Future written in ink

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

red right hand - arctic monkeys 

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"Did you invite everyone?" asks Angelina, her words barely audible as she chews loudly on a chip, completely unbothered by the fact that she's speaking with her mouth full.

Viktor nods once, casual. "Samuel, Andrew, Thomas—they'll all be there."

Adeline shouts, unable to contain her excitement. "I can't wait!"

The four of them have been hanging in Zora's cabin on the Durmstrang ship since the start of the evening, sprawled across chairs and pillows, sharing snacks and tossing around ideas for the upcoming weekend at the Krum Mansion. They're planning the activities, the Quidditch matches, and mostly, who will drink what, and how much.

But Zora isn't really listening.

She's lying on her back on the bed, arms folded under her head, eyes fixed on the ceiling—but her mind is miles away. Her thoughts swirl and tangle around one thing: Oliver. Or more specifically, the way she found him a few days ago—completely broken by pressure and silence. It shattered her heart to see him like that, caught between everything he's expected to be and everything he wants for himself.

She knew something was off. He had been distant for days now, quieter than usual, if that was even possible. And then, at lunch, she saw it happen. From across the great hall, she watched him unfold a letter with trembling fingers, saw his chest rise too quickly, too shallow, saw the way he blinked hard like he was trying not to drown.

She knew in that moment. Her mind brought her back to a memory from a long time ago now. Summer training camp. Third year or something. Coach Joe had mentioned that parents might be invited to watch the final matches that year, to celebrate their progress. She'd turned to Oliver and said, "Guess your mum will finally get to see you in action, right, Wood?"

He'd gone pale in an instant. He didn't answer, couldn't even look at her. Within minutes, he was gasping for air, panic closing in. They had to rush him to the infirmary.

She blinks. She feels it again now—that same knot in her chest. Sadness, yes. But more than that: fury. It burns through her ribs. She's angry. Angry that someone like Oliver, someone brilliant and loyal and maddeningly selfless, has to carry the weight of his father never doing his goddamn job. 

Angry that talent and dreams are the first sacrifices made on the altar of duty.

And yet, that same anger is tangled with something else—something softer. Because what breaks her heart also makes her feeling toward him more real. The way he loves his little sister. His family. His country. The way he would give up anything for them. His sense of responsibility,  the discipline he never lets slip—all of it only confirms what she already sees so clearly in him.

And Zora has her own storm building.

She's been pretending she doesn't care, but she's been checking the post obsessively, waiting for that one letter. The only one that matters. The Bulgarian National Quidditch Team. Her dream. Her goal. Her country's colors stitched across her back.

This is her year. She knows it in her bones. She gave everything during those matches when the scouts came. Viktor is already in, and several players are retiring or injured. There are open spots. Opportunities. She knows she deserves at least a chance at the trials.

There is also the issue with her mother. Another letter came today. 

Her mother's handwriting. Cold, precise.

A list of instructions for the weekend they'll be away. Notes and compliments about Viktor's performance during the second task. Praise for his discipline, his focus. A comment about the flowers starting to bloom in the winter garden and how Zora should make sure not to damage them.

Not one word about Zora's own winning matches. Not a single question about how she was doing after spending hours underwater during the task.

And then—the final sentence. The one that froze her blood. The one she's read over and over again, not sure whether to scream or laugh or cry.

She can still hear it, echoing in her mind.

There will be important papers awaiting your signature when you return—quite exciting news, really; it's time we started thinking beyond childish quidditch games and toward a future more... stable.

Until now, Zora has always brushed off her mother's threats with a roll of her eyes, tossing them over her shoulder. She's linked them up to tradition, to the rigid way her mother was raised, and the expectations that come with being born into high society. 

And her mother's persistence, she's always attributed it to her personality—a woman who cannot stand being contradicted, who mistakes control for care.

Despite everything, Zora has never truly believed her mother capable of forcing her into anything. Deep down, she's always assumed she'd get tired of the fight, eventually give up and let her be. Let her chase what brings her joy.

She's spent years pushing the darkest thoughts into the farthest corners of her mind, locking them away—the ones where her mother builds her a golden cage shutting the door and keeping the key with elegance and not a flicker of remorse.

