Flying too high, going too far

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

what went down - foals

Break up the chain, I'll break up the chain, I'll break itGive it away, I'll give it away, I'll give it

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

When Zora Krum wakes up the next morning, her mind is a mess. Her heart, too. It's not just a fog—it's a storm, violent and spinning and impossible to quiet.

The scent of Oliver's cologne still clings to her skin, like he's still there. Like her cheek is still resting against his chest, like the ghost of his touch is still burning gently on the small of her back and the curve of her waist.

And the worst part? She has absolutely no idea what to do now. What it meant. If it meant anything at all.

It was nothing, wasn't it? Nothing much. Just a few shared minutes. A smile. The sound of his heart beating steadily beneath her ear. The gentle way his fingers brushed her back. The way his eyes lingered, like they were memorizing her. Nothing.

And yet—it was everything. So much more than she's ever allowed herself to imagine with him.

She's always been the one who gets under his skin. The one who teases him, makes him stutter, who knows just how to push. That's how it's always been between them. Until last night.

Last night, the tables turned.

It was Oliver who threw her off balance. His laughter—low and comforting—wrapped around her like velvet. His movements were careful, deliberate, almost reverent. His eyes on her like he wanted to know everything. Or like he already knew everything about her.Or like he was waiting—for her to say something, do something. Anything.

And then he tried to make her laugh. Tried to distract her. As if he knew she needed it.

Zora sighs into the silence of her dorm room. Her sheets are twisted, her hair tangled, her thoughts messier still. She had been so unsteady, so shaken by it all, that her only response had been to run away.

And now, one thought is obsessing her.

What would've happened if the music hadn't stopped so suddenly?

The taste of what could have been lingers on her lips, elusive, intoxicating.

Eventually, she pulls herself out of bed and starts to get ready. She's supposed to meet Angelina and Adeline to spend Christmas Day together, but before that, she decides to stop by the owlery.

The air bites at her face the moment she steps outside. The frost stings her cheeks and turns her breath into white clouds. At the owlery, she finds three letters waiting.

One from her mother, with a small package. One from her aunt. And one from Samuel.

The last one pulls a genuine, wide smile from her.

She heads outside again to read them on the staits, braving the cold, too eager to wait until she's inside again. She doesn't even feel the freezing wind anymore—she's too busy tearing open Samuel's letter.

Dear Zora,

This letter to wish you a very merry Christmas. I hope it finds you in time.

Things are going well here. Just the usual. Final year's moving along. It's hot. The sun's out every single day, and I keep thinking of you. You'd love it here.

I hope everything's going okay since your last letter. That Hogwarts is being good to you. That you're enjoying having Angie and Ad around (and yes, I'm wildly jealous that I wasn't invited to join the dream team this year). And that you're not tormenting poor Oliver too much.

That last sentence makes her laugh. If only he knew.

I hope we see each other again soon. Let's keep each other posted about the scouts, yeah? I miss you all way too much. I always say life would be better if we just spent the year at camp.

Ugandan hugs and kisses.

P.S. I have a girlfriend :) Mum found her. Maybe I'll always regret not making you the future Princess Ntembe, but I think—I think I'm falling for her. Can't wait for you to meet her.

SAM.

Zora wipes at her cheek instinctively, only realizing afterward that she's brushed away a tear. She hasn't really let herself stop and think this year. Not about what happens after. Not about what life looks like without camp, without those endless, golden summers.

Samuel's words bring it crashing back. The ache of things ending.

She folds the letter carefully and tucks it inside her coat.

Her aunt's letter is warm, sweet. A simple Merry Christmas and a photo of Nikita wearing a Santa hat. That pulls another smile from her.

Then comes the last letter. The one from her mother. She opens it with a sigh, already bracing herself.

Maybe she should have left it sealed.

My darling girl,

Merry Christmas! I hope you like the little gift—it's from Alexei Vassiliev. He sent it through me, since you haven't replied to his last message. It would be nice if you made a bit more of an effort. He's a lovely boy. He deserves you. He has a good job at the Ministry and will be able to take care of your needs. Try to meet be good to him, will you?

I also want to remind you that I expect you and Viktor home for Easter break. We'll be hosting a dinner, and I need both of you there. We'll be announcing Viktor's second year on the national team—and maybe (I hope !) your engagement to Alexei—

Zora doesn't even finish the sentence.

