Homemade pie and promises

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

feels so close - calvin harris

Your love pours down on meSurround me like a waterfallAnd there's no stopping us right nowI feel so close to you right now

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

It's strange how quickly a house that isn't yours can begin to feel like home.

Zora wakes up each morning to the creak of the old floorboards, the smell of coffee and the soft hum of Oliver's voice in the kitchen. She learns the rhythms of this quiet place tucked between trees and hills — the way the sun hits the east window of the kitchen just before 9, the whistle of the kettle that never stops properly on its own, the path to the river she knows by heart now.

It's been only three days but Zora feels like she has always been there. With them. In this house. When she looks at her toothbrush in the bathroom, it feels like it has always been here. Same with the way Nora asks her to read a story before she goes to sleep.

And Oliver. God, Oliver.

She learned so much about him these last three days. How soothing it is to watch him in his home. Everything he does only confirms to Zora the man he is. And she loves it.

How gently he brushes Nora's hair in the morning. How he lets her sit on the counter while he slices vegetables, nodding to her stories even if he doesn't understand a word. How he never goes out of the house without putting his cologne on. How he constantly smiles when their eyes meet.

How he spends every second making sure everything is perfect for Nora, and for her.

How he cares.

And Zora finds it very hard not to fall more.

They fill the days slowly, with no particular plan. Long walks through the woods behind the house. Bike rides along the gravel road, Nora sitting in the front basket of Oliver's bike. They try to work a bit during the morning. To make Nora do her homeworks. Oliver and Zora try to work on essays they have to do before going back to Hogwarts.

And afternoons are for Quidditch.

Well. Sort of.

Nora insists on refereeing. Every time. She wears a big floppy sunhat she claims is official referee attire, and keeps score on a notebook that changes rules every ten minutes.

It's clearly more Zora trying to score and Oliver doing everything he can to keep up than a Quidditch match.

For the last afternoon, Nora made it very clear she was in charge. The sun is high, gently brushing their skin. The wind is sweet making the heat bearable. Zora stands at one end of the field, broom in hand, smiling wildly. At the other end, Oliver watches her, eyes locked, frowning.

Nora walks dramatically to the center of the garden, dragging a plastic chair behind her. She sits down, pulls a pen from her pocket, and opens a notebook full of scribbles and doodles.

"Ten points to Zora for having the prettiest broom," she declares loudly, eyes serious as they study the page.

Zora throws her head back and laughs. "I'll take that."

"Objection!" Oliver calls from the other end, cradling a Quaffle under one arm. "That's not even a real rule!"

"It is now," Nora says, grinning wide as she looks up at Zora.

From the first day, Zora and Nora have formed an unshakable alliance against Oliver. He figured it out quickly, and now he just pretends to be outraged.

"Oh, I see how it is," he mutters, jogging toward Nora. Zora mirrors him, walking forward. "Two against one?"

Zora tilts her head. "Poor Captain Wood. Can't handle a little girl power?"

Oliver narrows his eyes at her. "Oh, I can handle it."

"Then get ready to lose."

He takes a step closer, and Zora doesn't move. "You're—"

"Let's crush him!" Nora yells, pumping her little fists in the air.

Zora tries everything not to smile. "You heard the referee."

Oliver rolls his eyes and mounts his broom before pushing off into the air. He throws the Quaffle in Zora's direction; she catches it smoothly, then imitates him and lifts into the sky.

They circle a few times before Zora flies closer to the makeshift hoops — a few wooden rings tied to tall sticks — where Oliver hovers in front of them, guarding, his body low and ready.

"Are you going to actually play today?" she calls, casually spinning the Quaffle in one hand. "Or should I just score all the goals and win by default?"

He doesn't answer. His eyes track the Quaffle, then her broom, then her hands. Focused. Patient. Waiting for a move, a mistake.

Zora moves a little closer, teasing. "Would be a shame if I won three days in a row, wouldn't it?"