But time passes. The letters get more detailed. The tone sharper. The pressure more suffocating. And with each line written in her mother's perfect, cold script, Zora feels the hope that she might be left alone crumble to dust.

It turns her stomach. It feeds the dread and the quiet, coiled rage that lives inside her. A rage that waits, patient, knowing that when she finally lets go of the reins, it will burn everything in its path.

"Zora? Zo?" Angelina's voice cuts through her thoughts, growing clearer.

"Are you there?"

Zora blinks and sits up slowly, exhaling. "Yeah. Sorry. I zoned out."

They're all looking at her now, brows furrowed, confused.

"We were asking if Wood is coming."

"I haven't asked him yet," she whispers.

"Too busy kissing in closets, is that it?" Adeline smiles, teasing.

Viktor frowns deeply, confused. "What ?"

Zora shoots a sharp look at Adeline, who purses her lips shut and disappears under the blanket. Zora sighs heavily, rolling her eyes as Angelina lets out a loud, delighted laugh.

"Oh god," Angelina says, bouncing a little. "This is about to be good."

Viktor, still frowning, leans back against the desk of Zora's cabin, his arms crossed calmly over his chest. He looks over at her with the steady, unreadable gaze he's perfected over the years. The one that says he's listening. Waiting. Thinking.

"What is this about?" he asks, his tone even. "Closets? Wood?"

Zora hesitates, her throat tightening. She should've known this was coming. Of course Viktor would pick up on it. Of course Adeline couldn't keep her mouth shut. 

Adeline peeks out from under the cover, curious.

Zora groans and hides her face in her hands for a second. "Okay, fine," she mumbles, then sits up straighter and looks at Viktor. "Look, I didn't say anything because I didn't want you to go all big brother on me, alright?"

Viktor raises an eyebrow. "Big brother?"

"Yes! You always act like you have to interrogate anyone who so much as looks in my direction."

Angelina chuckles. "She's not wrong."

Viktor remains silent, waiting.

Zora sighs, brushing her hair off her face. "It's not like I was hiding it... I just... I didn't know what it was at first. With Oliver."

There's a brief pause. "And now?" Viktor asks quietly.

She exhales slowly. "Now it's... We kissed. Twice. No—not just that. He's... he's important to me. And I don't know where it's going, but it's real. Well, I think. I-, just, well, yeah."

She avoids Viktor's eyes after that, expecting a frown, a lecture, something. But instead, a small smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He leans forward and picks up a chip without breaking eye contact.

"Well," he says simply, "finally."

Zora blinks. "What?"

"I said finally," he repeats, voice warm, smile spreading now. "You've been dancing around each other since third year at camp. Everyone knows it."

Angelina gasps dramatically. "Oh my god thank you! I thought I was imagining it!"

Zora stares at him, stunned. "Wait. What ?"

Viktor shrugs, still smiling. "Now I understand better why did he bloody jump on the lake to get you."

"You like him?" Zora asks, almost suspiciously.

Viktor nods. "I do, actually. He's a good man. Solid. Loyal. Respectable."

Zora feels her chest tighten—not from stress this time, but from relief. Warmth. She didn't realize how much she needed to hear that from Viktor until now. She swallows hard.

"You're... not going to go all brother-cousin-whatever-the-fuck mode?"

He chuckles softly. "Zora. You're not a child. You've always known what you want. I trust you."

She blinks again. "Are you sure ? You're not going to ask him what his intentions are and then stare into his soul like a vampire?"

Viktor raises a brow. "I did consider the soul-stare. But no. He makes you happy. That's what matters."

Zora can't help but smile now. She nudges him playfully with her foot. "You're getting soft, Krum."

He shrugs. "Maybe. Or maybe I'm just relieved I don't have to watch you both pretend anymore."

"Anyway," Adeline says suddenly, "He will obviously be there this weekend then."

Zora looks thoughtful. "I don't know. He has things to take care of at home. But I will ask him today."

"If he comes, I will maybe interogate him," Viktor says, teasing. 

Angelina smiles. "Yes, please do. I'd love to see his face when we all gang up on him."

