Finding (You)rself Again

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

lovesong - The Cure

Whenever I'm alone with youYou make me feel like I am home againWhenever I'm alone with youYou make me feel like I am whole again

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Night has fallen over the party Angelina and George have thrown. Everyone is still outside, drawn out by the heavy warmth of August. Zora lies on one of the deckchairs in the garden, Adeline at her side.

She stares up at the stars. Its helps her and reassures her with the thought that life hasn't stopped with her.

That beauty is still here—in the happiness of her best friend moving forward with the man she loves, in the laughter that ripples through a summer evening, in the tenderness of a glance, in the scent of grass and the first drops of night dew.

Zora closes her eyes. She concentrates on her feet, her legs, her stomach, her arms, her hands, her heart. Everything is there.

Whole.

She tries to steady her breathing to the rhythm of the breeze stroking her skin. Tries to hold on to what is real, to the fact that she has survived. Tries to imagine how she will climb back out of her descent into hell. Tries to convince herself she will do it.

But for now, she has Oliver back. She has her friends. And that is already a beginning.

"I'm so happy for Ange," Zora says, eyes closed, a small smile playing on her lips.

Adeline turns her head towards her, smiling. "Me too. But if I'm honest, I'd never thought she would be the first one to like, settle down, you know?"

Zora chuckles, nodding.

"I thought it would be me," Adeline adds, her voice now more fragile. She exhales shakily and stays silent for a while. Zora frowns, confused.

"Do you think about him sometimes?"

Zora flinches.

Him.

She pushes herself up on the deckchair and shakes her head. "I try not to," she answers coldly.

The truth is she thinks about him all the time.

Viktor.

Thoughts of him torture her; questions collide in her head, fogging her mind, tightening her chest, making her angry.

Why?

He knew.

Why didn't he say anything? Why did he pretend ignorance? Why did he push her away instead of helping her? Why did he turn out to be such a coward?

How?

He knew.

How do you forgive someone who held the knife and, instead of making it disappear, pushed it into your heart?

How do you forget your other half—the person you thought you would never have to doubt, the one who should never have betrayed you?

How do you live without the comforting arms of the one you thought was your ally?

She hears Adeline sigh. "I—I think about him all the time."

Adeline turns her head toward Zora. "Listen, Zo, I—there's something I need to tell you," she adds, her voice trembling, unsure.

Zora frowns.

"I've been writing to Viktor. We've been exchanging letters since March. He's so sorry. He hates himself for what happened. I—"

Her words fall and shatter the noise of the party. The music, the laughter, the conversations—all go dull for Zora.

She hears only the sound of betrayal and disappointment ringing in her ears. Again.

Since these last two years that have broken her, Zora never really knows how to react.

She has grown used to feeling her body dead inside, unable to scream, to cry, to speak. Unable to decide what she feels, unable to put words to her wounds.

How are you supposed to react when your best friend tells you she's been speaking to the one who broke you?

She feels the tips of her fingers itch and her fists clench. Adeline, faced with her silence and her reaction, steps closer. "I'm sorry. I should have told you before. But when he sent me the first letter and I—God, I'd been waiting for news from him and I answered, then—"

"He knew, Adeline," Zora says at last. "For five years. He knew I was going to be sold. And he did nothing. He chose to protect his little Quidditch career."

Adeline looks at her, lips parted. She exhales. "I know, Z. I kn—"

"He did nothing. He didn't tell me, he didn't try to stop it. He didn't say a word during the wedding. Nothing. He stayed fucking silent."

Silence is a far more cruel weapon than words. It protects, it lets you stay in the shadows, it lets you hide. It allows you to save your own skin.

The traitor's mask.

She knows it all too well.

Adeline falls silent too. Then, when she sees Zora say nothing more, she speaks again.

"But he hates himself for it. He's sorry for making you go through all that. I know he hurt you, I know, but I think he deservers a second chance."

Zora rises and finally meets her friend's eyes. "Well, I'm sorry you're still clinging to a coward. You know, you've never been good with choosing the right man."

With that, she walks toward the house, her heart heavy, her steps even heavier, leaving a silent Adeline behind.

Everything inside her blurs together—anger, confusion, betrayal. All at once she regrets coming. Every corner of this place reminds her of what she has lost; every sound recalls the horror of the last months.

She thought her friends would do her good. Make her forget. Maker her move on.

But it clings to her skin, to her heart, to her mind.

The loneliness, the weight of her own body and mind, the fatal impression that she can do nothing, only watch herself fall from the best seat in the balcony—helpless.

Every glance on her reminds her of what she missed, of her pain they try to understand, to name, to make her confess. Their eyes settle on her body, still marked by months when her bed became a prison, on her sadness that leaks through every smile, every word, betraying her.

She hates it. She hates all of it.

Suddenly she bumps into someone who catches her by the shoulders, stopping her mid-stride. "Hey, Z, you okay? Where are you going like that?"

Angelina's voice, slightly tipsy, pulls her out of her head. She's beaming, eyeliner smudged, searching for Zora's darting eyes. Her round black eyes search hers, now worried. Behind her, the light from the house makes her piercings shine. She looks heavenly, like this.

Zora exhales softly. "I— I think I'm just going to—"

"Impossible," Angelina cuts in, firm as ever. "I haven't even introduced you to my Harpies girls yet. Come on."

