Seeking refuge

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

obstacle 1 - interpol 

I wish I could eat the salt offOf your lost faded lipsWe can cap the old timesMake playing only logical harmWe can cap the old linesMake playing that nothing else will change

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver watches the sunset bleed through the kitchen window. It burns like fire behind the trees lining the plain—deep orange, edged with red, so bright it nearly blinds him. It reminds him of Zora.

His arms are submerged in warm water, soap swirling around his elbows as he scrubs the last of the dinner cutlery. Behind him, Nora is half-curled on a chair, one foot tucked beneath her, a pencil clutched in her hand. She's humming quietly, tongue poking out in concentration as she colors a new drawing.

He's started playing music in the house more often. It fills the silences their mother leaves behind.

Oliver rinses the final plate, dries it with a cloth slung over his shoulder, and turns. "Alright, time for bed."

"Five more minutes," Nora says without looking up. "Almost done."

"You said that fifteen minutes ago," he replies, shaking his head.

She shrugs. "Yeah, but now I've got to finish the tree."

Oliver walks over and leans against the edge of the table. "I promise your tree will still be here in the morning."

He glances at her drawing. It's a little rough, but he recognizes their house and the trees around it. In front, three stick figures: their mum, himself... and Nora, smaller, hand-in-hand with him.

He frowns slightly. "You didn't draw Dad?"

Nora shrugs without lifting her gaze. "He's never here. Why would I?"

The words make his chest tight. He swallows, brushing a hand gently over her forehead and placing a kiss there. "Alright, let's go."

She sighs, dramatic, but obediently sets her pencil down and climbs into his arms when he leans down. He carries her upstairs and sets her down by the bathroom.

"Go brush your teeth. I'll be right there."

She grumbles but obeys.

Downstairs again, Oliver pours himself a cup of coffee. The sun has vanished entirely, leaving only a haze of smoky black spilling across the fields outside. He rubs a tired hand across his face as the soft hum of the coffee machine fades into the background music.

He's planning to work out tonight—maybe a run, maybe some drills outside. Between keeping Nora occupied, managing the nurses, and trying to support his mother, he's barely had a moment to focus on himself. The game against the Delegation is creeping closer. And Hogwarts is only four days away.

The weekend at Zora's feels far away now. Neither of them has written much. He imagines she is busy. Just one short note from her last week:

Nikita misses you (only Nikita, of course) :)

Z.

He took the habit to read it often. There are only three days left before returning to Hogwarts, and Oliver has mixed feelings. He wants to go back, to see her again, to finish the year, to finish Hogwarts, to finally win the Cup.

And on the other hand, he already feels the guilt of leaving his sister and mother here eating away at him.

He finishes his coffee and climbs the stairs. Nora's already in bed, eyes half-closed. He walks in, tucks the blanket around her small frame, and kisses her on the temple.

"Sleep well, princess."

She wraps her arms around his neck and kisses his cheek in return.

He smiles, switches off the light, and quietly shuts the door. He grabs his Quidditch gear and his broom. 

Back downstairs, he walks back to the kitchen to finish his coffee and a knock at the door makes him jump. The mug in his hand jolts, nearly slipping, but he catches it just in time.

Frowning, he walks to the door, expecting maybe a neighbor—or his father, returning unexpectedly.

But when he opens it, the breath leaves his lungs.

Zora.

He remains stuck in place, his hand still on the doorknob, his lips parted, not really knowing what to say. His thoughts race and collide, wondering what she's doing there, why she's crying, what happened, why she's in this state.

She looks like she could collapse at any moment. Face twisted with pain, cheeks flushed and bathed in tears, sobs making her lips tremble. 

But what shocks him the most is her eyes. Her gaze.

They're red, bloodshot. But he can't see anything anymore. The fire, the challenge, the warmth he found every time he met her gaze, are gone.

He can't see anything anymore except an even heavier emptiness.

Zora sniffles loudly and finally speaks. "I'm sorry, I didn't know where to go..." She manages to get out before another sob shakes her, her voice breaking at the end.