Zora rolls her eyes. "Please, don't." 

Viktor winks at her and takes another hand of chip.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Everyone's been talking about it for days.

Bets are placed. Allegiances are chosen. Rumors say even the professors are keeping stats during their lunch breaks—predicting who'll score the most, who'll catch the Snitch first.

The Delegation Team versus Slytherin.

Not only is this a match between two of the top three teams at Hogwarts, it's the match that'll decide who faces Gryffindor in the final for the Cup. 

The stakes are high.

Zora feels it too. She stands tall on one of the benches in the changing room, watching as her team gathers in front of her. Outside, the stands roar and chants and cheers, and adrenaline rushes through her veins.

She shifts her focus back to her teammates. The sound of leather gloves, the clinks of broomsticks tapping the ground, the controlled exhales meant to ease the nerves—it's all so familiar. These small sounds, these rituals before battle, feel almost sacred. 

"All right, listen up!" Zora calls out, raising her voice to cut through the noise.

Her teammates quiet instantly, eyes on her.

"You can hear it outside. This match means a lot. But honestly?" She pauses. "I don't really care if we win or not."

They blink at her, confused. One of them frowns.

"Even if we lose, I'll still be proud. Because aside from Gryffindor, I think we're the team with the strongest connection. We listen to each other, we look out for each other, we respect each other. It's been hard work, hasn't it, Ivan?"

A few chuckles can be heard through the group. Ivan rolls his eyes but ends up smiling after Adeline nudges him on the ribs.

"But that's what I wanted when they made me Captain," she adds. "So—thank you."

Adeline claps her hands together with a bright little "whoo!" and the rest of the team joins in, clapping, laughing, cheering.

Zora grins. "Now, I kinda was kidding earlier. If we loose I'll get mad. Let's fucking win this, yeah?" she adds, smiling. "Wouldn't mind getting revenge for all the times Slytherin stole the field from us."

A collective cheer rises. Arms shoot into the air, brooms clutched tight, eyes burning with determination. 

"I won't ramble. You know what to do. I'm proud of every single one of you. We're going to win. And then we'll give Gryffindor the final they deserve," she says, hopping off the bench and stepping down to join them.

The team huddles together, exchanging hugs, handshakes, and whispered words of encouragement. They head out toward the pitch, their footsteps echoing.

Zora lingers behind.

She closes her eyes, centering herself. Then she pulls on her gloves, turns to the chalkboard behind her, and reviews the formations one last time. Slytherin's team has a brutal defense—fast, aggressive, unpredictable. She's worked hard to adapt their game to counter it. She's prepared them to beat Slytherin at their own game.

She reties her braid with calm precision and walks toward her locker. But when she opens it, her chest tightens.

It's empty.

Maybe it's silly, but she'd hoped there'd be a note. A smiley face. Something—anything—from him. It has become a habit now. 

But no. Nothing.

Zora swallows, shuts the locker, and shakes her head. Not the time for this. She heads toward the exit—only to pause as the door opens.

Oliver steps inside.

He closes the door behind him and walks toward her, slow and steady. Just seeing him there, so calm, so steady, has an instant effect on her body—it's like her pulse resets, like she can breathe again.

She takes him in. Jeans. Black t-shirt. The sleeves stretch just right around his shoulders and arms. 

"Hi," he says, stopping only a few inches from her. "Feeling nervous?"

Zora rolls her eyes, but ends up smiling. "More like disappointed."

His brow lifts, and he folds his arms across his chest. "Disappointed?"

She nods and gestures toward the locker. "I thought I'd get a little note. You know. A lucky charm or something."

He smiles. "Well, that's why I'm here," he whispers, leaning in.

She leans back slightly. "So... did you place your bets on the winning team?"

He lets out a soft laugh and straightens up. "Yes, ma'am."

"And?" she asks.

"Well," he says, "let's just say I put my money on the team led by a brunette captain with really captivating brown eyes. The kind that make it hard to think straight."

"I hope you mean Pucey."

His smiles grows. "Obviously. Who else?"

Zora bites her lip, chuckling, and grabs her broom. "Right. I've got to go now."

