VALENTINE'S DAY SPECIAL

In honour of love, pure in its truth, sincere in its devotion, and burning in its passion.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

where'd all the time go ? - dr. dog 

Where'd all the time go?It's starting to fly

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver Wood has always been passionate about what he does.

It's not a choice, really. Never has been. It's wired into him, this need to give everything, to pour himself completely into whatever he touches until there's nothing left to give. One hundred percent has never been enough. Two hundred percent barely is. He operates at three hundred percent or not at all, burning through life with an intensity that most people find exhausting.

Quidditch consumed him for years. Every drill. Every save. Every match. He lived and breathed it until his body couldn't anymore, until his knees started screaming and his shoulder refused to cooperate and he had to face the reality that professional sports have an expiration date.

But that same passion, that relentless drive, didn't disappear when he hung up his Keeper gloves. It just found a new home, a new purpose. 

The camp. And mostly, Zora. 

The sun of his life. 

What started as a desperate attempt to save a piece of their history has become something neither he nor Zora could have predicted. They've transformed Jacques's old summer camp into one of the most renowned Quidditch training facilities in Europe in only three years. 

The summer month of training for the most promising young player of the Wizarding World is still in place, but in addition, intensive internships for professionals have been developed. 

They've built something that matters, a place where kids who can't afford the fancy academies can train alongside future World Cup champions, where passion matters more than money.

And Oliver's thrown himself into it with the same ferocity he once reserved for defending goals. Every detail. Every decision. Every goddamn crooked hoop that needs straightening. When Zora had told him about her dream, he had rushed headlong for her. But he never would have believed he would get so caught up in the game.

But what a delightful feeling it is to work, live, and share your passion with the only person who ever mattered.

With her. 

Every morning, Oliver wonders what he did to deserve this.

To wake with sunlight bleeding through linen curtains and cicadas already singing. To live off his passion. To spend his days among golden fields and weathered stone. To watch young players discover what their bodies can do when they stop being afraid. To build something that will outlast him.

But mostly he wonders what he did to deserve her.

To wake every morning and reach across the sheets, finding the warmth of her body, to press his face into the curve of her neck, to feel her shift against him, still half-asleep.

To have this. To keep this. To know that when he opens his eyes, she'll still be here.

Every morning, he wonders.

Every morning, he's grateful he never has to find out.

Which is why, on this particular July morning, the seventh of July, to be exact, he's awake at dawn despite having maybe four hours of sleep, wondering the same thing.

But it's not just another morning.  

Today Zora turns thirty-one.

Today's the day of the surprise party he's been planning for three months.

Everything has to be perfect. Has to be. Because she deserves perfect, and Oliver Wood doesn't do things halfway.

The problem is that keeping secrets from Zora Krum is the hardest thing he had to do. She notices everything. Every shifty glance. Every whispered phone call. Every moment he's been "too busy" to help with something because he's actually been coordinating with Angelina about decorations or with Samuel about the cake or with literally everyone about when they're arriving and where they're staying and how they're all going to hide..

It's been exhausting. But so worth it. 

Oliver drags his hand through his hair, staring at the list scrawled across three pages of parchment. Outside, the cicadas are slowly waking up and he can already feel the July heat—that thick, heavy French countryside heat that turns everything slow and golden.

Beside him, Zora sleeps.

She's on her stomach, face turned toward him, one arm flung above her head. Her hair spills across the pillow, messy, catching the early light in shades of amber and gold. The sheet's tangled around her waist, revealing her sun-kissed skin.

Thirty-one years old today.

Oliver's chest tightens. Something that feels too big for his ribcage. 

He can see it now ; the small differences time has inked into her. The faint lines at the corners of her eyes that deepen when she laughs. The silver thread in her hair that she pretends not to notice. 

There's a new freckle on her collarbone he doesn't remember from last summer. Her hands, resting against the pillow, show the calluses of years holding a broom, the ones he traces with his thumb when they're tangled together in the dark.

She's changing. Slowly. Beautifully. Aging the way sunlight ages stone, wearing it softer, warmer, more itself.

