GRYFFINDOR VS DELEGATION

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chase atlantic - meddle about

You got me down on my kneesIt's getting harder to breathe out.

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The week flies by faster than Zora expected.

Classes have started again, though no one really seems to care. Not when the only things on anyone's mind and lips are the Cup and the final task of the Triwizard Tournament. The corridors and classes are filled with speculation, predictions, gossip about the champions, about the final task coming up, about who might win this Saturday.

Zora's days pass and all look the same—early trainings at dawn, classes she barely listens to, afternoon team practices for the match this weekend, and more solo drills after curfew, just her and the pitch and the echo of her own breath.

She thinks they're ready.

Well. As ready as they can be. She's pushed the team as far as she could. Corrected the weak links, sharpened the strengths. They're coordinated now. They listen. They play withe each others, not against.

Offensively, they're fast, smart, efficient. The defense still has gaps, but Zora decides to leave that to the fate of the game.

All week she's had her head buried in strategies—form diagrams, routines, old match notes. Her notebook never leaves her side. She walks through the castle scribbling things out, rewriting formations the second her brain sparks.

She sees only Quaffles, hoops, brooms, counterattacks.

They have a shot.

But they're not facing just anyone.

They're facing Gryffindor.

Zora's willing to admit—reluctantly—that Gryffindor's defense is solid. Unfairly solid. Perfectly solid.

And a lot of it is because of Oliver. Not just his technique—though that's impeccable—but the way he leads. The way he builds a team around trust. They talk without speaking. Glances, nods, intuition across the entire pitch.

Oliver always sees everything.

He may not adapt mid-game as easily as Zora—he craves structure, hates change. He'll stick to the plan. Stick to the formations he's drilled four hundred times in his head. He'll want everyone to play in their zones, to lean into their specialties.

Zora's the opposite. She lives for the unpredictable.

Her game shifts on the fly. She adjusts based on the opponent, the weather, the state of her players. And her own playstyle is a nightmare to read—she'll start one formation only to flip into another at the last second. Fake support a Chaser, draw the defense, only to receive the Quaffle in a blind pass and score.

It's her signature.

Oliver hates that kind of game. She knows it. That's what it's always been about.

They've barely seen each other all week. Back at Oliver's, they finally agreed on their "enemies week." A deal. They don't speak to each other, they don't look at each other. Just for the week.

It's not that hard anyway.

When it's match week, Oliver becomes a ghost. Pitch. Dorm. Pitch. Maybe the library for five minutes to check wind patterns from the past decade. He's stopped eating. Zora knows that too well.

She's started training in the mornings, just so she can see him.

They don't talk. They move in sync. They pass, run drills, avoid eye contact. After, she always brings breakfast. Leave him a few toast. Just to make sure he eats.

They've both leaned into the whole enemies-on-the-pitch thing. Committed to the bit.

It's driving Zora mad. The way he looks at her across the field, focused, unreadable. The way she can't grab his collar and kiss the tension off his mouth. She can't take it anymore.

On Thursday night, around midnight, she walks back to the castle, broom on her shoulder, every bones in her body aching from training.

She secretly hopes Cedric's on patrol tonight. He's the only one who won't lecture her for being out this late. The rest of them have started lecturing her just for breathing near curfew.

She walks up the hill, half-dead, ready to collapse into bed. But then she spots movement near the castle wall.

Two silhouettes creeping along the stone. Laughing quietly. Crawling, actually.

Zora narrows her eyes and changes direction. Her curiosity is too strong.

"Oi," she calls out, not too loud, but enough to startle them.

The figures freeze. Then slowly turn around as she approaches.

She rolls her eyes as soon as she sees their faces.

Fred and Lee.

Slightly drunk. Clearly guilty.

She walks to them, arms crossed. "So. What exactly are you two doing crawling around the castle like drunken worms?"

Fred straightens up as if insulted. "Worms? I'll have you know I'm an excellent crawler. Olympic level."

Lee nods solemnly. "Fred's got the grace of a kneazle in heat."

Fred elbows him. "Oi."

Zora raises an eyebrow. "That doesn't explain anything."

"We're going to the Three Broomsticks. Obviously," Fred answers.

"In the middle of the night."

"We found a new secret passage to Hogsmeade," Lee says, whispering. "Filch is asleep. We timed it."

Zora glances behind them, toward the wall. "And why, exactly, does the Three Broomsticks sound like a good idea two days before the match?"

Fred smiles. "Because it's always a good idea."

"We're meeting the others," Lee adds. "George, Angie. The whole team. Couple of the Ravenclaws. Just a few drinks. Y'know—reconnecting before I'll have to comment about Gryffindor getting destroyed on Saturday."

Zora snorts.

Fred adds, "It's called 'balance,' Zora. Stress management. Mental prep."

"Also, we need to seduce the bartender into giving us free Firewhisky."

Zora rolls her eyes. "You're both hopeless."

Fred takes a dramatic step forward, swaying only a little. "Zora Krum, you look like you need it more than we do."

