebrows furrowed. Zora sighs.

"What did I do this time?" she says, already tired of where this is going.

"You've been acting weird ever since New Year's," says Angelina. "What's going on with you?"

Zora sighs again. "Nothing. I'm just tired."

Adeline rolls her eyes, and Angelina just stares at her harder.

Zora leans her back against the wall and mumbles, "if only you didn't walk to the balcony..."

Unfortunately for her, Angelina hears it — and her mouth drops open. "Sorry? Oh no, you did not just say that!"

She steps closer to Zora. "I'm sorry for going out looking for my best friend after she vanished for two hours, I'm—"

"No, that's not—" says Zora, rubbing her forehead.

"—sorry for worrying about my best friend who just had a serious fall two days before—" Angelina raises her voice.

"Angie, stop, that's not—"

"—for making sure my best friend wasn't passed out somewhere in this bloody castle, and that—"

Zora takes a deep breath. "We almost kissed! That's why I'm pissed off!"

Angelina finally goes quiet, cut off mid-sentence, and Zora wants to bury herself six feet underground when she notices a few students heard them. Thankfully, no one she knows.

"With Wood?" Adeline asks, eyes wide.

Zora runs a hand across her forehead and nods. "Yes, with Wood. When you got there, Angie, we'd already spent most of the night together. And then we played a drinking game, and I don't know, things just got a bit more..."

"Heated?"

"Yeah, that's one way to put it."

Angelina stares at her. Her mouth falls open again, then closes, then opens once more — no words, just stunned blinking.

Adeline, however, is quicker to react. She gasps, loudly, one hand flying to her chest. "You mean like... actually kissed?"

Zora gives a tiny, reluctant nod, her cheeks heating. She presses her lips together, and that's when it escapes her — the tiniest, shyest smile. The kind that only surfaces when she's absolutely mortified and her heart is a little too full.

"Oh my god, this is better than I imagined," Adeline whispers, clapping her hands together once.

Angelina finally explodes. "YOU WERE GOING TO KISS OLIVER BLOODY WOOD?!"

"Shhhh!" Zora hisses, grabbing Angelina's arm and dragging her further into the corridor, out of earshot. "You want the entire school to know?"

"I—YES!" Angie throws her hands in the air. "Okay, go back. Details. Give us the whole story. Right now."

Zora exhales sharply and crosses her arms, staring at the floor like it might offer her a script.

"Before the countdown, I went away next to the fire place. Somewhere quiet. He joined me. We talked. A lot. Then we went outside. To the balcony." She pauses and smiles. "He actually carried me there," she adds, knowing her friends will like this kind of details.

"Oh," Adeline says. "Chivalry is not dead."

Zora rolls her eyes, but her smile is still lingering. "And then I don't know. We were close. Really close." She trails off, shaking her head slightly. "If you hadn't barged in, Angie..."

Angelina shakes her head. "Are you telling me I ruined your romantic moment?"

"Kinda, yeah."

"Oh, babe," Adeline groans, nudging Zora gently. "That's tragic."

Zora shrugs, looking down again. "Or maybe it's a good thing. I mean, maybe it was just the moment. The champagne. The— the tension of the night. Maybe it's better it didn't happen."

Angelina narrows her eyes. "Do you believe any of that? Really?"

Zora doesn't answer right away. "I don't know," she admits. "I just— I can't stop thinking about it. About him. About what almost happened. And the way he's been avoiding me since, it's like— I don't know if it meant anything to him."

"Okay, no," Angelina says, taking Zora by the shoulders. "I don't care how much of a stubborn broomstick Wood is, he won't almost kiss someone like that unless it mean something. Trust me, I've seen the way he looks at you."

Adeline nods, crossing her arms. Zora bites her bottom lip. Her heart is thudding a little too loudly now. "So what do I do?"

"Talk to him," Adeline says.

Angelina scoffs. "Corner him."

"I can't just corner him!"

Angelina raises an eyebrow. "You can and you will. C'mon, nothing is scary for Zora Krum ! You hexed a Ravenclaw wizard only yesterday for insulting Katie's broom !"

"That's different!"

"Is it?" Angie leans in. "Or are you really scared, Krum ?"