And he gets to watch it. That's the thing that makes his throat tight. He gets the privilege to witness this. Gets to see her collect these small marks of time like proof she's lived fully. Gets to watch her grow into herself, more confident, more settled, more devastatingly beautiful with each passing year.

He gets to be here for it. All of it.

Every morning. Every new freckle. Every laugh line earned.

What did he do to deserve such grace?

The thought of missing even one day of her aging feels like being robbed of breathing.

Carefully, after one last glance at her, he slides out of bed. The floorboards creak under his weight, and he freezes, but Zora just shifts slightly, breathing deep and even, still asleep.

Downstairs, Nikita lifts her head from her bed in the corner. Her tail thumps once against the floor.

"Morning, girl," Oliver whispers, crouching to scratch behind her ears. She's old now. Properly old. Grey around the muzzle, slower on the stairs, her joints stiff in the mornings. But her eyes are still bright. "Big day today. You ready?"

Nikita's tail wags harder.

"Right. Let's make breakfast first."

The kitchen of their private house they built last year is small but has everything they need. The kitchen smells like black coffee and toasted bread and the strawberry jam the neighboor made last week that's too sweet but nobody has the heart to tell her. The counters are akways cluterred with Zora's training notes scattered beside Oliver's half-drunk cup from earlier, a bowl full of peaches from the garden, the bread knife abandoned mid-slice.

The kitchen where the sun settles behind the lace curtains, where we share the taste of honey and sunshine, where bare feet get lost on the parquet floor and where time seems to stand still.

 Oliver starts to make breakfast, pulling out eggs and bread and the making coffee.

Then he hears footsteps on the stairs. Light. Quick. Familiar.

Nora appears in the doorway, still in her pajamas, hair a disaster, a grin so wide he can no longer see her eyes. She almost trips at the bottom of the stairs and runs to him. 

"Is she awake?" Nora asks, trying and failing to keep her voice low.

"Not yet."

"I'm so excited for tonight," she says warmly, grabbing a piece of bread and shoving it into her mouth. "She's going to love the surprise !" 

Oliver smiles and drinks from his cup of coffee. "Everyone confirmed last night." 

She nods, and Oliver can't help but look at her and feel nostalgia crashing over him.

She's fourteen now, about to start her fourth year at Hogwarts, all gangly limbs and growing confidence. But when she stands on her toes to grab the jam from the top shelf, he still sees that little girl with wild curls and a face that barely cleared the countertop, the one who used to climb onto his lap and demand he read her Quidditch statistics at breakfast.

Time's a thief, he thinks. When did she get so tall? When did her voice start losing that little-kid pitch? When did she stop needing him to reach things for her?

"Where's Andrew ?" 

"Probably sleeping," Oliver answers  with a smile. 

Andrew showed up two weeks ago with a duffel bag and his crroked grin, claiming he "needed a break from Quidditch" and "wouldn't mind helping out around the camp for a bit."

The truth, which Oliver extracted after approximately one beer, is that Andrew's in between jobs again. He quit the Arrows after a falling out with their new coach, hasn't quite figured out what's next. So he's been crashing in his former dormitories, helping run drills with the professionals, fixing broken equipment, and generally making himself useful in preparing for the august camp session.

But honestly? Oliver's just glad to have him here. Andrew's one of their best mates and working alongside him in the camp where they all grew up, where they learned to fly and fight and dream, it just feels right. 

Zora loves it too. She always loved him like a brother. She says Andrew's good with the younger players, knows how to make training feel less like torture. And he's been invaluable this week, covering for Oliver while he sneaks around coordinating the surprise.

"And you're sure about Viktor?" Nora asks carefully, and just like that the moment shifts.

Oliver's stops his movement and tightens his jaw. He can feel it happening—that automatic clench, that visceral response to Viktor Krum's name that he still can't quite control even after all this time, after all these years. 

"It's not about me," he says, forcing his voice to stay level and resuming his scrambled eggs. "It's about Zora. I thinks she would want him here."

"But do you want him here?" Nora presses. 

Does he? Does he want to see the man who let Zora drown for two years walk through those gates? The man who knew about the contract and said nothing? Who chose his own comfort, his own career, his own safety while Zora was being destroyed piece by piece?