Before Zora can protest, Angelina hooks her arm and steers her toward a group of women gathered near the terrace and the makeshift bar.

"Girls!" Angelina calls once they reach them. "Finally, I get to introduce you to the best Chaser in the universe—after me, of course—and the most wonderful person alive: Zora!"

The group greets her, and she tries a tired smile.

A brunette steps forward, green eyes bright, a shy smile tugging at her lips. "You were incredible in the semi-final against Scotland! Your throws were perfect, I've never seen anything like it! You gave Wood a run for his galleons on this one."

Zora gives a small, polite smile. "Thank you, that's kind."

Angelina drapes an arm around the brunette. "This is Grace, our new recruit. She was at Hogwarts too—you might remember her? Fast as lightning on a broom."

Grace smiles. "Learning from the best."

"Also, she's Fred's girlfriend," Angelina adds, winking.

Zora arches an eyebrow and leans in a little. "Oh. You have all my sympathy."

Grace blushes and laughs. "Don't worry, I learned how to wrap him around my fingers. He doesn't give me too much trouble."

"Lovely to meet you, Grace," Zora says before watching her step away, then turns back to Angelina. "Look, Ange, I think I'm going to head out. I'm not feeling great."

"But the boys aren't even here yet! They should be along any minute."

Zora shakes her head. "I'll see them at the final, it's fine," she says, inhaling deeply, the air already thinning in her chest. "I'm really sorry."

Angelina's shoulders drop, disappointment flickering across her face. Instantly, guilt sears Zora's chest.

Selfish. Selfish. Selfish. Again.

"I understand. Thanks for coming at all," Angelina says, pulling her into a hug, but her tone gives her away.

Zora squeezes her tighter. "I left a gift in the living room—tell me if you like it. I'm so happy for you, my Angel. Seeing you happy and thriving, making plans with George. I'm proud of you. You deserve it."

Angelina's expression softens. She strokes Zora's hair and kisses her cheek. "I love you, Z."

Zora smiles, letting her heart fill with this fragile moment, with love—the kind of sisterhood-love that steadies the body and soul, strong and unshakeable.

She waves to Angelina and heads toward the house. She wants to find Oliver before she leaves.

She doesn't have to. As always, he finds her first.

He catches her hand as she walks, stopping her. "You want to go?"

She frowns and looks at him. "How—, How did you know ?"

He shrugs. "I just know you, Zora."

Zora tries to ignore the warmth spreading in her chest and heart. She nods, eyes down. "Yeah. I'm just tired."

"I know. I saw," he says softly. "Do you— I mean, do you want me—"

Zora shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her mouth. "Yes. Come with me, please."

He squeezes her hand a little tighter and smiles before heading back inside to grab his jacket and say goodbye. Zora crosses paths with George to thank him, then she and Oliver step out together, heading back toward the Manor.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora pushes open the Manor door and is greeted immediately by Nikita waiting behind it. "Hello, darling," she says just as the dog launches past her toward Oliver outside. Nikita, who had already noticed him behind Zora, practically barrels into his legs.

Zora kicks off her shoes into a corner and turns. Oliver, grinning, is crouched down, stroking and playing with her dog. Her heart squeezes suddenly—but not the way it used to. It isn't a sharp breaking anymore.

It's squeezing because it's coming back to life. Every step she takes toward the life she had before swells her heart with something that feels like happiness again.

And she wants to fill it until it bursts.

She leans against the stair rail, arms crossed. Nothing seems to disturb the two of them. "All right, all right," she calls. "Are you planning on spending the night with my dog?"

Oliver finally glances up at her, smiling, and steps inside, closing the door only after letting Nikita bound past him. His eyes never leave hers. "Jealous, Krum?"

She rolls her eyes and starts up the stairs, Oliver following. There's something steadying—almost reverent—about the sound of his steps behind her, about the way her skin burns knowing full well his eyes are on her.

Moving back into the Manor alone hasn't been easy. Living with Adeline had been simpler. The first thing she did after returning was burn all of her mother's belongings. Then she shipped off the things belonging to her uncle and aunt—they'd joined Viktor at their house in Spain.

She wanted nothing left of that old life. The life she'd been trapped in. The life where she'd been a pawn.

A life of lies, of violence, of betrayals.

She changed everything. The color of the living room. The furnitures in the winter garden. Took away all the portrait and pictures.

And on the small piece of furniture by the fireplace, she threw out all the pictureframes. She placed the one that had always been missing—a photo of her and her father, a quaffle in her hand.

Sometimes the silence of the house still presses down on her. The floors creak, the walls seem to close in.

And yet how satisfying it is to chase away the ghosts and shadows until only the light remains.

She's even changed bedrooms. She can't go back to the room where she lost everything, where tears bled into the ink of nightmares, where a hand struck her face, violent and unrelenting, where she signed away her end.

Now she sleeps in one of the guest rooms farther down the hall. There's still the same view over the grounds and the forest beyond, but the space feels larger, freer.

Her footsteps carry her there, muffled by the carpet in the corridor, until she reaches the door. Without a word, Oliver's calm, grounding presence follows her; his scent fills the air as she enters the new room and heads straight into the adjoining bathroom.

Hands braced on the sink, she exhales deeply. She can feel Oliver leaning against the doorframe behind her.