Her eyes stop. Her heart gives out. She has to cling to the owlery wall to keep from collapsing.

The rage starts to rise up in her chest—raw, unfiltered, uncontrollable.

In a swift, angry motion, she grabs the small package and tears off the wrapping paper. She opens the box in a flurry of movement, her hands shaking. Inside, put against velvet, lies a delicate hair brooch engraved with the Vassiliev family crest. Just beneath it, a note.

It will look perfect in your hair. For when you accompany me to Ministry dinners. A.V.

Zora can feel the exact moment she lets the fury take over. The moment her fingers release the brooch, flinging it from the top of the owlery tower. The moment her voice rips through the icy air with a curse loud enough to send owls scattering into the sky.

She drops her head into her hands, breath fogging in the cold, and tries to collect herself. But she doesn't know how to make her mother understand.

That she doesn't want this. That she wants no part of this life of lies and champagne flutes, of tight smiles and colder handshakes, where she's just a shelf to display someone else's ambitions.

She's too young for a future that feels already written. And more than that—she doesn't want it. She can't understand how her mother does. How she can so casually dismiss her choices. Her wants.

Zora just wants one thing: to play Quidditch. And for that to be enough.

She sniffs hard and draws in a shaky breath before crumpling the letter into a ball and putting it deep into her coat pocket.

She heads back toward Gryffindor Tower, her pace fast and unfocused on the stairs, her thoughts loud. She doesn't notice the person climbing up the steps to the owlery until it's too late—until she walks straight into their chest.

The scent hits her first. It calms her instantly.

Oliver.

She straightens up quickly, wiping at her cheeks, still wet, and swallows the burn of anger and sadness now lodged in her throat. Not now. Not in front of him.

"Hey," Oliver says gently, his hands landing firmly on her shoulders to steady her.

"Sorry," she mutters, looking away. "I wasn't looking where I was going."

He frowns, his gaze searching hers. "Are you okay?"

She nods automatically. "Yeah. I was just coming to get my letters."

Oliver tilts his head slightly. "You're crying, Krum."

She summons every ounce of strength to give him a smile—to look him in the eye. Every part of her aches to collapse into his arms, to feel what she felt last night: calm, safe, steady.

"It's the cold," she lies. "You know me. I hate winter."

Her eyes fall to the letter in his hands, and she catches a glimpse of the name written across it. She smiles faintly. Nora. If there's one thing Oliver does talk about, it's his little sister.

"It's for Nora?" she asks, needing to steer the conversation anywhere else.

He clears his throat, slightly caught off guard. "Yeah. I already sent her some chocolates, but this is her real present."

He sighs, gaze returning to her face. "But don't change the subject."

She exhales. "I just hope you're not sending her a Quidditch strategy manual for Christmas. Let the poor girl breathe, would you?"

She immediately curses herself for the joke. She's trying too hard—too hard to seem normal, to tease him, to pretend that nothing inside her is eating her. But the words land hollow.

He starts to respond, but she can feel the thread of control slipping, so she cuts him off.

"I should go. The girls are waiting for me. Merry Christmas, Wood."

She walks past him, brushing against his arm—but before she can escape fully, Oliver catches her wrist.

His hand is warm against hers, grounding, dangerous. It nearly breaks her. Nearly makes her turn back and fall into him.

But she pulls away. She keeps walking.

And then—he says it.

"Zora—"

Just her name. Or almost. But the way he says it. Like a plea. Like he's begging for her to stay.

It's enough to stop her breath.

But she's already too far to hear the rest.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

When Zora pushes open the door to Angelina's dorm, Adeline is already there. Laughter dies the second the door shuts behind her.

"God, Krum, you took forever," Angelina says, smiles.

But when Zora turns to face them, everything stops.

Adeline is on her feet in a heartbeat, her expression fading into worry. "Goodness, Zora, what happened?"

She wraps her arms around her, and Zora doesn't resist. She sinks into the warmth, clings back, and lets the tears come again—full of anger, hot, furious tears that feel like they're slicing down her cheeks.

She doesn't speak. Just reaches into her pocket and hands out the crumpled letter.