No. Fuck no.

But a while ago, Zora wrote a letter. And Viktor responded. And they've been talking, slowly, carefully, like two people trying to rebuild something from ash. And if this is what she needs to heal completely, if having her cousin back helps close that wound, then Oliver will swallow his rage and be civil.

For her. Always for her.

"I'll manage," Oliver says finally. "Now help me with breakfast before Zora wakes up and ruins the surprise by being impossible to lie to."

They work together in  silence, Nora setting the table on the terrace, Oliver finishing the eggs. And soon enough, Zora appears in the kitchen doorway, wearing one of his old Scotland jerseys , her hair a mess, squinting against the light.

"Morning," she says, voice rough with sleep.

"Happy birthday!" Nora launches herself at Zora, nearly knocking her over.

Zora catches her, laughing, pressing a kiss to the top of Nora's head. "Thanks, sweetie. Merlin, when did you get so tall?"

"I've always been tall. You're just short."

"I'm considered tall for a woman-"

"For a garden gnome, maybe."

Zora's face turn to shock. "Oliver, tell your sister she's a brat," she says while messing with Nora's hair, laughing. 

Oliver watches them, smiling, feeling his heart melting at the sight of the two women of his life getting along so well. This is what family looks like. What it's supposed to look like.

Zora's eyes find his over Nora's shoulder, and she smiles. "Hey you."

He crosses to her, pulling her into his arms, breathing her in. "Happy birthday, mo ghràdh*."

She tilts her head back and he kisses her softly. 

"Disgusting," Nora announces. "I'm literally right here."

Zora and Oliver laugh, unable to look away from each other's eyes. 

"I made breakfast," Oliver protests. "You can't be disgusted and then eat my food."

"Watch me."

They settle on the terrace, the four of them, if you count Nikita sprawled on the ground. The table's set simply: fresh bread, eggs still steaming, fruit and coffee in zora's favorite cup.

Beyond them the Quidditch pitches stretch golden and perfect. In the distance, Oliver can see a few of the visiting professionals already up and moving around the dormitories and the main building.

The camp's changed so much. New facilities. Proper dormitories with actual beds instead of the old bunk situations. A state-of-the-art training pitch with regulation goals and perfect turf. Equipment sheds that don't double as wildlife sanctuaries.

They've poured everything into this place. Money. Time. Sweat. Dreams. 

And it's working. The summer intensive Zora designed has attracted professionals from across Europe; players who want to train with her, learn from her, push themselves under her impossibly high standards.

She's brilliant at it. Absolutely thriving in a way that makes Oliver's chest tight with pride every time he watches her work.

"The pros are already up," Zora says, reaching for her coffee. "I saw Turner running laps at dawn. That man's a machine. Kinda remind me of someone," she says,  glancing at Oliver. 

"You're a machine," Nora points out. "He's probably terrified of disappointing you."

"Good. Fear is an excellent motivator."

"That's a terrible coaching philosophy, Zora-" Oliver says. 

"It's worked so far."

Oliver watches her as she eats, as she talks with Nora about Hogwarts and Quidditch, as she gestures with her coffee cup and laughs at something Nora says. The morning sun turns her skin golden, catches in her hair, makes her eyes shine like amber.

Zora sighs and slumps in her chair, letting her head fall back dramatically. "God, I am so old."

"You're thirty-one," Nora says, spreading jam on her toast. "That's not old."

"It's ancient in Quidditch years. And I found a grey hair yesterday."

Oliver hides his smile behind his coffee cup. He knows exactly which grey hair she's talking about, he watched her find it, watched her hold it up to the light with a mix of horror and fascination before yanking it out.

"One grey hair doesn't make you old," he says.

"It's the beginning of the end, Captain. Next thing you know, I'll be telling the pros about 'back in my day' and complaining about the music being too loud."

"You already complain about the music being too loud," Nora points out.

"That's because the players from Spain plays that awful techno garbage at six in the morning-"

"See? Old."

Zora throws her napkins. Nora catches it, grinning. 

