Epilogue

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genesis - grimes

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T H R E E  Y E A R S  L A T E R 

Zora wakes up to the sound of birds singing and soft morning light caressing her face. The knot of stress that has been gnawing at her stomach for the past few weeks is still very much present. She sighs and turns over. Oliver is still asleep, his face tilted towards her, his arm above his head, looking serene.

The last three years have been so intense. 

Their lives are hectic. Between Oliver and Zora becoming captains of their respective teams, they barely steal a moment for themselves. Practices, matches, and responsibilities blur together, yet somehow they always find each other in the midst of it.

Zora finally moved in with Oliver after Irina announced she'd found the "man of her dreams". Now, their mornings are slower, their evenings warmer. They can share a quiet cup of coffee, linger over a conversation, or simply curl up together on the new sofa they picked out and watch Quidditch games. 

His father hardly comes by anymore. They repaint the walls, rearrange furniture, and redecorate Nora's room with care—and a little bit of laughter at their own disagreements over colors and placement.

Nora is thriving at Hogwarts. She made the Slytherin Quidditch team, fact that Oliver still grumbles about. It's hard to accept that she ended up in the "enemy" house.

Their friends' lives move forward too. Samuel and Asha are married, Thomas has found someone, and the group meets often. 

Everything feels perfect.

But lately, there's been this restlessness. This ache that has nothing to do with her shoulder that clicks when she raises her arm too fast, or her knees that hurt on cold mornings, or the way her body is staging small rebellions after years of professional Quidditch, years of pushing and pushing and pushing and pushing. 

She's tired. Twenty-eight and feeling thirty-five, and she knows Oliver feels it too— his reflexes are just a fraction slower, his body taking longer to heal from the inevitable injuries.

They're running out of time. The question is what comes after.

And Zora knows what she wants to come after.

She's known for years, the dream taking root in her mind, growing quietly in the dark until it felt strong enough to name. Strong enough to pursue.

She's ready. To move on. To pursue another dream. 

She just needs to gather the courage to talk to Oliver about it. 

And today, she decides, watching dawn creep through the curtains, painting Oliver's sleeping face in shades of amber and gold, is the day. Today she'll finally tell him.

She slips out of bed carefully, leaving Oliver sprawled across three-quarters of the mattress the way he always does. 

She walks downstair and in the living room, Nikita lifts her head from her bed in the corner, tail wagging hopefully.

"Come on, girl," Zora says. "Let's make breakfast."

Zora stands in the kitchen trying to remember how cooking works.

She can do this. She's taken down professional Quidditch players. She can make breakfast.

Except, she can't, actually. Cooking has never been her strength. But Oliver always makes it look so easy, so she pulls out eggs and bread and the pan he uses for—for something. Everything?

The first egg cracks wrong, shell everywhere. The second one she drops entirely, watching it splatter across the floor. 

"Shit," Zora mutters, trying again.

The third egg makes it into the pan but immediately sticks, burning at the edges while staying raw in the middle. How does Oliver make this look effortless?

The toast is burning. She can smell it. She lunges for the toaster but it's too late—two pieces of charcoal pop up, smoking.

"Fuck."

She's scraping the burnt toast over the bin when she hears footsteps on the stairs.

Oliver appears in the doorway, hair sticking up in every direction, wearing only his sweatpant and looking adorably still asleep. "What's burning?"

"Nothing. Everything. I don't know." Zora gestures helplessly at the disaster zone that is the kitchen. "I was trying to make breakfast."

Oliver takes in the scene : burnt toast, eggs that look like a crime scene and his mouth twitches.

"Don't," Zora warns.

"I'm not saying anything," he says, raising his hands while he puts on a t-shirt. 

"You're thinking it very loudly."

"I'm just—" He's fighting a smile. "You know you could have woken me up, right?"

He moves closer, bare feet padding across the kitchen floor and gently takes her hands. His fingers are warm where they touch hers, and Zora realizes her hands are ice cold, shaking slightly.

