The illusion of normality

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

black swan - thom yorke

What will grow crooked, you can't make straightIt's the price that you've gotta payDo yourself a favour and pack your bagsBuy a ticket and get on the train

'Cause this is fucked up, fucked up

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora is gone.

This morning. Early. The sun barely rising, the birds barely awake. Oliver felt the dip in the mattress when she got up. The room still dark. He heard the soft rustle of her footsteps on the carpet, the gentle shuffle as she was digging through her bag.

Eyes closed, he was between sleep and waking, almost unconscious, as if in a dream.

Then he felt her lips on his.

A kiss. A few seconds. Maybe a minute. Not nearly long enough for Oliver. Her amber scent, the warmth of her breath, the soft sweetness of her mouth. Her hair tickling his cheeks. 

And then—nothing.

The door clicked shut behind her. He heard her light steps down the stairs. Then silence again. He felt back asleep.

When he wakes for real, the house is quiet. In the kitchen, there's a cup of coffee waiting for him and a breakfast tray set on the table. Two pieces of toast, and his favorite mug. She's drawn little jam smileys on the bread. He smiles.

Tucked under the plate, he finds a note in her messy handwriting.

Thank you isn't enough. I hope the breakfast makes up for everything you did for me these last few days.

Your girlfriend,

Z.

Oliver eats with a grin on his face, light chest, feeling truly happy.

But Zora is gone. And the rest of the day drags on. He doesn't want to do anything. Nora comes back from her sleepover mid-morning. Even she seems sad to find Zora gone.

The sky stays grey. They don't go outside. He packs his trunk for Hogwarts. They watch TV. Finish Nora's homework. Eat dinner. Nora goes to bed. He stays by her door for a while, watching her fall asleep, already heavy with sadness at the thought of leaving her again.

Then he goes back downstairs.

And Oliver puts the music back on.

Sinking into the couch, he rewinds every second of those last three days. A moment lost in time. A pocket of life he let himself slip into. A place where he let himself feel things—real things. A place where he let himself imagine a future. With her.

But now she's gone, and reality rushes back in, brutal and heavy. The future he imagined? Nothing but a gamble. A beautiful illusion balanced on the edge of a knife.

In his hands, he turns over the letter to Puddlemere.

The parchment nearly burns his fingertips. His own handwriting looks wrong—uneven, hesitant. The words blur into a mess in front his eyes.

It's the letter he wrote after the talk with his father. The one that accepts the offer from Puddlemere. The one that might seal his fate.

Seal a life full of frustration and what-ifs and regrets. Seal the version of him who gave in. Who played it safe. Who was afraid. Seal the version of him who is a coward. 

Some lines are scratched out. Some letters look barely legible. Like even his hand was trying to stop him.

In front of him, the envelope sits on the wooden table. The address is already written. Addressed to Puddlemere. To the coach. All he has to do is slip the letter in and send it off. That would be it. Decision made.

With a shaky hand, he picks up the envelope. He opens it slowly. Starts folding the letter.

And then—he sees Zora in his mind. Her words. Her worried look. 

"You need something that challenges you. That pushes you. That's worthy of your talent."

"You're the one who has to live with the choice. Not him."

He closes his eyes. His grip tightens on the parchment like it could silent her voice out of his head. His jaw clenches. He exhales. Then, in one quick motion, he stuffs the letter in the envelope and seals it shut.

He tosses it onto the table like it stings.

Oliver stares at it. His chest tightens. His mind spirals—Zora's voice, his father's pride, his own damn dreams.

Then the what-ifs. 

The national team offer. The pride in Zora's eyes. The disappointment in his father's. The pride in his own chest if he just dared.

He leans forward, burying his head in his hands. Trapped in his own thoughts, caught in the traps of his own demons.

Who wins?

"Fuck," he breathes.

The panic builds. He tries to calm his breathing. He tries to picture Zora. Then he remembers her dream was snatched from her. She had no choice. It was taken from her, confiscated, stolen.

He has the choice. 

Before he can talk himself out of it, he's on his feet. He grabs the envelope and rips it into tiny pieces. Shreds of a future he refuses to live.

Up the stairs. Two at a time.

He bursts into his room, opens a drawer, grabs a fresh piece of parchment and a quill.

This time, the words come fast. No stumbles. No second-guessing. No crossed-out lines.

He accepts.

He signs it.

He folds it. 

Slides it into a new envelope. 