Zora's shoulders drop slightly but she rolls her eyes. "I'm not scared. It's just-, ugh. What if we talk and it ruins everything? What if he says it meant nothing?"

"Then at least you'll know," Adeline says softly. "But if he says it did mean something..."

Angelina grins. "Then you're halfway to being Hogwarts' new power couple."

Zora laughs, rolling her eyes. "Please. We'd kill each other before we even make it to Valentine's Day."

Adeline laughs. "That's half the fun."

Zora smiles again. She exhales and looks between her two best friends. "Thanks, you guys."

Angelina shrugs dramatically. "What else are sisters for if not for yelling at you in hallways ?"

Adeline grins. "Now go tell Viktor. He'll be pleased. I know he secretly hopes you two get together like we do."

"Adeline!"

"What?" She smirks. "It's true."

Zora laughs as she watches her friends head back down the hallway. And as she heads toward the exit of the school, on her way to the Durmstrang ship, she crosses paths with Cedric in one of the inner courtyards. She would've settled for a wave and a smile—if he weren't waving at her enthusiastically from across the courtyard.

She frowns and walks toward him.

"Krum," he greets her.

"Diggory," she replies kindly.

"Did the holidays do you good? Back on your broom?" he asks, that charming smile still fixed on his face.

Zora nods. "Better, yes. Thanks for asking. That's nice of you."

"It's only fair. Now that I know Hufflepuff's hope of winning the Cup is well and truly buried, I'm supporting you and your team."

Zora raises an eyebrow. "Betraying your own school?"

He chuckles softly and shrugs. "I doubt Ravenclaw will win, and I refuse to support Slytherin. I would've backed Gryffindor, but honestly? I'd love to see Wood's face if you beat him."

"Even if it's by default, I'll take all the support I can get," Zora says.

"Well, it's not Quidditch I wanted to talk about, actually," he says, tone shifting slightly more serious.

Zora crosses her arms and tilts her head, inviting him to continue.

"I came to talk to you about the Tournament. The Second Task."

Zora feels her stomach twist at the mention of that cursed tournament, just the thought of Viktor being challenged again enough to unsettle her. "Oh yeah? What about it?"

He inhales. "I figured out how to open the egg we got during the First Task. It's all written down on this parchment."

Cedric hands her a small piece of parchment. She takes it reluctantly and quickly slips it into her pocket.

"What are you guys supposed to do?" she asks, not sure if she even wants to know the answer.

"Apparently, we'll have to retrieve something from the bottom of the Black Lake."

"Something?" she presses.

Cedric shrugs. "Or someone."

Zora nods slowly. "This Tournament just keeps getting worse."

Cedric gives her a look — almost apologetic. "Anyway, I thought maybe you could pass the note to your cousin. Might help him out."

"Why are you doing this?" she asks suddenly.

"Because Viktor's lucky enough to have an extremely kind cousin, and I'd like to be kind to her," he says, his charming tone slipping back in.

Zora rolls her eyes. "I won't tell him the reason, but he'll be glad. He's been racking his brain trying to open that egg since the First Task." She pauses, meeting his gaze. "Really. Thank you."

"Might cost me first place, but oh well."

Zora steps forward and gives him a quick hug. "He owes you one. Goodnight, Diggory!"

He smiles, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Goodnight, Krum."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora climbs the wooden ramp onto the Durmstrang ship, her coat flying behind her in the night breeze. She already hears the muffled laughter and chatter of the Durmstrang boys below deck, but she heads straight for Viktor's cabin without knocking.

She leans on the doorframe and crosses her arms. "I bring a gift. Praise me."

Viktor looks up from his desk, clearly mid-stretch, his arms raised above his head. He blinks slowly. "Hi, слънце."

She holds out the folded parchment between two fingers, smiling. "A little something to crack your precious egg. You're welcome."

He takes the parchment with suspicion, unfolding it carefully. "Where did you get this?"

"Ah ah," she teases, stepping into the room and dropping onto his bed like she owns it. "Let's just say I have connections."

He looks at the parchment. His eyebrows twitch just slightly — a Viktor sign of astonishment. "This... this is real?"