"I'm serious though," Zora continues, reaching for her coffee. "Thirty-one. When did that happen? I swear I was twenty-five last week."

"Time is a social construct," Nora says sagely, and Oliver snorts.

"Where did you learn that?" he asks, rising an eyebrow. 

"A lad at school. I swear he's so smart. And also terrifying."

"Sounds like someone else I know," Oliver says, looking pointedly at Zora.

"I'm not terrifying."

He raises an eyebrow at her. "You made Mercier cry last week."

"He wasn't crying, he was sweating profusely from his eyes-"

"Zora."

"Fine. Maybe a little crying. But he deserved it! His footwork was atrocious." She takes a bite of toast, chewing thoughtfully. "Besides, I'm allowed to be mean. I'm old now. It's expected."

She takes a break and then her face turns to horror. "God I sound like Coach Joe," she says, making Oliver laughs. 

"You're not old," Oliver says again, softer this time. His hand finds hers across the table, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "You're just... seasoned."

Zora chokes on her coffee. "Seasoned? Like a fucking chicken?"

"Like a fine wine," he corrects, fighting a smile.

"Thirty-one," she says again, quieter now. "Fuck."

"You know what I see when I look at you?" Oliver asks, and his voice has gone serious, gentle. "I see someone who's exactly where they're supposed to be. Who's built something incredible. Who's still got years of flying left in her, grey hairs and creaky knees and all."

Zora's eyes soften. "You're doing the sap thing again."

"It's your birthday. I'm allowed."

She leans across the table and kisses him, soft and quick. When she pulls back, she's smiling, with that real smile, the one that crinkles her eyes and makes his heart miss a beat or two.

"Besides," she says, standing and stretching, her shirt riding up. "I can't be that old. I can still kick your ass in a sprint."

"You absolutely cannot-"

"Race you to the pitch after I shower?"

"Zora, you have training in an hour—"

"Scared, Wood?"

And just like that, she's twenty again, all challenge and fire and that competitive gleam in her eyes that's driven him crazy since they were kids.

"You're on," he says, because he's never been able to resist her. Not once in all these years.

She drops a kiss on Nora's head, then crosses to Oliver, leaning down to kiss him properly. Her hand cups his jaw, thumb brushing his cheekbone. "Love you."

"Love you too," he manages, and she smiles against his mouth before pulling away. 

Oliver watches her go, shaking his head.

Thirty-one years old and still the most infuriatingly perfect person he's ever known.

"You're going to let her win, aren't you?" Nora asks.

"Absolutely not."

"Liar."

She's right, of course. But he'll never admit it.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

By noon the heat is oppressive. The cicadas are deafening, their song rising and falling in waves that crash over the camp.

Oliver's in the main house, checking his list for the hundredth time. His shirt's already sticking to his back. Sweat beads at his temples.

Decorations, check. Food and cake confirmed with Angelina. Guests arriving at seven.

Everything's coming together. Has to. He's spent three months planning this.

It has to be perfect. For her. 

He received three letters this afternoon. 

Angelina: On our way. George is flying like a maniac. Tell Z I love her and I'm bringing the good wine. Or don't. Because it's a surprise. 

Samuel: Asha made her special cake. It's massive. 

Thomas: I'm already drunk. Sorry in advance. Love u. 

Oliver smiles despite the nerves eating at his stomach. The party is going to take place in one of the field behind the old house. It is not in use and slightly hidden by the weeping willows, perfect so that Zora doesn't suspect anything during the preparation.

He's arranging chairs when Nora appears, Nikita trotting at her heels, panting heavily in the heat.

"The pros are breaking for lunch," she reports. "Zora's with them in the dining hall. We've got maybe an hour."

"Perfect. Can you start hanging the banners?"

"Already on it."

They work quickly. Streamers in gold and crimson—Zora's colors. Fairy lights strung across the field, between trees, even though it won't be dark for hours. A banner that says HAPPY BIRTHDAY ZORA in letters Nora spent three days painting. 

Oliver's hanging the last string of lights when he hears voices from the front gate. 

He rounds the corner to find Angelina and George unloading boxes from their flying car, bickering about directions in that fond, exasperated way they always do.

