The beginning of the end

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

exit music (For a film) - radiohead

Breathe, keep breathingDon't lose your nerveBreathe, keep breathingI can't do this alone.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Angelina returns from the bar, arms loaded with bags of sweets, both hands occupied with two Butterbeers that threaten to spill all over the floor of the Three Broomsticks. She manages to reach Zora's table and drops everything onto the surface.

The brunette insisted Zora come with her to Hogsmeade, even though she clearly isn't in the mood for any sort of outing. Her mind is consumed—by the final task, the fear of losing Viktor, the thought of returning to Bulgaria and leaving behind everything she's built here.

It's all-consuming. And it feels impossible.

Zora grabs the Butterbeer and gulps down half of it in one go, right under Angelina's wide-eyed stare.

"You know, drinking your despair isn't a solution, Z," she says in a motherly, scolding tone. "Talking about it is better."

Zora rolls her eyes and finishes the rest of her drink in one swig before reaching for a candy lying on the edge of the table. She stays silent, gaze locked on a group of students nearby laughing and placing bets on the four champions. A shiver runs down her spine.

Angelina reaches for her hand, and her expression softens, becoming more understanding. She's never been particularly empathetic or great at emotional conversations. But when it comes to Zora or Adeline, there's something almost visceral that kicks in—a need to protect, to make sure they're okay.

"Did you tell him?" she finally asks.

Zora sighs and pulls her hand back. "I'm going to. Tomorrow, before the task."

"Why not tonight?" Angelina presses.

Zora crosses her arms and pops another sweet into her mouth. "Tonight's for the champions. I don't want to ruin the twins' party. And I think Oliver needs to enjoy his friends too. He deserves it. Don't want to ruin that for him."

Fred and George have organized a small surprise dinner for the four champions, inviting their closest people along. An excuse for the champions to enjoy a night off and rest before the final task—and for the twins to test out new ideas for their future joke shop. Or so they claim.

"They're perfectly capable of ruining a party with one of their badly-calibrated inventions," Angelina says. "They don't need your help."

That earns a smile from Zora. "Still. I want him to enjoy himself before I ruin his life."

Now it's Angelina's turn to roll her eyes. "You're so dramatic, Merlin."

Zora lets out a nervous laugh and turns to her friend. "Dramatic? I don't think I'm exaggerating, really. My mother ruined my life. She is ruining my life. That's more of a fact than a flair for theatrics, no?"

Angelina sighs, shaking her head. "That's not what I meant. I just figured—you're not going to go through with the contract, right? So it won't change anything between you and Wood."

Zora says nothing and lowers her gaze. She feels Angelina shift upright in her chair across the table, suddenly nervous, falling quiet too. The pub feels like it's emptied all at once—the distant voices and clinking of glasses somehow oppressive now.

"Zora, you're not seriously considering it, are you?"

Zora grips the edge of the table, her nails digging into the wood, teeth clenched. But she doesn't care.

She'd take any pain over the one splitting her heart in half.

She'd rather ruin her own life than Viktor's.

She bites her lip, silencing herself, choosing not to speak. She needs to get used to it. It was her reality—and it will likely be her future. The rest of her life. To accept. To nod. Be silent. Silenced.

Bite her tongue. Swallow the tears. Flash a smile.

"I don't have a choice, do I?" she finally says, her voice breaking like seafoam against the rocks.

Zora has known for a long time now. The fact she would accept the contract. But saying it out loud is another kind of pain.

The kind that twist your guts, burn your heart. The kind that gives you the impression you are drowning with your own choices.

Angelina shakes her head, faster and faster now, reaching for Zora's hands, leaning closer, whispering "no" over and over beneath her breath. "Of course you do, don't be ridiculous. You're not actually going to agree to that stupid contract. You still have the—"

"Except this time, I don't," Zora cuts in, her voice steady. "I don't have a choice. I don't, because I couldn't live with myself if I ruined Viktor's life. And mine, in the process. And my whole family's."

Angelina's expression crumples with every word her friend says, her eyes folding under the weight of the truth. She gets it—slowly. She understands now that deep down, Zora already knew. She's always known she was going to say yes. That she was going to accept.