Zora props herself up on her elbows. "Unless Diggory developed a sudden talent for mastering lies and messing with me, yeah."

He gives her a look. "You spoke to Diggory."

"I may have," she says, tossing her legs off the side of the bed. "He said — and I quote — 'Viktor has a very kind cousin I would like to be kind to'." She mimics Cedric's tone, which earns her an eye-roll.

"He said that?" Viktor asks, monotone but mildly amused.

"Oh, and he also wants to see the look on Oliver's face when I beat him," she adds proudly.

Now that gets a tiny smile from Viktor. He folds the parchment neatly and places it inside a book, his expression turning thoughtful.

Zora watches him a moment, then exhales and flops back on the bed. "This tournament's going to kill me, you know that?"

"You're not even in it," he replies without looking at her.

"Exactly. I get all the stress, none of the glory."

There's a beat of silence. Then she continues, softer, "Did you have news of Mother ?"

Viktor finally turns toward her and shifts nervously. He seems to hesitate before answering. He simply nods. "Why ?"

Zora sighs, eyes fixed on the wooden beams above. "I didn't. Well, not since Christmas."

He doesn't say anything at first. Just sits in the chair across from her, hands steepled in front of his mouth.

"Did you answer any of her letters ?" he asks.

Zora sits up slightly. "No." Then she scoffs. "I don't know what to say to all her plans for my future. No, thanks ? She doesn't seem to understand this."

Viktor shifts nervously on his chair and clears his throat. "We could invite everyone from camp," Viktor says suddenly, changing the topic. "Weekend at our house. No parents. Just us. During Easter holiday."

Zora blinks, surprised and confused. "Wait, what?"

"Everyone. You, me, the others. The manor's empty. Could be nice to do something before we all go to different teams."

She tilts her head, studying him. "That's... weirdly sentimental of you."

He shrugs. "We could all use it."

Zora's face softens, and she stands slowly, walking over to him. "You okay?"

"I'm always okay," he replies calmly, but his jaw twitches ever so slightly.

Zora leans against his desk, arms crossed again. She decides to put his nervous behavior on the account of the stress of the Tournament.

She bumps his shoulder with hers. "I'm in, by the way. The weekend. It's a great idea, really," she says as she moves toward the door.

Viktor watches her go, voice soft behind her. "Thanks for the parchment."

She turns, smiling. "You owe me. I want full credit if you survive the lake."

"I'll name my next broom after you."

Zora scoffs. "Make it a Firebolt at least."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The following weekend marks the most anticipated match of the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup. Gryffindor versus Slytherin.

And saying Oliver Wood is on edge doesn't even come close to reality. The match is this afternoon, and he feels like he's never been this stressed in his life.

The stakes are high. He knows it. Gryffindor versus Slytherin is the match. The one that matters. Not just because they're the hardest team to beat, but because a win—or a loss—against Slytherin has a far bigger impact on team morale than any other match.

They have to win.

Because nothing is the same this year. The Delegation team is still in the running. Zora's team.

Oliver sighs and finishes his plate of potatoes. The Great Hall is far too loud for his liking—the clatter of cutlery and the rising buzz of bets and predictions for the match all merge and thunder in his already overloaded mind.

He glances down the table at his team. Fred and George are nearly perfect as Beaters. They just need to manage their impulsiveness and strength. There's nothing left to teach Angelina. Alicia and Katie can still refine their precision. And Potter? Potter is more than capable of handling Malfoy.

Next to him, he notices Alicia pushing a few vegetables around her plate. He frowns slightly, nudges her gently with his elbow, and leans in.

"I know nerves can mess with your appetite—trust me, I get it. But you'll need your strength on the pitch. Just a few bites, yeah? For you."

Always observant, Oliver has noticed over the years that Alicia rarely eats much. It's not that she seems mildly hungry—it's more the way she looks at food, like it might be a bullet aimed right at her. He's already tried to talk to her about it, after a few fainting during practice.

She hesitates, then gives him a small smile, nods, and eventually finishes her plate. Oliver makes a mental note to bring it up with Angelina.

He then turns to everyone again. "All right, listen up."

Everyone turns to him instantly.