"You didn't have to come, you know," he says softly, as though afraid to startle her. "If it was too hard for you."

Zora straightens a little. "I wanted to. For Angie."

"What happened ?"

Zora closes her eyes for a brief moment. "Nothing. I'm just tired."

Oliver shakes his head slightly. "No. What happened ?"

Zora sighs. Her hands grabs the sink harder as she searches for her words. "It's Adeline. She—, ugh, maybe I'm overreacting but—, she told me she still speaks to him. And it was like I've been betrayed all over again."

"You're not overreacting," he answers after a beat. "You are trying to heal. I don't think it was wise from Adeline to tell you this. You have all the right to feel like this."

Zora doesn't answer, face still falling.

He exhales and walks toward her slowly. He stops just behind her, her chest glued to her back; his warmth spreads through the small space, warming her own. She feels his arm reach over her and tug at the cloth draped over half the mirror.

The cloth she still puts on the mirror when she doesn't have the strength to look at herself.

Zora lifts her head, almost ashamed that he's seeing this part of her—the part that still can't bear to look at herself. The sheet falls to the floor with a dull thud.

Oliver slides his fingers under her chin and tilts her head up. In the reflection, she meets his gaze. Without looking away, he sweeps her hair aside in one tender motion and presses a light kiss to her shoulder. Then another, in the hollow of her neck. Another just under her ear.

His arms come around her, firm but not crushing. Just enough to make her feel safe. Finally.

"Look at yourself," he whispers against her ear.

Her skin prickles; goosebumps rise. She's dreamed of this so many times—his arms around her, his mouth on her skin, his voice, losing herself in his presence.

Her eyes drop, embarrassed, but Oliver tightens his hold. "Zora. Look at yourself."

She swallows and finally does as he says. Her eyes land on her own face—tired, less sickly maybe, but marked forever.

And yet her reflection doesn't make her ill anymore. Doesn't make her shudder.

Because he's right there behind her.

Because he holds her as if two years haven't passed, looks at her as if nothing has changed. As if nothing within her had ever dimmed over these two years.

"I spent seven hundred and thirty days dreaming of this face, hoping to see your eyes, your mouth, your nose again. Hoping to hear your voice again. Hoping to see the tiny mole on your right cheek. Seven hundred and thirty days these features haunted my thoughts," he says, his voice low and trembling slightly.

"Seven hundred and thirty days tracing every detail in my head so I wouldn't forget," he adds.

With his fingertips he begins to outline her features—her eyes, the curve of her nose, the shape of her lips.

"You deserve to be looked at," he says softly. "I want to spend the rest of my days looking at you. But most of all, I want you to look at yourself. That's what matters."

Tears spring to Zora's eyes. Seven hundred and thirty days she's refused to look in a mirror, unable to bear what she'd done, what she'd become. Unable to bear seeing the changes in her body, the pain etched into her skin. Her hollowed cheeks, her dark circles. Watching herself disappear.

Seven hundred and thirty days refusing to look—until now. And the only reason is him.

Because he has always known how to see her—truly see her—in a way no one else can. His gaze reaches into the hollow corners of a life spent in shadows, filling them with warmth and quiet understanding. When he looks at her, it is as if the world pauses, and she is revealed, not as anyone expects her to be, but exactly as she is.

Even in the mirror, his presence lingers like a gentle light. He makes her feel beautiful, fragile yet fierce. Alive in every pulse, every breath, every heartbeat she thought had long been muted.

Oliver takes her by the shoulders and turns her gently to face him. He brushes his lips against the tear that's slid down her cheek.

"You need time to find yourself again," he says. "And I'm here if you need me. Always."

She nods, eyes closing, absorbing the warmth of his words, the way his gestures and touches pull her back to life, away from the abyss.

"C'mon," he whispers at last, pressing a kiss into her hair before stepping quietly from the room. "I'll let you get ready for bed."

Zora exhales shakily and slowly starts to get ready for bed. She steps in the shower, brushes her teeth. When she steps out, puts on her pyjamas and brushes her hair. And before going back to her room, she takes a last glance of her reflection in the mirror.

She walks back to her room, her bare feet silent on the thick carpet. The door to the room stands ajar; and she pushes it open softly.

Oliver is already in her bed, propped against the headboard, the covers pulled up to his waist, . Nikita sleeps curled at the foot of the mattress, one paw twitching in some dream. In Oliver's hands a Quidditch Weekly lies open, the glossy pages catching the light from the bedside lamp. His hair is a little ruffled. He looks focused, eyebrows frowned as he reads.

When he notices her, a slow grin spreads across his face. "You know," he says, tapping the page with one finger, "every column in here is still talking about you. Your last match. Your so-called 'legendary' win over me."

Zora arches a brow, closing the door with a soft click. "'So-called,' huh?" she answers, walking toward the bed. "Don't tell me you're jealous of my press."

He flips the magazine shut and tosses it onto the nightstand. "Jealous? No. Mortally wounded? Yes. My pride and my ego may never recover."

She laughs as she slides under the sheets beside him. "You'll live. I've heard you're resilient."

Oliver shifts onto his side, head propped in his palm, watching her as she settles. "So," he says, voice softer now, "how are you feeling about the final next week?"

