The moment of realisation

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

rain - wunderhorse

Do you feel the rainDid it crawl up on your shouldersDid it coil around your nameDid it slowly snatch the sunlight out of every waking dayAnd you banish it you vanish it but something staring still remainsIn the empty frameDo you feel the rain

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Once everyone is showered and well-rested, they all gather again on the terrace. The sky is even clearer than it was that afternoon, the late sunlight golden and warm as it filters through the trees that border the estate. It's the kind of evening that feels like it's stretching itself just for them.

Zora begins setting the table for dinner, humming to herself. She smiles when she hears footsteps behind her and turns to see Oliver, following her out.

"Need a hand, no ?" he says, already stepping in to help her lay them down.

Inside, Samuel is at the stove, stirring something that smells nothing sort of heavenly. The others lounge across the terrace, taking in the last rays of sun, their laughter and soft conversations ringing out.

Suddenly, Angelina sits up straight, pushing her sunglasses into her hair. "Wait. Should we dress up a little? Like, do a sort of ceremony for the end of camp?"

"She's got a point," says Adeline, stretching out on a chair. "We didn't even get a proper end-of-camp dinner."

Zora rolls her eyes as she walks through the door with a stack of cutlery. "Coach Joe probably doesn't want to suffer through another evening with us."

"I don't agree," Viktor protests, raising a brow. "I think deep down, she actually likes us, слънце."

Angelina stands up suddenly, full of determination. "No, come on. Let's do it. A proper little ceremony. Dress nice, make it a thing. And ee could give each other awards. It could be fun."

"Yeah but I didn't bring anything remotely nice," Andrew says. "I came with a pair of shorts, my broom, flip-flops and my legendary charisma."

Zora snort. "Charisma ? I won't say anything but let me tell you Andrew, I am thinking a lot of things," Zora says and earns a middle finger from the boy.

"I've got nothing either," Thomas adds.

"Same here," says Adeline, glancing at Angelina.

"I got you boys," Viktor says, jumping to his feet. "Between my dad and me, we can sort you out. Come on."

Angelina moves toward Zora, who is placing the last glasses on the table, a wide smile on her face. "Z, darling, can we have a look through your stuff?"

Zora snorts. "You won't find anything in my closet you'd actually want. But don't worry—my mum's wardrobe will do."

They all rush upstairs, voices echoing, the house buzzing with the excitement of the evening to come.

Zora leads the girls into the dedicated dressing room of her mother—a space that still makes her a little uneasy. With a flick of her wand, the lights go on, and the tall wardrobes open with a soft sound, revealing rows and rows of dresses, heels, and tailored suits stretching across the room.

When she turns back, Angelina and Adeline are frozen in place, mouths open, eyes wide.

"Take whatever you want," Zora says, stepping aside.

"Don't need to tell us twice," Adeline laughs, already reaching for a deep blue gown.

"Zora, your mum's a literal fashion icon," Angelina gasps. "Look at this skirt. It's so chic!"

Zora rolls her eyes. "Yeah, well... she does know how to dress." Her voice is flatter than she intends, and she quickly turns to leave.

She heads back to her room, determined to find something that isn't suffocatingly formal. No way is she wearing one of her mother's tight, high-collared cocktail dresses. Not when she isn't even there to remind her.

After a moment's hesitation, she slips into a long white skirt that brushes the floor and pairs it with a simple black t-shirt. Good enough. She adds a pair of gold earrings, a swipe of lipstick, and steps into the hallway—only to nearly run into Oliver.

He's muttering under his breath in front of a mirror, clearly battling with a tie. He's wearing one of Viktor's suits—black, perfectly tailored. Zora pauses, takes him in.

She'd almost forgotten how damn good he looks in formalwear. Pictures of the Yule Ball flash through her memory and sends shivers down her spine.

"Well, look at you, struggling with a tie," she teases, arms folded as she leans casually against the doorframe.

He jumps a little, then groans. "Yeah, this thing is bloody ridiculous."

He tugs at the tie again in frustration.

Zora walks over with a fond shake of her head. "Here."

She gently takes the fabric from his hands and starts tying it, fingers working easily through the familiar motions. Once it's neatly knotted, she adjusts it slightly, her hands still resting on his chest.