"I know we've trained harder than anyone. I know you're tired, bruised, probably dreaming of Bludgers in your sleep. But this—this isn't just about winning. It's about proving that no one outflies Gryffindor. Not Slytherin, not anyone. Especially to the Delegation's team."

He pauses. His voice lowers, more intense.

"It's about flying smart, flying together. Tight formation, sharp plays, and if one of us falls, the rest fly harder. Got it?"

There's a collective murmur of agreement, a few nods, claps on the table. Oliver nods, satisfied.

Across from him, Angelina is watching. Quietly. Too quietly. Her spoon stirs in her coffee with infuriating calm.

He notices. He narrows his eyes. She just smiles more. "What?"

She lifts her eyes to him with an innocent blink. "Nothing."

"Johnson, for god's sake—"

"Just thinking. About... you know. Moonlight. New year. Balconies..."

His hand freezes halfway to his cup. Oliver feels his heart stopping, his neck slowly turning red and itching.

She smiles. "Almost-kisses. You looking like you forgot how to speak right now."

Fred looks up from his toast. "Wait—what?"

Katie gasps. "Don't tell me-"

George leans forward, smiling and clapping on the table. "You've got to be kidding. Zora?"

Alicia lets out a low whistle, eyes wide.

"I knew something happened," Fred says triumphantly. "You came back in looking like you'd swallowed a Snitch."

Oliver swipes a hand over his face. "You lot are unbelievable."

George points his fork like a wand. "Just answer the question! Did you kiss her or what?"

"I'm not having this conversation in the middle of the Great Hall," Oliver mutters, already standing up. He glares at Angelina.

He makes a break for it, storming off down the aisle between tables. The moment he disappears, the bench scrapes in unison.

"Go go go, follow him!" Fred's already halfway to the door.

"Wait ! Wood !" Alicia laughs, chasing after him.

Angelina grabs her cloak and follows, calling out, "You forgot we all play together on the same field, Wood!"

Laughter follows them down the corridor as they all run after him, half the Hall turning to stare. Somewhere in the distance, Oliver's voice echoes off the stone walls.

"If anyone says the word 'balcony' again, I swear to god you all get benched !"

After a few chaotic minutes, Oliver finally manages to quiet his team. They all head out to the Quidditch pitch for their usual warm-up — something Oliver insists on before every match. He really cares about these moments. The ones where everyone talks, listens, understands each other. Where every player pays attention — to one another, to the calls, to the movement in the air.

It's essential to him. Essential for focus.

For reaching that moment when your mind narrows down to what's essentiel: the wind brushing against your cheek, the weight of the broom in your hands, the adrenaline pounding in your chest.

The stands begin to fill, and after one last pep talk in the locker room, the Gryffindor team steps out. The roar of the crowd fades as the door closes behind them — leaving only their captain, alone, for a few minutes before the game begins.

The locker room is now empty, just the way he likes it. It smells like polish and the faint, metallic tang of adrenaline soaked into years of matches.

He takes a deep breath and walks over to his locker. Just as he reaches for his gloves, helmet, and goggles, his hand freezes.

Sitting right on top of them is a small rolled-up piece of parchment.

His body stills. Instinctively, he thinks of her.

Could it be—?

No.

Open it, idiot. You'll see.

He carefully unrolls the parchment.

It's her handwriting. Sharp, a little chaotic. He knows that handwriting. He's teased it. Stared at it. Missed it.

He unfolds the note, and a tiny, ridiculous smile tugs at his lips before he can stop it.

You're probably going to adjust your hair first. Even though it's going to get ruined by your helmet. (It looks fine, by the way.)

Then you will tie your right boot twice even though the first knot always holds.

And then you'll check your gloves, frown at the left one like it personally offended you (it hasn't).

Finally you'll sit on the bench for exactly three minutes with your hands on your knees and your eyes on the wall pretending to visualize the game but actually just spiraling in quiet panic.

So. Breathe, Wood. You've got this. Go make the Slytherins cry.

I believe in you. Always.

P.S.: My turn to leave little notes like a creep ;)

— Z

Oliver sinks onto the bench behind him, the parchment still between his fingers. He chuckles at the last line. Can't help it.

Then he exhales, rubbing a hand over his face, his eyes still fixed on the scrap of paper.