"I don't."

"You do."

Lee walks closer too, putting his arm around her shoulder. "Come on. Just one drink. One night off. We won't tell your little boyfriend."

Zora freezes. "Please, don't."

Fred grins wider. "So? You coming or what?"

She hesitates. She really does. She thinks of her bed, of the soreness in her legs, of how many drills she still wants to squeeze in tomorrow before the match. Of the stakes. Of the contract. Of her father. Of everything.

And the idea of laughing for even five minutes suddenly doesn't sound so bad.

She sighs, shaking her head like she's already regretting it. "Fine."

Fred throws both arms up. "Victory!"

Lee smiles. "Let's go before Filch wakes up."

Zora follows them toward the wall and toward the secret passage. It's a tunnel dirty and full of dust. She left her Quidditch gear in the middle of it. After a few minutes, they end up in South Hogsmeade and walk to the pub.

Once in front of the Three Broomsticks, Zora steps in behind Fred and Lee and pauses. It's not packed, but the people who are here make enough noise for fifty. The air smells like firewhisky and chimney fire.

Alicia spots her first. "Hey ! Look who crawled out of the pitch," she calls from a table near the fireplace.

Zora walks to them. She spots Roger Davies and the whole Gryffindor team, except Oliver.

She smiles. "Spinnet, didn't realise this was an invite-only Gryffindor pity party. Plus Davies," she says, smiling.

"It is," Katie grins from behind a pint. "But we make exceptions."

She sits next to Katie and turns to Angelina. "Didn't know you would be here, Johnson."

She hasn't seen much of Angelina this past week either. It turns out Angelina made it pretty clear that she's also her number one enemy this week.

She crosses her arms and turns to her team. "Are we really going to welcome the enemy for the evening?"

Fred slides dramatically onto the bench. "C'mon, Krum is not enemy. We know she's going to beat us. She could at least buy us a drink first."

Zora's already halfway to regretting this.

She glances around. "Your Captain's not here?"

Half the table answers at once.

"Of course not." "He left at eight, after dinner." "Said he had to review some diagrams or die."

"Figures," Zora says, smiling at the thought of him. Lee hands her a butterbeer without even asking. She thanks him.

"He would kill us one by one if he knew we were here.," Fred adds. "Real dramatic."

Angelina smiles. "Kill? You're kind. He'd torture us until we look like a bludger."

Everyone laugh. Zora takes a sip of her beer, feeling the liquid warm her body.

Cards come out. So does a questionable bottle of something purple that no one can identify but everyone drinks anyway. Zora stops drinking after her beer. Angelina wins three hands in a row and gets booed. Fred and Lee cheat openly and somehow still lose.

Zora turns toward Katie and Alicia behind her. "What about you two? We haven't spoken in a while. What's the grand plan after this year? You both still aiming for pro Quidditch?"

Alicia and Katie exchange a glance.

Katie answers first. "Yeah. Got tryouts in the summer for the Harpies and the Arrows. Both are long shots but—"

"But you'll crush them," Zora finishes.

Katie smiles. "That's the idea."

Alicia leans back, stretching. "I'm less set. Still want to play, but I'm also looking at coaching programmes. There's one in New Zealand that focuses on youth teams. Kind of tempted."

Zora blinks. "New Zealand?"

"Yeah. Warm weather. Good beaches. Kinda feels like disappearing, but in the best way."

"Also," Katie adds with a grin, "she wants to date that Seeker from last year's World Cup who moved there. What's his name again—?"

"Shut up."

Zora snorts. "Truly noble motivations."

"Please. If I get a job and a hot Seeker, that's called a real success."

They all laugh. Zora leans on the edge of the booth, propping her chin on her hand. "It's weird, isn't it?"

"What is?" Alicia asks.

"That it's our last year. That we're not just talking about next exams or next matches, but—like—next lives."

Katie nods slowly. "It's terrifying."

"But kind of exciting too," Alicia adds. "Like finally everything's real. No more waiting around."

Zora plays with the rim of her empty glass, feeling that she is taking the path of introspection and sadness. "Do you ever feel like... I don't know. That the older we get, the less sure we are?"

"Constantly," Alicia says.

"I feel like I knew exactly who I was two years ago," Zora whispers. "And now—every day it's like I'm someone else."

Katie watches her for a moment, a worried look on her face. "Maybe that's not a bad thing."

"Okay," Alicia says, settling in with a fresh drink, sensing she has to change the topic after seing Zora's face. "Let's talk about the match. Predictions?"

Katie points at Zora. "If she doesn't kill us on the pitch, it'll be a miracle."

Zora shrugs but smiles. "I make no promises."

Alicia grins. "Oh, she's confident."

More laughter. More drinks for the other. Zora starts to feel the weight of fatigue on her. She enjoys the state she's in. Tired, a little alcohol in her. She feels like she's floating. She no longer feels the pain in her body, and the pain in her heart seems to fade away.

Zora leans back again and just watches them for a moment.Everyone laughing, drinking. Everything is normal. It's grounding. She's missed this.