Zora lies back and exhales. The question hovers between them like a fragile thing. "Tired," she admits. "Excited. Scared. All of it at once."

"You'll destroy them," he says simply. "Left-hand throws aside."

She nudges him with her elbow. "You're never letting that go, are you?"

"Never. Not when it's the only thing I have to tease you."

She shakes her head while smiling and turns around. Her fingers find the lamp switch. With a click, the room falls into quiet darkness, the only light the soft blue wash of the moon spilling through the tall windows. It lays silver across Oliver's cheekbones, glints off his eyes, makes the whole room feel suspended outside of time.

Their breathing becomes the loudest thing. Her long fingers absentmindedly find his, playing with them, hair spilling across the pillow like ink.

Minutes stretch and hang in the air. Oliver's eyes trace her profile—the delicate curve of her jaw, the soft slope of her nose, the way her eyelashes brush her cheeks. He notices the slow, steady rise and fall of her ribs.

The weight of years sits in his throat until he can't swallow it anymore.

"You have no idea how much it hurt, these past two years, Zora." The words fall from his mouth like stones, like something he's been holding until his throat burned. "Knowing you were in that man's hands. Sold. Married. Then hearing about this—, this traitor. Knowing you were suffering and that, no matter what I did, I couldn't find a way to stop it..." His voice breaks.

"It tore me apart. Not just up here—" he catches her hand and presses it to his heart, hard "—here. It was physical. It still is."

His thumb trembles against her skin as he goes on, quieter. "The worst was imagining you breaking. Watching you disappear under all that pain. Watching you choose your family over yourself because you thought you had to. I can't tell you how sorry I am. Some nights I thought: I should go there. I should drag you out, take you away, far from danger." He swallows, eyes shining. "But I didn't. I couldn't. And that helplessness—" he shakes his head. "It's eaten at me every day."

Zora stares up at the ceiling. She doesn't interrupt. She owes him that, at least.

"Being away from you was the worst thing," he says after a long silence. "I always thought Quidditch and my family were enough. But without you I don't know how to function." He lifts her hand and kisses each knuckle slowly, a kiss for every phalanx. "The day I heard you were free, I could breathe again. Even not knowing if you'd want to see me again, even knowing you'd need time—I could finally breathe again."

Silence invades the room. The air is thick with their breathing, with the ache of absence, with the charge of two bodies trying to come back to each other. The moon cuts silver across their hands.

Finally, her voice.

"I tried to push you out of my head," she whispers. "I tried, I swear. Tried to let you go, to forget your face, your smell, that bloody accent." A brittle laugh. "I thought it would be easier—for you, for me. But nothing worked. You stayed in me the whole time. Every second. I thought about what you'd do, what you'd say, the brown in your eyes, your arms when I was afraid. And—" her voice splinters; she smiles through it "—I think that's what kept me alive."

She shifts against the wall, pulling the sheet higher. "Some mornings after whole nights staring at the ceiling, I didn't even feel human anymore. My mind crowded, my body heavy, like it didn't belong to me. And even in the worst moments, it was like you were there. Even the day of the—" she chokes, breath hitching "—the day of the wedding, after the ceremony, in the garden, there was a daisy. A single one, in a perfectly clipped lawn. It was just there."

Oliver's fingers tighten around hers. Silence again.

"I just want to forget," she says at last. "Start over. This time make it to my dream, and have it actually be mine."

Oliver brushes a strand of hair from her forehead, eyes dark, unreadable. "The final's already yours," he whispers. "And you deserve every bit of it."

She gives a small, tired smile and slides down until her head rests on his chest. His arm folds around her waist. Her fingers draw small shapes on his skin and he shivers under her touch.

"I'm sorry, Oliver."

He starts to sit up, to tell her she has nothing to be sorry for, but she keeps speaking. "For putting you in this situation. For not being there. For missing your first national match. For not backing you with your family. For not answering Nora."

He doesn't answer right away. He presses his face into her hair, breathes her in—amber and almond. Nothing's changed.

"Never apologise, Zora," he says finally. "You're here. That's all that matters."

"How is she?" she asks.

He sighs. "Bad. She had a serious episode in front of Nora and she's been in hospital ever since. They're dosing her with the strongest treatments, magical and otherwise, but she isn't improving much."

A pause. "And... and Nora?"

He's silent.

"She hates me, doesn't she?" Zora whispers.

"She's nine, Zora. She doesn't understand. I've tried to explain that you couldn't answer, but for her it just feels like you stopped talking to her."

Zora's stomach twists.

Look at all the collateral damage. Selfish, selfish, selfish...

As if he can feel the guilt rolling off her, Oliver pushes himself up, drawing her with him. He takes her face in his hands. "Hey. It's not lost. When she sees you again she'll know it wasn't your fault, okay?"

She nods, though she isn't sure.

He rests his forehead against her. "We're going to get through this, ok ?" she nods. "I'm with you. I'm not going anywhere."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora remembers everything like it was yesterday.

It was a summer afternoon, the air heavy with the scent of sun-warmed grass, roses. Seven-year-old Zora hugged the quaffle to her chest, feeling the worn leather press into her palms, the familiar rough seams imprinting tiny lines on her skin. Every sound felt magnified, as if the world itself were leaning in to watch.