But as she turns to leave, he leans in again—closer this time. She feels his breath brush her cheek. Her heart skips. She tilts her head just a little, closing the space between them, rising slightly on her toes.

Their lips barely brush.

And then—he pulls back.

He steps away, retreating slowly toward the door. He notices her confused face and smiles. "That's for all the times you messed with my head before a match."

Zora exhales a laugh, equal parts frustrated and amused. "Since when did you get all clever, Wood?"

He shrugs, hand on the doorknob. "You've been a good influence, I guess. Now go kick some ass."

Then he slips out, leaving a very frustrated but happy Zora behind.

The crowd cheers as Zora steps onto the pitch. She takes a look at the stands. Banners float above the stands. She exhales slowly, tightening her grip around the handle of her broom. 

Above her, the sky is deep-blue, just like she loves it. 

"Ready?" Adeline asks beside her, already floating just a few feet off the ground, her blonde hair whipped back by the wind.

Zora nods, her expression steady but focused. "Let's give them hell."

The whistle blows.

"Ladies and gents, the match you all been waiting for ! Krum VS Pucey !" the voice of Lee Jordan rings in the pitch. "Who will win and fight against our dear Gryffindor for the Cup ?" 

They shoot into the sky. Zora immediately darts into position, scanning the field. The Slytherins waste no time. Pucey charges forward, Quaffle under his arm, using his size to shove past Ivan from delegation's defense.

"Watch the left, Ivan!" Zora shouts.

"Got it!" he yells back, barely managing to block Pucey with a last-minute shoulder check. The Quaffle slips free—only for Adeline to sweep in, agile and precise, scooping it mid-air.

Zora smiles. 

Adeline flies fast, fakes left, and passes the Quaffle to Zora, who launches it straight through the left hoop before the Slytherin Keeper can even react.

"And Delegation scores first ! Amazing moves from Durand and Krum ! Buckle up, it's about to be one hell of a ride !" comments Lee. 

But the Slytherins aren't playing nice.

Minutes later, one of their Beaters slams a Bludger at the third's chaser head with no warning, the ball narrowly missing his ear. He swears and Zora immediately shoots toward him.

"You okay?" she calls.

"I'm fine. Barely." He grits his teeth. "They're going full brute today."

Of course they are. 

"Let's use it against them," she mutters to herself, then raises her voice. 

She gives orders to Adeline and the other chaser. They split into a V-formation drawing the Slytherin defense out of position. Zora stays near the top. Every second, she recalculates, repositions.

Another ten points. Then twenty.

They're leading now, 70–30.

But the match is brutal. Bludgers fly everywhere. Most of them enchanted not in the good way. Malfoy scratches the Delegation's Seeker broom, earning a warning from Madam Hooch that he ignores completely. Pucey lands a shoulder into Ivan's ribs that has him gasping in mid-air.

Zora's blood is boiling.

She takes the next play herself—catching the Quaffle at midfield, ducking under a Slytherin Chaser's swing, then pushing forward. A Bludger comes screaming her way. She rolls beneath it and flies straight through the gap. The Keeper prepares his defense—but Zora doesn't flinch. At the last second, she gives the Quaffle to Adeline, who scores effortlessly.

The crowd goes wild.

"You're a machine!" Adeline shouts, breathless.

"Let's keep it that way!" Zora replies, her eyes already scanning for the Snitch.

But the real test is coming. She knows it.

High above the chaos, the two Seekers circle each other like hawks. It's a silent duel of reflex and instinct. Zora watches her Seeker carefully, trusting him to know when to strike.

She doesn't have to wait long.

A flicker of gold flies near the goalposts.

Zora sees her Seeker dive before the word is even out. Malfoy follows in a heartbeat. The stadium rises, a single breath held by a thousand lungs. 

Zora can't breathe.

"Come on, come on..." she whispers.

Below them, Adeline takes a nasty hit to the shoulder but still manages to launch a perfect pass to Zora who scores again—90–40. But no one's watching the score anymore. Every eye is on the sky.

The Snitch darts again—right, left, down.

He pushes harder. His hand stretches out, fingers grazing air, air, and then—

He has it.

He raises the Snitch high above his head, golden wings in his fingers, and the stadium explodes.