"Thanks," he says, watching her. "How do you even know how to do that?"

She smiles. "Who do you think ties Viktor's ties? That man can fly a broom like a god but he can't knot a tie to save his life."

Oliver laughs softly and turns to fix his hair, but Zora tugs lightly on the tie still in her fingers, pulling him back toward her—and kisses him.

He smiles into her mouth, hands sliding around her waist, settling against the bare strip of skin between her t-shirt and skirt. She puts her hand into his hair that he just fixed, earning a wider smile from him.

"Oi!" comes Viktor's voice from down the hall. "I've been chill about this but no snogging in my line of sight!"

Zora gives him a middle finger behind her without stopping the kiss, then loops her arms around Oliver's neck.

He leans in, pressing closer, kissing her slow, deep, until he finally pulls back just enough to look at her.

"So," he says, straightening his shoulders, "how do I look?"

She eyes him and smiles. "I think the kiss answered that for you."

He watches her wipe a smudge of lipstick from the corner of his mouth before she spins and heads down the stairs.

Downstairs, the table is now full. Everyone's dressed up, laughing and taking pictures.

"Look at us all pretty, sexy and stuff !" says Andrew who wear one of Viktor's suit, way too large for him.

Samuel walks out on the terrace and sets down platters of food—roasted vegetables, grilled meats, fresh bread that still steams.

"God, Sam," Angelina says. "You really went all out."

Samuel tosses his rag over his shoulder and looks at the table proudly. "Yeah, let's eat, and then I might get some compliments."

Andrew stands, brandishing a bottle of champagne. "Hold up—first, we drink!"

He pops the cork and it fizzes over slightly, drawing shouting and cheering.

"I present to you: a very fine bottle from the prestigious Krum family cellar," he says grandly.

"Next time don't hesitate to ask before stealing our cellar, Andrew," Zora says with a grin.

They all laugh and Andrew puts champagne in everyone's glass. They all raise their glass and Zora smile, looking at everyone, all smile on their face, all dressed-up, and everything feel just right. They all talk a bit and starts to try Samuel's plates.

After a few minutes, Angelina rises and claps her hand to get the attention of everyone. "Alright ladies and gents," she says solemnly. "I officially declare the Summer Camp ceremony open." Everyone claps their hands and cheers.

Then Samuel rises too, raising his glass and clearing her throat. "Before we start to give out awards, I'd like to take a moment to honor Coach Joe."

"Does she deserve it anyway ?" says Adeline.

"Oh my god, remember when she made me run laps because I yawned during warmups?" Zora says, taking a bite of grilled vegetables.

"That's because you mock-yawned," Thomas says, "right in her face."

"She told me once that my eyeliner was a 'distraction to my broom focus,'" Adeline mutters. "I said her haircut was a distraction to my soul. I got cleaning duty for a week."

"God I remember this," Angelina says. "She really didn't like us."

Thomas raises his glass for a toast. "To our beloved Coach Joe, who feared nothing, not even Zora Krum."

"Not even Adeline in the morning," Viktor adds, earning a middle finger from her.

"Not even the cold, the rain or the storm," Angelina finishes.

"Not even sardines for breakfast," Zora adds. They all make disgusted faces mixed with laugh and finally, they all clink glasses.

"Alright, I'll be the first to start this ceremony," Thomas says as he stands.

He stands solemnly and eyes everyone. "First, the Award for the sharpest tongue, the most lethal insults delivered with surgical precision: Miss Zora Krum."

Zora bows dramatically. "I'd like to thank my childhood trauma and Eastern European efficiency for that."

Adeline is next. "Alright, I give the always and fashionably late Award to... Angie!"

Angelina raises both arms in victory. "I told you all the party doesn't start until I arrive."

Andrew grins. "The dramaqueen award for highest number of dramatic exits and monologues? Obviously Adeline."

Adeline stands and puts her hand on her heart. "I accept this with all my body and soul."

Samuel is handed a wooden spoon wrapped in gold ribbon by Zora. "To Samuel, for feeding us, healing us, and making the best damn grilled cheese during emotional crises."

Everyone claps as he nods.