Angelina stands, takes the parchment, and begins pacing as she reads. Adeline holds Zora, her hand rubbing slow, gentle circles on her back. Her brow furrows deeper with every shaky breath Zora takes.

"Merlin," Angelina mutters, flipping the letter over. "Are you fucking kidding me? What is this, 1828? This shouldn't even be legal."

Zora pulls back slightly. Adeline wipes the tears from her cheeks with her palm, her touch tender. "Your mother again?" she asks, softly.

Zora nods, hollow-eyed.

Angelina hands the letter over to Adeline and stands in front of Zora. She cups her face in both hands, grounding her.

"Listen to me, Zo," she says, her voice low and fierce. "As long as I'm alive, that guy is never touching you. I'll kidnap you myself if I have to. Your mum's lost her bloody mind. How can someone do that to their own daughter?"

Zora doesn't answer. There's too much noise inside her, too much burning.

Adeline, having finished reading, moves toward the fireplace. "Here's what we're going to do," she says simply, and tosses the letter into the flames.

Zora watches it burn, but it doesn't help. The fire crackles, consuming the ink and parchment, but it can't touch the storm still howling inside her chest.

She finally exhales and sinks onto the edge of the bed.

"I don't get it," she says quietly.

The room stills. "Don't get what?" both girls ask at once.

"What I did to deserve this. What I did that makes her want to see me that unhappy."

Silence. Then soft creaks as her friends sit down on either side of her.

"I'm so sorry, Z," Adeline whispers.

Angelina eventually breaks the silence. "What was the gift?" she asks, resting her chin in her hand.

The question makes Zora smile, just a little. "A hair brooch. Probably some family jewels or something. Had the Vassiliev crest on it."

"Show us."

Zora turns toward them, that faint smile still on her lips. "I threw it off the top of the Owlery."

Their faces light up. "Such a shame," Adeline says with mock solemnity.

And then they're laughing.

Because it's probably the only thing that makes sense.

Zora closes her eyes, lets the sound wrap around her, holds onto the warmth of them both.

Then she leans toward Adeline with a sly grin. "Anyway, we have more important things to talk about today. Adeline, anything you'd like to confess?"

"Tonight's star is Adeline, Beauxbatons' finest seductress. Spill."

Adeline hugs a pillow to her chest, trying to hide the smile stretching across her face. "Right. So. Ivan comes to get me at the stairs. He's wearing a black shirt—slightly unbuttoned—"

"Of course he is," Zora mutters, rolling her eyes.

"Three buttons undone," Adeline confirms, holding up three fingers. "We talk a bit, drink some champagne. Then he says, 'Come on, I want to show you something.'"

Angelina frowns. "Wait. Is he that obvious ?"

"Yes. But it worked. So he leads me to one of those dusty old rooms with the weird talking portraits."

Adeline's voice lowers, softer now. "We danced. Sort of. I mean—his hand was on my waist, mine on his shoulder, we kind of twirled around like idiots. Then he looks at me and says I'm beautiful. But not like the usual compliment. Like he means it. Like it surprised him."

Angelina grabs her arm. "And?"

"And... he kissed me."

Zora smacks her hands against the bed. "You made us wait this long for that?!"

"Wait!" Adeline says quickly. "He kisses me—like, properly—and then we fucked on the table of the classroom. Properly, too."

Silence. Then chaos.

"YOU'RE LIVING MY DREAM!" Angelina screams, tossing a pillow at her.

"Gosh I'm glad one of us got laid last night," Zora adds.

Adeline blushes. "I think I actually like him. Really like him."

"I bet you do," Zora scoffs. Angelina laughs. "Durmstrang boys don't know how to be romantic. They go straight to the point."

Adeline rises her hand. "Fine by me."

They all laugh and the room falls silent for a while. Then Adeline shifts.

"What about you, Angie ?"

Angelina sighs. "Nothing. It was okay. Went to bed early."

"What about George?," Adeline chimes in. "You talked to him Zora, right ?"

"About what?" Angelina presses.

"You," she says, looking at Angelina.

Angelina frowns. "Me?"

Zora sits up, brushing hair from her face. "Well, he didn't mention you directly. But he had that look on his face when he looked at you."

Adeline's brows knit together. "Do you think he likes Angelina?"

Zora shrugs, staring at the floor. "He said about being an idiot. About how he should've said things when he had the chance. Pretty sure he was talking about you."