The Delegation team wins.

Zora gasps, a wild laugh escaping her mouth. She rushes toward him, half-flying, half-falling from her broom to embrace him mid-air. They nearly crash into Adeline, who's sobbing from adrenaline and laughter at the same time.

They land and the whole team comes together in one chaotic huddle.

"We did it," Zora says, breathless. 

Ivan and another Durmstrang boy lift Zora onto their shoulders, bouncing her up and down as they sing out a chant that echoes proudly from their school back home. Zora, smiling from ear to ear, enjoys the victory, the adrenaline still pumping in her veins, heart pounding at full speed. She throws a fist into the air and laughs.

As they gently lower her back down, she lands face to face with Angelina. Without hesitation, she rushes forward and throws her arms around her.

"You absolute goddess," she exclaims. "If Wood doesn't marry you, I will. You were insane out there!"

Zora laughs and hugs her even tighter. "Careful, I might say yes. Still high on adrenaline."

"But now we're sworn enemies for life," Angelina adds with a playful glare. "The whole team is devastated, by the way."

Zora frowns and turns toward the Gryffindor stands. They're unusually quiet with long faces. Her eyes scan the crowd—but Oliver isn't there.

"You've still got a real shot at the Cup, Angie. You know that," Zora says, trying to reassure her.

Angelina just shrugs. "Sure. Our chances just dropped by, what, seventy-five percent?"

Zora scans again—left, right—still no sign of Oliver. But she spots Viktor making his way down from the stands. And coming from the opposite direction is Adrian Pucey, storming toward her with a few of his Quidditch teammates, all looking furious. Adrian's face is flushed, eyes narrowed, hair still damp with sweat.

"Oh, brilliant. What now?" Zora mutters under her breath, stepping forward with her arms folded across her chest.

Since the whole Yule Ball fiasco and the blow-up between Viktor and Adrian in the Great Hall, he hasn't spoken a word to her—not that Zora's been complaining. She's been quite content despising him from afar.

Adrian comes to a stop—way too close for comfort. "Happy with yourself, are you?"

Zora lifts an eyebrow. "For winning? Yeah, pretty happy actually."

He scoffs, a bitter sound laced with rage. "You only won because you cheated. Everyone knows it."

"Cheated?" she repeats, her tone flat, calm. Around them, a small crowd starts to gather, drawn by the tension. "Pretty sure we won fair and square. Which is more than I can say for you lot. Honestly, Pucey, you should be grateful the referee missed your dirty plays. At least you got to lose with a shred of dignity."

His eyes darken and his grip tightens around his broom before he drops it on the muddy grass. One of his teammates places a hand on his shoulder, trying to hold him back, but Adrian shrugs him off and takes a step closer. Zora doesn't move an inch.

"What? You gonna tell me again you've got 'plans for me' that don't involve much talking?" she adds. "Well I've got a plan for you too, Pucey: be a good boy, take your team with you and start training for next year. Maybe you'll be able to win without cheating."

That seems to break him.

"Oh, you think you're clever, don't you, Krum?" Adrian answers. "Just because what—you went to camp where only "the best quidditch players go", you're better than us, the lowly peasants? You walk in here out of nowhere and somehow you're made captain? Nobody even knew who you were a month ago!"

Zora doesn't answer. She simply looks him up and down with indifference. He steps even closer—now they're nearly chest to chest.

"You shouldn't even be allowed to win," he hisses. "You're not even from this school. Fuckin' cheaters. Fuckin' bitch."

Zora blinks slowly. "Wow. Straight to the slurs, huh? Running out of vocabulary already? And for the administrative details, maybe go cry to Dumbledore—I'm not his secretary."

That's it. Adrian snaps and shoves her—both hands slamming into her shoulders. She stumbles back several steps but manages to keep her balance. The crowd gasps. Angelina rushes toward her.

Zora is about to run to him, but she sees them—Oliver, Viktor, and Cedric—all stepping between her and Adrian like a wall.

"Hands off," Oliver says.

"Come on, Pucey. Quit the drama and head to the locker room," Cedric adds, calm but firm, trying to de-escalate. "What's your problem anyway ?"

