The beginning of the end - 2

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

solitude - M83

You gotta go where I cryAnd take in all the tears, I wanna see if you can tryDrink a little bit of meNoNo

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver rubs his eyes. Red and heavy with exhaustion, they fall against his will—tempted to close, to never open again. He glances at the clock.

3:43 a.m.

He squints and turns another page of the old, dusty book. The candlelight barely holds back the shadows, struggling to illuminate the endless lines on magical contracts and Bulgarian law. His fingers trace the parchment, stubbornly moving forward, but it feels like dragging himself across an ocean of words that blur and collapse, refusing to make sense anymore.

Outside, not even the moon dares to shine. The sky is so dark it seems ready to swallow the earth whole, to bury it in silence and ash. The sun hasn't risen once since the Third Task—three days ago now.

The clouds have taken root in the heavens, unmoving, suffocating. They echo the weight inside the castle.

Whispers of death slip through every corridor. They cling to the stone walls, around every window frame, drift like ghosts through every courtyard. The same words, for three days.

The same fear, the same silence. Unbearable. Unrelenting.

They replay like a curse—merciless—until they fill the quiet, until they choke the air.

Cedric's death.Voldemort's return.

It all happened too fast.

Too sudden.

Too brutal.

Too wrong.

The castle mourns. Faces are drawn. Eyes avoid. Conversations cut off before they begin. Grief has seeped into the stone, into the air, into every breath they take. No one knows what to say.

Or worse—no one wants to.

They ask the same questions on repeat. How could this happen? Why did it happen? Why him ? Why Cedric?

But already—already—they are turning away from the truth. They cling to Cedric's name, but not to the reason he's gone. They wrap themselves in mourning, in the last days of school, pretending not to see the shadow stretching further every hour. They avert their gaze. They press their hands over their ears.

No one wants to say it aloud. No one dares.

His return.

Once again, nothing is learned from the past. History repeats itself, louder this time. Colder.

And seated in the shadows of the library, Oliver is left to deal with other whispers—ones that pound against his skull, echo through his chest and refuse to let go.

Zora.

Oliver hasn't slept in three days. He hasn't closed his eyes in three days. Hasn't eaten more than a few bites in three days.

How is he supposed to function, when the girl he cares about is walking straight into a cage?

Every second of these past three days, he's given to saving her. And every second he has left to live, he will give too.

He will search, think, unearth—anything, anything—to find a way out for her. To rip her free from the trap.

Because the thought of her locked away beside someone else—it guts him.

Zora is freedom. She's the force of wind against your face, the heat of the sun burning through your skin—sometimes too much, too fast, but you never want it to stop. She's the storm that crashes and breaks and there is nothing you can do about it.

She is the living proof that freedom has a heartbeat.

And you can't cage the wind. You can't leash the sun. You can't tame a storm.

Try—and nothing breathes. Nothing grows. Nothing shines.

He sees her eyes again—how she tried to push him away. How her gaze faltered, how her voice cracked, and how it carried pieces of his breaking heart in the process.

And in that exact moment, he swore he'd do everything.

Anything.

To protect her. To pull her out. To give her back herself.

To free her.

Even if it means losing himself in the process.

Her prison will be my crusade. I'll make her chains my vow.

Oliver has tried everything. Night and day. He's paced in his room, walked circles around the Quidditch pitch, turned over every possibility in his mind—every way she might break the contract.

Sleepless nights lost to the library, digging through books on magical law, on binding vows, on old marriage rites and contractual traps.

But nothing.

The problem is, he doesn't have much to work with. Zora left him with only three words: contract, Alexei, August.

He's tried to find her. Tried to catch her in a hallway, start a conversation, even just catch her eye. But she's vanished. Three days. No sign.

Same for Viktor.

So Oliver buried himself in the search instead.

And he curses the days for being too short.

And he curses himself for not getting further.

And worst of all, he curses himself for not seeing it sooner.

It all came rushing back the moment she told him. All the puzzle pieces he didn't notice at the time. All the throwaway jokes about being sold off by her mother at eighteen, the letters that made her livid, the tear-stained pages.

The crumpled parchment in her fist at the last Quidditch camp.

The way he shook hands with the man who would become her jailer at the World Cup.How she was already angry. Already tired. Already grieving something he didn't yet understand that day.