No shaking hands now.

He writes the address.

Then calls his owl.

"Scottish national Quidditch team, please," he says, gently stroking the bird's head before letting her fly.

And as she disappears into the sky with his future in her beak, Oliver stands there, still.

Relieved in a way he's never felt in his life. Adrenaline making his heart beat faster.

He's ready now. Ready to face his father. To face anything. Everything. More ready than ever.

He goes back downstairs and sits on the couch. He waits for him. It shouldn't be long now. 

It will be business as usual. He will open the door, throw his shoes into the entryway. Then the sound of keys on the cabinet. Then the sigh. Then the jacket on the living room chair. 

Oliver knows it by heart now.  But this time seems different. He doesn't feel the usual apprehension at his father's arrival.

Even the sound of the clock isn't as oppressive as it used to be.

After some time, the front door finally opens with a rush of cold air. Oliver doesn't bother to turn. 

Shoes.

Keys.

Heavy sigh. 

Jacket.

"You're still up?" his father asks as he notices his son on the couch. 

"Yeah," Oliver answers without looking. His voice is sharp, tight.

There's a pause. "How was the week?"

"Fine."

"Nora?"

"She's fine too."

More silence. Oliver almost smiles. It's as if he finally realizes how little he has to say to his father. How little consideration he gives Oliver and Nora. Like one more file he has to deal with.

It's no wonder Oliver struggles to manage a conversation when his father speaks to him with no more than three words per sentence.

His father walks into the kitchen, pours himself a glass of water. He leans against the counter like the conversation exhausts him already. His tie is still half-knotted.

"Did you two manage alright?"

"We did better than alright," Oliver snaps, finally turning. He doesn't know if it's the adrenaline of the moment but he feels the need to talk. "We had a great time. We went on walks. We cooked. I helped with her homework. I tucked her in every night. It's not that hard, you know."

His father's brows draw together. "I'm just asking."

"Right. That's what this is? You asking?" Oliver stands now, too fast. His body shakes with adrenaline and an anger he has rarely seen awake. "Because you come back once a week, ask one question like it's a chore, and call that parenting?"

His father sets his glass down harder than necessary. "Don't start with that tone."

"Why not? It's the only one I have left for you."

There's a beat of heavy silence. The kind that makes the walls feel closer. Oliver notices that his father is unsettled.

His father finally frowns, straightening up. "What's your problem tonight?"

"Nothing," Oliver says, chest heaving. He searches his words. Bites his lips. Wonders if he should really tell him. But goes anyway. "I turned down Puddlemere."

His father stares at him and almost chokes. "You what?"

"I sent the letter to the Scottish National team. I accepted their offer."

"You what—"

"I don't want to play for Puddlemere."

His father steps forward now. "Are you insane? You know how hard I worked to get you that offer? You know how many strings I pulled? How many times I made you train to get this ?"

"You worked for this ?" Oliver explodes. "I don't recall seing you on a fucking broom !" 

Oliver knows he has gone too far. He knows talking about his father's accident and the consequences is low. But it's true. 

"I didn't ask for any of it! That's your dream, not mine," Oliver adds. 

His father's face turns red, voice rising. "You think this is about dreams? This is about a career, Oliver. A future. Not whatever reckless idea you've cooked up in your head—"

"You mean believing I'm good enough for the national team? I'm in ! They want me, Dad. Why can't you understand that ?"

"I mean believing the spotlight matters more than stability! You want to play for the headlines, for the glory of the national team, for the money and the fame but—"

"I want to play for me!" Oliver's voice rises. "I want to look at myself in ten years and not hate what I fucking see in the mirror."

His father laughs and shakes his head. "You'll regret this, mac," his father spits. "Mark my words."

Mac. 

"Don't fucking call me that," Oliver says. "What I'll regret is letting you choose for me again. I'm going to regret letting you control my life again like you've done since I learned how to walk!"

His father stares, breath ragged. "Just like your mother," he mutters. "Head full of ideas. No sense of what the real world is like."

Oliver's jaw tightens. "Don't you dare bring her into this."

"Look where that got her."

Oliver snaps. He walks toward his father with threat. He presses his forehead to his. "How can you talk about the mother of your children like that? About your wife? Do you have the slightest idea of how much you disappoint me ?"

That one lands. Hard. His father looks like Oliver just punched him in the gut.

Oliver is about to add something but he hears a noise upstairs. Then light footsteps on the stairs.