Still no answer. She grins. "Don't tell me you're letting me win, Wood."

That finally gets a reaction from the proud Gryffindor. He clicks his tongue. "Who do you take me for? I would never—"

But he doesn't get the chance to finish. Zora uses his brief lapse to dive and throw the Quaffle clean through the middle hoop in a perfect motion.

"YES!" Nora cheers from the ground, clapping wildly. "That's one! Go Zora!"

Zora loops back, grinning wide. Oliver glares at her, jaw clenched. His lips are slightly parted, and he looks equal parts annoyed and impressed.

She flies closer, their knees brushing midair. "Bit hard to win the Cup if I can throw you off your game just by talking," she says, her voice low and teasing.

His jaw clenches tighter. His eyes flick briefly to her mouth, then away. "It's the holidays. I'm going easy."

Zora smiles and nods. "Easy. Right. That must be it."

She grabs the Quaffle and goes back to her spot on the field.

"One–zero!" Nora yells. "Come on, Ollie!"

He mutters something under his breath before flying back to the hoops.

They circle again, the wind picking up. Zora fakes left, then flies right. She makes a beeline for the hoops again, but this time Oliver anticipates her move and intercepts the shot midair.

Zora laughs. "There it is! Knew you needed a little challenge."

He tosses the Quaffle back to her in answer. No words. Just that quiet, competitive glint in his eyes.

They keep at it — back and forth, throwing, blocking, diving — neither of them going full-speed, but fast enough to feel the pull in their muscles.

"Three–one!" Nora calls, waving her pen in the air.

Zora plays with a grin on her face. She is enjoying this way too much. Oliver tries to stay focused, but she knows exactly how to throw him off: the sudden direction changes, how she can make him loose focus by saying two words and throwing him a playful glance.

When she fakes a drop, flies under him, and lands a perfect shot through the central hoop, Oliver groans out loud, his frustration clearly reaching his point.

"Four–one," she pants, hair sticking to her face. "Losing your edge, Wood."

He flies up beside her. "Trying not to show off in front of the seven-year-old."

"She's rooting for me anyway."

They stay side by side, catching their breath. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted, sweat glistening at her hairline. He looks at her and can't help it — the fondness spreads in his chest. He loves the way she looks after training. She's never more beautiful than in this state — when she's flying, focused, beaming.

Because it's when she is the most happy.

They play a few more rounds, until the sun begins to set behind the hills. Breathless, they finally touch down. Nora runs to them and throws herself onto the grass, landing halfway across Zora's stomach, laughing uncontrollably.

Zora strokes her hair absently, chest heaving, trying to catch her breath.

Oliver drops down beside them, stretching out, arms behind his head. He feels so good. Quidditch. His little sister. Zora.

What could he ask for more ?

Zora meets his eyes and smiles, like she feels it too.

"I think Oliver's pouting about losing," she whispers in Nora's ear.

Nora giggles, her eyes fluttering half-shut from the sun and tiredness. "I was the best referee ever. Ollie, you lost fair and square."

Zora chuckles. "You're the MVP."

Oliver groans, but he's smiling. "Alright, off you go. Go shower before your sleepover tonight."

Nora gasps. "Right!" She stands up and runs inside, her curls bouncing with each steps.

Zora watches her disappear, then crawls over to Oliver and rests her head gently in his lap. They sit in silence for a few moments.

Her eyes stay closed to avoid the sun, but she can feel his gaze burning her face.

She inhales deeply and speaks. "Thank you for these three days. I don't think you realise how much they mean to me."

She doesn't open her eyes. Somehow, it's easier to speak like this — in silence, without looking. She feels safe like this. Like the blank in her mind is enough to make her feel less vulnerable.

Because Zora Krum is all talk when it comes to teasing, flirting, argue, put men in their place. That's easy. It's all fun and games until you have to really talk about yourself.

Finding words for pain? That's where she stumbles. That's when her tongue turns to stone. That's where the letters are missing.