Angelina is quiet for a moment. "God, this is such a mess."

"I think you should talk," says Zora.

Angelina folds her arms. "Right. Let's talk. Let's talk about Wood."

Zora tenses. "That's not what I meant. Plus, there's nothing to say."

There's plenty to say.

"Oh, don't play dumb," Angelina says. "We saw you. That dance was not innocent."

Zora's cheeks flush. "It was just a dance."

"Not with the way he looked at you, Zo," Angelina teases. "Just face it."

Zora sighs. "Fine. It was... soft, safe, peaceful. And I didn't want to go."

The girls say nothing, just look at her, smiling. She swallows, eyes flicking up to Adeline. "Is that bad?"

"No," Adeline says. "It's the best thing."

Angelina reaches over and squeezes her hand. "You deserve to feel that. Every damn day."

Zora takes a breath, her voice small. "I don't know what it meant. But it was... nice."

"You like him," Adeline says.

"I don't-"

"Shut up, Zora. Really," says Angelina, half laughing.

Zora laughs. "Can we go back to Ivan now? That was easier."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The holiday week flies by faster than Zora expects.

She spends every single day on the Quidditch pitch—training, revising strategies, sharpening her shots, correcting her own mistakes and those of her new team. She's relentless, pushing herself harder than she ever has. Because tomorrow is her first match as Captain.

Delegations vs. Hufflepuff.

She's watched them play. Over and over again. She knows every single one of their tactics by heart—strengths, weaknesses, patterns, which side they favor when they pass, who always hesitates before shooting.

She believes in her team. She believes in the plays she's crafted, the hours of formations and drills. She believes in the match plan.

All that's left is to believe in herself.

She spends the whole week trying to clear her head. To push out the thoughts of her mother, of the letters, of classes, of the looming end of the year creeping faster than expected.

And of Oliver.

Who is taking up more space in her mind than she ever meant him to.

They haven't spoken since that moment at the Owlery. Not a single word. But for the past week, she feels his eyes on her. Always. Watching. Focused. Unwavering. At dinner. On the field. In the corridors.

And right now—she feels it again.

As she walks into the Great Hall, her eyes flick automatically to the Gryffindor table.

There he is.

Oliver. Sitting upright, eyes steady and already locked on her, like he knew the moment she'd walk in. She holds his gaze for a few seconds. He doesn't look away.

Neither does she.

But then she blinks and turns, heading toward the Slytherin table.

She drops down heavily at the end, beside her cousin, Viktor. Instantly, she feels the tension in the air. He's rigid, fists clenched on the table, jaw tight. Watching her in silence.

She raises her eyebrows. "Alright, you keep looking at me like that and you're going to hex me by accident. What's wrong with you?"

Viktor doesn't answer right away. Then, voice like ice, he says, "Why didn't you tell me what happened at the ball with Pucey?"

Zora exhales hard through her nose, rolling her eyes. "Because it wasn't a big deal. And you were too busy flirting with Miss Granger to be bothered," she says, lifting her brows and smiling.

But Viktor doesn't smile.

"I'm not joking, Zora," he says. "Thank God Wood was there. Otherwise, who knows what he would've tried."

Zora swallows hard, the memory flashing in her head—Oliver grabbing Adrian by the collar like he weighed nothing, slamming him against the wall. For her.

Just for her.

"I can take care of myself," she mutters. "I don't need you, or him, or anyone else to—"

She doesn't get to finish.

Viktor suddenly stands, the bench screeching behind him. Zora watches him walk off toward Adrian, who's walking past the table, probably on his way out after dinner. She sighs, already knowing where this is headed, and rises to follow.

Viktor doesn't hesitate—he shoves Adrian hard in the shoulder. Adrian stumbles but tries to stand tall, trying to reply, but it's useless. He's no match for Viktor's size.

A few boys from Gryffindor are already on their feet. George and Fred are shouting Krum's name, banging their fists on the table.

Zora finally reaches them just as Viktor shoves Adrian again, harder this time. Adrian hits the floor with a loud thud, making everyone around gasps.

"You disrespect her one more time, and you'll have blood on your hands," Viktor says, voice deadly. "And I swear to God, it won't be mine."

Zora grabs Viktor's arm. "That's enough. He got the message last time."