Her father stood a few paces away tracking her every movement. "Remember слънце," he said, voice calm but firm, "it's not just the strength in your arms. The quaffle listens to your hands. Spin it, guide it, make it dance."

Zora swallowed, nodded, and swung the ball carefully. The quaffle sailed, wobbling slightly, and thudded softly through the hoop they had improvised between the apple tree and the stone bench. Her chest lifted in a little triumphant puff of breath.

"Better," he said, his lips twitching into a smile. "But don't just throw it—feel it. Think about where you want it to go before it even leaves your hands."

She adjusted and threw again. This time the quaffle arced perfectly, cutting through the air like a comet and landing gently beyond the hoop. Her heart soared with it, and she felt, impossibly, that the world had shrunk to just this garden, this ball, and the man who had always believed in her.

Breathing hard, cheeks warm from sun and exertion, she ran to him. He took her in his arms and spun her in the air. When he put her down, she met his gaze. "I'll win the World Cup one day," she said. "You'll see."

He knelt, brushing a stray lock of hair from her face, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder. "I don't doubt it for a second, слънце," he whispers. "Not one second."

Even years later, she still remembers this exact sun, this exact breeze, the way her father's eyes seemed to see straight into her, filling her with a quiet certainty that she could become unstoppable.

And now, in the locker room of the stadium, she feels it again. That exhilarating feeling of being unstoppable, of knowing your body and mind could carry you anywhere you choose.

But is she capable ?

At seven, believing in yourself comes naturally, like breathing. At twenty-one, the weight of doubt has a way of settling in and believing becomes a little harder.

Her palms rest on her knees, head bowed, eyes shut. She finishes polishing her broom, mind and heart racing.

I am hours away of my dream.

How did I get here ?

Everything comes rushing back. The echo of his laugh. The scratch of Quidditch posters on her bedroom wall. Long, breathless mornings at camp, mud on her boots, Viktor teasing her about her grip. Exhaustion and body pain from hours spent on practising the same drill to make it perfect.

And now this.

Her heart is hammering against her ribs. It feels terrifying. It feels electric. She has dreamed this moment for so long she thought it would feel smaller when it arrived — but it's huge, like standing on the edge of a cliff and seeing the whole world open below.

A tap on her shoulder pulls her back. Irina, hair tied high, eyes shining, leans down with a grin. "You're shaking, Krum?" she says in Bulgarian. "Or am I just dreaming ?"

Zora lets out a laugh that sounds more like a breath. "C'mon, don't pretend you're not stressed about this."

She shakes her head. "Bulgarian women don't stress, Zora. We fight, that's all."

Zora rolls her eyes but smiles, standing up and gathering the rest of her gear.

"You've got this." Irina's gaze softens. "It's Romania. We know their game. They don't know yours. Nobody knows yours, actually", she adds, laughing shortly. "Even your own bloody team."

Zora smiles and squeezes her teammate's hand. "Let's make it impossible for them to forget."

They walk to other room and join their coach and the rest of the team. Across the room the coach clears his throat. The team falls quiet.

He looks at every members of his team in silence. And slowly, a smile appears on his face. He shakes his head proudly. "What can I say ?" he starts. "Finale of the World Cup. Last one, we lost. But believe me children, this time, the word "loose" doesn't exist for you, am I clear ?"

They all nod. "Yes, coach."

"I don't usually do long speeches, you know me," he adds, eyes sweeping the room. "But today... today's different." His gaze catches on Zora and stays there for a beat. "I'm proud of you. Of your work this year. Since Krum joined this team, we've been sharper. Faster. Hungrier. I've watched you follow her lead without question. She's changed the way you think, the way you fight as a team. Even our captain says so." He glances at the captain, Stanchev, the keeper, who nods solemnly and smiles at her.

Heat blooms on Zora's cheeks. She straightens, chin high, but her throat is tight.

"This is the World Cup Final," the coach says. "You've earned every breath of this. Play like you did to get here. Play for yourselves. Play for each other. And remember — play as a team."

Everyone cheers, claps, fists bumping, brooms shifting. Zora looks around at her teammates: Irina grinning like a wolf, the other beater rolling his shoulders, the keeper tapping his gloves. For the first time she feels it fully, not as a role but as a pulse: she belongs here.

And she is ready.

The door swings open. A blast of sound pours in — the roar of tens of thousands, banners whipping in the wind, flashes of scarlet, black and gold and green and blue. The stadium is a living thing.

Zora grips her broom. Her boots crunch on the tunnel's gravel. Her pulse syncs to the crowd's rhythm.

This is it. Without Viktor's shadow. Without her. Just me. Quidditch.

The sunlight at the tunnel's mouth is blinding. Names rise from the stands, a chant she recognises but can't fully hear. She breathes it in, closes her eyes, lets it fill her chest until it's almost painful.

The pitch stretches wide and green, hoops glittering at either end. Opposite, the Romanian team lines up.

Zora swings a leg over her broom. Every nerve feels awake. This moment is infinite and tiny at once, a point of light she's been flying toward her whole life.

Knees tight around her broom, gloves sticky with sweat, heart hammering. Above the din she can just hear her own breath — fast, shallow — and feel the hard edge of the little sun pendant against her sternum.