She feels Oliver's hand move gently through her hair. It soothes her a bit.

"I'd do it again. Without hesitation," he says softly. "You know that, right?"

She nods. She knows. But she doesn't know if it warms her heart or if it terrifies her.

She sits up a little too quickly, needing to change the subject before he asks. Before he looks at her with that patient concern of his and says, "You still didn't tell me what happened after you discover the letter."

Because she can't tell him. Not yet. She can't put this atrocity in words. It doesn't deserve to be said.

She can't talk about the contract. About marriage. About the ugly politics and unbearable choices she'll have to face soon enough.

Just thinking about it makes her mouth dry and her chest burn.

Oliver deserves to know. He really does.

But right now, she's physically and mentally incapable of giving voice to the thing she dreads most.

So instead, she changes the subject.

"Speaking of Quidditch," she says, brushing a piece of grass from her arm, "have you decided what you're going to do next year?"

Oliver stretches his legs out in front of him, then exhales—deep and slow, the kind of sigh that feels like it's been sitting in his chest for days.

"I said yes," he says quietly.

Zora turns her head toward him. "To Puddlemere?"

He nods once. "A week ago. The letter is ready. I just have to send the owl. It's done."

She pushes herself up on her elbows, her face still turned to his. "You said yes for him?"

Oliver doesn't answer right away. He stares out across the garden. "He said he was proud of me." His voice drops. Zora feels her chest tighten. She watches him, fighting to not let the emotion invade him, his voice breaking. "For the first time in years. He said, I knew you'd do it, Oliver."

Zora watches him, carefully. There's something in the way he says it—like he's still trying to decide if that sentence is a reward or a wound.

"Right thing for him," she says gently. "Not for you."

Oliver glances at her, expression sharp. "It's Puddlemere. It's not a bad team."

"No," Zora agrees. "It's not."

She sits up properly now, knees drawn to her chest. "But the Scottish National Team wants you, Oliver. You'd be the youngest player in history to make it on. You'd have an actual shot at the World Cup. Don't tell me you don't think about that."

He looks away.

"You deserve to play for a team that matches your level," she adds. "That challenges you. Pushes you."

He doesn't move. Doesn't say anything.

"Your father will be proud either way," she says softly. "But you have to live with the choice. Not him."

Silence. Then—he laughs, but it's hollow. Bitter. "You know what's not fair?"

Zora blinks, taking off-guard. "What?"

"That you're saying this to me. When you know what it's like. When you of all people—"

"I do," Zora cuts in, her voice barely above a whisper. "I do know what it's like. That's why I'm saying it."

Oliver turns toward her.

She breathes in, steadying herself. "I know exactly what it feels like to do something you don't want to, just because you think you have to. Because it's easier to sacrifice yourself than disappoint someone else."

She takes a pause. "I know what it's like to make a choice that feels like drowning."

Oliver's mouth opens like he wants to say something—then closes again.

"That's why I'm telling you not to do it," she adds, looking straight at him. "Because I know how it tears you up. How you try to convince yourself it's noble, or brave, or necessary, or whatever. But it just... eats you alive."

There's a long silence. Oliver drops his head into his hands for a moment. Then drags them down his face, eyes shut.

"I'm sorry," he mutters. "For getting angry."

Zora shakes her head. "It's alright—"

"No, it's not," he interrupts. "I wasn't mad at you. I was mad at me. Because I know you're right. I know it's the wrong choice. But I already made it. I let him be proud. I said yes and—hell, I don't even know why it felt so good to hear it."

"I think it's human," she says. "Wanting someone to see you. Especially when they've spent most of their life pretending they don't."

He gives a tired smile. "Yeah. Well. He saw what he wanted to see. Not what I wanted to be."

They fall quiet again. Zora leans her shoulder gently into his. Her voice is low. "I'll cheer for you either way, you know."

Oliver turns to her, confused.