Zora barely has time to enjoy before Fred and George slide onto the bench on either side of her.

"Well, well, well," Fred says, grinning.

"If it isn't our new sister-in-law," George finishes.

Zora sighs and narrows her eyes. "I'm going to murder both of you."

Fred leans forward, propping his chin in his hand. "Zora, darling. You spent three whole days at Wood's house and you thought we wouldn't tease you about it?"

Zora groans, hiding her face in her hands. "Please no."

Fred is already mimicking Oliver's low voice saying nonsense about her and the three days she was there.

Zora slaps his arm, trying to appear mad but can't help to laugh at his imitation. "Stop this. I'm not even kidding."

Fred stops and sighs. "Our little boy. All grown up."

George eyes her sideways. "You like him, huh?"

Zora doesn't answer at first. She meets his eyes and blushes and can't help but smile. George cheers excitedly. 

Fred grins. "He's a good one, you know. For a complete Quidditch maniac."

Zora raises a brow. "And what does that make me?"

"Absolutely terrifying," George answers brightly. "But in a charming way."

"Honestly," Fred adds, "we were worried he'd end up with someone dull. You know, someone who'd actually let him monologue about broom handles."

Zora smiles, "He's absolutely monologued about broom handles to me."

George claps her on the back. "Then you're a stronger woman than most."

Zora smiles. "I kind of like it."

Fred looks at her witch wide eyes. "Merlin, she's the same as him."

"Hopeless," George confirms.

They all laugh. Zora shakes her head.

Fred bumps her shoulder. "Seriously though. We like you."

George nods. "He's better when you're around. Still a total weirdo, but like, less... intense."

Zora rolls her eyes. "Thanks?"

"It's a compliment," Fred insists. "You balance him out. Bring out the fun."

Zora sighs. "Well, I like you two too. Except when you bore me about my personal life."

"Wood is not your personal life. It's our life too. He's our brother, you know? We have to talk about it." adds George, surprisingly serious. 

Zora smiles. "You don't have enough brother already ?"

Fred shakes his head. "Nothing is enough when you have Wood as your friend and as your Captain."

Zora feels a surge of emotion rising in her chest. Knowing that Oliver is so well looked after fills her with happiness.

More, she tells herself that whatever happens, he will be surrounded.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

You could feel the tension from the moment the sun rose.

It's in the corridors, in the whispers and nervous giggles from first years. It's in the way everyone at breakfast talked about the game, about their predictions, about how much money they will bet on each team. The house tables are already a sea of red and gold. Scarves, face paint, flags, pins. Gryffindor's moment. Gryffindor's day. Hogwart's pride.

Even the staff seem to have caught the fever. McGonagall wears a pin in the shape of a lion. Even Hooch seems tighter than usual.

Despite being at Hogwarts, there's some support for the delegation — mostly from Beauxbatons and Durmstrangs' students, but also, to Zora's surprise, some Slytherins and Ravenclaws. Blue ribbons, some enchanted banners — but Zora knows the odds. They're not favourites. They're just... foreign. Talented, sure. But outsiders all the same.

After a quick breakfast, Zora walks out to go back to her room and prepare for the match. Everyone is still at breakfast.

She's halfway to the stairs when she hears it — the sound of footsteps. Steady. Familiar.

Her chest tightens before her head even turns.

Oliver.

He's just coming back from his morning training, hair damp and curling slightly at his temples, broom slung lazily over one shoulder. His cheeks are flushed from the heat of the effort, his brows furrowed like they always are when he's been thinking too hard for too long.

They both stop.

A heartbeat of silence between them. She doesn't know who inhales first, but suddenly it's like everything else goes quiet.

Oliver blinks once and then—he smiles. That tired, crooked smile she hasn't seen in days. First smile of the week.

"Hi," he says quietly, voice low.

Zora narrows her eyes. "Hi, enemy."

He steps forward before she can say anything else, closes the distance in three strides, and his fingers find hers like they always do. She shivers under his touch.

Her breath hitches.

Oliver squeezes once, thumb brushing over her knuckles. "Meet me in the locker room," he whispers, leaning in just enough so she feels the warmth of his words against her ear. "Thirty minutes before prep. Please."

She nods.

And then he's gone — heading toward Gryffindor Tower. Zora smiles, bites her lips and takes the way to the Durmstrang's ship. She doesn't know why he wants to meet her there before the match, but Zora doesn't smind. Just the touch of his hand against hers was enough to calm her nerves.

She sits at her desk in her room, legs pulled against her chest, staring at the stack of Quidditch notes on the desk she hasn't touched since yesterday. Notes, formation drawings, annotations on Gryffindor strategies and play, files on each of her players and opponents.

The silence is suffocating. But she doesn't move, eyes glued to her desk.

She's not nervous for the match. That's the one thing she knows how to handle.

It's everything else.

Her mind won't stop despite everything. Oliver. Her mother. The contract. The weight of everything waiting for her just beyond the game.

There's a knock on her door. Three soft taps.