"I wanted to do something nice," she says, and her voice comes out smaller than intended. "I wanted to—" She stops, frustrated, gesturing at the disaster around them. "I wanted everything to be perfect."

"Perfect for what?" Oliver's voice has changed now, softer, more alert. He's really looking at her, seeing the tension in her shoulders, the way she can't quite meet his eyes.

His hands find her waist. He pulls her closer, and she can smell him : sleep and the scent of his skin, the one that means safety and home.

"I need to—" She swallows hard. "I need to tell you something."

Oliver's expression shifts immediately, going from amused to concerned. "Okay. Should I be worried?"

"No. Maybe. I don't know." Zora runs her hands through her hair, realising they're shaking. "Can we sit down?"

"Zora, you're scaring me."

"I'm not—it's not bad. It's good. I think it's good. I hope you think it's good." She's rambling now, words tumbling over each other. "Just— sit. Please."

They sit at the kitchen table, the burnt breakfast forgotten. Oliver reaches for her hands and Zora lets him take them.

"Whatever it is," Oliver says quietly, "just tell me. We'll figure it out."

Zora takes a breath. Then another. Opens her mouth and—

Nothing comes out.

"Zora?"

"I—" She tries again. "I want—there's this—fuck." She drops her head to the table. "Why is this so hard?"

"Take your time."

But she's been taking her time. Three months since she accepted. Years since the dream started taking shape. 

Zora stands abruptly, goes to the drawer where she keeps important things, pulls out the small key she's been carrying. 

She comes back to the table, sits down, places the key between them.

Oliver looks at it. Looks at her. "What's that?"

"It's a key," Zora says stupidly.

"I can see that. A key to what?"

"To—" Deep breath. "To summer camp. Coach Joe is retiring. And Jacques—" Her voice is shaking now. "He offered it to me. All of it. The land. The facilities. Everything."

Oliver's eyes widen. "Zora—"

"I want to take it," she continues in a rush, words finally breaking free. "I just—, I realised how much camp means to me. When Jacques retired, I told me that if one day he would sell it, that he comes to me first. I want to turn it into something permanent. Year-round training. Programs for kids who can't afford the fancy academies. Advanced courses for professionals who want to improve specific skills. A real facility. But with the same family vibe Jacques managed to give camp."

Oliver's staring at her, and Zora can't read his expression, can't tell if this is good surprise or bad surprise, and the uncertainty makes her keep talking.

"I know it's a lot. I know it means moving to France and leaving everything here and starting over completely. I know you have your career and you just made captain and I'm not asking you to give that up, I would never ask you to give that up—"

"Zora—"

"—but I wanted to tell you because this is what I want, this is what I've wanted since a long time now and realizing that's where I felt most myself, and I need you to know that I'm doing this, I'm taking this, and I—" She stops, forces herself to slow down. "And I wanted to ask you if you wanted to do it with me. As my partner. My soulmate."

Silence.

Oliver's still staring at her, the key sitting between them like a promise or a question or maybe both.

"You want me to—" he starts.

"Run it with me," Zora says. "Build something together. Something that lasts after we're too old and broken to play anymore."

She's holding her breath now, waiting, and Oliver's not saying anything, just looking at her with those grey eyes that see everything.

"But if you don't want to," Zora adds quickly, "if you want to stay here and keep playing I would understand, I would never ask you to give up your career for this, for me—"

"Zora," Oliver interrupts, and his voice is rough. "Stop talking for a second."

She stops and swallows hard.

Oliver picks up the key, turns it over in his palm, and Zora watches his face, trying to read the emotions flickering across it.

"You've been planning this," he says finally. "For how long?"

"I accepted Jacques' offer three months ago. But I've been thinking about this for years."

"And you're only telling me now?"

"I was scared," Zora admits. "Scared you'd think it was stupid. Scared you'd say no. Scared of—" She stops. "Of wanting something this much and having it not work out."

Oliver sets the key down carefully, and Zora's heart is in her throat, waiting for him to say something, anything.