Around her the Bulgarian team assembles. Irina and Markov, the second beater take their place. Stanchev, the Captain and Keeper, nods to her before taking his place in front of the hoops. Stoyanov and Petrov, the two other chasers, take their places at her sides. Phillips, the Seeker joins and they are all in formation.

The whistle blows. Balls burst in the sky. Zora kicks off so hard her thighs burn. Wind claws at her braids, tears sting her eyes. She doesn't care. All she feels is forward, faster, higher.

"THE FINAL IS UNDERWAY!" booms the commentator, his voice shaking the stands. "Bulgaria versus Romania for the World Cup! This is about to be one hell of a match guys ! Oh, look at this, Number 12, Krum, already for the Quaffle!"

Zora dives. A Romanian Chaser stretches for the red ball; she cuts across his path, snatching it with a one-handed spin so tight her ribs ache. The crowd erupts.

Irina's shout knifes through the air. "Clear lane! Go, Zora!"

She banks hard. Adrenaline spikes, leaving her trembling.

"KRUM IN POSSESSION OF THE QUAFFLE — weaving through the Romanians like A PRO!" the commentator cries. "Look at that broom control!"

Goal hoops ahead. The Romanian Keeper shifts left. Zora feints, twists her torso so violently her back muscles scream, and releases. The Quaffle arcs clean through the right hoop.

"Ten-zero Bulgaria! Opening goal from Krum!"

The stadium cheers. On the giant screen her own face flashes. She claps her Captain's hand and flies back to position.

"The Bulgarian team showed us what they were capable during the Semi against Scotland, and Krum, Number 12, is ready to eat them alive," the commentator adds.

Romania strikes back. Their Chasers drive a savage offense. Petrov intercepts one pass, flipping it behind his back to Stoyanov, who rockets past a Bludger. Irina angles in low, bat already raised, deflecting the Bludger before it can smash her ankle. Their movements are clockwork; everyone knows their teammates every breath.

Zora cuts downward, intercepts a pass inches above the turf, knuckles grazing grass. Her thighs are trembling, calves burning, lungs raw, but she doesn't slow. She hears the crowd as a single low drumbeat. She feels every fibre of her body straining, alive. She passes to Petrov but he misses his throw and Romania takes the Quaffle back and scores.

"Equalizer from Romania — but Bulgaria isn't slowing!" the commentator roars. "Watch Krum and Petrov build this attack!"

She and Petrov dart through the defense like twin knives. Bludger — duck. Pass — backhand. Her shoulder twinges from the last throw but she keeps going. She fakes a pass to Stoyanov, draws the Keeper off-balance, then whips the Quaffle through the left hoop.

"Twenty-ten Bulgaria!"

Play becomes feral. Irina takes a glancing blow to the shoulder, curses, smashes the next Bludger back with a roar. Stanchev blocks a vicious Romanian shot with a full-body lunge. Markov and Irina work in tandem.

Zora's whole body is a field of sensation now: the sting of sweat in her eyes, the numb burn in her fingers from gripping the broom, the tremor of her thighs with each banking turn. Her heart feels too big for her chest.

"Krum again, diving! She's instopable tonight — oh, what a feint! Another pass to Petrov — back to Krum — she shoots—GOAL! Forty-ten for Bulgaria! Zora Krum, everyone ! She's rewriting the playbook!"

The final minutes are a blur. Bulgaria leads by sixty. The snitch is here. Phillips dives after a golden glint near the far hoop.

"The final period of the game, everyone ! The snitch is here," the commentator says. "Romania has good defense, good teamwork. But Bulgaria is something else tonight. New recrue Irina Kolarova—powerful swings, relentless defense, keeping the opposing Chasers on their toes. You can always count on her to protect her team and disrupt the attack... she's a master at it!"

He pauses, following the game closely. Then talks again. "But then—look at Krum! The papers have been writing her name all season, and it's easy to see why. She is utterly impossible to predict. One moment she's charging straight at the goalposts, the next she's weaving through defenders with a move no one could have anticipated. Every pass, every dodge, every feint shatters what coaches and commentators thought they knew about Quidditch strategy. Ladies and gentleman, Zora is rewriting the game right before our eyes. A legend in the making, I'm telling you."

Zora doesn't stop. "Petrov, there !" she shouts nodding towards a Romanian flying with the Quaffle in his hand.

Seeing he is going to be too slow, she flies and cuts him off, wrests the Quaffle free with a twisting lunge, and for a moment she feels suspended— the whole stadium tilting around her, her muscles singing with exhaustion and triumph. She hurls the ball one last time; it spears through the hoop cleanly just as Phillips closes her fingers around the Snitch.

Whistle. Explosion of sound.

"BULGARIA WINS THE WORLD CUP!" the commentator bellows. "And what a match from Zora Krum — goals, control, heart! Remember the name!"

Zora slows, breathless, circling down. Her teammates runs in the center, Irina screaming with laughter despite the bruise darkening her shoulder, Petrov hugging Phillips mid-air, Stanchev thumping Stoyanov's back. The crowd's roar is oceanic, wrapping around her.

For the first time in years she feels whole — not a promise, not a shadow, not another name — just Zora, Chaser, champion, and the joy that surges through her is so bright it feels like she's flying straight into the sun.

In her head, only this : I did it Dad. Look, I did it.