"—told you to take the left turn—"

"And I told you to follow the road-"

"Oi!" Oliver calls, and Angelina's face lights up.

She drops her box and runs to him, pulling him into a fierce hug. "We made it! How is she? Does she suspect anything?"

"Not a thing. She's been so focused on the training program she hasn't noticed me being suspicious."

"Perfect." Angelina pulls back, studying his face. "You look stressed. And sweaty. Very sweaty."

"It's thirty-five degrees-"

"I know, I'm melting. Where do you want these?"

Oliver laughs, grabbing one of the boxes with a flick of his wand, sending it floating toward the field. It clinks ominously. "Please tell me this isn't all wine."

"Only half of it," Angelina says cheerfully. "The rest is champagne. I'm not an animal."

Another sound and this time, Samuel and Asha materialize near the gate, Asha carrying an enormous cake box with both hands, looking slightly green.

"I hate Apparition," she announces. "I hate it so much."

She spots Oliver and her face softens into a smile, leaving a kiss on his cheek. "Hi. This better be worth the nausea, I've been holding this cake like it's made of glass."

"Thanks Ash," Oliver says, smiling. 

Behind them, a loud sound and Thomas appears : stumbling, catching himself, somehow already holding a bottle of rosé.

"We're here!" he announces to no one in particular. "And I brought wine!"

"Did you Apparate drunk?" Oliver asks, genuinely alarmed.

"Only slightly drunk !"

"Thomas, that's how you splinch yourself !" warns Asha.

"I'm fine! See? All my bits are attached." Thomas does a little spin to demonstrate, nearly loses his balance. "Besides, Apparating drunk is a skill. Very advanced magic."

"It's very advanced stupidity," Samuel corrects, crossing to Oliver for a brief, warm hug. "Good to see you, mate. Camp looks incredible. I can't wait to surprise Zora."

"Thanks for coming."

"Wouldn't miss it." Samuel steps back, already eyeing the property with that quiet appreciation he has. "Seriously, Oliver. You and Zora have built something special here."

Asha appears at Samuel's side, still clutching the cake box. "Where can I put this before my arms fall off?"

"Here—" Oliver takes it from her carefully, and Merlin, it weighs a ton. "What's in this thing?"

"Love," Asha says solemnly. "And approximately seven kilos of buttercream."

Thomas has somehow already found Andrew who arrived after fixing an old hoop all morning and they're engaged in what appears to be an intense debate about the optimal wine-to-water ratio for day drinking.

"None," Samuel calls over. "The optimal ratio is none wine, all water, especially when you have to Apparate home later."

"You're no fun," Thomas shouts back.

"I'm the only reason you're still alive."

George has started levitating boxes toward the field, Angelina directing him like a general commanding troops. "No, not there—your other left, George—"

"I only have one left!"

"Could've fooled me with your driving skills!"

Nora has claimed her spot, clipboard in hand, directing traffic with a natural authority that makes Oliver stupidly proud and reminds him of himself a little years before. "Decorations near the tree, food on the table, and somebody please take that wine away from Thomas before—"

"I'll take care of it," Andrew says, but he's grinning, steering Thomas toward the dormitory. "Come on, you disaster. Let's go hide these bottles before Samuel stages an intervention."

They disappear toward the building, still bickering, and Oliver shakes his head.

"Right," Angelina says, hands on her hips, surveying the growing pile of supplies. "Everyone who's coherent, grab your wands. We've got about" she checks her watch "two hours before Zora finishes with the pros. Let's make this place perfect."

And just like that, they move as one. Wands out, spells flying. Asha and Angelina arrange food platters with Levitation Charms, stealing bites when they think no one's looking. Nora orchestrates it all with clipboard efficiency that would make McGonagall proud, as well as Oliver.

In the early evening, near seven, more cars arrive. Friends from camp and Hogwarts, summers past, all grinning and excited and ready to celebrate. 

Fred materializes with Grace tucked carefully against his side. She emerges from the Apparition looking pale but composed, one hand instinctively pressed to her stomach.

"Alright?" Fred asks quietly, and she nods, though she takes a moment to steady herself.