"All this time," he says again, and then he's laughing, actually laughing. "Just because you thought I'd say no?"

"I didn't know—"

"Zora." He reaches across the table, takes both her hands in his. "Do you remember what I said? That night in November when we talked about the future?"

"You said—" Zora's throat tightens. 

"I said as long as I was with you, my future could be anything," Oliver's smiling now, that real smile that lights up his whole face. "So yes. Obviously yes. Are you kidding? This is perfect."

Zora's brain stops. "What?"

"I'm in. One hundred percent in." He stands up, pulling her with him, and suddenly she's in his arms and he's holding her tight. "We're doing this. Together."

"You're serious?"

"Completely serious." He pulls back just enough to look at her face. "I've been thinking about what comes after too. About what I want when I'm done playing." He touches her face gently. "I've always wanted to work with kids, you know? And this camp, it's such a great idea. I used to look after younger kids all the time, and I loved it. Honestly, I'd be happy doing this forever. Especially if it's with you."

"But you just made captain—"

"And I'll finish out my contract. And then" He grins, kissing her. "And then we'll build something incredible."

Zora can't speak. Can only stare at him, at this man who keeps proving that he's better than she ever dared to hope for.

"You're sure?" she manages finally.

"I've never been more sure of anything." He kisses her, soft and sure. "Except maybe that I love you. I'm pretty sure about that too."

"I love you," Zora says, and her voice breaks on it. "God, I love you so much."

"I know. So. When do we leave?"

"What?"

"For France. To start planning." He picks up the key again, presses it into her palm. "When do we go?"

"I—" Zora laughs. "I haven't even signed the paper yet. I was waiting to tell you first."

"So tell him yes. Tell him we're taking it. Both of us."

"Oliver—"

"What? You're the one who's been planning this for three years. I'm just catching up." He pulls her close again. "We're really doing this."

"We're really doing this," Zora echoes, and it feels real now, saying it out loud with Oliver's arms around her and his heart beating steady against her chest.

"So," Oliver says after a while. "Want to go back to bed and celebrate properly?"

"It's ten in the morning."

"So?"

"So I just told you I want to uproot our entire lives and move to France."

"Exactly. Major life decision. Definitely calls for celebration." He's already backing toward the stairs, pulling her with him. "We can call Jacques later. After."

"After what?"

"After I show you exactly how I feel about this brilliant, terrifying, perfect plan of yours."

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Viktor,

I don't know how many times I've started this letter. Ten? Twenty? I've lost count. Each time, I crumple it up and start over because the words don't come out the way I want them to. Or maybe they come too easily, too honestly, and that scares me.

But I think it's time. Time I wrote to you. Time I told you something. Anything. Because the silence between us has become so heavy that sometimes I struggle to breathe under its weight.

It's been four years. Four years since everything collapsed. Four years since I found out you betrayed me. 

I should probably start by telling you I forgive you. That time has healed the wounds. That I understand why you did what you did, or rather, what you didn't do.

But that would be a lie. And I think we've lied to each other enough, you and I.

The truth is I don't know if I'll ever forgive you. 

You were my cousin. My ally. The only person in that family who understood me, or at least that's what I thought. And when I needed you, when I needed someone to stand up and say "no, this is wrong," you chose silence. You chose the easy way. You chose yourself.

And I can't forgive that. Not yet. Maybe never.

But. There's always a "but," isn't there?

The truth is I miss you.

I miss you in that stupid, complicated way that hurts. I miss you when I win an important match and I want to share it with someone who understands what it really means. I miss you when I remember us as kids, flying in the manor gardens before everything got so complicated. I miss you when I think about family, not the one we had, but the one we could have been.

I'm happy now. I want you to know that. I'm still with Oliver. It's everything I didn't dare hope I could have.

We have a life. A real life. With the crew from camp. With Nikita. With lazy Sunday mornings and stupid arguments about Quidditch rules and moments when everything is so perfect I'm afraid it'll disappear. Because that's what you did to me, Viktor. 