"Oliver?" Nora stands halfway down, wide-eyed in her oversized pajamas. "Why are you shouting?"

Oliver turns instantly, chest still heaving. He walks to her, already feeling guilty of waking her up and the fact she witnessed him screaming. "It's okay, bug. We're just talking."

His father runs a hand in her hair and tries to smile in front of his daughter. "Nora, come say hi to daddy." 

But Nora shakes her head, walks down the rest of the stairs, and wraps her arms tightly around her brother's legs.

"I don't like when you fight," she mumbles.

Oliver glares at his father. He picks her up. "Don't worry, it's nothing. Go back to bed, I'm coming in two minutes. I'm sorry." 

She nods and goes up without even a glance to their father. Oliver sighs, fists on his hips. He turns to his father. 

"I'm going to the National team. And if you don't like it, I don't give a damn. Find yourself a new dream."

He goes to walk the stairs but stops in front of it and turns again. "And by the way, I'm not doing it for the fame, or just for me. But for her too. For Nora. To make her proud." He looks him right in the eyes and almost smiles. 

"I'm doing this so she has someone to look up to — not a father she can't even turn to for comfort."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

When Zora arrives at the manor, a cold shiver runs down her spine. Instinctively, her fists clench, her jaw tightens. Just the sight of the house—its pristine facade, the perfectly carved gardens, the manicured roses her mother obsesses over—makes her stomach twist. 

She wants to scream. Scream her anger. Scream the injustice awakening in her.

Leaving Oliver's house was already hard enough. Having to return here feels like adding insult to injury. But she doesn't have a choice—she needs to pick up the last of her things, especially her Quidditch gear, before going back to Hogwarts tomorrow.

She has a plan: slip in through the winter garden, straight to her room, no noises, no confrontations. Just grab her stuff, stays in her room and leave tomorrow before dawn. She doesn't want to see anyone. Least of all her mother. She's not sure what she would do if she did.

The anger is still too intense, too real, too alive. And it would be a shame to ruin satin dresses and a perfect bun.

Zora exhales, steadying herself, and makes her way along the outer edge of the house. Her footsteps are silent against the stone path. She slips past the winter garden and hides behind the wall, listening. Not a sound. No voices.

Relieved, she walks across the salon, heart hammering in her chest, and reaches the main entrance. She climbs the stairs on the tips of her feet, careful not to make them creak. The manor feels empty. Still, it suffocates her. The air is too still. The walls too close. Every corner seems to close in on her. 

At the top of the stairs, she pauses and listens for any movement. Nothing. She passes her mother's bedroom, slows down, ears straining. Still no sound. Not even Anna. No perfume trailing in the air.

Zora moves quickly now, toward the end of the hallway, toward her own room—heart pounding with the satisfaction of not having crossed anyone.

She opens her door quietly, slips inside, and closes it behind her. The wood presses against her spine as she lets herself slide to the floor, eyes fluttering shut. For the first time since stepping foot here, she breathes.

But then— A shadow moves on the bed.

Zora jumps upright, hand still gripping the doorknob, every muscle tight with panic. Her breath catches in her throat.

But then the figure shifts, turns.

And Zora exhales sharply when she sees the familiar, slender frame of her aunt sitting calmly at the edge of her bed.

"What are you doing here?" she asks, voice flat, stepping further into the room.

Her aunt says nothing.

Zora walks closer, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet, and then she sees her. Tears shining in her eyes. And in her hands—Zora's old toy rabbit. The one with the stitched-up ear and the missing button eye. 

Her chest tightens so suddenly it aches. She packed that rabbit away when her father died. Locked it in a drawer like she locked away everything else. It's the first time she sees it again. 

Her aunt lifts the rabbit slightly, tries to smile, but her face twists into something closer to a grimace. "Look who I found."

Zora swallows hard. She refuses to cry. Not here. Not now. Her aunt doesn't deserve it. 

She doesn't answer. She just turns her back and starts unpacking the small bundle she brought. Trying her best not to crumble. 

"You used to take it everywhere," her aunt says softly behind her. "Even the first time your father put you on a broom—you tucked him into your jacket. Said it was your lucky charm." She pauses. "Do you remember, слънце?"

Zora stops mid-motion.

слънце.

She used to love that name. Used to light up when her aunt called her that. Now it just makes her feel sick.