"I'm fine. Just— that was less fun than usual."

"The baby didn't like the Apparition?" Angelina's there immediately, pulling Grace into a gentler hug. They announced the news to everyone a few weeks ago. 

"The baby doesn't like anything right now," Grace says with a slight smile. "Apparition, food, the smell of Fred's aftershave..."

"You said you liked my aftershave !" Fred says, pretending to be shocked. 

"I did. Past tense. Now it makes me want to vomit."

"Congratulations to you two," Oliver says, grinning, shaking Fred's hand and giving Grace a hud=g. "When's the due date?"

"February," Fred says, and he's practically glowing with it. "Still getting used to the idea that there's going to be a tiny person."

"A tiny Weasley," George corrects, appearing to hug his twin. "The world's not ready."

"The world's never ready for Weasleys," Fred agrees.

Grace has already been swept into conversation with Asha and Angelina, the three of them talking, and Oliver catches Fred's eye. The look there is soft, vulnerable in a way Fred rarely lets show : pure joy mixed with terror.

"You're going to be great," Oliver says quietly.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

Fred smiles and gives him a silent hug. 

Irina appears, a cigarette in her hand. She's dressed for the heat in light linen that probably cost more than Oliver's broom, sunglasses perched on her head.

"Oh good," she says, taking a long drag. "I see I've timed this perfectly. All the hard work's already done."

"You're late," Angelina calls from the field, fits on her hips.

"I'm exactly on time" Irina corrects, exhaling smoke. She turns to Oliver, cigarette dangling from her fingers. "Smarter, not harder, Wood. That's the key to life."

"Or you could help," Nora suggests pointedly.

"I could," Irina agrees, taking another drag. "But where's the fun in that?" She pulls Oliver into a brief, one-armed hug, careful not to burn him with the cigarette. "Happy almost-birthday to our fearless leader. Is she still terrorizing the professionals?"

Oliver smiles and nods. 

"Perfect. Wouldn't be Zora if she wasn't making grown men cry." She spots the wine bottles Thomas is attempting to hide and her eyes light up. "Thomas, you beautiful disaster. Tell me you brought more of this."

"Three bottles," Thomas says proudly.

"Make it four and I'll help with decorations."

"Deal."

Samuel looks pained. "You're both terrible influences."

And then, in the middle of it all, Oliver's stomach drops. 

Because in front of the gate stand Viktor Krum, looking uncertain and nervous and nothing like the confident Seeker Oliver remembers. Adeline follows, her hand finding Viktor's, squeezing once.

Every muscle in Oliver's body goes tight. Every instinct screams to turn around, to tell Viktor to fuck off, to protect Zora from any possibility of pain.

But he doesn't. Because forgiveness is her choice to make, not his.

He watches them walk to the field. Viktor meets his eyes and walks to him, extending his hand. 

"Oliver," Viktor says quietly. "Thank you. For inviting me."

Oliver nods once. Stiff. "She'll be happy you're here."

It's not forgiveness. Not even close. But it's something.

Adeline steps forward and runs to hug him. "Thanks, my Ollie."

Oliver hugs her tighter, not leaving Viktor's eyes. "Anytime, Ad."

"Right then," Oliver says, releasing her and stepping back. "Right now we need to get everyone hidden before she finishes with the training session and ruins her own surprise."

Adeline laughs wetly, nodding, wiping her face again. "Okay. Yes. Where do you want us?"

"Behind the trees. Everyone's hiding in there." 

They head toward the trees, and Oliver watches them go. His chest still tight with residual anger, with protectiveness, with the complicated mess of emotions that comes from watching someone try to repair what they broke.

But Zora chose this. Chose forgiveness, or at least the possibility of it. And Oliver will stand beside her in that choice, even if his own forgiveness comes slower. Even if it never comes at all.

"That was good of you," Angelina says quietly, putting her head on his shoulder.

"I didn't do it for them."

"I know. You did it for her." Angelina squeezes his arm once. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

"Everyone ready?" he calls down.

A chorus of affirmatives. Muffled laughter. Oliver laughs, feeling like his heart is about to explode. "Ok, I told her to meet me here after her shower. Told her I had to show her something for our future plan. She'll be here soon." 