I spent so much time wondering what I'd done to deserve this that the simple idea of happiness terrifies me, I don't dare touch it for fear someone will take it away the way you took two years of my life from me.

And soon we're going to do something even crazier.

We're taking over camp. Oliver and I. Jacques is selling it and we made an offer. Everything. The entire camp.

We're going to renovate everything. Turn it into a permanent training center. Not just for summer but year-round. Programs for kids who can't afford the expensive academies. For professionals who want to improve. For everyone who loves Quidditch and needs a place to belong.

We're going to tell our friends soon. Show them the camp. Explain what we want to do with it. I'm terrified and excited at the same time. I've never wanted something this badly.

That place—it saved me, Viktor. Every summer, when everything at home became unbearable, I'd come there and I could breathe. I could just be me. Just Zora.

And now I'm going to be able to do that for other kids. I'm going to give them what that camp gave me. A safe place. A place to grow. A place to become who they're meant to be.

I wanted you to know. I don't know why exactly. Maybe because part of me still wants you to be proud of me, even though I hate admitting that. Maybe because you were part of those summers at camp too, before everything.

Or maybe just because you're family, despite everything. Despite the betrayal and the pain and the four years of silence.

You're family. And I can't erase that, even though I've tried.

So there it is. This is my life now. 

And if one day you want to visit. The camp. See what we've made of it. Maybe even, I don't know. Talk. 

I think I'd be ready for that now. 

I'm not saying it would be easy. I'm not saying I'd forgive you. I don't even know if we could get back what we had before.

I don't know how to end this letter. "Affectionately" seems false. "Cordially" too formal. "I love you" too complicated.

So I'll just say this: I miss you. The version of you that existed before. The version of us that existed when we were little.

I miss that version.

Take care of yourself, Viktor.

—Zora

P.S.: If you decide to come to the camp one day, bring work gloves. We'll need all the help we can get with renovations. And you owe me that much, after all.

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The roof needs replacing.

That's the first thing Zora notices as she and Oliver stand in front of the main house, taking stock. The stone building is beautiful—old French countryside architecture, weathered and solid—but the roof is sagging on the left side, tiles missing in several places, and there's definitely water damage along the eastern wall.

"Add it to the list," Oliver says, making a note on the clipboard he's been carrying around all morning.

"What number are we at now?"

"Forty-seven."

"Forty-seven things that need fixing."

"Forty-seven things we've noticed so far," Oliver corrects. "I'm sure there are more."

Zora looks around at the property, their property now. 

They signed the paper. They paid Jacques. They are the owners of this place. They can shape it into whatever they want. 

The camp sprawls across the French countryside in various states of disrepair. The main stone house where they're standing, the training pitch with its faded lines and rusted goals, the obstacle course that's more overgrown than functional, the equipment shed that's probably beyond saving.

It's a disaster. It's perfect.

"The pitch needs resurfacing," Oliver says, squinting at it. "New goals. The hoops are literally held together with duct tape and hope."

"The equipment shed is—" Zora walks over, pulls open the door, immediately regrets it as something scurries away. "Condemned. We're condemning the equipment shed."

"Add it to the list."

"I think we need a new list. This one's getting depressing."

Oliver grins, sliding an arm around her waist. "Second thoughts?"

"About a hundred of them." Zora leans into him. "But we're doing this anyway."

"Absolutely we are."

They stand there for a moment, looking at the work ahead of them. It's overwhelming. Terrifying. Completely insane.

Zora can't wait to start.

"What time did you tell them?" Oliver asks.

"Three o'clock." Zora checks her watch. "Which means they'll start arriving in about ten minutes because Angelina's always early."

"And they all think they're coming to Coach Joe's birthday party?"

"Angelina bought her a present. Really expensive whiskey."

"Oh god." Oliver laughs. "She's going to kill us when she realises."

"Worth it."

They head back inside the stone house to wait. How Zora missed the main room, the large windows that let the afternoon light in, the old sofas, the smell of honey. They've spent the last two days cleaning it, stocking the kitchen area with drinks and food. 