She refuses to turn around. Refuses to let her see her face. Her throat is tight, her fingers curling into fists where they hover over her things. She won't cry. Not here. Not in this house. Tears are forbidden in this place.

But it's hard. Too hard. The last three days with Oliver had been like a parenthesis in time. But reality didn't vanish. It waited, crouched in the dark, and now it comes clawing back, even more real that the last time. 

She breathes in and resumes packing.

"One time, you even—"

"Stop," Zora cuts in. She turns to face her. "You don't get to talk to me about happy memories. Not with my fucking childhood toy in your hands. What do you want?"

Her aunt flinches. Her expression crumbles. She sets the rabbit down on the edge of the bed with shaking hands, as if it might break. Then she stands, steps toward Zora carefully.

"I—I just wanted to apologize, Zora. I'm sorry. For everything."

Zora bites down hard on the inside of her cheek, her chin starting to tremble. "Okay. Bye."

She turns, goes back to folding her clothes, but her aunt grabs her hand.

"I was so worried, Zora. I didn't know where you'd gone. And the guilt—it's eating me alive. Every morning, every night, I feel like it's killing me—"

Zora yanks her hand away. Her voice cracks with anger she's barely containing. "Great. Now you've unburdened yourself. Cleared your conscience. You can go."

A tear slips down her aunt's cheek.

Zora watches it fall—slowly—tracing a path over faint wrinkles, down to the same. 

"Zora, please. If you only knew how sorry I am. But I couldn't do anything. If I had—"

Zora laughs. Bitter. Ugly. "Of course. Easier to keep your mouth shut than risk your fancy dinners and pearls around your neck, right?"

"It's more complicated than that," her aunt says, her voice tight. "And you know it. You know I don't care about those things. All I've ever wanted was your happiness. Yours and Viktor's."

Zora blinks fast. Her throat burns. "Well. Too late now."

Her shoulders jerk as she inhales. The taste of bile rises in her mouth. 

"слънце," her aunt says, barely above a whisper.

And that's it.

Zora breaks.

The tears come too fast, too violently to stop. She falls forward and crashes against her aunt's shoulder, arms wrapping around her instinctively, desperately. Her aunt holds her like never her mother has. And Zora leans in. 

"I'm so sorry, Zora."

The sobs shake her body. Her voice is barely audible through the shaking. "You knew... you knew and you didn't do anything."

Her aunt pulls back just enough to meet her eyes. "I was scared," she breathes, tears flooding her eyes. "I've always been scared of her. I didn't know how to protect you without making it worse."

Zora lets out a sharp breath, half-laugh, half-sob. "Right. So you just sipped your tea in the garden while I got passed around like a fucking bargaining chip."

Her breathing stutters. She collapses to the floor, her back against the bed frame, knees up, arms around herself. Her aunt lowers herself beside her in silence.

Zora wipes her face roughly, furious at herself. "I hate this place," she mutters. "I hate what it did to him. I hate what it's doing to me."

Her aunt exhales slowly. "I hate it too. Always have. When I married your uncle and moved in after your father died, I thought... maybe we could be a family. But Lilyana—she's..." she shakes her head. "She knows how to make people feel small. I've never really known how to exist around her."

Zora leans her head back against the bed, eyes shut.

Her aunt's voice softens. "When you talk about him... you mean your father?"

Zora nods. Her lips press tight. The pain rises all over again.

Her father.

She can still perfectly hear her mother's words. The gambling. The debts. The women. It loops endlessly in her head, a truth she never wanted, never asked for. She can't forget it. Can't even look at his photo the same way. 

"How do you keep loving someone," she whispers, "when you realize you never really knew them?"

There's silence.

She's afraid but she wants to know. Desperately. "What she said... about him. Is it true?"

Her aunt lets out a long breath. 

"Please don't lie again," Zora adds quickly. "I think I deserve the truth. My truth."

"You're right," her aunt says. "Yes. It's true. Or... mostly. You know how your mother is. She can't tell a story without twisting the knife. But yes. He gambled. A lot. All the time. He burned through most of your savings. He was... sick. Addicted."

Zora nods slowly. Her nails press into her palms. Her voice cracks. "And the women?"

"I think... some of it is true. Some isn't. One day, your uncle told me he saw him with someone. Said he was in love. Lilyana knew. That part I'm sure of. Maybe there were others. Maybe not. Maybe they were just stories."