Oliver swallows hard. He never thought seeing her like this would hit him so hard. He feels his heart wrench and his fists clench.

In that moment, he wishes he could steal the fire of the sun just to reignite the light in her eyes. To wipe the sea of salt from her cheeks—and drown in her place, if it meant she could breath easier.

Never has someone else's pain struck him so deeply—not until this very moment, when he saw Zora, shattered and silent, standing at his door.

Behind him, Zora catches sight of a little pair of shoes. Oliver sees her bring her hand to her mouth and shake her head. "God, I'm sorry. You have your sister, and your mom, and I- I'm sorry, I forgot. You have other things to deal with," the words fall from her lips, panicked. "God, she was right, I'm so selfish," she adds, a nervous laugh along with it. "I'm sorry, I- I'll go," she finally says, walking away with difficulty.

But Oliver grabs her wrist and pulls her back against him. He wraps one hand around her shoulders and the other in her hair, holding her tight, as if afraid she'll slip away. 

He rests his head against hers. He holds her a little tighter as he feels her body shaking with sobs in his arms.

After a few seconds, he places both hands on her tear-stained face. "Of course you can stay," he says softly. "Just, goodness Zora, what happened ?"

She doesn't answer and looks at him like she's asking him to make everything alright. God he wish he could. 

"Just, let's go to the living room, alright ? Is it okay ?" 

She nods into his hands and breathes hard through her sobs. He quickly wipes her cheeks and grabs her hand before leading her to the couch. He helps her sit up and drapes a blanket over her.

"I'm so sorry," she whispers.

"Hey, I don't want to hear this," he says, looking her straight in the eyes. 

Her sobs have stopped, and only her sniffles and shaky sighs break the silence. He kneels in front of her, and it's only when he places his hands on hers that she seems to become aware of his presence again.

She straightens and tries to smile, but her lips only move in a shapeless grimace. "I'm sorry, really, just tell me and I'll leave. I shouldn't have bothered you, I-" she mumbles, standing up.

He blocks her by placing his hands on her face. "I'm not letting you go until you feel better, understand?"

In simple response, she lowers her eyes and nods.

"Coffee?" he asks.

"Yes, please," she says, sitting back down on the couch, legs crossed.

He smiles and stands up. Oliver takes two cups from the kitchen, pours the dark liquid, and turns to Zora. "Do you still take two sugars?"

He sees her smile slightly and thinks that's already a good step forward. 

She nods. "How do you remember that?"

Oliver chuckles and turns to put two sugars in the left cup. "Let's just say that in the kitchen at camp, you spent your time fighting the coffee purists who insulted you for adding sugar. I mean Angelina and me by that."

He places his on the coffee table and gives the other to Zora, who whispers a thank you and then rolls her eyes. "Coffee without sugar is disgusting, and I think the so-called 'purists' are pretending to like it just to show off."

Oliver raises his eyebrows. "Hot takes. You could get burned for that."

"Honestly at this point, I don't care anymore," Zora says, taking a sip. The words are meant to lighten the mood, but he reminds Oliver that she didn't come here to talk about coffee. 

He wants to know. More, he needs to know. What or who made her in that state. But he doesn't want to rush her or anything. 

He tilts his head slightly, takes a sip of coffee, and looks at her. "Do you want to talk, or ?"

Zora sighs and throws her head back, collapsing onto the couch. "I'm— I'm scared that if I start talking about it, the tears will come back and I won't be able to stop them."

Oliver nods gently. "If you don't feel like talking, it's okay. We can do something else. Or you can sleep if you're tired. Whatever you need."

Zora exhales slowly, her shoulders rising and falling with the weight of it. "This morning I went to the National stadium. To see Viktor train."

Oliver nods again. He imagines how hard that must've been for her—facing a reality that will never be, walking the grass of a stadium that could have been hers, watching Viktor live the dream that was once hers too.

He knows, with unwavering certainty, that he would never have the strength to do what she did.