Zora sighs and smiles to herself. "Remember, you were always here in the afternoon, polishing your broom ?"

Oliver nods. 

"Freak," Zora says teasingly. 

The main gate is visible from the windows. Zora keeps glancing at it. 

"Nervous?" Oliver asks.

"Terrified."

"They're going to love it."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true." He kisses her temple. 

Five minutes later, Angelina appears at the gate, Samuel right behind her, and she's carrying a wrapped bottle that's definitely expensive whiskey.

"Oh good, we're not the first!" Angelina's voice carries as they approach the house. "I hate being first."

"You're literally always first," Samuel says. "It's pathological at this point."

Thomas and Andrew walks behind them.

Adeline's the last to arrive, appearing with a small gift bag. She stops, takes a long look at the house, the pitch, everything, and smiles.

They're all walking toward the house now, talking over each other.

"Is Coach Joe already inside?" Angelina calls.

"Please tell me there's alcohol," Thomas adds. "If I have to make small talk with Coach Joe sober, I'm leaving."

"There's definitely alcohol," Andrew says. "It's a birthday party. There has to be alcohol."

"How old is she turning anyway?" asks Thomas. 

"Like ninety," Andrew says. 

"Fifty-five is not ninety" Adeline interrupts. 

"Close enough."

They reach the door, and Zora opens it, letting them all file inside. They all hug each other, happy to be back here all together. 

"This place," Angelina breathes, looking around the main room. "It looks exactly the same. The beams, the windows, everything."

"Bit cleaner than I remember," Samuel says. "We were animals here."

"Speak for yourself," Adeline says, but she's smiling.

"So where is everyone?" Thomas asks, looking around. "Where's Coach Joe? Where are the other guests?"

"Yeah," Angelina adds, setting her expensive whiskey on the table. "The invitation said three o'clock. We're not that early."

"Why is it just us?" Andrew's looking suspicious now.

"And why—" Adeline's studying Oliver and Zora with narrowed eyes. "Why do you two look nervous?"

"We're not nervous—" Oliver starts.

"You're absolutely nervous," Angelina interrupts. "What's going on? Where's Coach Joe?"

Zora takes a breath. This is it.

"There's no birthday party," she says.

Silence.

"What?" Angelina blinks.

"Coach Joe's birthday isn't until September," Oliver adds. "We lied."

"You lied?" Thomas looks betrayed. "I bought a fucking card!"

"I bought expensive whiskey!" Angelina points at the bottle. "Do you know how much that cost?"

"We'll drink it," Zora says quickly. "We'll definitely drink it. But first—we need to tell you something."

"This better be good," Andrew mutters, crossing his arms. 

"Now that I think about it, it's kind of weird that Coach Joe would have invited us to her birthday. I'm not even sure she's ever celebrated it," Samuel adds, finding the situation funny. 

"It is," Oliver says. "At least, we think it is."

They're all watching now, waiting, expressions ranging from confused to suspicious to intrigued to pissed off. 

"The camp is closing," Zora says, and she watches their faces change immediately. "Coach Joe is retiring Jacques is selling it."

"No," Angelina breathes. "They can't close it."

"That's what we thought too," Oliver says. "So we made them an offer."

"An offer?" Samuel asks slowly.

"We're buying it," Zora says. The words tumble out now. "The camp. All of it. The house, the pitch, the land, everything. We're buying it and renovating it and turning it into a year-round training facility."

Complete silence.

"Wait," Angelina says carefully. "You're buying camp?"

"Yes."

"You and Oliver?"

"Yes."

"You're buying this place," Thomas repeats, like he needs to hear it again to believe it.

"Which means—" Andrew's eyes go wide. "You're retiring? From professional Quidditch?"

"Eventually," Oliver confirms. "We'll finish our contracts. Another year, maybe. But yes. This is what comes next."

More silence, longer this time.

Then : "WHAT?!" Multiple voices at once.