Oliver positions himself at the entrance of the field, trying to look casual. Like his heart isn't trying to beat its way out of his chest. 

He sees her coming from behind the main house. She appears, freshly showered, hair damp and loose, wearing a simple summer dress. 

"I'm exhausted," she's already rambling about her day. "They all are trying to kill me with questions. And someone needs to talk to Stefan about his positioning because-"

She stops when she notices  Oliver's state. "Hey, you alright ?" 

Zora walks to him and takes his hand, face now worried. "What is it you want to show me ?" 

Oliver doesn't say anything, grabs her hand and stars to walk on the field,  near the party location. 

"Oliver, you worry me. What is it?" 

And as they round the trees, Oliver stops, making Zora stop too. 

"SURPRISE!"

Zora freezes. Completely stops moving. Her mouth falls open. Eyes go wide. 

For a heartbeat, nobody moves. Then she's crying, hands flying to her mouth, tears streaming down her face.

"Oh my god," she breathes. "You didn't, you fucking didn't—"

Angelina reaches her first, pulling her into a fierce hug. "Surprise, my love!"

"I can't believe—how did you—" Zora can barely get words out between sobs and laughter.

"Oliver's been planning this for months," Angelina says, pulling back to look at her properly. "And you had no idea. I'm so proud of him."

Samuel's there next, wrapping her in a warm embrace. "Happy birthday, Z."

Then Asha, pressing a kiss to her cheek. "You look shocked. It's a good look on you."

Thomas appears with his wine glass raised. "To the birthday girl! Who definitely wasn't expecting this!"

"I wasn't, I really wasn't" Zora's wiping her eyes but the tears keep coming.

Andrew slings an arm around her shoulders. "Come on, Krum. When have we ever missed a chance to celebrate you?"

Fred and Grace are there, Grace moving carefully, Fred beaming. Irina appears with a fresh cigarette and a grin. "You're crying. I've never seen you cry. This is delightful."

"Shut up," Zora says, but she's laughing, pulling Irina into a hug anyway.

Nora pushes through the crowd, throwing herself at Zora. "Did we surprise you? We surprised you, right?"

"You surprised me," Zora confirms, holding her tight. "You all surprised me. I don't—I don't know what to say."

And then everyone's moving. A wave of people and laughter and love, and Zora's still crying and laughing and trying to hug everyone at once.

Oliver hangs back, watching. His chest so full it might crack open.

Watching her face, the shock melting into joy, the tears that won't stop, the way she keeps touching people like she can't quite believe they're real. The way she's glowing, absolutely radiant with happiness and love and surprise.

This. This is what he wanted. This exact moment. Her surrounded by everyone who loves her, everyone she loves, all of them together in the home they've built.

To show her how much she is loved. 

To show how bright the sun is, how it colors others, how essential it is.

How essential she is. 

Then he sees it. The moment her eyes scan the crowd and land on someone at the back.  On Viktor.

The color drains from her face so fast Oliver thinks she might actually pass out. Her whole body goes rigid. Every muscle locked. The smile freezes on her lips.

Oliver takes an involuntary step forward, ready to catch her if she falls, ready to step between them if she needs him to, ready for whatever comes next.

But she doesn't fall. Instead, she starts walking fast, deliberately, toward him. She crashes into Viktor hard enough that he stumbles backward, has to catch himself against the wall.

And then she's holding him, arms wrapped around him so tight her knuckles are white, her whole body shaking with the force of it.

Viktor's arms come up around her just as tight, just as desperate, and his face crumples. Tears streaming down his cheeks.

"Happy birthday," Oliver hears him say, voice breaking. "Happy birthday, слънце."

"You're here," Zora chokes out. "You came. You're actually here."

"I'm here. I'm here."

It feels like they are stopping time, even if the party is still ongoing, oblivious to the reunion unfolding in front of them. Adeline's crying too, Oliver realizes. Standing a few feet away from Viktor, tears streaming down her face, one hand pressed to her mouth.

Nora's hand slips into Oliver's. She squeezes once, hard, and he squeezes back.