Thomas clears his throat. "Next: I'm very honoured to give the next award to Oliver Wood, award for the master of brooding, frowning and overthinking."

Zora breaks into a laugh as Oliver raises his brow, unimpressed. "I don't brood," he says.

Everyone: "You do."

"You pace like a Victorian widow," Andrew offers.

Oliver sighs but chuckles. "Alright, I accept this award, thank you very much."

"And now," Adeline finishes, "the award for terrible jokes that somehow still work... Andrew, ladies and gents."

Andrew wipes a fake tear. "This is the greatest day of my life."

"And finally," says Angelina, "for the award of not giving a fuck about anything : Thomas."

He raises on his chair and celebrate as everyone laugh.

Deep down, they all know that this, what they have, the shared and precious moments, is over. But neither of them want to ackwnoledge it. It's easier to ignore. Way more easier.

They all go back to chatting, drinking and eating. As the sun goes down, alcohol flows and the music rings a little bit louder. Zora is observing the table in silence when she catches Viktor talking to Adeline on the right.

She is sitting close to him, explaining something, talking with her hands making wide movements. Viktor, crossing his arms, seems to be entirely focused on her story, his eyes not leaving her face. A small smile is on his lips.

Zora narrows her eyes. Seeing them both like this, so close, leaves her more than a little confused. She suddenly remembers all the times Adeline talked about Viktor with hearts in her eyes, but then, Adeline talks about many men like that, but also all the times Viktor helped her, teased her, when he literally doesn't do that to anyone.

Simple, discreet, almost invisible gestures, but which seem to take a whole new meaning in front of them talking.

She turns her head away and meets Angelina's gaze across the table. Angelina raises her eyebrows suggestively and looks toward Viktor and Adeline to show her what she just saw. Zora nods silently, mouths "I know" and twists her fingers to let her know they'll talk about it later.

They definitely will talk about this later.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Later that evening, most of the group has drifted back inside to the warmth of the living room. Music plays louder now and is interrupted only by the sound of laughter and clinking glasses and bottles. Angelina and Adeline are dancing and singing with Andrew. In the corner, Zora, Viktor and Thomas are mid-argument, faces animated, hands gesturing as they argue about who's going to win the League Cup this year.

Oliver is still outside.

Night has fallen properly now, cool air brushing over his skin, carrying the faint scent of pine. He leans against the cold stone railing of the terrace. He needed a little moment alone. Everything felt suddenly overwhelming for him. And in the quiet, it hits him: he's going to have to leave soon. And it pains him.

The truth is, he came here only for her.

Not that he dislikes the others — he does like them, in that familiar, nostalgic way — but they weren't the reason he said yes. She was. Because it mattered to her. Because he wanted to see her again, to know what she's like in her home, to discover more of her. And the rest? The rest was just background noise.

His relationship with the rest of the group has always been complicated. He kept his distance — still does, honestly — apart from Thomas and Angelina, who is constant in his life all year round back at Hogwarts. But the others? He never really joined their lakeside hangouts, their spontaneous parties, their long-lazy camp afternoons.

Oliver never really knew how to act around people the way the others did. Didn't have the instinct for it. Didn't have the social skills. At Hogwarts, and even before, he was always "the Quidditch guy." The obsessive one. The one who couldn't go five minutes without bringing up formations, match stats, or the bloody Quaffle. The one who skipped parties to revise strategies, who'd rather watch old games than flirt at a common room party.

And since he could talk, his dad made sure of it. Made sure everything about him revolve around quidditch. To make up for his father's broken dream.

Every free second was spent with a broomstick in his hand, facing the goalposts. Conversations at home revolved around tactics, not feelings. His father never listened when he talked about anything else — about the other thing he liked. About how he liked to cook, how he loved his bike, how he loved to do manual work. If Oliver tried, it was like his voice didn't even reach him.

So he became the version of himself people expected. Unable to hold a conversation, unable to talk about himself when the discussion wasn't quidditch centered. Finding himself out of words when he was supposed to be talking about anything else. He learned to observe instead of speak, to act quietly instead of engage.

Because what was the point in talking when people only ever heard one word behind every sentence — Quidditch, quidditch, quidditch, quidditch, quidditch.