The words she couldn't speak, the night she showed up shattered on his doorstep.

He should've asked. He should've pushed. He should've gone deeper.

He should've seen it.

Oliver sighs and shuts the book. Half the pages are in Bulgarian. He doesn't have the strength to keep going right now.

He folds forward, burying his head in his arms, and finally lets his body fall into exhaustion.

But the rest doesn't last long. Footsteps echo behind him. He stands up.

For a moment, his body forgets logic. He lets himself believe—just for a heartbeat—that when he turns around, it'll be her. Zora.

That she'll be there, with all her despair clinging to her skin, with horror inked across her face, with swollen eyes, with sleepless nights on her shoulders, with trembling hands—but there.

And he could show her it's not over. He could hold her. Wrap his arms around her and warm her heart.

Because he knows. He feels it in every nerve, every breath, every muscles.

He was made to protect her. He was made to make sure she stays free. He was made to love her.

But when he turns around—it's not her.

Only Angelina. Tired-eyed, her wand casting light ahead of her. She looks just as exhausted as he feels.

In the heavy silence of the library, she sits down across from him without a word.

Angelina studies him. His tired face. The tower of books threatening to fall beside him. The massive bowl of coffee cooling at his elbow.

He sniffs, too aware she's watching him fall apart. He looks away.

"You need to get some sleep, Oliver."

Her voice sounds tired too. Unsteady.

He sighs. "What are you doing here?"

She sighs as well, leans back against the chair behind her. "I couldn't sleep either. I went for a walk and saw you through the window."

Oliver nods. A few seconds pass. Angelina notices the cover of the books. Mariage's law. Bulgarian law.

She feels her heart tightening. She understands he spends the last few days here, trying to find a loophole. Exactly what she wanted to do, too. She gets him. But it's useless.

"It's useless, Ollie."

Angelina says it almost inaudibly. As if she knows her words could break him at any second.

He shakes his head, tense. "Don't say that. I— I'll find something. Look, there has to be something in all these books, I—"

Seeing him start to panic, frantically reopen every old book around him, she sits up and reaches across the table, catching his arms. Angelina shakes her head slowly, her eyes filling with tears. She presses her lips together.

"Ollie... she made her decision. She has no choice," she adds.

Seeing Zora break in front of her had already destroyed Angelina. But seeing Oliver realize he can't do anything either—that he's just as hopeless—that's what finishes her.

He furrows his brow, breath short. He keeps on turning the pages, face twisted, panting. "But there has to be a way, I—"

Watching him, Angelina wonders if he really knows. If he knows why she has to say yes. Who she's doing it for.

If Zora told him everything.

Probably not. Otherwise he wouldn't be so sure he could find something. He would be like her. Numb and useless.

And she thinks—he deserves to know. To understand. To accept.

To mourn.

So he can move forward.

She takes a long breath. It shouldn't be her telling him that. It should be Zora.

"Oliver," she says gently.

But he is far gone, already deep into another book, rambling about some law or some Bulgarian words he can't translate.

"Ollie," she says more firmly.

He finally looks at her. She squeezes his hand a little bit harder.

"She—, Zora, she, she doesn't have a choice. Even if there were loopholes in the contract or ways to get out, she won't use them. She will go through with it," she says, voice shaking.

Oliver frowns, confused. Angelina sighs.

"She has to accept because if she refuses Oliver, the Vasiliev family will make sure she's banned from every professional Quidditch team," Angelina adds. She pauses. "And worse—they'll destroy Viktor's career too. It's over, Oliver. It's over."

Suddenly, Oliver understands. Everything.

He knows her. How far she would go for Viktor. To protect him. That she would take the blow for him. All of them.

He knows her. Knows how much she needs Quidditch. How she wouldn't survive without it. Without her dream. Without the one thing she's fought for her entire life—just to prove she deserved it.

But after the understanding comes the realization.

And it hurts. It hurts too much.

He feels like the books are swallowing him whole. The walls closing in. Angelina looks far away, blurry. He feels like he's sinking. Like he's leaving his body behind on this wooden library chair.

And he hears it.

He hears his heart breaking.

He hears the pieces falling, crashing against the floor. He hears the cracks splitting him open, loud enough to drown everything else.