"But— I mean, surely there's a way," Angelina pleads, voice barely above a whisper. "There has to be a loophole in the contract, something that could get you out of it, or—"

She stops when she sees Zora smile faintly and shake her head. "Don't bother. I've already checked everything. My aunt helped too. There's nothing."

After their last encounter at Krum Manor, Zora and her aunt have send each other letters. Her aunt promised to help and she did. She tried to call some friends of her who are layers and are specialised in magical contract. But nothing.

The words land heavy between them. Zora, jaw clenched, rolls a candy between her fingers until it's nothing but sticky, crushed sugar.

And Angelina watches her friend destroy her life, powerless. Watches her slip away, and there's nothing she can do. Watches her sacrifice herself for Viktor, over and over again.

Zora swallows what's left of the candy. She hates sour ones. But today, it doesn't bother her as much. More, she likes the feeling in her mouth, the shiver on her spine. It makes her feel something. Something else.

Then she drops her head into her hands. A few seconds pass in that strange, uncomfortable silence—until she finally speaks.

"The worst part of all this, Angelina," she begins, sniffling, "is that I wish I could say I'm doing this only to save Viktor, to save his life, his career, his dream. I wish I could say I'm strong, brave, doing this out of duty—pure sacrifice."

Her voice catches. The words falter. Silence closes in.

"But I'm also doing this because I can't imagine a life without Quidditch. Without flying, feeling the Quaffle pressed against my arms, the adrenaline in my chest. Without it, I'm nothing. So if I have to get married to keep playing, I'll do it."

She sniffles, wipes her nose with the palm of her hand. "And the worst part is that a part of me wants to keep playing not for the sake of the game, but just to prove them wrong. All of them. That I'm capable. That I deserve it. That I earned it."

Zora pauses, then stands. Her shoulders curl inward under the weight of the pain, of the choices. Her gaze is sharp, resolute—her signature one. But it's layered with a haunting emptiness that seems to take up all the space inside her.

"To prove it to her, most of all. My mother."

And just like that, she takes off. Angelina watches her go, her figure slipping toward the exit. She wipes away the tears Zora didn't—or wouldn't—shed. She watches her stop by the table of younger students still placing bets.

Zora tosses a Galleon into Viktor's bag without a word. Then turns on her heel. Not a single glance back.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

To say the Weasley twins are masters of entertainment is an understatement. It's like they were born for it. Ever since they came up with the idea of throwing a small dinner party for the Champions before the final task, it's all they've talked about.

A cozy evening, just the Champions and their close friends, down by the Black Lake. So when Zora arrives on Viktor's arm, she isn't even surprised by what they've pulled off.

Beneath a weeping willow, they've set up cushions and blankets in every color—probably borrowed (or let's be honest, stolen) from the various common rooms. A long table at the back acts as a bar and buffet, stacked with food and drinks most definitely smuggled out of the kitchens.

The sun is still high in the sky, and most people are already here. There are a lot of Gryffindors—mainly the entire Quidditch team and Harry Potter's group of friends. Fleur is with Adeline and some of the Beauxbatons students. Cedric is off to the side, chatting with Oliver and a few Hufflepuffs. It seems Zora and Viktor are the last to arrive.

For once, Zora didn't want to come. And for once, it was Viktor who insisted. Before they reach the gathering, he squeezes her arm gently and presses a kiss to her forehead.

"C'mon, слънце. Don't make that face."

Zora rolls her eyes and gives him a fake smile. "Better?"

He shakes his head, but smiles fondly. "Let's try to relax tonight, okay? I'm the one who should be sulking. I'm the Champion, remember?"

"Oh, believe me—I remember."

He chuckles, and they reach the group. George walks over to greet them.

"The Krums! At last! We thought you'd bailed," he says, handing a drink to Viktor, who accepts it with a nod of thanks.

"Thanks for the dinner," Viktor says, and George bows dramatically. "It's really nice of you."

"The pleasure is ours, Champion," he says, then hands Zora a glass. "There's food, mostly drinks, and loads of new inventions to try. We even made you a little banner," he adds, proud grin on his face.

Zora squints, scanning the area for the said banner. She finally spots it—just a strip of fabric, torn at the edges, floating magically unevenly in the air. But it's the writing on it that makes her hair stand on end.