She smiles, just a little. "I'll even bring an embarrassing sign. Big, glittery letters. Maybe with a ridiculous photo of you and a big fat pink heart. Just to show your fanclub who is supporting who."

Oliver glances sideways at her, a hint of a smile on his face. Then, softer—almost shy—he says, "Promise?"

Zora turns her head toward him, surprised by the vulnerability in his voice.

She smiles. Gently, but with all the weight of what she means. "I promise."

There's a beat. The wind tugs a strand of her hair across her cheek. She promises. Can she ?

Oliver clears his throat. "So... you better actually show up with that sign, now. Don't go backing out."

She chuckles. "You won't know when I'll strike. Might be the first match. Might be the finals. One day you'll be flying and suddenly spot your own ridiculous face floating in the stands on a sparkly sign that says 'Wood You Please Win This Time?'"

Oliver lets out a laugh—bright this time—and turns toward her fully. "Please don't let it say this."

Zora smiles. "Too late. Already picturing the font."

He laughs again. The laughter dies off slowly, melting into the silence. Their eyes meet and their hand brush. Zora tilts her chin up the slightest bit. It's all it takes.

He kisses her.

It's a bit harsh, Oliver cupping her face with strength. It's full, deep. She lets out a breath against his mouth and kisses him back harder, her hands sliding into his hair. He pulls her closer, his palm finding the curve of her waist.

Zora feels he is kissing her to make a statement, to seal the promise they just made, to regain control, almost to show his devotion.

When he finally pulls back, he rests his forehead against hers, smiling.

"I was thinking..." he says between breaths, "since Nora's is away tonight... we could maybe do a little dinner by the river?"

Zora raises her eyebrows and smiles, lips still swollen. "Oh? What's this? Is this—wait, is this a date, Wood?"

Oliver smiles, strengthening his grip on her waist. "I think it is."

"A proper one?"

"A very proper one," he says, brushing a kiss to the corner of her mouth before pulling her to her feet.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora stands near the kitchen, fingers tracing the edge of a glass, trying not to think too much about the fact that it's her last night here. About the fact that tomorrow she will have to go back home before going back to Hogwarts. About the fact this is the last time she sees Nora.

"Nora, your ride's here!" Oliver calls.

In a matter of seconds, the little girl rushes down the stairs, wearing her tiniest backpack and her biggest smile. She doesn't head for the door right away. She runs full-speed toward Zora instead, crashing into her legs and wrapping her arms tightly around them.

Zora's breath catches.

The kid doesn't say anything—she just hugs her, full of something that feels too big for her small body. Zora drops to her knees slowly and pulls her into a proper hug.

"You're the best big sister I've never had," Nora whispers against her shoulder.

Zora's heart breaks a little and she has to swallow hard the tears in her throat.

She doesn't know how one small child can hold so much love in her tiny chest, how she gives it away so easily. So freely. Zora isn't used to it. Not this kind. It overwhelms her.

She cups the back of Nora's head and kisses her temple. "And you're the best little sister I've never had."

Nora smiles. "I'll write you letters. I will send you my drawings. Ollie says they are very good."

Zora nods and glances at Oliver who is smiling.

"Will you answer ?" Nora asks.

Zora pushes away a curl from her face. "Of course I will."

"Every time?"

"Every single time."

Nora seems satisfied with the answer and walks to hug Oliver.

At the door, Nora's friend's mother steps forward with a warm smile. "Evening Oliver," she says gently, nearly pushed by Nora who runs out of the house to meet her friend outside. "Thank you for letting Nora come tonight. Amy is thrilled. And I know you can enjoy and rest tonight. You're doing a wonderful job with her. I know you father is not around much. How is your mother doing ?"

Oliver awkwardly shifts on his feet, suddenly hyper-aware of how stiff his back is. He hates talking about it. "Uh—yeah. Some days are better. I mean, not great. But... better. We're managing."