Oliver and Zora smiles, looking at each other. 

"Holy shit," Samuel breathes.

"This is, " Adeline stops, shakes her head. "This is insane."

"Good insane or bad insane?" Oliver asks. 

"I don't know yet," Adeline admits. Then she smiles. "Probably good insane."

"You're really doing this?" Angelina asks, and her voice has gone soft now. "You're really saving this place?"

"We're really doing it," Zora confirms.

Angelina's eyes are bright. Too bright. "This place," She looks around the room, at the walls that have held so many memories. "God, this place is so important to us. I'm so happy for you."

Oliver smiles and grabs Zora by the waist. "It's all Zora's idea, if I'm honest. I'm just taking half the credits." 

Everyone laughs and runs to them to celebrate. It's a mess of hugs, shaking hands and kisses on cheeks. 

Then Samuel grins and heads for the expensive whiskey. "Well. If we're celebrating this very brave decision, we better open this."

"Finally!," Thomas says. "I thought we'd never get to the drinking part."

They settle into the sofas, drinks poured, the expensive whiskey making its rounds.

"God, I can't believe this," Angelina says, raising her glass. "To Zora and Oliver. And to the completely insane, absolutely brilliant decision to take over this place."

"To camp," Samuel adds.

"To family," Adeline says softly.

They all drink, and then everyone's talking at once.

"I want to help," Angelina says immediately. "Whatever you need. Fundraising, contacts, manual labor, anything."

"I can help with curriculum development," Adeline adds. "Training programs, coaching certifications, all that administrative stuff."

"I'm terrible at manual labor," Thomas admits. "But I'll show up anyway and be enthusiastically useless."

"Same," Andrew agrees. "We'll be your incompetent but well-meaning renovation crew."

"You guys don't have to—" Zora starts.

"Yes we do," Angelina interrupts firmly. "This place," Her voice catches. "Remember that summer I couldn't do spiral passes? When I cried because I thought I'd never get it right?"

"I remember," Zora says.

"You stayed late every night for a week. Practicing with me until I got it." Angelina wipes her eyes quickly. "This place taught me I could be good at something. That I was worth the effort. So yes. I have to help. And it told me friendship," she says, looking at everyone. 

"I broke my collarbone on that pitch," Andrew says, pointing out the window. "Tried to show off. Failed spectacularly. And you all," He gestures around. "You stayed with me the entire time it healed. Made me feel like I wasn't just the idiot who fell off his broom."

"You were definitely the idiot who fell off his broom," Thomas says.

"I think we all broke something on the pitch," Samuel adds and everything laughs. 

They're all quiet for a moment, letting that sit, feeling the weight of what this place has meant for everyone. 

"This place will be lucky to have you two," Samuel says. 

Zora smiles and looks at Oliver, feeling whole. 

By the time the sun starts to set, they've gone through most of the whiskey and moved on to wine, and someone suggests they should go look at the pitch properly.

"We should fly," Thomas says. "Right now, like old times. A little match to show you how it's done."

"We don't have brooms—" Oliver starts.

"I think the old brooms of Jacques are still upstairs," Zora says, cutting him off.

"Do you want us to die, Zora Krum?" Angelina asks, but she's already standing, eyes bright with the challenge.

Everyone looks at everyone. For a moment, no one moves.

Then they all rush for the stairs at once.

It's chaos in the stairs, elbows in the ribs, laughter and Thomas tripping over Andrew who swears loudly. They thunder up the old wooden staircase, the sound echoing through the stone house, and burst into the storage room on the second floor.

The brooms are there, leaning against the far wall in various states of disrepair. Old school brooms, the kind they used to learn on before anyone had money for the fancy models. Bristles worn, handles scratched.

"Mine," Angelina calls, grabbing one.

"That one's mine!" Samuel protests, reaching for the same one.

"First come, first served!"

"That's literally not how this works—"

Zora takes one that she remembers, the handle is familiar in her grip, lighter than her professional broom but sturdy enough. Oliver's testing the balance on another, spinning it experimentally.