Viktor steps forward anyway. Adrian scrambles back slightly, fear plain in his eyes.

The crowd erupts. Cheers, claps, some laughter—until Filch barges in and everyone sits back to their seats.

Filch approaches, glaring at Viktor, but—surprisingly—says nothing. Just narrows his eyes and moves along, muttering under his breath.

Viktor folds his arms and turns back toward Zora, still radiating silent rage.

Zora shakes her head. "I'm going to train," she mutters and leaves without waiting for a response.

And as she walks out of the Great Hall, she feels his eyes again. She glances back—

Oliver.

His gaze, still unmoving, still burning, still only for her.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The night is cold and quiet. She walks out to the pitch alone, broom slung over her shoulder, gloves tight in her fists.

The grass glistens under the moonlight, damp with frost. The stands are empty. The sky is endless and dark and star-pinned. It's perfect.

She mounts her broom, kicks off, and doesn't think.

She doesn't think about the match tomorrow. She doesn't think about her mother. She doesn't think about Oliver.

She just flies.

Loop after loop. Passes. Drills. Diving and climbing again. She aims at every hoop from every angle. Over and over. Fast. Faster. Until the cold bites her cheeks and her muscles tremble. Until her arms burn and her lungs scream for air.

And she's about to go for another sprint when she hears a voice behind her.

"You always fly like you're life depends on it, or is that just a special occasion?"

Zora slows, turning mid-air.

Roger Davies looks at her from the ground, his broom held casually in one hand, a smile tugging at his mouth.

She raises an eyebrow, breathless. "What are you doing out here?"

"I could ask you that first." He mounts his broom smoothly and rises to meet her mid-air. "Wanted to train alone. Guess my plan is dead now."

Zora exhales a laugh, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Lucky guess."

Roger nods toward the goalposts. "Want to run a few drills?"

She doesn't hesitate. "Yeah."

And they do.

They pass back and forth in the air, catching, dodging. It's fast-paced and focused. No trash talk, no showing off. Just clean, sharp training.

Zora doesn't notice how long they've been up until her chest tightens painfully with every breath, and her throw goes a bit wide. She curses, lowering herself slowly back to the ground.

Roger lands beside her, frowning slightly.

"You alright?"

She nods, wiping sweat off her forehead. "Fine. Just... tired."

He watches her for a beat. Then, quietly, "Something's wrong."

Zora blinks, startled. "Why do you say that?"

Roger shrugs, adjusting his gloves. "There's always something wrong when you train like you did tonight. Training to the point you can't breath anymore."

She looks away, jaw tense. "There's nothing."

"Fine."

She sighs. "It's just... you know, a lot of pressure. From everywhere. Sometimes you just got to let it all out, you know?"

He nods. "I know." He tosses the Quaffle back into the crate and sits on the edge of the pitch, looking up at the sky. "You know, you're the best chaser I've ever seen. It's crazy how you fly."

She blinks at him, surprised. He glances over, grinning. "Don't tell Wood I said that. He'd sulk for a week."

Zora laughs. She sits beside him, pulling her knees to her chest. "I won't. Might keep it for blackmail, though."

"Smart," he says. Then, more serious, "But I mean it. The way you see the game—it's not just skill. It's instinct. Drive. You play like the game owes you something."

She's silent for a moment.

"Maybe it does."

Roger doesn't respond, but the quiet between them is filled with something comforting.

After a while, Davies speaks. "Now, go have some sleep or you'll be exhausted for tomorrow."

She smiles and nudges him with her shoulder. "Thanks."

He nudges her back. "Anytime, Captain."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The next day, Zora stands in the locker room. Already dressed in her Quidditch gear, she paces back and forth, trying to regulate her breathing. Outside, the sky is heavy with clouds, casting a gray filter over the stadium. It's drizzling softly. The stands are filling up, voices echoing, growing louder with every passing minute.

She and her team have already warmed up. They've reviewed every formation, every move, every weakness in the Hufflepuff lineup. They're ready. Or at least — she's convinced they are.

Now, she just needs to convince she is.

For Zora, winning this match isn't just about catching the Snitch or scoring the most goals. It's not even just about her team. It's about proving herself. Over and over again. Proving she's more than just her last name.