And it worked for him. It's what he is good at, what he loves. What he thrives on. What make sense.

They all know each other so well now — years of sweaty practices, muddy games, parties, shared pain and laughter and late-night talks. But Oliver never let himself get pulled in. Partly because everything involved her.

Zora landed into his life, as talented as he was, fearless, with that maddening accent and the way she teased him everytime it pleased her. She threw him off every time she smiled or challenged him or met his eyes like she could see right through him.

She wrecked him. On the field. In his head.

And he told himself he hated her.

Well — hated was a strong word. It was more that he hated the way she made him feel. How she unsettled the only things that felt solid and controlled in his life — his quidditch skills.

And how really, she was the only one who ever tried. The only one who asked questions that had nothing to do with Quidditch. The only one who noticed the truth about Puddlemere. The only one who — rivalry be damned — seemed to want to know the boy behind the stats.

That's why he thought he hated her. Because she'd done something no one else had ever done. Just by her presence, she made him feel seen, for him alone in his entire self and soul.

And he'd thought for so long that he didn't deserve this that he was terrified.

And now, here he is, standing outside her house, looking through the window at the light of her — laughing, radiant, and impossibly real — and wondering how many years he's wasted pushing her away. Pretending he felt nothing, when the truth was the exact opposite.

And with that comes the realisation that maybe the others matter too.

Maybe this whole group — these loud, kind people — are more than just background noise. Maybe they're his friends. He's not used to the idea, but something about tonight — the game, the laughter, the stupid award game — it makes him feel good. Solid. Like he belongs.

A shape steps out onto the terrace, pulling him from his thoughts. It's Samuel.

If there's one person in the group Oliver still doesn't quite feel comfortable around, it's him. Not because he's unkind — quite the opposite. It's because back at camp, Samuel was always so at ease around Zora. And Oliver hated that. Hated how easy it seemed between them where with him, he didn't even know how to answer her.

Samuel walks over, hands him a beer without a word. Oliver takes it, confused but too polite to say no.

"Thanks," he mutters, taking a long swig. It's cold and bitter.

Samuel leans against the railing beside him, face flushed, obviously a little tipsy, a relaxed smile playing on his lips. He takes a sip, then says simply, "You still don't talk much, huh?"

Oliver shrugs. "Some things don't change, I guess."

"You okay?"

"Yeah. You?"

"Always," Samuel smiles.

Silence stretches between them. Oliver scratches the back of his neck.

Samuel glances over. "You excited to play for your country? I mean that's huge."

Oliver breathes in, hesitates, then straightens. "I-, it's, well, I'm not going there."

Samuel blinks. "What?"

"I'm going to Puddlemere," Oliver says quietly, eyes fixed on the dark trees.

"For real?"

Oliver nods. His throat is dry. He wants to leave. To end this conversation. "Yeah. Remember? That's the dream." The words burn his mouth.

Samuel watches him, senses there's more to it, but doesn't press. He just nods slowly, takes another drink.

Then he smiles. "So... you and Z, huh?"

Oliver laughs under his breath. He looks at her through the glass again — hair messy, challengin eyes, cheeks flushed. He smiles.

"Well," he says, awkward to talk about her with him. "We didn't really had a conversation yet, but if she wants me, I'm all hers."

Samuel lets out a low whistle. "You do know how damn lucky you are, right?"

Oliver scoffs. He has no idea. I feel luck beyond possible.

"I do," he admits. "Can't really believe it, to be honest."

Samuel nudges his shoulder. "You don't hate me anymore?"

Oliver raises an eyebrow. "Hate?"

"Well... you were never exactly friendly with me. Always gave me the 'death glare from the corner of the room' vibe."

Oliver shakes his head. This conversation is painful to him. Talking about his feeling. Talking about quidditch would be simpler. That he can do.

He sighs deeply. "I didn't hate you. I think... I-, just, I was jealous. Not that I'd ever have admitted that back then."

Samuel grows a little more serious now, eyes softening.

"You two just... always seemed so at ease," Oliver adds, voice quiet. "I didn't get it. I couldn't understand how that was even possible. And I guess I envied you to have this with her."

Samuel smiles, warm and knowing. "Yeah, well... look how that turned out."