She stands slowly, stretches out, and opens it.

Viktor stands on the other side. Fresh out of the shower, his hair is damp. He looks at her with worry in his eyes.

"You okay, слънце?" he asks.

Zora exhales and suppresses a shudder. "Fine."

He gives her a look as she lets him in. She hasn't seen him since the day she found out about the forged letter.

He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed. "Want to talk?"

She hesitates. She wonders if he knows. If her aunt told him after everything that happened. Or she could just tell him. The truth sits just at the edge of her tongue. She could tell him. The contract. The debt. Everything.

But she looks at his face — tired, pale, already pulled tight with stress for the third task that's barely days away — and she swallows the words back down.

"Just tired, don't worry," she says softly, trying her best to smile.

He nods. She sighs and turns to him. "How was the trainings ?"

"Alright. Tiring. I can't wait this year to be over." He doesn't let her answer. "Where were you the last days? Your mother told me you were with friends."

So he doesn't know. Better that way, she thinks.

She sighs. "At Oliver's, actually."

She feels him smile as he closes the door behind him. "Really, uh?"

Zora rolls her eyes. "Don't make a fuss about it, please. I have to focus."

He rises his hand, sensing she is not up to talk. "Alright, as you want слънце."

"Thanks."

He walks to her. "So, nervous for the match, uh ? Doesn't sound like you."

She scoffs. "Please. I'm not nervous. I eat Gryffindors for breakfast."

He grins. "That's what I thought. Even Wood?"

"Especially Wood."

Viktor chuckles. "Look what I did."

Zora turns, frowning and watches him get out of his pocket a long brown piece of fabric. He unfolds it and it says in big letters "GO DELEGATION".

She can't help but smile and rolls her eyes. "Cute of you, V. Is it for the team or for Adeline ?"

This is the first time Zora has seen her cousin so disturbed. His face freezes, and she swears she sees his cheeks flush. "What—? No, I. Wait. What ?"

She just smiles. "Nevermind. Thanks. It's sweet."

He pushes off the doorframe, still flustered, almost hitting a chair in the process. Zora does everything she can to not laugh. "Alright. I'll let you get ready. Just—, see you. Bye."

She smiles as she watches him leave her room before focusing back on her notes.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

This scene contains mature content. If you're not comfortable with it, please go to the next part of the chapter. This scene is not relevant for the plot of this book.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

In front of the Gryffindor locker room, Zora places her hand on the handle of the door. Bag in one hand and her broom over her shoulder, she waits a bit. She wonders if Oliver is inside already.

She breathes and turns the handle. The door creaks open.

Zora steps into the empty locker room. She recognises the familiar scent of broom polish and old sweat. The light is not on and she concludes Oliver is not here. But she doesn't even have time to blink before the door slams shut behind her.

Zora's back hits the door with a soft thud and she finally sees Oliver arms on either side of her head. She can barely sees him in the darkness of the room but notices the shape of his jaw and his eyes on her. She shivers.

But she instantly feels the tension. As if even the room knew what was going to happen. She smiles slightly. "So, why did you ask me to come here?"

She feels him smile too. He takes her bag and her broom and puts it on the bench next to them. "You won't need that."

He goes back close to her, leaning over. Zora tilts her head and she hears him breathing heavily. "So ? What are we going to do?"

Oliver puts his hands on either side of her face. His thumb travels on her lower lips. The other one leaves her face and grabs her hips to bring her closer to his body. "I thought we could both loose our fucking nerves before the match."

Her lips stretch into a smile as she feels her entire body tense at his words. She glances at the clock.

"We have thirty minutes."

Oliver doesn't wait anymore time as he kisses her. He kisses her deeply, slowly, tilting her head to have better access to her mouth. His tongue traces the edge of her lips and she opens her mouth, her hands threading into his hair, tugging just enough to get a moan from deep in his chest.

The room seems to warm with her, heat blooming under her skin as Oliver's lips trail from her cheek to her neck, down to the hollow of her throat and the curve of her shoulder. Her legs falter slightly, his big hands firmly gripping her waist, grounding her.

Zora breathes heavily in his ear, which only deepens his desire for her. She feels it in the way he tighten his grip, in the way he whispers her name, in the way he gives everything into his kiss.

He goes back to her mouth, his hands traveling to her ass, making her shiver. She plays with the end of his t-shirt before pulling it off above his head and throwing it in the middle of the locker room. Her hands caress his chest, his broad shoulders, feeling his defined muscles under her fingers.

She grins against his mouth. "Is this allowed before a match, Captain?"

Oliver huffs a laugh, breathless. "Absolutely not."

She arches against him, provoking. "Then maybe we should stop—"

"No chance." He cuts her off, lifting her without warning. She smiles, legs wrapping around his waist on instinct as he carries her across the room, setting her down on the edge of the sink. His hands roam—up the back of her thighs, across her waist, then slipping beneath the hem of her shirt.

He puts off her shirt which ends up the same way as his. He takes her in, eyes dragging slowly from her flushed face to her sports bra, golden skin, eyes full of desire.