The woman nods sympathetically and smiles again. "And you are—, well I assume this is your wife. You must be a good team."

Oliver blinks. Zora freezes. He makes a strangled noise.

"She's not— I mean, we're not— She's not my wife. God, I'm eighteen. This—"

Zora bites her lip to stop a laugh. Oliver is red from his ears to his neck. Her shoulders shake slightly. The woman puts her hands on her mouth.

"Oh! I just assumed— Sorry. Sometimes I forget how young you are Oliver !" the woman chuckles, reaching to pat his arm. "My mistake. Have a good evening, both of you."

Once the door closes behind them, Oliver turns to Zora. He stops when he sees she is trying everything to avoid laughing. He sighs and shakes his head. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"I mean... husband," she teases, smiling wide. "We're a great team."

Oliver rolls his eyes. And when the laughter fades, a soft silence falls between them. Just the two of them now. One last evening.

Oliver glances at her. "So... I was thinking. Maybe we could make something to bring to the river? A pie or something?"

Zora raises an eyebrow. "Do I look like someone who's ever made a pie? Or anything else ?"

He shrugs, heading toward the kitchen. "I'll show you, don't worry."

Ten minutes later, Zora stands at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up, flour already on her cheek. She's staring at the dough like it might explode.

"I'm telling you, this thing hates me."

"It's dough," Oliver says, amused. "It doesn't have feelings."

She glares at the sticky mess, fingers dusted white. "It feels hostile."

He steps up behind her without warning, close—too close—and places his hands gently over hers. She freezes. His chest is warm against her back, burning every inch of her skin, his breath soft at her temple.

"Here," he whispers. "You've got to press with the heel of your palm. Like this."

His hands guide hers, slow and steady, working the dough with practiced confidence. His arms surround hers, his fingers ghosting over her knuckles. His voice his law, barely a whisper and it sends a shiver down her spine.

"See? Gentle pressure. Then fold. Press again."

Zora's brain stops functioning halfway through "gentle pressure."

She swallows. She tries to focus. She fails spectacularly.

"Got it?" he asks.

She blinks. "Uh. What?"

Oliver leans back slightly, just enough to look down at her face.

"I said... got it?" His lips twitch, fighting a smile.

Zora clears her throat, avoiding his eyes. "Sorry. Lost in thought."

He smiles. "I wish you were half as focused as you are on a broom."

She turns her head just enough to glance at him from the corner of her eye. "Well, it's not exactly easy to focus when you're pressed against me like that."

Oliver's mouth parts slightly. Still close to her, he looks at her eyes, her lips. He suddenly feels the need to kiss her. To put her on the kitchen counter and kiss her; her lips, her neck, her throat, the base of her shoulders.

He moves closer but Zora raises her hands full of dough in front of him. "Kiss me later, will you ?"

He steps back abruptly and grabs the cutting board. "Right. I'll—chop the apples."

Zora bites her lip to keep from laughing. Her hands are still in the dough, but her heartbeat has absolutely lost its rythm.

He's slicing apples now like it's a matter of life and death, jaw tight, shoulders tense. She watches him for a second too long, then smiles to herself.

They get back to it, still giggling between instructions and failed measurements. Zora keeps pretending she knows what she's doing.

"Wait, wait," he says, catching her wrist as she reaches for the sugar. "That's salt."

She freezes. "Oh."

"Zora."

"I panicked!"

He laughs, stealing the salt from her and replacing it with the right jar. "How are you this bad at this?"

"I never cook!" she says. "We had people cooking for us at home. And at camp, I literally traded chores to avoid kitchen duty."

Oliver raises a brow. "So you're saying that thing you said earlier—'I make a killer breakfast'—was a lie?"

"I didn't say when. Maybe I meant in, like, ten years ago."

He snorts. "Unbelievable."

They keep working on the pie. Oliver suddenly realise he didn't put on music. He realizes he didn't do it out of forgetfulness, because it's become a reflex now.