Viktor doesn't speak. He simply steps forward. Pucey flinches and retreats slightly.

"My problem?" Adrian spits. "My problem is her." He points at Zora, who's now come up behind them. " You know what ? You're nothing. Dumbledore only made you Captain because people felt bad for you. Because you've got the name Krum, but that's all. Nothing else. So stay in your lane."

That's the last straw. This time, Zora runs to him.

She slams into him with full force, tackling him to the ground, his face landing straight into the mud. Caught completely off guard, he doesn't react fast enough. She grabs his arm and twists it into a lock behind his back. He screams in pain.

She leans in close, her voice sharp. "Sorry, what was that? I didn't quite catch it."

Only another grunt of pain escapes him.

Around them, the crowd is shouting, students pushing forward, some trying to separate them. She hears McGonagall's voice cutting through the noise, panicked and sharp.

"Miss Krum! Let go of him this instant! You're hurting him!"

Zora pulls harder. "Don't ever insult me again. Got it?"

"Fuck you," he growls, spitting dirt.

She yanks his arm higher.

But before she can respond, she's yanked off the ground, lifted over someone's shoulder.

"Let's get you out of here before you it ends badly, shall we?," she hears Oliver's voice.

He carries her swiftly away toward the locker rooms, her body upside down, bouncing slightly with every step.

"I wasn't finished," she growls, beating her fists lightly against his back.

"I think you made your point."

"He called me a bitch ! He said I didn't deserve this team, that I was nothing without my name. And you just expect me to stand there and smile through that?"

"I don't expect you to smile. But I expect you not to dislocate his arm in front of the entire school. He's not worth it. You saw, he can't even uses it properly and throw the Quaffle in the hoop."

"He pushed me. He laid his hands on me. He started it !"

She growls in frustration, trying to wriggle free. "They can't stand that a girl leads. If I was a guy, I'd be glorified for this. But no—"

He kicks open the door to the locker room with his foot and marches inside. "Zora—"

"—they call me emotional, difficult, aggressive—"

He sets her down on the bench, his hands still briefly on her thighs to steady her. "Zora."

She keeps going, eyes burning. "—but Pucey screams on the pitch and no one bats an eye. Merlin forbid a girl fights back."

"Zora—"

"And you know what? I'm tired of proving myself to people who already made up their minds about me. I'm tired of —"

Oliver kisses her.

His hand cups her jaw, thumb resting just beneath her ear as he leans in fully, kissing her like he's been holding it back all day.

Zora stiffens for a second, caught off guard, but then melts into it, her fingers finding the collar of his shirt and pulling him closer. She puts all her frustration into his kiss, instantly feeling better. 

When they break apart, her chest is rising and falling fast. His hand stays on her cheek.

"You were circling," he says.

He studies her face—something about her posture, the tiny shake in her shoulders that has nothing to do with adrenaline. "You're tired."

Zora looks down. "I am tired."

He nods slowly. "I can't pretend to know what it's like. But I can try."

Her eyes lift to his, searching.

"Pucey proved he is a dick. Once again. He can't stand loosing. Probably even less to a girl. What he did was very not proper. I'm sorry." 

Zora sighs deeply. 

"And for what it's worth," he adds with a crooked smile, "I thought it was hot."

She blinks. "What was?"

"You. Charging Pucey like that. That tackle. The arm lock. Hot."

She smiles. "You're into violent women now?"

He shrugs. "I'm into whatever you do, Krum."

She leans forward slightly, wanting to kiss him again, but he pulls back. 

"But," he adds, "this means we're officially rivals now."

She tilts her head. "Fine by me."

Oliver raises an eyebrow. "Really?"

"I miss the Oliver who used to lose his nerves over nothing."

He smiles and shakes his head. They both look into each other's eyes. Her gaze drops to his mouth, her voice lowering. "But I'll miss this."

Before he can ask what she means, she leans in again, pressing her lips to his—this time softer, slower. 

When they part, silence fills the room for a beat too long. Then he steps back and runs a hand through his hair.

"Well, you know, we could be rivals with benefits," he says.

She smiles and rolls her eyes. "Go. I need to savor my victory with my team and prepare for your downfall." 