She smiles without looking away, fingertips hooking into the waistband of his jeans to pull him closer. Her lips find his again, slow and deliberate, as her fingers play with the edge of his underwear just barely peeking out.

Oliver moans  and she relishes the way he twitches under her touch. He catches her wrist, firm but gentle, guiding it to the rim of the sink without breaking the kiss. His breath is ragged against her mouth. "Zora, you have no idea how much I want you right now."

She smiles against his lips, teasing, feeling him hard against her. "I think I have a pretty good idea."

Oliver leans in again, kissing her jaw, her neck — open-mouthed and desperate now, touching gently her breast. She drops her head back to give him better access, enjoying the moment. She arches into him, arms around his shoulders, heels digging into the back of his legs to pull him closer, closer, never close enough.

"I missed you," she whispers against his temple. "I missed your touch."

He lets out a needy sound that makes her pulse race and presses his forehead against hers.

"I haven't been able to sleep," he says. "All week. I keep thinking about you. Your mouth. Your voice. That stupid smile when you beat me in drills."

"Which one?" she teases, smiling.

"All of them," he answers.

His hands tighten around her thighs and he lifts her off the sink just enough to press her more firmly against him, lips finding hers again with something almost desperate. She loves the feeling of his skin on her, the heat of his body, his breath making every fiber of her shiver.

Zora can barely breathe — not that she wants to.

Then he kisses her neck again, her chest, her stomach as he lowers himself onto his knees.Hands on her hips, he looks down at her, his hair a mess. "Are you okay with this?"

She nods, and without ever breaking contact, he undoes the button and the fly of her pants and slowly—too slowly for Zora, Merlin help her—slips her pants and underwear to the floor. He quickly removes her shoes.

Then, still looking at her, he places soft, reverent kisses along her legs, delicately, up to her inner thighs. Zora clings as best she can to the edge of the sink, feeling the small of her stomach exploding.

Her head falls back with a sigh, and she instinctively arches her back, her body speaking her desire.Oliver swings her legs over his shoulders, and she feels his large hands firmly grip her thighs.

"Fuck Oliver", she breathes as she closes her eyes and focuses on the heat of his mouth, his lips and his tongue on her. Her right hand slips into his hair.

He seems like he is giving everything—every movement deliberate, gentle, his eyes on her, always, making sure she feels all of it, that she is enjoying this. That she knows this is for her. For her pleasure.

Zora's breath quickens, her soft moans falling freely from her lips—and he takes them like praise. He doesn't stop. He reads her body, adjusting his pace, the pressure, chasing every sounds, every shift of her hips.

And when he feels her tense—when her back arches just a little more—he doesn't stop, holding her through it, until she comes.

He presses one last kiss to the inside of her thigh. His hands still rest on her shaking legs as he looks up.

The light from the small window behind her is the only thing illuminating her. And in that moment, he swears he's never seen anything more beautiful—her body undone, her muscles taut and trembling, her chest rising in shallow breaths, her head tipped back, hair wild around her.

He gets up slowly, letting her recover and getting her breathing to normal. But he doesn't need too. She meets his eyes and smiles, kissing him. Then she instantly gets off the sink and glances at the clock. "C'mon. Thirteen minutes left."

While kissing him, she makes him walk backward, unbuttoning his jean. She smiles between his lips, feeling euphoria fill her entire body.

Forgotten the match, the contract, her family, the choice.

Just her and him, the warmth of his skin against hers, his hands on her, reassuring, grounding.

Just two people showing how much they care about each other. How much they love each other. How much they notice every little things about each other.

She gently nudges him back until he's seated on the bench behind. Zora straddles him without hesitation. Instinctively, he places his hands protectively on her hips, tracing the curves of her body. She  searches for his gaze.

He's already looking at her. He smiles, brushing the strands of hair away from her face with his fingers. He nods and guides her as she positions herself. They both exhale loudly as she sinks into him and he enters her. He tilts his head back, savoring the feeling of her adjusting to him.

Zora begins to move slowly, one hand on his chest, the other on the back of the bench for support. She rolls her hips, and Oliver supports her movements by pressing into her hips, letting her take the lead.

"You feel so good," he says, looking at her.

She just smiles and kisses him as she intensifies these movements. She moves sensually, eyes closed, savoring every sensation. She begins to move more intensely, up and down, moving along his entire length.

Oliver's fingers melt into her hips as he moves, unsure if he can last for much longer if she keep going like this.

The way she moves, changing speed, movements, pushing him to the edge only to slow down again, teasing him, is driving him wild.

He grabs her jaw and pulls her towards him, kissing her. She wraps an arm around his shoulders, as if he weren't already close enough.

It's as if they've become one, as if they can move with the rhythm of each other's pulse, feeling the shivers that run through their skin.

Oliver's moans invite her to continue her movements, slower, more sensual, softer. Skin against skin, slightly sticky with sweat.

"Do you like that?" She asks, and her slightly raspy voice, —and God her accent—, all make Oliver crack a little more.