Zora runs to her team is instantly swallowed by red and black. Irina's arms are around her, Petrov slaps her back hard enough to sting, Phillips is laughing so hard she's crying. The team crushes together, a tangle of jerseys, gloves, and sweat, and for a moment all Zora can do is cling and laugh and try to breathe.

She pulls free, still buzzing, laughing, crying, trying to figure out what's happening. And then she sees him.

Oliver.

He's jogging straight across the grass, eyes locked on her. She blinks, heartbeat stuttering. By the time she realises he's already there.

He reaches her in three long strides, sweeps her clean off the ground and kisses her — no hesitation, no hiding. His fingers slide into her hair, the other hand steady around her waist. The world tilts.

Behind them the stadium erupts. The cheer rises like a wave breaking, people stomping, clapping, whistling. The press run to the pitch.

Up in the booth the commentator stumbles, then his voice comes through, pitched high with adrenaline but still trying to sound like a broadcast:

"Oh my God ! Look at that ! Turned ouf Keeper Oliver Wood of Scotland is actually much more than an opponent, ladies and gents ! Merlin's beard, the crowd are absolutely roaring at this scene!"

Zora can feel Oliver's heartbeat under her palms, her own thundering back. She pulls away just enough to breathe, still in his arms. "You're insane," she says, breathless, laughing.

"You were insane," he cries, taking her face in his hands. "That dive at the 25' ? And that throw to Petrov, that was impossible, how did you do that ?"

He rumbles on and she laughs, feeling like she is about to explode seing him this happy. Once he finishes his monologue, he looks at her, eyes full of pride, a small smile on his face. "You were amazing. You showed everyone who Zora is."

She smiles. She can't even speak, afraid no words will be enough to express how lucky she feels to have him by her side. Then she realises one of the camera are on them and that everyone is actually watching them.

She mock-glares him. "Oliver Wood, you've just hijacked my victory lap."

"You scored more than half the goals. Consider this my assist."

She laughs, the sound clear and bright. God, how he missed it. How he missed this sound. How he missed her.

The cheering rolls on. Confetti drifts down in red and black. She turns to her team, to her coach, Oliver's hand still around her waist.

And even if she didn't think it was possible, she knows it. She feels good — exactly where she's meant to be.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The next night the world feels very different. Every Quidditch Team of the World Cup has been invited to a formal celebration of the tournament in the fancy building of the International Confederation of Wizards Quidditch Committee in Ireland.

No more jersey, grass, sweat. The players were met with a giant ballroom hung with floating lanterns and banners from every nation suspended. Crystal tables, golden cutlery, orchestral charms playing softly.

In the bathroom, Irina and Zora are finishing getting ready. Irina sits on the sink, adjusting her silver jewelry, her long black hair falling on her shoulders. Zora stands at the mirror, putting on mascara.

Irina watches her in the mirror, a grin spreading. "I'm so happy," she says.

Zora smiles back automatically. "You can be. You were amazing out there."

Irina shakes her head. "No. I'm happy because you're back. You're—, you're you again. Do you even realise how long it's been since you smiled like that ? Well, I think I never saw you smile like that, actually."

Zora stops, fingers stilled. For a moment she can't answer. Then she turns and hugs Irina, burying her face in her friend's shoulder.

"No, don't cry!" Irina shouts, laughing. "You just put on mascara. God, you're so emotional," she says, pushing away Zora.

Zora laughs, wiping her eyes. "You're impossible."

Irina steps down and puts a kiss on Zora's cheek. "We better go down before the press eats you alive."

The reception hall is full of players. Teams are all gathered, glasses of champagne floating past on silver trays. Adeline and Thomas from the French team are deep in conversation near the trophies; photographers call names, flashbulbs flare.

The girls join their team and Coach Rankov. The Bulgarian squad is sent to the front for official pictures, then interviews. Zora smiles on cue, nods through questions, but her eyes keep flicking over the crowd. She's looking for him.

When all the press duty is over, the Team step on the side. Zora takes a glass of champagne and takes a sip. Stanchev walks to her, a small smile on his lips, a hand behind his neck.

"You were extraordinary, Zora," he says. "Really. We owe the victory to you. You did my job better than me this year."

Zora shakes her head. "Thanks Stanchev, but we all did our part, really. You blocked a lot of Quaffle !"

He schoffs. "I didn't have too because you kept taking it from the Romanian before they even reach our hoops !"

She rolls her eyes and smiles. He clears his throat.

"Listen, I—"

She doesn't hear the rest of his sentence. Because across the hall, she spots the Scottish team. And Oliver.

All the players are wearing traditional kilt. Her eyes stop on Oliver. He's wearing a dark green plaided kilt with a silver pin at the hip, high boots and socks, a white shirt and a black jacket cut close to his shoulders.

The noise of the reception blurs. He's taller than most of the men around him and seems to fill the space without trying. He has his arms crossed, listening to one of his teammate. Hair slightly tousled, cheeks a bit pink.

Zora can't help letting her eyes linger on his broad shoulders, his muscular arms, the muscles of his thighs beneath the kilt. Her stomach twists, and she feels utterly at a loss for words.

She cuts her Captain off mid-sentence with a polite smile and starts walking toward him. Midway he spots her and excuses himself from his teammates before walking slowly toward her.

When she reaches her he stops, very close to her, towering. Seeing she doesn't say anything at first he arches a brow and crosses his arms. "Yes ?"