Oliver chuckles. He stands and reaches for the door, pauses, then glances back at her. "Nice game, Captain."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Two weeks later, they're still talking about the last match in Hogwarts' corridors.

The students whisper about it between classes, at meals, outside the library, about how Zora Krum humiliated Pucey in front of the whole school.

The echoes of the game haven't faded.

After it, Zora had still been summoned to Dumbledore's office with her Head of House. He told her she was not to repeat such a spectacle. He said he would inform her mother.

Zora had rolled her eyes as her only answer.

She is done staying quiet, done playing the part. Boys throw punches and it's called defending their honour. But a girl steps up and everyone says she's putting on a show?

Please.

What should she have done? Bow and hand Pucey the victory?

He could eat dirt before she gave him that.

But what matters is this: they won.

And she's going to the final.

Against him.

She's already counting the days.

Today is Monday. Late afternoon. Zora climbs the stone steps to the Owlery once again.

She's been up here every spare moment all day, pacing, waiting. The recruiters said the letters would come no later than today. This morning, nothing.

Each hour has stretched on like a century.

But this time— Bingo.

Perched on the railing is her family's owl, eyes sharp, letter tied neatly to its leg. Zora freezes.

Her heart beats so hard it nearly stops. Her legs nearly give out.

This is it.

This is the moment.

Maybe, just maybe, her whole professional career begins here, sealed in one of these envelopes.

A few black lines on parchment that could shape her entire life.

No pressure.

She exhales sharply, walks over, and unties the letters with trembling fingers.

She counts them.

One.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

Five envelopes. Five offers.

They never send rejection letters.

Five.

Is one of them from Bulgaria's team? God, she hopes so.

She shoves them messily into the pocket of her jacket and runs down the stairs, feet barely touching the ground. Her heart is pounding, her ears ringing.

Her thoughts immediately drift to Oliver. Has he been notified the letters arrived ? 

Her legs carry her to Adeline's dormitory. They all agreed—Angelina, Adeline, Viktor, and Oliver—to open the letters together, here, in Adeline's room.

When Zora bursts in, breathless, Viktor and Adeline are already there.

"Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God," Adeline says, jumping up and down. "Do you have them?"

Zora nods and waves the letters in the air.

She hugs them both tightly. "I'm so nervous I might throw up."

She feels Viktor's hand press gently against her back. "C'mon, слънце. We're playing on the same team next year, I know it."

Zora exhales and nods. She pulls back from the hug, trying to smile through her nerves.

"Look what I brought for good luck." From her other pocket, she pulls out a small Bulgarian flag and drapes it around her shoulders like a cape.

Adeline grins. Viktor rolls his eyes. "No drama at all, huh, Zora?"

Zora's about to reply when the door swings open and Angelina walks in, all panicked. "Please, let's open them, I can't take this anymore."

"Oliver's not here yet," Zora points out.

"Is he coming?" Adeline asks.

Zora shrugs. Doubt seeps in. Given the panic attack he had not long ago, he might want to open them alone. She wouldn't blame him.

Still... A part of her wishes he'd be here.

With her. Well, with them. For this moment.

"Just wait five minutes," Zora says.

Angelina glares. "Seriously?"

"Please."

Angelina groans and flops onto Adeline's bed. "Fine."

Those five minutes stretch into eternity. Zora stands rigid, eyes locked on the door, the letters still burning in her pocket. Viktor lounges on a chair, calm. He knows he's staying on Bulgaria's team, so he's more here for emotional support. 

Angelina lies on her back, feet tapping the floor. Adeline paces like a trapped animal.

The silence swells around them like water. Heavy.

At last, Angelina sits up. "All right, enough—"

But the door creaks open.

Oliver steps in. Hair tousled. A little breathless. Zora lets out a breath she didn't know she was holding.

"Sorry," he says quickly. "Delacour wouldn't let me in. Called me a creep. I tried to explain—anyway..." He scratches the back of his neck, flustered. Zora smiles at the sight of him. 

Adeline rolls her eyes. "I told her you'd come."

"Enough talking. Everyone to the table," Angelina commands.

Zora walks over to Oliver.

"Hey. You okay?"