No, he didn't do it because he didn't feel the need.

Zora is there and fills all the empty spaces.

At some point, she leans back against the counter, dusting her hands on the apron—well, his apron—and asks : "Do you think Hogwarts will win the Tournament?"

Oliver glances up. "You mean the Triwizard?"

She nods. "Everyone's so sure about Cedric. But Fleur's good, too."

"She is," he agrees. "Honestly, I didn't really follow the tournament since the begining. What about Viktor ? You don't think he'll win ?

Zora tenses. "It's not that." She pauses and shakes her head. "I just don't want to think about it. I don't want something to happen to him, you know ?"

He nods and puts the knife down. "Nothing is going to happen to anyone. Especially Viktor. He's good. He knows how to take care of himself."

She nods again, folding her arms over her chest. "He doesn't say it but he's exhausted. Between the Tournament and the National trainings, he is very tired."

Oliver studies her, the way her brow knits when she talks about people she loves.

She sighs. "Just... I don't want to loose him. He's the only family left I have."

"I'm sure everything will be fine, Zora," Oliver answers, trying to be as convincing as he can. He can't promise anything impossible.

They go back to the pie in silent. When they are done, the kitchen is an absolute war zone, but the pie sits triumphantly on the oven, finally assembled.

Zora stares at it. "Honestly? That looks almost edible."

Oliver wipes his hands on a towel. "We'll call it rustic."

She laughs. "Fine by me. I'm gonna go clean up," she says, stepping back and brushing flour off her jeans.

"Same," he says. "Ten minutes, meet back here?"

She nods and disappears upstairs, still laughing softly to herself. She changes in the bathroom. She brushes her hair, put on her favorite dress and a slight touch of lipstick.

When she goes downstairs, Oliver's back is turned as he pulls a plate from the cupboard.

"Zora, the pie actually looks almost good—" He turns, eyes landing on her—and stops mid-sentence.

He wants to lean on the counter but misses it and stumbles, nearly dropping the plate.

Zora blinks. "You alright there ?"

He stares. Then clears his throat. "Yeah, I—yeah. Just—wasn't—"

She lifts an amused eyebrow. "Come again?"

His eyes move down, slowly, as she walks to him. He puts the plate down. One hand reaches up to gently tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. The other finds her waist, warm and steadu, pulling her closer.

She tilts her head, lips curved.

He breathes out a quiet laugh, his thumb grazing her cheek. "It's just—, you're so beautiful it almost hurts to look at you."

Zora's breath hitches. Their bodies so close now, their eyes searching each other.

She smiles. "Keep the compliments for the date, Wood," she says before stepping away but he catches her wrist.

He kisses her—deep, lingering, like every word he couldn't find has finally found its shape.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The place by the river is breathtaking. The sun is setting, casting a pink light behind the hills. The last rays make the river currents shine and the grass turn red. The breeze carries the sweet scent of water and warm grass.

Oliver spreads out a large tartan blanket under a willow tree, the soft rustle of leaves above them blending with the gentle splash of the current. It's quiet in that way that only summer evenings can be—endless, suspended in time, promising.

Zora takes off her sandals and sits onto the blanket. Oliver sets down their makeshift dinner: two butterbeer bottles still fizzing slightly, a bag full of overstuffed sandwiches, and the infamous pie sitting in its tray, looking far more confident than it should.

They eat slowly, talking about nothing and everything. Eventually, the conversation drifts to Quidditch. Oliver explains the benefits of a 4-2-1 Quidditch formation, waving his hands around to make her picture it better.

Zora chews on her sandwich. "That might work if your Beaters are robots, maybe. But in real life? No way. Too much pressure on the Keeper."

Oliver scoffs. "Says the chaser."

"Says someone who is a Keeper and thinks he's the best to ever live," she teases.

"I don't think—I know."

She rolls her eyes. You're insufferable when you are confident."

He smiles, putting his hand behind his head. "You're just afraid I'm right."