She lets out a dry, bitter laugh. "I didn't want to at first, but I needed answers. I needed to understand. Why him and not me? Why them, and not me? If that's their decision, fine. But I had to know what I did wrong—what I needed to change. Otherwise, I don't think I ever could've moved on. You get that, right?" she asks, her voice cracking as she turns to him.

"Of course I do," he replies softly.

"So I went to talk to the coach. I made a fool of myself, honestly. I went there practically begging for an explanation," she says with a voice full of contempt—but it's all aimed at herself.

Oliver wants to tell her she's not foolish. That needing closure isn't weakness. That being human doesn't make her small. But she doesn't leave him the time.

"And I left that office feeling worse than when I went in," she adds, her voice low, hand rising to cover her mouth.

Silence falls. Heavy. Only the ticking of the wall clock breaks it.

His father's clock. Oliver's always hated it. The sound is too present, too sharp. Suffocating. It's worse now—with Zora, broken, in front of him.

Without a word, Zora reaches into the pocket of her coat and pulls out a crumpled piece of parchment. Her fingers are shaking as she extends it to him.

Oliver frowns, confused, but takes it gently with his right hand. His left hand wraps around hers, an instinct, a reflex—anything to stop the trembling.

"What is it?" he asks.

"Just—read it," she says. Her voice fractures on the last word.

He unfolds the parchment. His eyes go over the lines. Zora Krum. Thank you. No longer pursuing professional play. Signature. He spots the date.

Two years ago.

His confusion deepens. He reads it again. Once. Twice. Then looks up at her.

"I don't understand. What is this?"

Zora inhales deeply, like she's trying to push a mountain off her chest. "It's a letter. Saying I no longer want to play professionally. That I've chosen another path. Sent to the national team."

"But—why would you have sent that?"

"My mother sent it," Zora replies, and something in her voice slices through him. "Not me. I found out when the coach pulled it from his files. Said it was the reason I wasn't even considered."

Oliver's stomach flips. He places the letter on the coffee table as if it burns. "Your mother? But—why would she...?"

Zora scoffs. Tears spill again, silent and angry. Her hands clench into fists.

"Let's just say she had other plans for my future. Plans that rhyme with marriage and children by twenty-two."

"She can't just— I mean, forging a letter like that, ruining your whole dream—without even telling you—who does that to their own—"

Zora cuts him off, turning sharply toward him. "Oliver, we both know what parents are capable of when they want to bend us to their will."

Her words hit him like a slap. Of course he knows. He sighs deeply. Oliver suddenly feels anger growling in him, anger at his father, anger at her mother. 

Tears slide silently down her cheeks again. "And then there's the con—"

She stops. Her mouth closes, lips tight with restraint.

"The...?" Oliver asks gently, tracing circles on the back of her hand with his thumb.

She shakes her head, trying to swallow the sob in her throat. "I'm sorry, I— it's too much, I can't—"

Oliver stands and walks over to sit beside her. He wraps his arm around her shoulders and pulls her against him. He feels her body start to shake again, her back trembling beneath his palm, and her tears soaking the fabric of his shirt.

"It's alright. It's okay. Let's just sleep, yeah?" he says into her hair. "We'll talk tomorrow, if you want. Or not. Whatever you need."

Oliver has never been good at comforting people. He knows how to listen. He's good at observing. But when it comes to soothing pain, he feels clumsy and unsure. He hardly knows what to do with his own emotions—let alone someone else's.

But this feels different. Like his arms were made to hold her. Like his mouth was meant to whisper calming words. Like he could protect her from all of it.

If he could carry her sorrow himself, he would. All of it. Just to lighten the weight pressing down on her chest.

When her sobs finally quiet, Zora lifts her head and breathes deeply. "Do you want to sleep?"

She nods, eyes still red.

"Alright. Let's go," he says, rising from the couch. He sets the mugs in the sink, then holds out his hand to her.

She takes it.

He leads her to the stairs, and once they reach the top, he pauses in front of the bathroom. "You can use this if you want. I'll be in my room."

Zora nods, adjusting the small overnight bag slung over her shoulder. "Thank you," she whispers, barely audible, then slips behind the bathroom door.