They both laugh, and the tension between them thins.

Samuel claps a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "Don't fuck it up, alright? Zora's the kind of girl you don't meet twice and that if you loose once you loose forever. She is very picky with the people she keeps close to her. So little friendly advice, try to stay there."

I won't. If she thought I am worthy enough for her, I'll spend every seconds to prove I'm worthy enough for the rest of her life.

Oliver just nods and they clink their bottles.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

It's nearly 5 a.m. The house is quiet now, but not silent — music still hums low from the living room speaker, long forgotten by whoever was DJing earlier. Someone's snoring softly on the couch. The kitchen smells like beer, orange juice and burned bread someone attempted to do earlier.

Oliver is in the hallway, coming back from the kitchen, leaning against the wall near the staircase, a glass of water in his hand. He's the only one still steady on his feet, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled up, the top buttons of his shirt undone.

Footsteps behind him — uneven, slow.

"Hello you," Zora's voice calls, stretched out and slightly slurred.

He turns just as she stumbles toward him, barefoot. Obviously drunk, a wide sleepy smile on her face. "Are you hiding from me ?" she asks in a flirty tone.

"Oh," she says when she sees him, stopping a few steps away. "Look at you."

Oliver raises an eyebrow, amused. "Yes?"

She narrows her eyes like she's trying to focus. "I hate that you look so damn good in that suit."

He chuckles, setting his glass down on the side table. "You're drunk. So I don't know if that counts as a compliment."

"Mm-hmm," she says, walking toward him, off-balance. "It is, believe me."

He catches her quickly as she sways on her feet. "Alright," he says, steadying her with one arm around her waist, "come on, let's get you to bed."

"And you're coming with me ?," she says teasingly. "We're not even married, Mr. Wood."

Oliver rolls his eyes and hates the fact this makes him blush.

"This is scandalous. I love it."

He shakes his head, biting back a smile, trying not to react too much as she leans more heavily against him.

They reach her bedroom, and he guides her in gently. It smells like fresh linen, amber and the faintest hint of her shampoo. He helps her sit on the edge of the bed. Then he stands and takes a look at the room.

King sized bed, arched windows overlooking the estate, posters of the Vultures and the Bulgarian national team, medals and trophies, chairs with a mountain of clothes on them, notebooks stacked by her bed, a clock shaped like the Golden Snitch.

He smiles because it's everything he had imagined. He walks around the room. "So this is Zora Krum's bedroom."

"Fancy, right ?" she says, propping herself on her elbows.

"Messy, yes," he says and that makes her smile.

He walks to her desk and takes a look at the few frames above. One picture with Viktor, one with Angelina and Adeline, some at camp, and one with what he thinks is her father. He notices that her mother isn't there.

Then right next to it, in a glass frame, he sees a piece of parchment he recognizes. A game plan they spent an entire night making together two years ago at camp. On the piece of paper, he finds the little notes in her handwriting, his, the game plan, and he remembers the scene perfectly. It was the first time they were put together, and each team had to come up with the best plan for an upcoming game. Coach Joe's instructions. They couldn't find an agreement on the strategies so the rest of the team left, already tired, and they spent the night finishing it and perfecting it. He can still remember the color of her headband and her perfume.

He feels his whole body melting, surprised why she kept this all this time. He takes the frame and turns. "You kept this ?"

Already half asleep, she stands and takes a look at the frame. Then she sighs and turns her head away. "I, it's just, yeah. You weren't supposed to see this."

He smiles and finds himself enjoying to see her this flustered. "Why did you keep this ?"

She groans and flops back on the bed. "I don't know, it's just-"

"It's the worst play I ever came up with," he adds.

"Yeah," she says. "But you stayed with me all night. And I had a very good time," she adds.

He smiles even more and puts down the frame before walking toward the bed. He sits next to her and she turns her head toward him, cheeks slightly red.

"I'm tired. Can we sleep ?" she says.

Oliver nods. "I can come lie down with you. But I have to leave in an hour."

Zora frowns, blinking slowly. "I forgot you were leaving."

He sighs, taking off his vest and tossing it gently on the nearby chair. He looks at her and feels his chest ache as he notices the real deception in her eyes as she realises he is leaving soon. " Zora. I'm sorry."