Zora nods and she feels like she is going to be sick. "He died, and all I had left was this picture of him, all the memories I had. And she destroyed that too."

Her aunt leans forward, but Zora holds up a hand. "Don't."

She breathes in, slow and painful. "I don't even fucking hate him," Zora adds. "I wish I did. But I don't. And I wish I didn't care that he made stupid, selfish, reckless choices. But I do. Because now they're mine. All of them."

Her aunt straightens up. "He loved you, you know. He would've done anything for you."

Zora lets out a laugh. It's the saddest sound in the world. "Yeah. Well. Love isn't enough, is it?"

Silence again. After a long moment, her aunt stands and leans down to press a soft kiss to Zora's forehead.

"Your mother and uncle aren't here this weekend. They're not back until Monday. Ministry business. I didn't go—I can't even bear myself to go out after everything." She smooths her skirt. "If you want, we could have dinner. Just us."

Zora wipes her nose, sits up slowly. She meets her aunt's eyes. "I think I'd rather be alone."

She sees the flicker of hurt in her aunt's face. But she just nods. Offers a small, sad smile. And slips out into the hallway.

Zora exhales and lets herself fall back on the bed, eyes open, staring at nothing.

She thinks about her father.

She's not just grieving him.

She's grieving the lie of him. The family that never was. Her dreams. The life she never had. The life she never will have. 

What does she even have left?

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The morning tastes like ash.

Zora barely slept. She closed her eyes a few times, but she didn't rest—Her thoughts didn't seem to want to leave her alone. When the sun finally rose, she was already dressed, bags packed, wand tucked into her sleeve.

Viktor isn't back. National team training, she reminds herself. Not like he would've said anything, anyway.

The manor is silent as she slips out. Too silent. She doesn't bother with breakfast. Doesn't leave a note. 

Back to Hogwarts.

The castle is not yet full, as not everyone has returned from vacation.  But Zora feels a little better when she reunites with the warm atmosphere of Hogwarts, the excitement of the students reuniting, and the sweet smell of tonight's banquet already wafting from the kitchen.

She steps into the Great Hall, desperate to find her friends. 

She doesn't need to search them. 

"KRUM!" Adeline yells, arms thrown around her neck, almost knocking her off balance.

Angelina is right behind her, smiling. "You absolute snake. We thought you would come back yesterday, as we said. We thought you were dead."

"I was voting for kidnapped by Veelas," Adeline adds, already pulling Zora toward the table. "They'd fall for that grumpy face of yours."

Zora lets herself be dragged, lets them talk, lets them fill the air with sound. She even laughs. Sort of. It's hollow around the edges, but it's something. She wants to feel normal. Feel like everything is normal, like every is supposed to be. To pretend everything is not falling appart. 

They sit. Almost instantly, Angelina eyes her up and down. "You're being weird."

Zora raises an eyebrow. "Thanks. Been here thirty seconds and I'm already insulted."

"No, not like that," Adeline says. "Like... you're here but not really."

Zora exhales. She can't hide anything from them. "I'm here, don't worry."

Angelina gets up. "Now that's some serious bullshit. What's going on ?"

Zora rolls her eyes, grabs a toast, and stands. "Dorm. Now. Too many ears here."

Adeline and Angelina exchange a look—immediate, silent. They know the tone. They follow.

Once on the Durmstrang ship, Zora drops her bag by her bed, doesn't unpack. Just sits. Cross-legged. Hoping they would forget everything.

"So," she starts, trying to avoid talking about her. "Tell me about your holidays."

Adeline doesn't hesitate and flops dramatically onto the bed. "France. National tryouts. Wine. Drama. Got elbowed in the jaw by a girl named Camille during the tryouts who thinks she's the next Jones."

Angelina snorts. "Bet she cried when you beat her."

"Oh, she sobbed," Adeline says, tossing a cushion into the air and catching it. "Like, loud. Full breakdown. I waved at her."

Zora snorts. "Cruel."

"I learned from you," Adeline shoots back with a smile.

Zora half-smiles, but it slips fast.

Angelina leans against the foot of Zora's bed. "Wait. You told us in the letter but give us details about the Tryouts."

Adeline smiles, excited. "It went super well. I made it past the first three rounds. They're building a new team, they want fast formations. I think they liked my style."

Zora sits up, genuinely happy. "Of course they liked your style. You fly as fast as birds."

"I do," Adeline says, feeling proud. 