Oliver lingers a second longer before sighing and walking to his room. He collapses onto his bed, exhausted and overwhelmed.

And touched—somewhere deep and private—that she came to him. Out of everyone, she chose him.

He doesn't know what to do with that. Only that it sets fire to something in his chest.

He sits up, finally noticing the disaster that is his bedroom—Quidditch gear strewn across the floor, books and notes everywhere, his sheets a mess.

"Shit," he mutters, running a hand through his hair. He starts to clean up.

For the first time, he wants his room to look presentable.

Because it's her. 

A few seconds later, Oliver hears his bedroom door creak open.

Zora appears in the doorway.

Her tears are gone. Her hair is neatly braided. "Do you have something I could sleep in?" she asks. "Sorry, I left in such a rush, I didn't think to pack everything, and—"

He nods before she can finish and walks over to his messy wardrobe. He rummages through it until he finds a T-shirt and a pair of shorts. "It's probably way too big for you, but it's all I've got," he says as he sets them on the edge of the bed.

She steps closer and gives him a small smile.

A smile.

That alone feels like it could restart the world.

"It's perfect, thank you," she says.

"Well, I-, I'll give you some privacy," he mumbles, already heading toward the bathroom.

In front of the mirror, he splashes cold water onto his face. Then again. He stares at his reflection, chest rising and falling faster than usual.

Zora is in his house.

Zora is in his bedroom.

Zora is going to sleep in his T-shirt.

He stares at himself another second, almost tempted to pinch his own arm.

But then reality crashes back.

Zora is here—but Zora is completely shattered.

He lets out a long sigh, changes into his short, and eventually returns to his room.

She's there, standing with her back to him, quietly studying the posters on his wall. She's swimming in his shirt. The hem hits high on her thighs, her long bare legs catching what little moonlight filters through the curtains.

"I knew this had to be Captain Wood's room," she says, still facing the wall. "But I must say, the lack of Bats posters is shocking. It's all Magpies in here!"

Oliver scratches the back of his neck and lets out a soft laugh. "I used what I could find in the magazines."

She turns to face him and smiles again.

A second smile.

He's not sure how he's still standing.

She wanders slowly toward his shelf lined with medals and trophies. Her fingers brush over them lightly, respectfully. Then she turns around, and for a split second, he catches it—her old spark, the glint of challenge in her eyes.

"You lined up all your trophies to impress me, Wood?" she teases.

His smiles stretches wider. Thank Merlin, she hasn't lost her edge.

"A man's gotta do what he's gotta do."

She laughs. Loud and real.

It sends a shiver down his spine.

A laugh.

"If I'd waited for you to win at Quidditch camp before liking you, well... we both know how that would've gone," she shoots back before walking across the room.

Oliver's eyes travel to her face. He watches as she looks at everything, every little piece of paper, magazines, objects in his room, genuinely interested. 

"No, seriously?"

"Hm?" he asks, dazed.

She nods toward the corner. He follows her gaze—to the kilt hanging off the side of his dresser.

His stomach drops. His cheeks burns.

Zora takes, rising on tiptoes to pull the hanger free. She holds it against her front, the fabric resting against her hips.

"Bloody hell, as you all say. A real Highland lad."

Oliver lets out a laugh, running a hand over his jaw. "Bet you'd look extra sexy in this," she adds, locking eyes with him.

He arches a brow and tries to cover his ears and cheeks going all red. "Just so you know, you'll never see me wearing that, Krum."

She gently places the kilt back on the dresser and crosses the room toward him. "We'll see about that." 

Without a word, she slips her arms around his waist and rests her cheek against his bare chest.

He hesitates for just a second—then folds his arms around her, drawing her closer.

"Let's sleep, yeah?" he whispers against her hair.

She nods.

"You can take my bed," he says quietly. "I'll sleep on the couch downstairs."

She pulls back just enough to look up at him, one eyebrow raised and a small smile on her lips. "Oh, traditional. Separate rooms I see."

Oliver freezes, already cursing the heat climbing his neck. Why does he always blush around her? Why does she always know how to make him?