"Don't apologise," she says as she starts to get under the blanket.

He lies down next to her, facing her, propped on one elbow.

She turns toward him automatically, already half-asleep, her breath slowing. Her hair fans out on the pillow, wild and lovely.

Oliver brushes a few strands gently away from her cheek.

"Oliver," she whispers, eyes closed.

"Hm ?" he says, gently stroking her cheek with the tip of his finger.

Her eyes flutter open. "I'm really, really, really happy you came," she says. "Really."

Oliver swallows. His chest aches with how much he wants to stay. To wake up here beside her, to spend every slow morning of these two weeks like this. His chest aches with how much these words, these simple words mean to him.

"Me too," he replies. "More than you can imagine."

Her eyes stay open just a beat longer, but then she blinks again, and she's drifting, slipping into sleep. He watches her a moment longer, memorizing the shape of her mouth, her long and thick eye-lashes, lips slightly parted.

When it's time for him to go, he gets up, slowly, reluctantly. He pulls the blanket up over her shoulder, careful not to wake her up. He watches her a few more second before kissing her on the forehead and quietly stepping out of the room.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

When Oliver steps inside his house, the hallway is filled with early morning light, and he's planning to go straight to his room — maybe catch a few minutes of sleep before picking up Nora from her sleepover party. His eyes are heavy, his muscles ache. He places his jacket on the hall cabinet, and the scent of Zora's perfume envelops him. He inhales and sighs, already feeling the void after leaving her.

But then he hears it — noise from the kitchen. A kettle whistling. Cabinets opening. The low clink of a spoon against porcelain. And then — the unmistakable smell of coffee.

Oliver freezes in the hall. No one is supposed to be here.

"Dad?" he calls cautiously, rounding the corner.

There he is. His father is at the kitchen table, reading the paper, glasses on, a fresh mug of coffee beside him. He looks up. "Morning," his father says simply.

"You're—what?" Oliver blinks. "You're supposed to be in London."

"I was. Your mum's staying two more days. The test results were not good. I just came to grab a few things. Flying out again tonight. Two-week trip for work."

Oliver's jaw tightens. That wasn't the plan. That really, really wasn't the plan.

"What about mom ?" he asks, getting rid of his shoes.

"You're here. You'll take care of her. Ask your aunt if you need help."

Oliver says nothing and tries everything to avoid sighing audibly.

His father eyes him over the rim of his mug. "Where were you?"

Oliver walks to the table. "With friends."

His father makes a vague sound — halfway between acknowledgment and disapproval. "You could've stayed here. Helped out a bit. Tidied the place. It's a mess."

He walks to the sink and pours himself a glass of water, his back to his father. He grips the edge of the counter, the cold metal digging into his fingers until his knuckles pale.

He breathes. Once. Twice.

"Want a coffee?" his father asks.

Oliver swallows. "Yeah. Sure."

A steaming mug is handed to him without a word. He takes it, grateful for the distraction, grateful for the burn against his palms to keep him grounded.

They sit. His father flips a page of the newspaper.

Oliver stares at the mug. He wonders how he is going to tell him about the Scouts. Maybe he shouldn't tell him about Puddlemere. Say he only got the Scottish national team. Or tell him he doesn't want to go to Puddlemere. Tell him the truth.

No, he can't. He clears his throat, leg shaking under the table.

"We got the scout's letter last week."

That makes his father pause. Slowly, he lowers the paper, eyes meeting Oliver's. "And?"

"I got it. I got both, actually. Scottish National Team. And Puddlemere."

His father nods, eyes already back on the print. "Good. But you know where you're going."

Oliver hesitates. The mug shakes slightly in his hand. "That's the thing. I don't know yet. I mean, I love both, of course. But the national team would mean—"

"But you're going to Puddlemere, right ? That's your dream son," his father interrupts.

There's silence. Oliver stares into his coffee, chest tight. He feels like he could break the mug between his hand. He crosses his father's eyes and all he see is his father's expectation. He swallows.

"Yeah," he says eventually. "Yeah, of course. Puddlemere it is."

His stomach turns. It physically hurts to say it. But he says it anyway.