Zora feels a quiet pride waking low in her chest despite the weight inside her. "So... are you in?"

"They're keeping me on reserve for now," Adeline says. "There's another trial at the beginning of August. If I don't mess that up, I'm in. Full-time."

"Adeline." Angelina leans forward. "That's insane."

Adeline shrugs, but her cheeks flush. "Yeah, well. I mean—yeah."

Angelina throws a pillow at her. "Acting like that's not a big deal when we've been stuck playing against you since second year. You deserve this."

There's a beat. Then Adeline glances at Zora. "I wish you'd been there, though. I kept thinking about you. About what you'd do. You always knew how to size people up in two seconds flat. Camille? You'd have had her crying before warm-up."

Zora raises her eyes. "Sounds like you managed fine without me."

"Still," Adeline says. "It wasn't the same."

Then Zora turns to Angelina, raising an eyebrow. "You?"

Angelina grins. "Split my time between my parents' place and George's. Didn't sleep more than four hours per night. I'm tired. In the best possible way."

"Did you meet the whole ginger crew?" Adeline asks.

Angelina groans. "I met every single one. I'm not kidding—they multiply when you're not looking. I was trying to make tea and five new cousins walked in."

Zora laughs. "Sounds horrifying."

"They fed me constantly. I haven't eaten a normal portion in two weeks. But they are the sweetest I have ever met. Charlie even offered to hex George if he ever mess up."

Zora's eyebrows shoot up. "Protective brother approval. That's a step."

"Oh, it gets worse," Angelina adds. "At one point, Molly sat me down in the kitchen, held both my hands, and told me that I'd make a lovely bride."

Adeline chokes. "She did not."

"She did."

Zora shakes her head, smiling despite herself. "So... wedding soon?"

Angelina rolls her eyes. "Honestly, ten out of ten vacation. Chaos, carbs, and firewhisky in the shed with Fred and Lee. Oh—and I finally beat George at Wizard Chess. Twice."

Adeline whistles. "Marriage and dominance. You're living the dream."

Angelina smiles proudly. "Thank you, thank you. I'll send you both the save-the-date."

Zora watches them for a second. Smiling. Letting it land. Letting it soften her edges. Everything is normal. 

Then something pops in her mind as she looks at Adeline. Back at the Manor, when everybody was here. Zora glances at Angelina. She catches her eyes and instantly, she knows she is thinking about the same thing. 

"Sooooooo," Angelina says, dragging the word out with a smile. "Viktor Krum."

Zora looks at Adeline with a smile. Adeline squints, suspicious. "What about Vik?" 

"What do you think about him?" Zora adds. 

Adeline stands up, blinking. "What?"

"I mean. He is hot, right ? Nice, too. Doesn't talk much but seems to be hella talkative with you, uh ?" Angelina pushes. 

Zora nods. "Don't think we didn't notice what happened when you all spent the weekend. Little teasing, little looks. What's happening ?"

"Nothing!" Adeline protests, face instantly heating up.

"Oh come on," Zora grins, nudging her knee. "You're into him."

Adeline lifts her head, cheeks pink. "I am with Ivan, remember? Ivan. My boyfriend. Does that ring any bells ?"

Zora snorts. "Right. Just, I think he might likes you too."

Angelina turns to Zora. "Remember when he was all nervous to talk about Ivan when Ad asked him ?"

"You guys noticed that too?" Adeline suddenly asks, nervous. 

Angelina and Zora share a look and start to scream and laugh. "You like him !" 

Adeline groans. "No ! I mean—, I don't know it's, Viktor is just—Viktor. We've known each other since we were kids."

"Exactly," Zora says. "You're practically betrothed already."

Adeline rolls her eyes. They all end up silent, smile still plastered on their face. Angelina ends up leaning toward Zora, looking at her, her face soft. "Now you have to stop dodging the conversation, alright ? What's going on Z ?" 

Zora straights up, sighing heavily. She can't hide anything from them. Not from them. Her friends. Her sisters. She starts to speak, but nothing comes out. She smiles and giggles nervously, shaking her head slightly. She bites her lips. 

"Zora, you're scaring me," Angelina says. 

Zora closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. "Remember the few letters I got? From my mother. The one about Vasiliev."

Both girls nod slowly, eyes locked on her.

"Well," Zora says. "Turns out it wasn't just some pressure or suggestions."

She swallows hard. "I'm engaged to him. Legally. By contract. I have to marry him."