"PLEASE DON'T DIE WE LOVE YOU"

Her mouth falls open, and next to her, Viktor chokes on his sip of beer. She turns to George, who is now rubbing the back of his neck, smiling nervously, suddenly unsure of his creation.

"Seriously?" Zora says, hands on her hips.

"Thanks... I suppose," Viktor says, before heading off to join Angelina and Adeline.

George raises both hands in surrender. "I swear it was Fred's idea."

Zora steps toward him and gives him a light smack on the back of the head. "Idiot."

He gets down dramatically. "Please don't kill me."

She rolls her eyes and walks away, still not feeling any more relaxed than when she arrived. Her gaze scans the small groups chatting and laughing. She sends an apologetic smile toward Angelina before heading to the buffet. Zora still feels bad about earlier, when she left her friend alone without saying anything. She just couldn't stand it anymore. She grabs what looks like pie and takes a bite.

When she turns around, she spots Oliver and Cedric still deep in conversation. She inhales. Then exhales—hard. It almost hurts to look at him, to admire him. She shivers when she thinks that soon, she won't be allowed to anymore. Won't have the right. Won't deserve to.

Oliver finally catches her gaze, and his face lights up. He gestures for her to join them. Zora downs the rest of her drink and walks over with little conviction.

She stops beside Oliver. She breathes in. Grounds herself. Smells his scent. His cologne. Feels herself falter. Exhales slowly. Smiles.

"Hi," she says softly.

Instinctively—like he just knows—Oliver places a hand on her waist, holding her firmly, as if to keep her from collapsing. He pulls her slightly into him and smiles.

"Fashionably late, Krum?" Cedric teases.

She smiles—she tries to, anyway. "You know how Viktor is. He had to put on his cold, mysterious Eastern European bear mask. Takes time to master that character. I had to wait."

Cedric chuckles. Oliver frowns slightly.

He knows. Always.

She doesn't let it show. Doesn't let anything slip. She turns to Oliver, runs a hand through his hair, fixing it.

"How was your afternoon? Not too sad going through all your Quidditch stuff and tidying everything?"

He blushes faintly and sighs. "It was fine. And don't say—"

"Did you cry?" she asks, teasing him.

He sighs again but smiles. "No, I didn't cry—"

"Oh, come on, Wood, we all know there was a tiny tear," Cedric says, giving him a light pat on the shoulder.

Oliver rolls his eyes and tightens his hold around Zora's waist. She swallows and turns to Cedric.

"How are you feeling about tomorrow?"

He smiles and stretches like a cat, glancing around at the people, the conversations, the laughter.

"That's what I was telling Wood. Weirdly good," he says. "It's sweet, what George and Fred put together. Makes me feel like—even if I lose—we all got to live something pretty amazing this year, right?"

Oliver and Zora exchange a look and nod, smiling softly.

"And I'm glad I met you, Zora. You and Viktor. That's one of the best things that came out of this whole year."

Zora bites the inside of her cheek. Her chest tightens. She smiles, but it's hard. Cedric's words touch her—truly.

But they mostly remind her that nothing lasts. Everything ends. No matter how tightly you hold onto people, to moments, to feelings—everything slips away eventually. Like clouds after a storm, like the smell of spring once winter ends.

Everything ends, and all that's left are the memories to grieve.

"Stop it, you'll make me cry," Zora jokes to shake off the weight in her voice.

The evening carries on. She eventually leaves the two boys to their conversation and rejoins Adeline and Angelina. They eat, talk about tomorrow's task, and try out some of the twins' inventions. Adeline nearly loses an eye.

But Zora is not here. Not mentally. And physically, she's not even sure.

The Champions slip away early to get some rest. Zora's about to do the same, feeling overwhelmed and tired, walking the path back toward the castle, when she hears familiar footsteps behind her.

Oliver.

He catches up and gently grabs her hand, making her stop. "Hey, you're leaving already?"

Zora nods. "I'm tired."

He squeezes her hand a little tighter, brushes his other hand along her cheek. "I'm sorry I didn't spend much time with you tonight."

Zora shakes her head and smiles. "You were with your friends. That's all I wanted."