They go back and forth like that—arguing the best broomstick brands, whether padding should be thinner or thicker, about the different teams' newest recruits.

Then Zora leans back on her elbows and sighs. "We shouldn't be talking about this."

Oliver pauses mid-swig of butterbeer. "Why not?"

She glances over at him. "Because we're enemies now. The Cup's in a week."

He watches her for a beat, lips twitching. "Right. Forgot about that. We're supposed to hate each other."

"We do hate each other," she says, deadly serious, then smiles. "I hate how smug you get when you block my shots. Even if it's rare."

"And I hate how you talk non-stop during a match just to throw me off," he replies, narrowing his eyes at her.

"That's just strategy," she says, trying not to smile.

"I'm gonna destroy you," he says.

She lifts her butterbeer. "I'd like to see you try."

When they finally decide to attempt the pie, it's a disaster. The pie doesn't hold together and the slices look like mud on their plates.

Zora takes a cautious mouthful and freezes. "Oh no."

Oliver chews twice, then blinks. "Zora."

"Listen—"

"It's hard, Zora. Pies don't usually feel like rocks. What did you put in there?"

"I don't know!" she shouts, laughing. "I followed your instructions!"

They fall into laughter, wiping their mouths and trying to save the edible parts with their spoons.

"Well," Oliver says between bites, "next time you're banned from touching the dough."

"You're so rude to me," she says dramatically, flopping back on the blanket. "I slave over a hot counter—"

"—for ten minutes—"

"—and this is how I'm thanked."

He leans back beside her, his laugh softer now.

Zora puts her plate down and turns to him. "Do you think Nora will play Quidditch someday?"

Oliver's eyes light up. "Of course she will. She already flies better than half the second-years."

Zora smiles. "I hope she doesn't lose that joy, you know? She's so... full of love."

"She is," Oliver agrees.

Zora hums. Then, she stands, a teasing glint in her eyes. "You know, Nora told me," Zora says, propping herself on her elbow, "that we're apparently together. I'm apparently your girlfriend. Also, your neighbor thinks I'm your wife."

He stops and starts to blush.

"And yet," she continues, pretending to be offended, "there hasn't been any official proposal. The girl is waiting, Oliver."

He looks at her, red creeping up his neck.

Zora loves the situation, how he blushes, starts to panic. It's endearing.

He glances around, like searching for something —anything— to save him, then spots something in the grass. A daisy. He picks it up gently.

"All right," he says, his Scottish accent a little thicker now. Zora notices how when he is frustrated, angry or shy, it comes out. He clears his throat and finally meets her eyes.

He smiles noticing her amused face. He looks at her for a few seconds. He can't believe what he is going to do. It's so childish. But it's fun. And if it can make her laugh, of course he will do it.

"Zora Krum," he begins, holding out the daisy between his fingers, "would you do me the honor and be my girlfriend?"

Her smile deepens. It's childish, she knows it. But she can't help to feel a sense of happiness and pride. She can picture herself being known as his girlfriend and she feels proud. It feels... right.

She takes the daisy slowly, twirls it once.

"I don't know," she says. "If that's your signature move, you better hope I never tell anyone. Squashed flowers and red cheeks? Bit embarrassing for a Quidditch captain."

She leans in, brushing his lips. "Luck you I've got a thing for this, right ?"

She tucks the flower behind her ear and puts her hands behind his neck.

"Of course I want to be your girlfriend, Oliver," she says before kissing him.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

HELLO BABEEEEEES !

First of all, a massive thanks to all for reading this story!!! I'm so glad to be back to write because things are far from being over with these two, believe me.

Second, I hope you all liked this chapter. And that you enjoyed it. Because believe me it's probably one of the last chapter where everything goes SO well. So i hope you and mostly them (lol) enjoyed the little break.

Finally, don't hesitate to tell me what you think will happen in the future chapters and if you still like this story! --->>>>>>>

thanks for everything, love u lots <3