They stand there like that for a long moment. Brother and sister in everything but blood. Two halves of the same whole, finally piecing themselves back together.

Forgiveness doesn't erase the past. Doesn't make the pain disappear. Doesn't undo the damage or the years lost or the trust shattered. But it's a start. A statement. 

And watching Zora hold her cousin, watching the two of them cry and heal and choose each other again, Oliver thinks that's the bravest kind of love there is.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The party is everything Oliver had ever imagined. A summer celebration for his sun, a suspended moment where time seems to stretch endlessly, where the world glows gold beneath the sinking sun. The scent of warm wheat, laughter driftinglazily across the fields, happiness lingering in those final rays of light that refuse to fade.

Fred and George Weasley are talking about Fred and Grace's baby with everyone.

"She's going to be a Beater," George announces. "I just know this."

Grace shakes her head. "She's going to be a chaser, just like her mum." 

"She's going to be a nightmare," Fred corrects. "Just like her dad."

Grace catches Oliver's eye and mouths help me. Oliver laughs. "She's going to come and train here anyway.  The first little baby of the family." 

Grace smiles to him and they all resume their conversation. Then Zora's there, slipping under his arm, fitting perfectly against his side.

"This is insane," she says. "I can't believe you did all this."

"Happy birthday."

She turns in his arms, looking up at him, eyes full of love. "Thank you. For everything."

He kisses her forehead. "Anytime, my love."

The sky turns into a deep shade of orange melting with pink. The cake arrives, massive and covered in candles. Everyone sings off-key. Zora makes a wish, blows them out, refuses to tell anyone what she wished for.

 But she's looking at Oliver when she does it, and he knows.

More time. More summers. More everything.

As the sun sets, Oliver catches Zora's hand. Pulls her away from a conversation with Angelina.

"Come with me."

She raises an eyebrow but follows. He leads her near the house.

"Oliver Wood," she says, laughter in her voice. "Are you trying to seduce me at my own party?"

"Maybe. Would that work?"

"I'm afraid it would."

He opens the door and leads her in the living room, where its silent and calm and intimate.

Home.

"What are—" she starts.

Oliver turns to face her. His hand slips into his pocket, fingers closing around the small box.

"I have something for you."

"Oliver, you threw me an entire party—"

"Shh."

He pulls out the box and opens it. Inside, Zora can see a ring. A beautiful ring. 

But it's not an engagement ring. He knows what marriage means to her. What it represents.

Marriage, in her memory, is not safety. He knows that if he offered it to herd, she would not see a future. She would see walls. She would feel the weight of history pressing down on her chest. 

And he refuses to offer her something that feels like a cage.

The band is simple gold. Set into it is a small sun, delicate rays spreading outward, center stone an amber that glows like captured sunshine.

Zora's breath catches.

"It's a promise," Oliver says. "Not marriage. Not the ceremony, the contract, fuck all this. Unless you want it someday, but that's not what this is." He swallows hard. "This is me promising I'm yours. Always. That you're my home. My certainty. My everything."

She's crying again. Silent tears sliding down her cheeks.

"That you're my sun," he continues. "You've always been the sun. And I wanted you to have something to remind you. That you shine and burn bright. That you're loved. Completely. Forever."

His hands shake as he slides it onto her finger. It fits perfectly.

Zora stares at it. Then looks up at him, tears streaming down her cheeks. 

"I love you," she says. "God, Oliver, I love you so much."

His hands find her face. He kisses her soft at first, then deeper when she makes that desperate sound that undoes him.

Her back hits one of the wall. His body presses against hers. His hand find her waist, her hips, her ass, earning a moan from her. 

"We have a party," she says, pulling him closer.

"They can wait."

He kisses her again, his lips finding her neck, her collarbone, his hands under her dress. She grabs his hair and pulls at it. 

"Wait-", she says. 

"What ?" he says, stopping immediately. 

She searches his eyes, her face the pure image of love. 

"I love being thirty-one because it means I've spent more than half my life loving you. And that's the best gift life could ever give me." 

Oliver smiles and for only response, kisses her again, knowing he will love her until the sun sets for ever.