"But I should've—I know how stressed you are about Vik—"

"Really, don't worry, I'm fine," she cuts him off. "We'll see each other tomorrow?"

Oliver frowns, confused. He nods and cradles her face in his hands. He kisses her gently. She tastes the Butterbeer on his lips. Warmth. Familiar touch, familiar taste.

She closes her eyes. Sinks into it. Sinking and hoping never to surface again.

Eventually, she pulls away. Smiles. Starts walking again. But he catches her hand once more.

"You sure you're okay?"

Zora nods, forcing a smile.

He steps closer. "Promise?"

She shuts her eyes tightly and exhales, her chest clenching. A few seconds pass. Too many. Too long.

She bites her tongue. Swallows the tears. Flashes a smile.

"Promise."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora hasn't slept a second all night. Too hot. Too cold. Not enough air. Too much silence. Fear clinging to her skin.

Suffocating thoughts. Thoughts that are killing her slowly.

She's turned. On her back. On her stomach. With the sheets. Without the sheets. And when the sun finally began to rise, so did she.

Now she sits at her desk, knees pulled tight to her chest, watching the red sun creep over the horizon, chasing away the horrors of the night—for just a few borrowed hours of peace.

It's the day of the Third Task. The day Viktor risks his life again. The day she tells Oliver she's marrying someone else.

The beginning of the end.

The truth is—Zora has spent the entire night wondering how Oliver will react.

She pictured it. Him, standing in front of her. Maybe still with his hands on her skin. Always.

She wondered what he'll feel. Anger? Betrayal? Sadness? Disappointment?

Probably all of them.

Then she started imagining how it would happen. Would he shout? No, probably not. Would he walk away, unable to even look her in the eye after what she says? Most likely.

Because in the end, she's only ever been what the world raised her to be.

A pawn. A game with rules that shift depending on others' desires. Just Viktor Krum's cousin—name always half-forgotten—the one who used to play Quidditch, and who'll now "do well for herself" by marrying someone suitable.

Zora has lost. She's given in. She's let her mother win.

She will only ever be what she was bred to become. What her mother spent every second raising her to be. What she despises.

And she's terrified it will be the thing that finally breaks her.

She spends the rest of the day in her room. Same chair. Same desk.

She suffers through the seconds, eyes locked on the clock above her bed like it's counting down to her own personal sentence.

And when the time comes, she grabs her jacket and steps outside.

A violent wind greets her, whipping around in rhythm with the storm inside her chest. It's hot, stifling, the air damp and heavy. It clings to her skin, her hair.

The sky smells of thunder.

It could have been the storm of her resistance. Of her rage. Of her victory.

But no. It will be the storm that swallows everything whole.

Including her.

She's supposed to meet Oliver by the stands so they can sit together. She walks into the wind, head low.

Zora doesn't feel anything anymore. As if she's not even inside her own body—watching from above, disconnected, hollowed out by a grief too sharp to carry.

Her boots crush the gravel path and she focuses hard not to trip. She clings to the sound and the feeling, trying to anchor herself to something real.

When she reaches the Quidditch pitch, she sees him. Hands in his pockets, leaning casually against the railing. The second he spots her, he stands up straighter and walks over, grinning ear to ear.

His smile, the dagger under my chest.

She wants to throw up. To scream.

To run and never look back.

When she reaches him, she inhales sharply, unable to meet his gaze. "Oliver, I need to talk to you. I have something important to—"

But he cuts her off, laughing, oblivious. "It'll have to wait. I've got something for you too," he says, rummaging through his pockets, chuckling to himself.

His laugh like the end of my world.

She grabs the wooden rail beside her, fingers digging in like it's the only thing keeping her upright. He pulls out a crumpled letter, hands shaking. The ink is blurry—her vision won't focus.

She takes it with trembling fingers. But she can't read. The words melt. The sentences blur. They vanish in a sea of black.

She feels him draw closer.

The sounds blur too—cheering, music, the stands vibrating with excitement. And then his voice, cutting through everything. "I did it, Zora. I didn't want to tell you before—I was waiting for the confirmation."

His voice the sound of my tragedy.

Zora squints her eyes, trying to see clearly, to understand. She feels his hands on her cheeks.

She feels his joy, his pride, his thrill.