Because it's what's expected. Because it's what his father wants.

Because it's what will make his father proud.

Not because it's what he wants. But because it's what makes him good. What makes him enough in the eyes of a man who never really saw him.

And like clockwork, his father stands, comes around the table, and places a hand on Oliver's shoulder. A rare gesture.

"I'm proud of you, son."

Five words.

Five words Oliver has waited his entire life to hear.

The words fall on him with precision, each one enveloping him in utter relief. But he hates how much they matter. How they light something in his chest — something small and pathetic and hopeful.

"I knew you'd do it," he adds.

He nods.

"Thanks," he whispers, barely able to say it.

His father pats his shoulder twice, then walks upstairs to gather his things. A few minutes pass. Oliver just stares at his father's seat in front of him. At the decision he just man. Only to please a man who he doesn't even really know well.

His father goes down. A suitcase wheels behind him. "I'm going," he says casually.

"Right," Oliver answers, standing up.

"Can you tidy in the kitchen ? I'm already late. See you son, and congratulation again."

The front door closes a him few minutes later, bringing with him his dream and his hopes.

When Oliver checks the clock, he starts moving. He clears the table, straightens the chairs. Wipes down the kitchen counters. He takes a quick shower and changes. He puts on a jean and a t-shirt and takes some Chocolate Frogs for Nora.

He heads out the front door, grabbing his bike from the shed. It's a small ride — just ten minutes or so — and the morning air is cold, allowing him to breathe deep.

He reaches the little house of Nora's friend on the corner and knocks on the door.

A woman opens the door — kind eyes, pink sweater, and a tired smile. "You must be Oliver. Nora is just grabbing her things. Had a lovely time."

"Thank you," he says with a polite smile.

A few minutes later he sees her, messy braid and a paper crown still tilted on her head. All his tension vanishes in a heartbeat.

"Ollie!" she runs to him and he takes her in his arm before hugging her tight.

"Hey princess," he says, adjusting her crown. "You ready?"

"I got cake twice," she tells him proudly, showing him a glittery bracelet. "And I beat everyone at Exploding Snap."

"Well of course you did," he smiles. "You're unbeatable."

They wave goodbye and head down the path. Nora climbs into the basket seat on the front of Oliver's bike, legs swinging, jacket half-zipped, wind tangling in her hair as they set off.

The road home is golden with morning light.

"So," Oliver asks, "what's the verdict? Best party ever or just top three?"

"Top three. But the cake puts it really, really close."

He chuckles. She leans her head back, looking up at him. "You look tired."

"I am."

"But happy-tired or sad-tired?"

He glances down at her, surprised by the phrasing. "Bit of both."

She nods. "I'm happy you're here."

He exhales. It settles something in his chest. "Me too."

They ride in silence a bit longer before she says, "What are we doing today?"

"Anything you want," he says. "Dad's not gonna be around for the holidays."

"That's okay," she replies simply. "You're here now."

That hits harder than he expects. He blinks, focusing on the road, not on how much that meant.

They turn the corner, the house coming into view.

"So what did you do last night?" Nora asks. "If you're so tired."

Oliver considers his answer. "I was with friends."

She twists around in the basket to look up at him. "Was the girl you like there?"

Oliver nearly swerves. "What—how do you—what girl?"

"I heard what you told mom when you thought I was asleep," she says proudly.

He laughs under his breath. "You're a secret agent now?"

"Yes," she replies. "I know everything."

He gives her a look. "Yeah... she was there."

Nora smiles like she's just solved a mystery. "Is she your girlfriend?"

That makes him pause. Girlfriend. Is Zora his girlfriend ? What does that even mean ?

"I-, just, well, I, I don't know," he starts to stammer.

Nora chuckles. "So ?"

Oliver shakes his head, face flushed. "You are seven. How do you even know what's a girlfriend ?"

"I'm seven and a half," she corrects. "And I'm going to write it in my journal. Oliver has a girlfriend."

He groans and she chuckles.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The first week of the holidays passes slowly for Zora.

After Oliver left early Sunday morning, the day was spent with the rest of the camp crew lounging around the house. They played one last Quidditch match in the field and they laughed so much her ribs hurt. They ate leftovers on the grass, shared stories in the sun, and try not to talk about the after. Just one more day of pretending they're still kids with nothing to worry about.