"I—no—I mean, only if you want to— I just didn't want to make you uncomfortable or—"

"Sleep with me," she says, cutting through his stammer. Her voice is steady now. Serious. "Please."

His breath catches. It sounds like a request from someone who has nothing left to hold onto tonight but him.

He nods once. Then crosses the room, lifts the covers, and slides in beside her.

The room is quiet.

They lie on their backs, side by side in the soft darkness. Oliver reaches over and switches off the bedside lamp.

Darkness folds around them. It's calm. They don't speak. Just breathe.

He turns his head slightly, and through the shadows, he finds her eyes already on him.

Her voice is quiet. "I'm sorry for barging into your life."

A pause.

"I know you've got a lot on your plate already," she adds. 

Oliver doesn't hesitate.

"You can barge into my life all you want, Zora."

His voice is steady. He sees it hit her.

It's in the way her expression softens, the barest shift in her eyes, the faint hitch in her breath. She doesn't say a word. She doesn't have to. He sees it anyway.

"Sleep," he whispers. "You need it."

She nods once. Then slowly, she shifts closer to him, her braid sliding across the pillow. She lays her head gently on his shoulder.

Oliver exhales, long and quiet, and wraps an arm around her, drawing her in without thinking. 

She's asleep within seconds.

He stays still, staring up at the ceiling, feeling her weight against his side. Her breath is warm against his chest, slow and even, and it starts to pull him to sleep too. 

He closes his eyes, the scent of her hair and the warmth of her skin threading into his bones.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The sunlight slips through the slats of Oliver's bedroom window and brushes Zora's cheek. Its warmth spreads over her skin, making her eyelids flutter open, slowly adjusting to the daylight. She blinks several times, then lets her eyes close again, curling further into the sheets.

Barely awake, the memories slam into her like. Her head ache — right at her temples and forehead — from all the crying and intense emotions from yesterday. She frowns, as if she can push away the thoughts already rushing in.

She sees it again — the living room, her mother's heavy presence, her aunt and uncle seated like statues, the silence so thick it rang in her ears, her mother's sharp voice announcing the ruin of her life like it was some kind of pleasure for her.

But that isn't even what hurts the most.

No — the worst part isn't her mother's scheming or the fact her aunt knew but never told her.

Deep down, it's like she knew her mother could do that. That her heart was so dark it allowed her to do that to her own daughter. 

She always knew what her mother was capable of to protect the family name and the sparkle of the silverware. She always knew what her family would sacrifice to make Viktor shine, even if it meant selling her off to the highest bidder so they could keep sleeping on silk sheets.

What breaks her — truly breaks her — is what her mother said about her father. That's what keeps echoing.

Everything starts to collapse in her mind, her memories. 

Every memory she clung to since his death — his smile, his scent, the safety in his arms — it all begins to feel fake. Staged. Built on lies.

Zora pulls the sheets tighter around her. And suddenly, his scent hits her — his shampoo, his skin, that clean, warm smell that is so him. It spreads into her lungs. Her body slowly unclenches.

Oliver. She's at Oliver's.

She sees again the way his hands held her tear-streaked face, the way his arms wrapped around her like he never wanted to let go. His voice and whispered words, low and steady, only for her.

She's never craved someone like that. Never needed someone like this.

She sits up slowly, rubbing at her eyes, expecting to find Oliver next to her.

But she jumps when she sees a small, curly-haired head sitting at the edge of the bed, staring straight at her.

"Goodness—" Zora gasps, her hand flying to her mouth.

"Finally! You're awake," the girl says, utterly unbothered. "I was bored."

Zora lowers her hand to her chest, trying to slow her racing heart, and really looks at the girl in front of her.

Oliver's sister. No doubt. Messy curls, dark like his. Big eyes, full of light. A few freckles scattered across her nose. The spitting image. Except a lot more talkative and bold than her brother. 

"Were you super tired? You slept forever," the girl adds, frowning a little.

Zora can't help but smile. The innocence make her softens. She notices the thick Scottish accent in her voice, just like Oliver's.

She sits up straighter, tucking a few strands of hair behind her ear. "You must be Nora, right?"