"These are death traps," Adeline says, but she's grinning as she claims one.

"Jacques would be offended," Zora says.

"Jacques would agree with me."

They rush back downstairs, brooms in hand, and run onto the grounds. The evening light is golden, warm and perfect. The pitch stretches before them.

"Right," Thomas says, mounting his broom. "Teams. Me, Andrew, and Adeline versus—"

"Versus all of us?" Samuel interrupts. "That's not fair."

"You're right. You need the handicap."

"Rude."

They argue about teams for thirty seconds before giving up and just flying, no real rules, no real structure. Just passing the Quaffle someone found in the shed, laughing, shouting and playing like they're fifteen again.

Angelina gets the Quaffle first, streaks across the pitch with it tucked under her arm. "Come on, Wood! Let's see if you've still got it!"

Oliver's at the goals, settling into position with the ease of someone who's done this ten thousand times. "Bring it, Johnson!"

She shoots. He saves. 

"Ha!" Oliver shouts.

"That was a warm-up shot!" Angelina protests.

"Sure it was!"

Thomas has the Quaffle now, weaving between invisible defenders, showboating the way he always does. Samuel's chasing him, trying to steal it, both of them laughing so hard they can barely fly straight.

"Pass it!" Andrew yells.

Thomas throws it. Andrew catches it. Shoots immediately.

Oliver doesn't even try to save it, too busy laughing. The Quaffle flies through the center hoop.

"Goal!" Andrew pumps his fist. "Still got it!"

"You scored on a keeper who wasn't paying attention," Zora calls. "That doesn't count!"

"It absolutely counts!"

Adeline steals the Quaffle from the goal, takes off across the pitch. She's always been fast, but these old brooms slow everyone down, make it more about skill than speed.

She passes to Angelina. Angelina to Samuel. Samuel back to Adeline.

They're not playing properly. No real positions. No actual rules. Just flying, laughing and remembering what it felt like to do this for fun instead of championships.

Zora takes the Quaffle. God, she's missed this. Not the professional version with its pressure and expectations. This. The pure joy of it. The wind in her face and her friends' laughter and the sun setting over the French countryside.

She shoots. Oliver saves it. 

They play until the sun fully sets. They play until someone—Thomas—finally crashes into the ground because he tried to do a move that was way too advanced for his broom.

"I'm fine!" he calls from the ground.

"You're an idiot," Andrew says, landing beside him.

They all end up on the ground eventually, sprawled on the grass, looking up at the stars starting to appear overhead.

"God I forgot," Angelina says quietly. "How much fun this could be. Without the pressure."

They're all quiet for a moment, breathing hard.

Eventually, people start heading back inside. Thomas complaining about his back. Andrew muttering about getting too old for this. Angelina and Samuel arguing about who won. 

But Oliver and Zora stay.

They lie in the grass, side by side, fingers still intertwined, looking up at the sky.

"Remember the first time we flew together here?" Oliver asks quietly. "We were eleven. You tried to do that advanced turn and—"

"And crashed directly into you," Zora finishes. "You were so angry."

"You knocked me off my broom."

"You were in my way."

"I was minding my own business!"

"Exactly. In my way."

Oliver laughs, the sound soft in the darkness. "I thought you were the most annoying person I'd ever met."

"I thought you were uptight and boring."

He turns on his side to look at her properly. "And now?"

"Now?" Zora turns too, facing him, smiling teasingly. "Now I think you're the best person I've ever known."

His expression does something complicated. Soft, warm and so full of love it makes her chest ache.

"How did we get here?" he asks, chuckling slightly. "From ten-year-olds who hated each other to—this?"

"I don't know." Zora reaches out, traces the line of his jaw with her finger. "But I'm glad we did."

"Me too," he says, kissing her gently. 

They kiss again, deeper this time, and Zora thinks about everything that brought them here. 

Ten years old and hating each other. Seventeen and fighting their feelings. Twenty-eight and finally, finally building the future together.

But together, always.