"Fuck yes I do," he replies, nearly undone.

She pulls her head back and searches his gaze.

"You're so beautiful," he whispers, his eyes still locked on hers.

She keeps going until Oliver reaches the edge and comes inside her. They stay like that in each other's arms, her head against his chest, feeling his heart nearly jumping out of his chest, Oliver's fingers gently tracing circles on her back.

After a few minutes, Zora straightens up, her face rested, her lips swollen, her eyes slightly misty.

"That was perfect, thank you," she says.

He smiles slightly. "Well, thank you."

They both laugh, almost flustered, feeling more than happy.

She runs a hand through his hair, trying to fix it a little. "Are you thinking about adding this part to your pre-match routine or not?"

He smiles and carresses her cheek. "If it's with you, I'll make it part of my daily routine."

They smile, still eyeing each other. Oliver glances at the clock.

"Shit," he says, getting up. He grabs a towel from his bag and gives it to Zora to clean up.

He quickly rinses himself off at the sink in a rush, knowing his team is about to show up any minute. It's as if he forgot the whole match, the whole Cup is has been waiting for his whole life.

Zora does the same, and they both can't help but giggle.

"Fuck, my hair is a mess," she says as she pulls on her t-shirt.

"Come here," he says, smiling, already dressed.

She complies, her pants in hand to put them back on. He positions her in front of him and gently grabs her hair. He begins to braid it, careful not to hurt her.

She feels his fingers gently run through her hair, near the nape of her neck, and it makes her shiver. As she finishes putting her pants back on, he ties her braid.

"Here you are," he says. He grabs her shoulders, turns her around, and places a kiss on her forehead. Zora closes her eyes and enjoys the gentle gesture.

Then she pulls back. "Feeling better about the nerves?" she asks playfully.

He shrugs and smiles. "Well, what if I told you I still have a little bit of—"

But the door suddenly bangs open.

They both jumps. "Bloody hell," a voice says.

Fred.

Followed by George.

"Oh come on," George groans. "In our locker room?"

Fred shields his eyes dramatically. "What did you do in here you dirty minds?"

Oliver and Zora both answer at the same time. "Nothing. Just Captain talk between the match."

Oliver is all red but Zora finds it hard not to laugh. The twins obviously don't believe a single word about that. Fred walks to them, smiling.

"Alright, my cue to leave," Zora says, grabbing her stuff as she walks in front of the twins.

George grins, winking at Zora. "You're glowing, by the way."

She goes to the door and turns to Oliver, giving him one last smile before disappearing behind the door.

The twins look at him, arms crossed, proud smile on their face. "Thirty minutes before team prep, you said," Fred says. "Didn't think you meant prep her on the bench, mate."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "Oh, fuck off."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Once the entire team arrived, Oliver had time to gather his thoughts and focus, his mind now entirely focused on the match. He looked at his team, one by one, lined up in front of him. Every player is locked in their own rhythm—lacing boots, adjusting pads, flipping their bat between their palms.

Oliver stands in the center of it all.

He rolls his shoulders once. Deep breath. Then another.

This is it.

The final match of his final year. His last chance. The last time he'll pull on this jersey, lead this team onto the pitch, stand before the school with a broom in hand and fire in his chest.

It feels like standing at the edge of something huge.

He thinks about himself at eleven—small, barely able to lift a Quaffle. The boy who fell asleep with Quidditch books in his bed, who drew pitch formations in the margins of every parchment, dreaming big.

He owes it to that boy.

He owes it to every early morning, every missed Hogsmeade weekend, every loss that kept him awake until sunrise. He owes it to this team—his team—who followed him through it all. Loyal. Brave. Brilliant.

And maybe a little bit to her. To make her proud.

He tightens his grip on the clipboard.

Everything comes down to this moment. And God he feels good about it.

"All right," he says, and the noise cuts out instantly. Every eye turns to him. "I know you feel it. The nerves. The pressure. The weight of the entire school screaming our name."

Laughter erupts. Nervous ones.

"But I also know this. We're ready. We've trained for this. Nobody plays like Gryffindor when we're in sync—when we trust each other. That's what wins games. Not just talent. Trust. That's what we've built."

He looks around, meets each of their eyes—Katie, Alicia, Fred, George, Angelina.

"I need you focused. Strong. But more than anything, I need you to play like you want it. Because I do. I want it so damn bad it hurts."

There's a fire starting behind his ribs now. The good kind.

"This is our last match together. Make it count."

The room explodes into whoops and cheers. He tries not to show it but Oliver feels deeply emotional about all of this. About this being the last match. About this being the last time he shares the pitch with them.

His team. But more than this. His friends.

But then Fred raises a hand, all smiles. "Actually—before we go out and show the Delegation who runs the game—can we have two seconds, Captain?"

Oliver frowns. "Yes ?"

Fred pulls out a small package out from behind the equipment trunk. It's badly wrapped in Gryffindor-red paper.

"We got you something," George adds. "From all of us."