She is nothing but pain, rage, and resignation.

"I got in, Zora," he says, pressing kisses to her forehead, her cheeks. "I'm Keeper. For the Scottish National Team!"

Zora's head snaps up. She feels, for a second, herself breathing easier. Somewhere, buried under the weight of everything, something like pride shines.

Small. Weak. But there.

She smiles. Or tries to. It looks more like a wince.

"What? Really? I—" she stammers.

His arms wrap around her. Lift her. She feels his face buried in her hair, her neck.

She wants to lose herself in him. To surrender completely.

But it doesn't work. Her pain swallows everything. Even the most powerful feelings.

"It's because of you, Zora. I did it because of you," he whispers into her neck, tickling her skin.

She doesn't answer. She doesn't move.

His success the reason for my happiness.

He did it.

Scottish National Team.

She wants to scream how happy she is for him. To hold him. To tell him how proud she is.

But nothing remains of an already bruised body. Nothing but misery and torment.It only takes a few seconds for the pain to swallow you whole. And it no longer lets you shine.

After a while, he notices she doesn't say anything. He sets her down, frowning. Concern spreads across his features. He steps closer again.

"What's wrong, Zora?" he asks, voice urgent now, almost commanding.

She can't back out anymore. The fall is here.

She should be panicking, crying. Getting down on her knees, begging him for help. Showing her sadness, her despair. Showing him how much she cares.

But Zora is already far away. Gone.

All that's left is the girl who played Quidditch and is now getting married.

And that one doesn't ask for help.

She doesn't cry.

She is just getting what she deserves.

"I'm promised to someone, Oliver."

The words escape her lips before she can hold them back. Raw. Unforgivable.

They burn her throat. Her lips. Her heart.

She can't look at him. She hates herself for that more than she's ever hated her mother.

"I'm getting married in August. To Alexei Vassiliev. You met him at the Quidditch World Cup."

And she watches it happen. Each word contorting his face further. She sees it all in his eyes. The way they narrow. The way his brows pull together—like they, too, can't believe what they're hearing.

He's always been easy to read, Oliver. Confusion. Sadness. Disappointment. Pain.

His pain will be my ruin.

He understands. Connects it all. The letters. What she refused to tell him when she showed up at his house crying over the holidays. Her behavior these past few days.

The distance—subtle, but enough for Oliver to notice.

He swallows hard.

"I'm sorry," she says. "I think I've hurt you enough. It's better—"

But he grabs her face again. Forces her to look at him.

He breathes hard. Shallow.

"Don't say that," he says. "Don't ever dare to say that again. I won't live knowing you are married to someone else. Live ? No, I won't survive. We'll figure this out. You hear me?"

Between his hands, Zora shakes her head. She grips his arms, trying to pull away, but he's stronger. She opens her mouth to speak—he does too.

But Dumbledore's voice echoes across the grounds, announcing the arrival of the Champions.

Zora squeezes her eyes shut. Oliver's hands fall away.

She walks fast. Toward the stands.

Away from him.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora watches Viktor walking into the pitch, raising his arms in the air, looking determined. The stands are full. Everyone shouts, sings, supports their Champions, but Zora feels like she's under water. Distant. Muffled.

Her arms are crossed tightly. Her nails bite into her skin through her robes.

She knows he can do it. They trained. She corrected his wand angles, forced him to repeat shield charms until they both sweat. He had been focused, calm in the way only Viktor could be.

But now everything seems useless, insufficient.

Dumbledore starts his speech. Zora can't even focus on the words. She blocks her ears. She feels Angelina and Adeline's hands on her back. She hates it.

Too much noises. Too much thoughts. Too much informations.

She stays like that for a while. When she opens her eyes, all the Champions have disappeared into the maze. Only the strange silence falling on the pitch stays, sending shivers down her spine.

Viktor is gone.

And she hasn't even seen him leave.

Zora presses a hand against her chest. Her knee bounces up and down restlessly.

She can feel his eyes on her, burning her back. He's two or three rows behind her. Oliver.

What has she done ?

"He'll be fine," Adeline whispers, though her own voice wavers. Her eyes are fixed on the maze too—no longer pretending to be uninterested.

Zora doesn't answer. She just grabs her hand in hers.