"I told you I'd see you in a kilt one day," she finally says, regaining her confidence.

He chuckles, slow, and does a lazy turn so she can take it in. "Well, here you are. What do we think?"

She steps closer until she can smell the faint clean scent of his aftershave. Her hands slide up his forearms, feeling the firm muscle under the fabric. On tiptoe, she leans to his ear, the warmth of her breath making him still. "Didn't know a kilt could be so... hot."

He smiles slowly, running his tongue on his lips. She leans away but he catches her wrist and leans toward her ear. "Careful," he whispers back, voice just for her. "Words have consequences."

She pulls back, trying to forget about her legs threatening to give in and the goosebumps on her body. "I know," she answers, tilting her head, never leaving his eyes.

They keep looking at each other until a photographer speaks and breaks their little bubble. "Hi, sorry. Can we get a picture of you two together?" he asks, his voice almost lost under the hum of conversation.

Zora hesitates but before she can says anything, Oliver steps in.

"Of course," Oliver says, his tone casual but confident. He steps closer, his large hand sliding possessively to rest at her waist. Zora feels it instantly — firm, grounding, claiming — and her stomach flips.

They angle together. Click. Flash. Another. Other journalists join and soon enough crowd of photographers whispers and shuffles around them. Zora glances at him, arching an eyebrow. "For the most socially awkward person I know," she teases, "you're awfully at ease tonight. In front of the press and everything," she whispers.

Oliver chuckles and steps in front of the photographers. "Thank you," he says and they all leave.

He turns to her and leans so she can feel the heat radiating off him. One of his hands brushes hers aside and he takes her champagne glass from her fingers, taking a slow sip, never leaving her eyes.

He leans down just slightly. "When it comes to showing you off," he whispers, "and making sure everyone knows that being here with you is making me a pretty damn lucky man, let's just say I manage."

Zora swallows, breath catching. Her pulse quickens, her stomach twists. He steps back, straightens, and walks toward his teammates, dark green kilt swaying, tall and imposing in every way.

She's left smiling, biting her lower lip, heart still pounding, part of her frustrated she can't follow him, part of her thrilled by the claim, the confidence, the way he just owned the moment.

She sips her own champagne, cheeks warming, eyes sliding after him — trying not to let anyone see just how undone he's left her.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The night blurs into a dizzying parade of flashes and voices. From the moment they arrived at the reception, there hasn't been a second that's truly hers. Interviews, press shots, handshakes, congratulations — a constant whirl. She barely catches her breath, moving from one obligation to the next, laughing politely when required, sipping champagne when she can.

She finds Irina once or twice to take a shot together at the bar, arms around each other, laughing like girls who had just won the world. Because it feels like it.

But even then, Zora's eyes drift across the room. Oliver. Always Oliver. Across the hall, at the bar, chatting with teammates; at the photographers' line.

The heat of him is palpable, even at a distance. She notices the way his eyes follow her, slow, measuring, just daring her to meet the look, and when they do, the brush of his gaze is enough to make her stomach hollow and her pulse quicken. She can feel her own body remembering the heat of his touch, the closeness of his body, the intensity of his mouth.

Finally, the formalities for the prizes begin. Teams are called, one by one. Scotland is called on the stage. She can't help but look at him, striding with his team, tall and proud. His smile, his little dimple, his puppy look. She feels her chest tightening with everything she has for him : love, need, craving. With everything she feels for him. With everything she has to give him.

Then it's their turn. Bulgaria, the champions. The orchestra swells. Everyone claps and cheers. Stanchev lifts the Cup with the team around him — but at the last second, he tilts it toward her. Zora's heart nearly jumps out of her chest. She steps forward, grasping the weight of the trophy with both hands, feeling its metallic cool against her skin, its significance pressing deep into her chest. The room erupts, a standing ovation rolling over them.

She meets Oliver's eyes. He's leaning slightly, clapping, his grin wide. Their eyes meet, and in that glance she feels all of it: the victory, the adrenaline, the months of struggle, the joy, the love, the desire.

She wants to cross the stage and vanish into him, to feel him close, to let the world fall away. Instead, she allows herself a slow, triumphant inhale, the sound of the applause wrapping around her.

Victory tastes different when it's yours alone — unshared, uncompromised, earned with sweat, fire, and every ounce of your own strength. Zora feels it thrumming through her veins, a steady, electric pulse that belongs only to her.

This is the culmination of her choices, her drive, the hours she spent pushing herself beyond fear and doubt. The Cup in her hands is heavy with meaning, weight she carries proudly, a proof that yes, she is capable.

And all that matters is the fierce, unshakable knowledge that she did this, that her victory is hers and hers only. For the first time, she tastes the sweetness of being recognized, not for what she could have been, not for what someone else wanted her to be, but for exactly who she is.

-----

Hi my loves.

New chapter ! I hope you liked it.

Sorry for the delay, I struggle to find time and motivation to write these last few days and I'm exhausted ahah.

What do you think about Adeline ?

About Zora and Ollie my babies ?

About Zora my baby ?

About the little Grace mentions even if the worlds don't fit I wanted to mention her hihi

Can't wait to write the next chapters, I still have so much ideas ahah <3

Love u all dearly and thanks for sticking to the story <333