A beat of stunned silence. Angelina is the first to speak. "You're what?"

"There's a contract," Zora says. Her voice sounds flat. Mechanical. Like if she lets emotion in, the words won't come out. "Signed years ago. Between our families. My mother, his father. I didn't know. Not until last Wednesday. I went to the National Stadium to get some answers. The coach told me I sent him a letter saying I didn't want to play professionally anymore. It was a forged letter. From my mother. I confronted her and she told me everything."

Adeline looks horrified. "Everything?"

Zora nods once. "My father... he left behind a mess. Debts. Gambling. A reputation to bury. The contract covers all that. It binds me to Vasiliev and secures everything—our name, Viktor's future and success, my mother's reputation."

Angelina's mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Adeline presses a hand over her mouth. Both don't even dare to look at her. 

"I went to get my things before coming back. The contract was waiting for me on my desk. Neatly stacked. Like it was just some school permission slip." Zora laughs bitterly. "She's really proud of it, I think."

Angelina leans forward. "Zora, this is insane. You can't—this isn't—"

"And if I say no, I pay the price," Zora cuts in, knowing where Angelina is going. "I can't say no without destroying everything. I asked. I tried. My mother made it clear—if I refuse, I lose everything. Quidditch plans. My name. My future. And Viktor pays the price too."

"That's blackmail," Adeline snaps.

Zora shrugs, but the movement looks more like a shiver. "That's not how she sees it."

Angelina's jaw tightens. "And Vassiliev? Is he even into this?"

"I don't know," Zora says slowly. "I don't think he wants it either. I don't think he's really fond of me. He probably has something to gain from all this."

Adeline is shaking her head. "This isn't happening. This can't be real."

Angelina's hands ball into fists in her lap. "But what about your father? He would've never wanted this—"

Zora looks up at her. "Well, he was dead when they made the contract."

They both go still.

Zora swallows. "My aunt confirmed the truth. About him. I couldn't believe it at first. But it's all true. The debts. The women. The lies. It shattered everything I thought I knew about him."

Neither girl speaks.

"I don't even know how to mourn him anymore," she whispers. "He's dead, but now I feel like I'm mourning a lie. A version of him that never really existed."

Angelina reaches over and puts a hand over hers. "You're not alone."

Zora closes her eyes, fighting the sting. "I just— I spent three days at Oliver's. I felt so good. Like myself. Like things were possible again. But it wasn't real. It was a break. A pause. Not a future."

There's a silence after Zora's confession, heavy and thick, like the room itself has stopped breathing.

"I'm so sorry Z," starts Angelina. "You don't deserve this. But I promise we are going to be there for you, whatever happens, and try to find a solution and—"

Then Adeline blinks. "Wait—hold on."

Angelina straightens up. "Yeah, back up. Back. Up. You spent three days at Oliver's?"

Zora rolls her eyes but can't help smiling. "Yeah."

Adeline's jaw drops. "As in, three days—in his house?"

"With his sister," Zora says. "I didn't know where to go. He was the first I thought about. And we..." She stops before looking at both of them, "Well, we're together now."

"Zora Krum has a boyfriend," Angelina says, eyes wide, smiling. "We're living in a parallel universe. Look at you going all soft."

Adeline gasps. "Are you okay? Do we need to check for signs of brain damage?"

"Very funny," Zora mutters, trying not to smile. "It was good. It was... really good. He's—" She breaks off again, eyes distant for a second. "I love how he makes me feel."

Then Angelina stills, eyes narrowing just slightly. "Wait. Does he know?"

Zora doesn't answer.

Angelina leans in. "Zora."

Zora looks down at her hands. "Not everything."

Adeline frowns. "What do you mean, not everything?"

"I told him a bit. That it was complicated. That my mother... tried to control things. But not the contract. Not the whole thing. Not the part where I'm engaged."

"Zora," Adeline says, quiet, almost hurt for her. "Why not?"

Zora shrugs. "Because if I say it out loud to him, it's real. And I just— I wanted a few days without it. Without her. Without this future she's shoving down my throat. I wanted him without all the strings attached."

"You think he'll leave if he knows?" Angelina asks.

Zora swallows. "I don't know. Maybe. Probably. But that's not why. I just— I need to find the courage to tell him. To find the words. To accept I might destroy everything."

Neither of them say anything for a moment.