That she's earned this. Captaincy. Leadership. Victory.

Every bruise, every cold morning on the pitch, every second of doubt — it all has to mean something. This is her shot. To show them. Everyone. Mostly herself. She can lead. She can win. She can do it.

Because when you spend your life being told that everything you do is worthless, you start doubting yourself.

She takes a deep breath and moves toward her locker to grab her gloves before giving the final speech to her team. But as she opens it, her brow furrows.

Inside, there's a small flask with a bright orange liquid — and next to it, some fresh raspberries, in a little piece of fabrics. On top of it all, a small folded piece of parchment.

She blinks. Slowly, carefully, she picks it up and opens it.

Tha mi a' dol ga dhèanamh. Gaelic for: I'm going to do it.

So will you. You've got this.

Didn't bring luck — just raspberries. You don't need luck anyway.

Trust yourself.

— O.W.

Her lips part, and before she can stop it, a smile curls up her cheeks. Something warm spreads in her chest, melting the cold nerves that had been clenching her ribs.

She grabs the small flask — orange juice, of course, for vitamins — and downs it in one go. Then she picks up a raspberry and pops it in her mouth, letting the sweet and sour tastes ground her.

He remembers.

Raspberries have always been her favorite — her obsession. It's practically the only thing she eats as soon as summer starts. Oliver, on the other hand, hates them. She's tried for years to get him to like them at camp, even tried sneaking them into his breakfast. He always made a face and refused.

And now, before her first match here, he's brought them to her.

And the thought itself manages to make her melt. The anxiety fades, just a little. Her heart beats differently. Stronger.

She tucks the rest of the raspberries into her pocket and, with a small smile, slips the note inside of her Quidditch notebook.

She got this.

"Alright, huddle up!" she calls, voice ringing through the locker room.

Her team gathers in around her, full of nerves and focus. She spots Adeline and Ivan snickering in the back — she immediately hurls a glove at them, hitting Ivan squarely in the chest.

They freeze.

Zora raises a sharp eyebrow, eyes like daggers. Both of them drop their heads.

"Okay," she starts, turning to the rest of the group, "first match of the season. This is where we show them who we are. What we've worked for. We make them scared. We raise the bar high. Very high."

Nods. Adrenaline starts rising through the group.

"But above all," she adds, voice steady, eyes sharp, "we win. We stick to what we've practiced. It works. Iris — stay light on your broom, keep working on your agility. Ivan, protect your left side — it's trash."

The group laughs, tension breaking for a second.

"Look," Zora says, voice firm but honest, "we may not be an old team like them. We haven't known each other since first year. But that's our strength. We bring something new. Different styles. Different eyes. Different instincts. That's what makes us dangerous. We can do this."

They all place their hands together in a tight circle and raise them in unison, shouting in chorus. A wave of unity and fire surges through them.

Adeline leans in and hugs her. "You're the best," she whispers.

Zora smiles, warmth in her chest. The two walk toward the locker room doors.

"Let's go kick some badger ass, shall we?"

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver walks up the stands with rain already spitting against his shoulders, hands shoved deep in his coat pockets. The sky above is thick with stormclouds, grey and angry, and thunder rolls somewhere just behind the Forbidden Forest.

The match is going to be a mess.

But the weather isn't what's making his stomach drop.

It's her.

Zora's been off all week. Quiet. Distant. Like she's holding something back. She's barely spoken at meals, and when he caught her in the Owlery the other day, she looked rough and shaken.

He doesn't know if the raspberries were the right idea. Or if it's just made things worse. Maybe he overstepped.

"Oi, Wood!" Fred plops down beside him, shaking out his soaked hair like a dog. "You look like you've seen a bloody ghost."

"He looks like he's about to cry," George adds, grinning as he wedges in on the other side.

"I'm fine," Oliver mutters, scanning the pitch. "Just watching."

"Nervous for your girl?," Angelina says, appearing behind him and leaning over the railing, all smile.

Lee Jordan's voice suddenly crackles through the speakers, saving Oliver from answering.

"Welcome, witches and wizards, to the first match for the Delegation team — facing Hufflepuff in what promises to be a wet and wild afternoon of Quidditch! Hufflepuff's got golden boy Cedric Diggory leading, yes, yes, we know, he's gorgeous. And leading the Delegation side is none other than Zora Krum, our favorite dark horse captain, and if her team plays half as well as she flies, Hufflepuff should be very concerned."