Zora fucking Krum.

He's tried. For the past two weeks, he's tried to shove her out of his head.

But like seafoam, she just keeps washing up across the shore of his thoughts. Over and over again.

Of course she noticed. The routine. The nerves. The unnecessary double-knotting. Of course she left this now — like she knew this exact moment would unravel him in the best possible way.

He leans back against the bench, the note still in his hand. For a second, the tension in his shoulders loosens.

Knowing she's out there, in the stands, her eyes locked on him — it doesn't help. In fact, it makes it only worse.

Knowing she's watching is enough to make him forget how to breathe, how to catch the simplest Quaffle tossed by a first year.

He sighs, folds the parchment, and tucks it inside his Quidditch robes, right against his chest.

He passes the mirror and adjusts his hair. He bends down and ties his boots. Twice.

Then he reaches for his gloves. And, yes — he frowns at the left one. Just a little.

But this time, there's no mental spiral. Just a wave of calm that settles over him — in his body, in his mind.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The roar from the stands rattles Zora's ribs.

Slytherin vs Gryffindor. The game everyone's been talking about for weeks. The one where tempers run hot. The one where apparently, no one plays fair.

Zora leans forward on the bench, Viktor sits beside her, arms folded, while Adeline bounces next to them, full of nervous energy.

"Bloody hell," Zora mutters as the players start to walk on the pitch. "It looks like they are all going to kill each other. I love this."

Viktor hums. "Yes. It's tradition. Apparently."

The Gryffindor team struts onto the pitch like they already own it — Oliver at the lead, tall, intense, that usual tight-set jaw. He barely glances up at the stands. She follows the path of his eyes — fixed on the Slytherins like he's already calculating who he'll need to outfly, outmaneuver, outfight.

The Slytherin team walks onto the pitch, their emerald-green robes catching the wind like war banners.

Lee Jordan's voice rings across the stadium, already breathless with excitement.

"Ladies and gentleman, here they come ! Our precious Gryffindors, lead by our official grim reaper, Mr. Oliver Wood! —"

Over the loudspeaker, McGonagall's voice can be heard reprimanding Lee. "Jordan!"

"—Sorry about this. And give it up for the Slytherin team, everyone !"

Zora lets out a laugh, then claps her hands together, focused. She can't help it — her eyes track only him. Always him. The way he moves — precise, efficient. Like he belongs in the air.

"Is this how you watched me fly during the World Cup?" Viktor teases her.

"Only if you flew like that," she replies without looking away. He snorts.

Then, the whistle.

The Quaffle is released and it's like someone's set fire to the sky. Red and green robes blur as they dive, twist, slam into each other mid-air. The crowd screams. Zora doesn't blink.

Angelina takes the Quaffle, flying past two Slytherins with a kind of practiced grace that makes Zora cheer and Viktor nod in appreciation.

"She's brilliant," Zora shouts. "Look at her moves — yes, YES, GO ANGIE!"

"Johnson with the quaffle — look at that turn! Did you see that turn?! Somebody check if that Slytherin haser is still alive!" Lee says.

Adeline cheers. Zora's already on her feet.

She tries despite everything to focus on Slytherin's game. They play well. They have a raw energy much needed against Gryffindor's game. But they play hard — one of their Beaters sends a Bludger straight toward Katie Bell's head. She narrowly ducks. Zora clenches her fists without wanting to.

"They're playing dirty," she mutters.

"They always play dirty," Viktor replies coolly. "It's why the game is good."

Angelina scores again. The stands erupt.

Oliver flies down near the goals, shouting instructions, eyes scanning the whole field. He gives orders, adjusts formations, dives to block shots with extra force and precision.

Zora can't help it but her chest tightens every time a Bludger goes too close to him.

"Another block from Wood! Is he a man or a wall?! I'm starting to think he's made of bricks and rage, mates—oh wait, here comes a bludger—"

Zora flinches. Oliver takes it to the shoulder. Doesn't flinch. Doesn't pause. Just keeps flying.

"Goodness," she breathes.

Then Slytherin scores twice in a row. The crowd quiets. The match tightens.