Oliver feels his heart dropping. "I—, uh well, You didn't have to—"

"Shut up and open it," Katie says, eyes bright.

Oliver opens the paper slowly. Inside: a miniature golden hoop with a Gryffindor lion perched on top, enchanted to circle the ring over and over again on a tiny broom. Beneath it, a plaque:

WOOD'S ARMY — 1991–1994 Captain. Keeper. Gryffindor's finest.

His throat closes instantly. He feels tears growing in his eyes. Words lack to express how grateful he feels right now. Emotion invades, engulfs him entirely.

"Don't get sentimental," Angelina warns, already misty-eyed. "We're not crying before the match."

"I'm not, I—," he says, voice cracking in betrayal.

"Lies and slander," she sniffs.

Oliver doesn't speak for a moment. He just grips the hoop tighter, jaw clenched, heart so full it hurts.

"Thank you," he finally says, and he means it more than anything he's ever said. "You lot are the best thing that's ever happened to me."

Fred wipes a tear. "Group hug before we destroy your girlfriend?"

Oliver laughs and before he can answers, the whole team gather around him into a tight hug.

And it's perfect.

They're going to win. He just has to forget the fact Zora is playing against them.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The cheers are deafening.

The stands are packed, flags waving, faces painted, voices already hoarse and the match hasn't even started. Hogwarts is practically bleeding red and gold today, Gryffindor chants echoing from every stone of the castle.

Zora doesn't care.

She adjusts her gloves, rolls her shoulders back, breathes.

Around her, her teammates buzz with that pre-game mood — cracking jokes, bouncing on their heels, shooting nervous glances toward the sky. But Zora stands still, eyes closed, her broom beside her.

She can feel it. The tension. The weight of the crowd.

Lee announces the beginning of match. "Ladies and gentlemen, today is the match we've all been waiting for—Gryffindor versus the Delegation! No, the match of the century ! Two incredible teams led by our dear Captain Wood and the ruthless Zora Krum! Who's going to walk away with the glory today? Merlin only knows—but my gold's on Gryffindor, obviously."

When she opens her eyes, she finds him on the other side of the pitch.

Oliver.

Minutes ago, they were doing it in the locker. Now they are looking at each other as Captains. The sun catches on his hair, on his crimson robes, on the sweat already clinging to his jaw. She hates how good he looks when he's focused.

She still feels his fingers on her hips. His mouth on her neck. But right now is not about any of this, it's about who's the best. Who's going to win.

The whistle blows.

Everyone mounts.

Madame Hooch's voice cuts through the roar of the crowd. "On my whistle."

Zora wraps her fingers tight around the handle of her broom. The Quaffle shine in the center.

She locks eyes with Oliver again.

He smiles. She smiles too.

The whistle blows.

Game on.

They shoot into the sky like fury. The air splits around her as she pushes forward, already following Angelina's to snatch the Quaffle mid-pass. The crowd erupts.

They're fast. Faster than she thought. They dominate the attacks. But Gryffindor's defense walls up instantly — she barely has time to shoot before Angelina barrels into position and the twins send bludgers their way.

But Zora's faster. And she notices. She's not the biggest player. She's not even the strongest. But she sees it — the flicker of space, the twitch in a shoulder, the half-breath someone forgets to take.

She makes her move, fakes a pass to Adeline, then darts right, looping under Fred Weasley's broom with centimeters to spare.

"And there she goes—Zora Krum cutting through the pitch like a bloody comet—where does she get that kind of vision?! It's like she can see three moves ahead—probably can," Lee follows her every move.

The shot is clean. It slams into the left hoop before Oliver can even lift his glove. She watches him cursing into his breath and she smiles.

Lee comments on the move. "Oh Merlin, that was disgusting—in the best way possible. Someone tell Captain Wood to check his ego because Krum just shot, stole the spotlight, and his dignity."

Zora hears Adeline scream behind her.

But it doesn't last.

Gryffindor retaliates fast. George intercepts the next pass and starts a counterattack that's textbook perfect. Then Oliver enters the play.

He doesn't let a single Quaffle in.

He doesn't shout. He doesn't need to. He guides his team with gestures, looks, instincts that make Zora want to tear her hair out. He doesn't waste a single movement. Everything is tight. Calculated.

He blocks the Quaffle from her, as if he saw her coming from miles away.

"Too slow," he calls, just loud enough for her to hear.

She smiles. If he wants to play it like that, she will do it graciously.

The next ten minutes are a war. The score climbs. 50–20 for Gryffindor.

Bodies fly. Bludgers whistle past her head. Zora's arm is nearly taken out by a reckless swing from George but she keeps flying.

She scores again. And again. And Oliver is going crazy.

At 50–50, the match is a war.

Katie Bell takes the Quaffle from Zora's hands. Lee shouts in the mic. "Katie Bell with the intercept! Gryffindor's not going down without a fight, folks. That's the kind of defense we train for. We bleed for. We sob over in the showers—"

Everyone can hear McGonagall's voice off mic: "Jordan !"