But then Sunday night came, and everyone left. Hugs. Inside jokes. Promises to write. And then it's just her. Her, and the ghost of their laughter echoing in the now too-quiet house.

Monday morning, her mother returned with Viktor's parents. The house became full again—of voices, footsteps, diners, walks. But not the kind of full Zora wants.

She spends most of her time in her room or out in the yard with Nikita. She trains every morning with Vitkor until her arms and lungs hurt.

Inside the house, things are more difficult.

Her mother never stops.

"Stand up straight, Zora."

"Put your hair up properly."

"The Vassiliev are coming to diner next weekend, we'll go into town to find you a dress."

"have you practiced your french ?"

Zora can barely breathe. Her mother doesn't ask about the scouts. Doesn't ask how is Hogwarts. Doesn't even look at her when she speaks. And Zora begins to feel like she's disappearing.

And a question has been obsessing her all along.

Why ?

Why not her ? Why they didn't take her ? What had she done wrong? Was it her technique, her form, her focus?

It haunts her, day and night. It's unbearable. She wants to understand. So badly. To get better. To do everything to get in next year. She needs to understand what is wrong with her.

She desperetly needs to know so that she can move on.

By Wednesday of the second week, Viktor goes to train at the national Quidditch stadium, and she asks him to come along. He is surprised at first but he just nods.

The moment she steps into the stadium, she feels like her heart stops. The rush of wind under the archways, the faint clang of goalposts being moved, the echo of brooms in the air—all of it feels like a punch to the gut. Her chest tightens.

She tries to ignore the color of the team's flag waving everywhere, Viktor going to the locker, his teammates already warming up on the pitch. The familiar scent of wood polish and grass.

She swallows hard and steps a bit further. She spots Coach Rankov along the pitch, clipboard in hand. He knows her, of course—he's known her since she was little. Her mother and his wife went to school together, and her family is at every game since she is born. They have connections.

Zora breathes deeply and walks toward him.

"Coach Rankov?" she says, her voice louder than she intended. He turns, sees her, and grins.

"Zora! Hello champion. What a surprise." He says, genuinely happy. "What are you doing here ?"

She smiles weakly, her breath shaky. "Could we talk? Just five minutes. Please."

He nods immediately, confused by her serious tone. "Sure. Let's go to my office."

They walk in silence. Inside the small glass-paneled room above the pitch, she perches on the edge of a chair while he sits behind his desk. She doesn't wait any more seconds.

"I know it might be weird and it's probably inappropriate," she starts, breath shaky, "but I just need to ask. I know the selections were done, and I wasn't chosen, again, and that's fine. But I need to know what I can do to improve. Like—technically. What I'm missing. Because otherwise, I don't know how to move on. And I can't keep going not knowing why I wasn't—why I'm not enough."

The Coach frowns. "Wait. What are you talking about?"

Zora blinks. "The scouts. The letter. For the team. I know you've had your reasons, I just want to understand—"

"Zora," he cuts in, confusion clouding his face even more. "You said you didn't want to play professionally anymore."

She blinks. "What?"

"You sent me a letter. Two years ago. You said you didn't want to be considered for the team anymore. That you were grateful but you wanted to explore other paths."

Zora's confused. Too confused. She opens her mouth but nothing comes out.

"Wait, what ?," she whispers. "No, I would never wrote that. Why would I ever say that? That's all I've ever wanted," she says, laughing from nerves. "You are mistaken."

He stares at her. "No, I... I still have it. I was surprised myself. I knew how badly you wanted this. How good you were. To be honest, if it weren't for that letter, you'd be playing right now instead of your cousin."

She has to grab the edge of the desk. Every sound around her mute and she feels like she is going to be sick. She tries to tell herself this is all but a misunderstanding. An error. A confusion.

He pulls open a drawer, rifling through folders, and then slides out a slightly yellowed parchment.

Zora takes it with trembling hands and opens it quickly. "Let's see. It's surely a mistake."

Her name. Her full name. And her signature. But the handwriting—the way the letters curve, the slight tilt—she knows it by heart.

It's her mother's.