The crowd erupts, laughter and cheers mixing in with the wind.

Fred elbows Oliver. "You hear that? Your girl's famous."

George sighs dramatically. "Do you think she signs autographs?"

Oliver doesn't answer. The locker room door swings open.

And Zora walks out. Hair braided, eyes sharp. She doesn't look nervous — just focused. He sees her breathing in, breathing out. Like she always does.

Then — just before she mounts her broom — she turns. And across the stands, through the rain, her eyes lock on his.

She raises a raspberry to her lips, eats it, and she smiles.

Just for him.

Then she's gone, flying onto the sky.

Lee is back in full force. "AND THEY'RE OFF! Diggory opens strong with a slanting feint, but he's BLOCKED by—oh my Merlin—who IS that diva? Delegation Chaser number 7 just shut him down!"

Oliver can't take his eyes off the sky.

Zora is everywhere. She's not just flying — she's commanding. Every pass is sharp. Every signal is silent and precise. She doesn't yell, doesn't hesitate. She moves like she knows what will happen three seconds before anyone else does.

"Krum and Terrence score for the Delegation — 30–10! Merlin's beard, these people don't mess around!" Lee yells, his voice cutting through the rain. "Did they train in Azkaban?!"

But Hufflepuff doesn't fold. Their Beaters are strong, and Cedric's fast. Really fast. The storm gets worse, and visibility's down. Bludgers scream across the sky, and the score climbs.

30–10. 40–10. Then 60–50.

"The score is tied, and I don't want to jinx it," Lee says, "but I think I just saw Krum dodge a Bludger with her eyes closed."

Oliver doesn't even breathe. He's too focused. His knuckles are white on the edge of the stand. He tries his best to follow her every movements despite the bad weather.

But all of a sudden, Madam Hooch blows her whistle. Players goes down slowly, wiping rain from their faces, hovering low to the pitch.

"She's calling it," Angelina says.

"It'll be fair," adds Katie.

Lee's voice rings on the pitch: "Pause on the pitch, folks. Looks like Hooch is actually using common sense and calling a break because this storm is about to start throwing players off brooms."

But Zora is arguing. Oliver sees her — shoulders squared, eyes flashing — with Cedric and Hooch.

Fred narrows his eyes. "Is she fighting Hooch?"

"She's fighting everyone," George says.

"She wants to keep playing," Oliver breathes.

Angelina looks at him. "She's you. You know that, right? Terrifying."

Then Hooch — with a deep scowl — blows the whistle again.

Game on.

Oliver stands. "She's insane."

"You're insane," the twins say at once.

The storm slams down harder. Thunder cracks. Brooms tilt midair. A Hufflepuff Chaser falls dangerously sideways and barely regains control. A beater from the delegation's team almost fall, earning gasp from the stands.

Oliver can't see anything anymore. The weather is awful.

Lee sounds like he's yelling into a hurricane. "This is chaos! I repeat — CHAOS! Cedric's pushing forward — Bludger just missed his head by an inch! Wait — wait, Kurm's circling high — oh no—"

It happens so fast.

Zora flies through the heart of the pitch, going at full speed, her eyes barely open through the wind, when another player flies into her path.

She doesn't see them in time.

Their shoulders collide with a crack, and Zora's broom goes to the left violently.

She slips. She falls. The stands gasp.

Oliver's heart stops.

She crashes to the ground with terrifying speed and slams into the muddy field with a sound he'll never forget.

"ZORA!" Angelina shouts.

Angelina is already moving. He sprints after her, rain pouring down his face.

She's crumpled on the ground, soaked and still. Blood on her temple. Eyes closed.

He drops on his kness on the ground, Angelina on the other side of Zora. He turns to her. "We have to call Madam Pomfrey."

Angelina nods. Viktor arrives. He tries to wake her too. Oliver's eyes drop to her hand on her side. He takes it slowly and squeezes it.

For a moment, she doesn't move. Then — slowly — her eyes flutter open. She squeezes his hand back, weakly.

She blinks. Focuses. On him.

Her lips curve, just a little. A breath of a smile.

"Thanks for the raspberries," she whispers before closing her eyes again.