Angelina rubs her hand over her face. "This is too much information. I was still trying to emotionally process the Viktor and Ivan thing."

Adeline lets out a weak laugh. Zora just slumps back into the pillows.

Angelina sighs. "Okay. So. You're secretly engaged, your mother is the villain of the century, Oliver is your boyfriend but doesn't know it all, and you're playing the match of the year next weekend."

"Basically," Zora mutters.

Adeline looks at her. "So. What are you going to do, Z?"

She exhales slowly. "I have absolutely no fucking clue."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The pitch is silent and empty. No sound but her breath and the broom that rubs the wind at full speed.

Zora's on the pitch. The night is dark, swallowing the few stars shining above her head. 

She's running drills, sprints, pushups. She throws, she catches, she repeats. She flies. She dives. She loops. Again. And again.

Each motion feels like a fight. She runs it like it's punishment. She doesn't stop.

Not even when her legs start to burn, not even when her vision blurs. She trains like the pain might silence her thoughts.

She doesn't want to think. Not about her mother. Not the contract. Not her father. 

Only about the pitch. The game. The match next weekend. Gryffindor.

She pushes harder. Because if she stops—if she breathes too long—she'll start thinking again. 

So she chooses the only thing that's ever made sense. Quidditch. Adrenaline. Control over her body, over her muscles, over her force, over her exhaustion. 

Giving her the impression she has control over her life. 

Two hours in, her legs finally betray her—knees buckling under her. She hits the grass hard and lies on the grass, sweat clinging to her back, to her neck, to every inch of her skin.

She blinks at the sky. Lets herself exist in silence.

But someone decides to disturb her peace. 

"Planning on dying out here or...?"

She recognizes the voice. She sits up and groans. "Diggory, don't you have a bloody curfew?"

Cedric's silhouette steps into view above her, smiling with all his teeth.

"Indeed. But I'm the prefect, so."

Zora stays flat on her back. "Congratulations. Add that to your Hogwarts Boy Scout badge collection."

Cedric leans back on his hands. "You always train alone?"

"Only when I need to hit something and no one volunteers."

"Well, good thing Gryffindor's next."

That earns a half-smile from her. "Yeah. I'm looking forward to it."

He tilts his head. "You think they're ready?"

"Not even a little."

He chuckles. "If all your team plays like you just did, you're going to kill them one by one." 

She sits up finally, brushing grass off her arms and gives him a teasing look. "Wait, are you worried for us?"

He shrugs. "Nah. I'm worried about whoever faces you after."

Zora smiles. "Kind of you to worry."

"I'm a kind guy."

"I know," she says and she truly means it. 

They sit in silence a moment. The wind cools down her body. She drinks from her cup. 

"You ready for the tournament?" she asks after a while, turning to him.

Cedric looks toward the stands. She spots his jaw tightening a bit.

"As ready as anyone can be when they know they might die doing something for international bragging rights."

She smiles but frowns and gives him a look. "You sound stressed."

"I've got a bloody maze to run in three weeks," he adds. "So yeah. Slightly stressed."

"A maze?"

He sighs. "Final task. They're transforming the pitch. Massive labyrinth. Magical creatures. Traps. I don't know. Probably a dragon disguised as McGonagall."

Zora winces. "Fun."

"I've had more relaxing afternoons," he says, smiling.

"I bet you had," she says. "And who thought it was a good idea for you to take part in this bloody tournament in the first place ?"  

He sighs. "Yeah. Touché." 

She doesn't say anything at first, but ends up putting her hand slowly on his shoulder. "Don't worry. You're going to do it. And if you loose, it's no big deal. You'll still be the most famous man at Hogwarts." 

He smiles at her. "Flattery will get you anywhere, Krum." 

She takes a sip of water and rolls her eyes. Then he nudges her with his shoulder and gives her a knowing look. "So, you and Wood, uh ?" 

Zora frowns. "What? How do you know?"

"Love news travels fast my dear," he says, messing with her. 

She glares at him. 

"Oliver. Told the twins."

Zora sighs, knowing what happened. 

"And they told everyone."

"Of course they did."

Cedric shrugs, still smiling. "Honestly, I thought you'd murder him before you kissed him. So it's been a lovely surprise."

She slaps him softly. 

Cedric sighs. "I'm happy for him. He deserves someone good like you." 

She feels her chest tightening as she listens to Cedric. She sighs. "Yes, he really does deserve someone good." 

But is she good enough ?