The girl nods proudly. "Yes! And you're Zora. See, our names are kinda the same! Ollie said you were staying here a bit. He also said not to bother you while you slept, but he went to buy some things on his bike and I was so bored and I wanted to see what his girlfriend looked like so..."

Nora twists her fingers sheepishly.

Zora chuckles and raises her eyebrows. Definitely more outgoing than her brother.

"Girlfriend?" Zora asks and she can't help to bite back a smile. 

"Well, yeah," Nora says, tilting her head. "Aren't you?"

Zora shrugs. "I don't know. He hasn't really asked me officially."

Nora looks scandalized. "What? He's such an idiot. What's he waiting for?"

Zora snorts. "Your brother's a little slow with some things."

Nora rolls her eyes dramatically. "I know."

She crawls across the mattress and takes Zora's hand with her small one. "Come on, wanna play outside?"

Zora feels something warm in her chest, like all the broken pieces are slowly gluing themselves back together under this kid's pure smile. She nods. "Let me get ready and dressed first, okay?"

Nora smiles and hops off the bed. "I'll wait downstairs!"

Zora watches her disappear through the door, her laughter echoing down the stairs. She stands, grabs her bag, and makes her way to the bathroom. She splashes her face with cold water, trying to shake the heaviness out of her shoulders. She brushes her teeth, pulls on a long white dress, and wraps a scarf around her hair. 

Outside the bathroom, she notices a door that's still shut. She wonders if it's the parents' room. Wonders if his mother's there. Wonders what she is like. Wonders is she will meet her. 

She shakes the thought away and heads downstairs.

She finds Nora standing on a chair in the kitchen, rummaging through cabinets.

"Careful! You might fall," Zora says, hurrying over. Last thing she wants is for Oliver to come home to a Nora injured. 

"I'm seven and a half! I got this," Nora replies, as if that explains everything. "Here — I got you my favorite mug. You're a grown-up, right? You drink coffee like Ollie?"

Zora takes the mug, momentarily speechless. Her gesture is so simple but so full of love she almost forgets how to speak. "Yeah... thank you."

"There's still some in the pot, I think. It smells," Nora adds, hopping down. "Hurry! I'm getting my toys. I'll be outside."

She runs off barefoot, curls bouncing with every step.

Zora stands still for a second, holding the mug to her chest. Yesterday seems so far right now. 

She feels a pure feeling of joy taking her whole and she gladly lets it. 

She was right to come here.

She's sure of it.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver grabs his bike and pedals fast. He's only left Nora alone for a few minutes, but he hates it — especially if Zora still isn't awake.

He thinks of her in his bed, sunlight catching her hair and making it look like honey, her brows still furrowed in sleep like peace doesn't even come in her dreams. He thinks of everything she said last night — her mother's betrayal, the pain buried deep in her voice, the fury in her eyes.

And he feels awful.

Because sure, his father more or less forced his hand when it came to career paths. But at least... he didn't take Quidditch away from him.

Oliver can't imagine a life without it. Waking at dawn in summer, pulling on his gloves and gear, the dew soaking into his boots, the rough wood of the broomstick beneath his hands, the rush of air and golden morning sun.

Unthinkable.

So he makes himself a silent promise — to help Zora forget, even just for a few days. To help her breathe again. If she needs someone to cry to, he'll be that. If she needs someone to laugh with, he'll be that too. Whatever she needs — he'll be it.

He stops by his aunt's house on the way. She's agreed to watch his mum for a few days to give him a break during this second half of the holidays. He picks up some groceries, kisses his sleeping mother's cheek, and gets back on his bike.

By the time he reaches the narrow wooded path that leads to their small house, he sees two silhouettes in the garden. He frowns, slows down, gets off the bike and leans it gently against a tree. Quietly, he walks toward them.

The closer he gets, the more details he can make out.

Nora is sprawled on the grass, her laughter echoing under the trees. In her hand, one of her toy dragons — the red one, her favorite. Next to her, Zora kneels in the grass, holding two other dragons and pretending to launch an attack. Nora laughs again, louder this time. 