Angelina rallies the team. They dive back into formation. Fred and George send Bludgers across the pitch, opening up space. Katie passes. Alicia spins.

"AND JOHNSON SCORES AGAIN! THAT'S OUR GIRL!"

Zora's cheering before she can stop herself. "YES, ANGIE!"

Still — no sign of the Snitch. The game stretches. Brutal. Long. Zora feels her voice go hoarse.

Oliver's dives get sharper. Riskier. He throws himself in the path of a Quaffle he could have let go, far away from the hoops.

He doesn't smile. Doesn't look up.

"IF GRYFFINDOR WINS THIS, IT'LL BE ON THE BACK OF THAT BLOODY INSANE KEEPER—YES, I SAID BLOODY, PROFESSOR, IT'S BEEN TWO HOURS—"

Then — cheers from the Slytherin stands.

Malfoy dives. Harry follows. A flash of gold — there it is.

Zora's breath catches. They're neck and neck. Malfoy elbows Harry mid-dive. Zora's up on the bench, fists clenched.

But Harry doesn't falter. He pushes further on his broom. He grabs it. The whistle blows.

Gryffindor wins.

The pitch erupts in red and gold. Students spill from the stands. Zora throws her arms around Adeline. Viktor actually claps.

And then — Zora looks for him.

Oliver.

But he's already heading off the pitch. Alone. Not celebrating. His face unreadable.

"Wait—why's he—?"

"He did not look happy," Viktor observes.

Zora frowns. "They won. Why would he—?"

She doesn't get an answer.

Instead, she shakes her head and she makes her way down from the stands. She reaches the pitch just as Angelina is practically tackled by Lee and Alicia in a victory hug.

"Johnson!" Zora shouts. "That was unreal!"

Angelina smiles, eyes shining. "You saw the last feint?!"

"You owned them." They laugh, wild with adrenaline.

But Zora's eyes are still scanning the edge of the pitch, toward the shadows of the path where Oliver disappeared.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The party is loud. Too loud. Laughter, drunken cheers, the clinking of glasses—it all grates on Oliver's nerves. He should leave. Go back to his dorm, forget about the goddamn match.

Yes, they won.

But they nearly lost. And that's all Oliver can focus on.

160 to 170.

One point. One single Quaffle. Potter and Malfoy neck and neck.

Angelina was incredible. The twins too. The Slytherins played well, actually.

He was disappointing. He let goals through that he shouldn't have. He wasn't fast enough. Not agile enough on his broom. Not aggressive enough.

Not focused enough, most of all.

At least—not focused on the game. But rather on a brunette in the stands. On her eyes on him. On the pressure to do well. To not screw it up.

But for who? For her? For himself? For the team?

The lines blur. And he hates himself for still being thrown off by her mere presence. For risking a match, a score, his performance—for her. For not letting her down.

He swirls his butterbeer in his glass. Off in the back of the room—Zora. Hair loose, grin wide. She's replaying the match with Angelina.

God, he wishes he could just hear her say he did well. He needs it.

Suddenly, a hand on his shoulder. "Captain, give us a smile, would you?" Fred slurs, completely wasted.

Oliver forces a smile and turns toward him.

"What's the deal, Ollie?" George asks, stepping in. "We won!"

"Yeah, we won," Oliver says—mostly to convince himself. "I'm just tired. I won't stay long."

"Oh, oh—blonde incoming!" Fred blurts, and the twins vanish, giggling.

Oliver turns, finding himself face to face with Mary. A soft smile, hands behind her back.

"Hi, Oliver."

He tries to ignore the wave of disappointment washing over him—hoping it was Zora.

"Mary. Hi."

"I just wanted to say congrats on the match, you were amazing!" she says cheerfully.

"Thanks, that's kind of you."

Behind Mary, he watches Zora walk by, Angelina at her side, heading to refill her drink.

No glance. Still nothing. He swallows hard.

She clears her throat. "I—I was wondering if—"

He can't help but watch the way Zora's hair fall down her back, brushing the curve of her waist, moving with every step. He's always loved her hair. Long, soft, smelling of almond.

"Oliver, are you listening?"

He looks back down at Mary. "Sorry. What did you say?"

She laughs awkwardly. "Never mind. See you in class?"