He nods.

"Sure?" she asks again. "We can go somewhere else if you want. Or you can open them alone. Whatever you need. Or—"

He cuts her off by taking her hand. "No. I want to be with you."

She exhales, smiles, and they join the others around the table.

"Okay. One at a time?" Angelina suggests. Everyone nods.

"I'll go first. I can't stand this." She pulls out her envelopes.

"Three. And you?"

Adeline lifts hers. "Two."

Oliver raises four fingers.

Everyone turns to Zora.

She slides five envelopes onto the table. Like cards. "Five."

Angelina takes a deep breath and tears open her first envelope.

Zora crosses her fingers under the table, praying it's the Harpies.

Angelina scans the letter, her face unreadable. "Tryouts for the National Team of England."

Everyone gasps. "What? That's amazing, Angie!" Adeline exclaims.

Angelina says nothing. It's amazing. But not the Harpies.

She opens the second. Her face changes slightly. She glances at Oliver. "Tryouts for Puddlemere."

Deep breath. Eyes closed.

She opens the last. She's silent.

Zora's chest tightens. "Well?" she dares.

Angelina looks up, smiling. "Harpies. No tryouts." She lets out a long, shuddering breath. "I'm fucking in."

Cheers erupt. They crowd around her, a messy hug of relief and joy.

"I'm fuckin' proud of you, Angie," Zora says.

"You deserve it so much," Oliver adds.

Angelina pretends to wipe tears from her eyes with her hands. "All right. No time to get emotional, Adeline, your turn."

Adeline opens the first. "Quiberon Quafflepunchers."

Pause. "I'm in."

Applause. Small french regional team, but good for a start of career. 

She tears open the second. She smiles. 

"Tryouts for the French National Team!"

Zora throws her arms around her. "You're going to crush it! The next star chaser of France. So proud of you, Ad."

Adeline beams. "Okay, your turn you two !"

Zora meets Oliver's eyes.

She hears nothing but her heart.

His fingers brush hers, squeeze gently.

He nods. He'll go first. He tears the first letter.

Laughs softly. Fake laugh. One that makes Zora shiver. "Puddlemere. I'm in."

They cheer again, though everyone knows what it means to him.

He tears open the second. "Ballycastle Bats. I'm in."

Zora blinks. He loves that team. A part of her winces.

The third. "Magpies. I'm in."

Then the last.

Hands shaking.

He opens it. Breathes out, uneven.

"Scotland National Team," he says quietly.

He swallows. "I'm in."

The room falls silent.

Zora's stomach clenches. The national team. No tryouts. A once-in-a-lifetime chance. 

Oliver lets out a strange chuckle, crumples the other letters in his hand, except the first one, the Puddlemere one. "I guess this won't be necessary anymore. Puddlemere, here I come," he says in a fake tone, voice breaking at the end. 

Zora steps forward and takes the papers from his hand. "Don't be an idiot. Give yourself time to think."

He doesn't reply. "Your turn, Zora," Angelina calls, trying to ease the tension.

Zora glances one last time at Oliver's face, which he's trying so hard to keep composed. She takes a breath, closes her eyes, and focuses for a few seconds, tightening the flag around her shoulders.

She picks up the first letter and opens it slowly, as if that could somehow change the outcome. She pulls out the paper — the handwriting is foreign, distant, cold. Miss Krum, blah blah blah, after reviewing your excellent performance and technique over the years, blah blah blah... She searches for the name. The team.

"Ireland National Team. I'm in."

Her eyes move to the second envelope.

"French National Team. I'm in."

No one says a word. They all know what Zora is truly waiting for.

"Scotland National Team. Try-outs." A quick glance at Oliver.

"Vratsa Vultures. I'm in."

She looks at the last envelope on the table. Her stomach turns. Everything comes down to these few lines. Everything comes down to whether or not she'll find those three words: Bulgarian National Team.

She grabs it and rips it open quickly this time, wanting the torture to end. Her eyes scan the lines. Her heart skips a beat with every word.

Zora sets the envelope and the letter down on the table.

Then she lifts her head to face them all.

"Magpies. I'm in."

And behind her, the flag falls to her feet.