And suddenly, yesterday feels far away.

Gone is the girl whose face was streaked with tears. Before him now is the Zora he loved to look at every summers — eyes bright, smile wide, sunlight on her skin. Dark long hair dancing with the wind, tucked under a colorful scarf. White long dress soft against her skin. 

God, he forgot how sunlight suits her.

"Can I play too ?," he says, stopping just in front of them.

At the sound of his voice, Nora stands and throws herself into his arms. He stumbles back two steps, laughing at her force, and wraps an arm around her.

"You can," she says seriously, "but Zora's better than you. You always tell the same stories."

Oliver raises an eyebrow. "Is that so, huh?"

He glances toward Zora. She's watching him with a smile. They lock eyes — a quiet, steady moment that doesn't need words.

"Hi," she says softly.

"Hi," he replies.

They don't look away, not until Nora wiggles out of his arms. "What did you bring to eat?"

Oliver clears his throat, amused. "Come see."

The three of them head inside, and Oliver unpacks the groceries. He hands Nora a popsicle and she dashes back outside with it, barefoot and happy, leaving him and Zora alone in the kitchen.

He reaches into the bag and pulls out a small cloth bundle, placing it gently on the counter in front of her.

She lifts an eyebrow. "What's this?"

"Open it," he says, still unpacking.

She unfolds it carefully — and inside, nestled in soft fabric, are fresh raspberries. Her face lights up, and he drinks it in like it's the first sunlight of the day.

She looks up at him, biting her lower lip. "Thank you," she breathes.

"How do you feel? Did you sleep alright?" he asks gently.

"I slept really well. I woke up to your sister staring at me from the edge of the bed," she says with a laugh.

Oliver stops mid-movement and turns to her, shaking his head. "I told her not to. Sorry."

"It's fine. She's amazing. A lot more talkative than you."

Oliver exhales a laugh. "Oh, yeah. She got that from my mum."

He finishes putting things away and walks over to her. Zora leans against the counter.

"I'm glad you two get along," he says, folding his arms. "She seems to like you."

Zora shrugs. "It's only been a morning... but yeah. She seems to."

"What do you want to do today?" Oliver asks.

"Anything's fine," she says quickly, eyes dropping to the floor. "I don't want to mess up your plans or take over or—"

He steps forward and gently lifts her chin with his fingers.

"Stop that," he says. "We'll do whatever you want. Anything that helps you think about something else. Anything that lets me see that smile again — the one you're wearing right now."

And just like that, her smile deepens.

She doesn't know what tomorrow is made of. She just know she feels safe here, she feels good. 

The ache inside her is still here. She still tenses when she thinks of what her mother did, of the dead end she's in. She still wants to vomit when she thinks about the contract, when she pictures the paper burning in the fire place.

But here, she can breathe again. It feels like all her problems are so far away. She tries not to think about the fact everything is over soon and she will eventually have to go back to Hogwarts, and that the end of school is near and that eventually, she will have to make a decision.

Because that's all it goes down to. A decision. A choice. 

She leans against the kitchen counter, watching Oliver going through a quidditch magazine. It slams back at her, loudly, brutally. The contract. The thing she couldn't even word last night. 

Because after the pain of yesterday comes the realisation. The worst in all this is probably not the fact her mother ruined her life. It's the fact she's trapped in a deal she didn't make, a future someone else wrote for her.

It all comes to this : marrying Alexei and get the Quidditch career she was born for and lived for her entire life. The dream that shaped her entire identity. And by doing that, she gets to protect Viktor's career as well. But if she does that, she looses herself. 

Or refuse—and lose everything. Not just Quidditch. But her name. Her family. Viktor will loose everything too. The last pieces of his father's dignity. 

And across from her, Oliver is here. Always. Steady hands, quiet presence. She wonders how he fits into all this. If he can. If she lets herself want him in the middle of this mess, if it's selfish to even imagine it. But the thought is already there—and it seems very difficult now to picture her life without him. 

Because no matter which path she chooses, someone gets hurt. And she's terrified it'll be him.