He nods, watching her walk off to join her friends. He exhales and finishes his drink. After a few more small talk exchange, he decides it's its cue to leave.

He is slipping away from the noise, sliding toward the edge of the common room and towards the dorm.

But just as he reaches the arched corridor out, a voice—hers—calls him.

"Well, if it isn't Captain Broody."

He freezes.

Zora steps out in front of him, her hair half-falling over her shoulder, wild and loose. Eyes slightly narrowed. That maddening curve of her mouth.

"You leaving your own victory party, Wood?" she adds, tilting her head. "Saw you had a little fanclub. Don't let them down."

He doesn't answer. Just exhales slowly and clenches his jaw. She is just getting heavier on his nerve. It's her fault he couldn't focus. And she know exactly what she's doing.

Zora stops a few feet in front of him, crossing her arms.

"Why the long face?" she asks again. "You win a tight match against Slytherin and you sulk like someone kicked you off your broom."

She steps closer. A little too close. She has never been this close since that night. He can smell her perfume. He breathes and closes his eyes for a second.

Then he looks down at her. His breath catches.

God, it's always like this.

Too close.

"Nothing's wrong," he mutters.

"Liar."

He looks away. She follows his gaze.

"Come on, Wood." Her voice drops. "What is it really? You play rough, get the win, you've got Mary throwing herself at you, and yet here you are. Pouting in a corner."

Something inside him snaps. He moves before he thinks. He walks toward her, fuming. She walks backward until her back hits the wall behind them.

Oliver cages her, arms on either side of her head. She doesn't move. Doesn't back away. Her gaze flicks up to meet his, wide now, blinking slowly under those impossibly long lashes.

His fingers twitch at his sides, aching to touch, to grab, to feel her.

"It's not the match," he enunciates clearly. But he hates how he can't steady his voice near her. "It's you."

She swallows.

"It's always been you."

His body is inches from hers. Every line of him is tension. Her back is pressed against the wall, breath shallow, lips parted.

He leans closer, not touching her, just hovering. Torture.

"It's you and your fucking eyes," he breathes, like it hurts. "Those goddamn eyes, looking at me like that—"

She doesn't look away. Her eyes are pleading, questioning, burning.

"You and your voice," he goes on, desperate now. "The way you say my name like it's a challenge. Like it's a fucking game. Every time. You talk and I forget what I'm supposed to do."

Zora's not smiling anymore. She's silent. Barely breathing.

He reaches up, exhales shakily and takes a few strands of her hair gently between his fingers. Then his hand moves and goes under through her hair, tilting her head slightly.

"And your fucking hair," he adds. "I can't think when you're near. I can't—"

He inhales sharply, like it's killing him. Then his eyes drop to her lips.

"It's you and your fucking stupid perfect lips..." he whispers, tilting her head more.

And when he feels her breathing heavily and tilting her head too, he doesn't hesitate a second more.

He kisses her.

It's not gentle. It's not sweet. It's frustration and heat and every damn thing he's been pushing down since she walked into his life.

His hand finds her waist, then her hips, grabbing her and pulling her closer to him. He grips her tighter when he feels her gasping into his mouth.

It's dizzying, the way she gives in, the way she meets him with equal hunger, equal desperation. Her hands are in his hair now, tugging, tilting his head just the way she wants.

And he—he is lost. Lost in the taste of her, sweet lipstick mixed with butterbeer. Lost in the scent of her, almond shampoo and amber. Lost in the way she fits so perfectly against him.

He doesn't know who pulls away first. Maybe it's him, maybe it's her.

All he knows is that when they break apart, he feels something lacking inside of him.

His forehead against her, both breathing heavily. He stands away a little bit, tilting her head up, watching her, every inches of her face, trying to regain all his senses.

Lips red and swollen, pupils blown wide as she stares up at him.

He has to fight every fiber of his being to not crash his lips on hers again.

"Feeling better?" she asks low, voice a little breathless, a little teasing.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. "No."

She smiles and bites her lips. "Good."

And just like that, she grabs the collar of his t-shirt and closes the gap between them again.

And Oliver knows it.

She's on his lips, on his tongue, under his skin— and he's utterly, stupidly doomed.