Her gaze is glued to the thick walls of hedges. She knows magic lives in there. Dark and twisted. Viktor wouldn't tell her everything. None of them did.

Time seems to stretch on interminably. As if it were playing tricks on her, working backwards, extending her agony.

Then everyone gasps. Zora's head snaps. She sees it in the sky. Red sparks. Screams from somewhere deep within. Bagman is shouting for wizards to move in.

Zora stands and runs toward the entrance of the maze.

"Zora, wait—!"

She hears Oliver's voice but she doesn't stop. She ducks under the rope barrier and reaches the entrance of the maze just as Dumbledore and other staff members charge in.

A man comes towards her and puts his arms around her, forcing her back. She screams and kicks him. She's losing control.

"Let go of me!"

"Miss, you can't go in," the man tells her, managing to block her out.

"But what if something happened to him?" she screams, her voice breaking. "What am I going to do on my own?"

Zora finally looses strength and lands on the ground, on her knees. The man gently releases her and walks away, seeing that she isn't going to try anything else.

Voices are heard at the entrance to the maze and Zora stands up. She sees Fleur Delacour's blond hair. Without meaning to, she hates her. Hates her for being here when Viktor could be dead inside this maze.

She walks towards her. "Viktor, is he okay?" she asks, breathless.

But Fleur is in a state of shock and does not respond, leaving Zora alone and in the grip of an increasingly strong panic.

Zora sits on the floor and tries to regulate her breathing. She thinks back to what she said to Oliver.

Breath in.

Breath out.

After a moment, another red spark bursts into the sky. Zora is back on her feet. She waits. She feels like she's waiting for her fall, her end. And she doesn't mind that much.

The wizards finally arrive at the entrance of the maze, and Zora falls to the ground when she recognizes Viktor's body, supported by two wizards. His head is down, but she sees him speaking.

She fills her lungs with air, spits out her panic, and runs to her cousin. He has scratches all over his face, he can hardly breathe. His eyes are glassy and red.

But Zora doesn't care. She runs to him and takes him in her arms. She hugs him so tightly she hears him whimper, but she keeps going. She needs to feel his presence, to know he's there. With her. That she's no longer alone.

"Viktor, oh my goodness," she breathes in fast Bulgarian. "What happened ? Are you alright ?"

He nods but looks confused. "I—, I don't know. I just— What ?"

Zora frowns, clearly confused and scared by her cousin's reaction.

She stays by his side. Makes him drink. Until he recovers from his emotions. She tries to get him to talk. But it's vain.

She doesn't even notice the crowd roaring again, the band resuming its din, far too focused on her cousin's condition. He looks frozen. Haunted.

Until she hears it—a scream.

And suddenly everything becomes silent.

Too silent.

She turns around and she sees it.

Cedric is on the ground. Unmoving.

Harry Potter is kneeling beside him, shouting his name, shaking him. His voice breaks. "Cedric! Ced—wake up—come on—"

She takes a few steps back, hoping she's wrong. Her hand instinctively finds her mouth.

Hoping he's just knocked out. That he's just been cursed and will be okay. That Potter's tears are just those of exhaustion and built-up tension.

Hoping he's not crying over death.

His death.

She watches as Dumbledore arrives, followed by the Ministry and several others, their faces twisted in panic and disbelief.

But all Zora can look at is Cedric's lifeless face. The boy who smiled too easily. Who made even Viktor laugh. Who gave her his chocolate frogs last week because he knew she liked the hazelnut ones.

She can't believe it. Not with all this. She feels Viktor's hand on her shoulder. He turns her body to the other side, hoping to spare her what's unfolding before her eyes.

The world becomes a blur of shouts and sobs and orders. But Zora can't hear any of it. Her ears ring. She instinctively turns toward the stands, towards him, towards Oliver.

She sees him standing there, his eyes fixed on Cedric's inert body. Frowning, glassy eyes. Then he disappears into a crowd of Gryffindors.

Then the storm breaks. Not thunder, not lightning. Not the torrential rain that wipes everything out.

No, it's worse than that.

It's the shattering cries of Cedric's father that split the sky in two—grief so deep it makes the earth quake, in a way no god ever could.

It's the beginning of my end.