"Right, sorry, moving on," he says, laughing.

The crowd is on fire. Everyone shouts, cheers, and they all go silent when the tension is so high you can't do anything but hold on to the barrier.

The game goes on. The game goes mad.

The Snitch is nowhere. The Seeker on Zora's side circles above, watching for glints. Zora doesn't have time to care. She's locked in, pulse hammering, sweat pouring down her spine.

She takes the Quaffle again. And this time, Oliver's in her way. Literally.

He's already turning before she cuts right. He knows her. He knows her feints. Her tricks.

She tries something new. Swerves hard left. Throws the Quaffle back toward Adeline without looking. It works. A score.

60–50.

Zora hears someone scream her name in the stands and recognises Viktor's voice cheering for her and Adeline.

She doesn't know how much longer they'll last. Her legs are already shaking. Her voice is hoarse from calling plays.

She steals a look toward Oliver.

His face is all concentration. But his eyes find hers. Just for a second. His eyes are dark. He is fuming, she knows this.

Because she knows how much winning the Cup means to him.

The Quaffle is tossed back into play. The games goes on. It's endless.

The score is 130–110. Gryffindor's leading.

Zora's chest heaves. Her fingers burn on the broom handle. The wind bites through her sweat-soaked jersey as she hovers high above the pitch, watching her team.

Everyone is exhausted. She can see it in the way Adeline's precision falters. And how their defense is not working.

Gryffindor is better as a team. She has to admit that.

Her body aches. Every muscle in her arms screams each time she lunges after the Quaffle.

She glances at Oliver. He seems tired too. But the determination in his eyes says otherwise. It strikes her, how much he wants this.

Zora shakes her head and goes back to the game. Adeline intercepts a pass and bolts forward. The team shifts into position — Zora moves automatically, covering her left, calling for the pass.

But George Weasley gets there first.

There's a brutal scramble. A near-collision. Zora twists just in time to avoid Georg's bat, but it costs her speed. She loses her angle. They loose the point.

And then she sees it.

Something shiny.

A golden flash.

Finally.

Harry Potter dives. The Delegation seeker follows — but he's too far.

No.

The crowd is already on their feet, shouting and cheering, feet tapping on the floor of the stands. She watches the scene in slow-motion unfolding in front of her. And the roar hits her chest before the whistle even does.

Lee's voice break through the crowd.

"Snitch caught! Gryffindor wins!"

A sea of red and gold explodes in the stands.

Zora hovers midair, trying to catch her breath.

It's over.

She lets herself fly down slowly, one hand dragging along her face. Around her, her teammates are landing too — tired, bruised, disappointed, but not defeated.

They gave everything.

She lands, breath catching in her throat as she turns and sees them.

The Gryffindor team — a pile of bodies and screams and fists in the air. Oliver is in the middle of it, shoulders shaking with laughter, his face glowing and flushed. The twins lift him up on their shoulders, the crowd screaming his name.

He looks around in disbelief.

And when his eyes find her, they lock.

And Zora realizes she's not even mad, or disappointed, or sad. Because the look on Oliver's face right now—she'd lose a hundred games just to see it again.

She feels it in her chest — not bitterness. Not envy.

Pride.

He did it.

She swallows the lump in her throat and turns toward her team.

"Well played," she breathes, pulling each of them into a hug. "So proud of you all. We made them bleed for it."

She grabs Adeline by the back of the neck, forehead against hers.

"You were brilliant."

Adeline wipes her cheek and nods, unable to speak.

Zora claps the Keeper's back, mutters something to the Beaters.

And then she turns, walks toward the red wave of victory.

It's pure noise.

People shouting Oliver's name, girls throwing themselves at the team. Angelina pushes through the madness and catches Zora in a fierce hug.

"You were insane out there," she shouts over the din. "That feint in the second half? Jesus."

Zora chuckles. "It's you ! You won. You so deserve it." She takes her face between her hands and. "I'm so proud of you. You were amazing."

Angelina laughs, presses a kiss to her cheek, then yells, "He's over there."

Zora nods.

She spots him, all smiles, head bowed as his teammates pound his back. Shirtless now, chest covered in sweat. Hair a mess.

She walks toward him and he spots her. He walks to her and they look at each other for a moment, neither speaking. They start to smile, slowly, and the chaos around them seems to vanish.

"You did it, Captain", she says. She inhales slowly. "I'm proud of you, Oliver."

And she sees it in his eyes, the way his face melts at her words, the way that simple sentence softs something in him.

He steps towards her and puts his hand on her cheek. "I've waited to win this since first year, Zora. But you're here and it feels like I just won everything else."

Then, without another word, he cups her face in both hands and kisses her.

Right there. In the middle of the pitch. In front of everyone.

They don't even hear the crowd cheering and his team shouting around them. Zora laughs into the kiss. Oliver pulls her tighter.

He pulls back when the twins gives him the golden Cup. He takes it, looks at it and rises it, in front of his team, in front of the crowd.

And he swears, at this moment, he has never felt happier.