As if his heart is telling him—it will never beat the same way again.

He feels it turn cold. Frozen. So cold it steals the breath from his lungs.

The realization steals his breath. The realization that there's nothing he can do. Zora is too trapped.

Caught between what she wants, and what she has to do. Between her family, and herself.

The realization that he is useless. That his promises have shattered. That his purpose, his mission, his reason to exist—has just been torn from him.

Angelina speaks, but her voice barely reaches him.

He's already somewhere else—where everything echoes and nothing makes sense.

Where he and Zora don't even exist.

All he hears is the slow, dragging beat of his heart, and the whispers echoing inside of his head.

How is he supposed to go on? How does he survive a world that no longer holds her?

How does he breathe without the sound of her laugh—that laugh that cracked the cold in him, that laugh that made things feel warm again?

How does he exist without her skin under his hands, soft and alive and real, without those looks she gave him, the ones that awakened every inch of him and made him fall in love with brown—just because it was the color of her eyes?

How is he supposed to live in a world where her scent—that amber warmth—is just a memory?

Where her hair no longer tangles in his fingers and cups her face?

How does he stay grounded when the voice that always pulled him back is gone?

How is he supposed to look at his life when the only thing that ever made him proud was watching her in it?

How does he stop himself from doing something reckless, when she was the only reason he wanted to do it for?

How can he kiss someone else, when he has already memorized the shape of her lips, the taste of her mouth—that impossible and unforgettable taste he knows nothing will ever come close to?

How does he lie next to someone else when her body fits into him like it was carved from the same god?

How does he talk to anyone else when their words aren't hers, when they don't carry the weight hers did, when they don't make him feel like he matter?

How does he touch anyone else when his hands only know the shape of her— her hands, her throat, her cheekbones, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, the line of her spine, like they were built to rest beneath his palms?

How will he go a single day without whispering that she's the best thing that ever happened to him— and that he'd do it all over again.

How can he live with the knowing that the world goes on, and she's no longer his?

How does he live without her?

Without Zora?

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora opens her eyes. They take a moment to adjust to the light, scanning the room, trying to remember where she is. She straightens up, frowning. Her back is wrecked. Her neck aches like hell. She fell asleep in an armchair.

Her gaze lands on Viktor, asleep in his bed. She's in his room.

She exhales and turns to the clock. Twenty minutes. She slept only twenty minutes.

In three days.

She sighs and rubs her eyes. After Cedric's death, everything moved so fast. They had to leave the maze. Everyone was shouting, screaming, moving. Viktor was dazed. Strange. Bloodshot eyes.

Then the news hit. About Voldemort. About his return. About what happened in the graveyard. About Moody.

And about Viktor under the Imperius curse.

It was a shock for her—but worse for him. He was drained. Hollowed out. Mostly, he was ashamed. Sick with guilt. His memories blurred together, tangled. Telling truth from illusion became impossible.

He started to panic as soon as Zora got him back to his dorm, saying he probably murdered Cedric, that he did terrible things in the maze, that he was still under the curse, that he could hurt her, that she should leave.

The guilt devoured him. The idea that he might've hurt Fleur—or Harry, or Cedric—made him physically sick.

Zora tried everything to calm him down. She ended up giving him some potions to make him sleep.

She stayed by his side for three days. By his bed. They didn't leave the room. Zora watched over him. Viktor slept. Sometimes, they tried to talk. But it always circled back—to the maze. To Cedric. To what he might've done.

Staying with him was also the only way to avoid the mess she left behind at Hogwarts. The girls. Angelina. Adeline. Their pity. She wants to spare them the pain of watching their friend fall apart with nothing they can do.

The tight-lipped faces. The grief sitting heavy in the halls. The ending that's already begun. The after. Her after.

And most of all—Oliver.

She hates herself. Zora loathes who she's become. She didn't go through with it. She didn't say it. All of it. Why she was doing this. Why she was putting herself through it. She only left him with the fact she is marrying someone else. That she is promised.

She left him with half-truths. With illusions. She left him with hope. The hope that he could save her. That he could pull her out of this mess. That there was a chance she could refuse the contract.

That maybe, just maybe, nothing would change. That somehow, everything would be okay.

She didn't tell him she was doing it for Viktor, for her family. For herself, too. For Quidditch.

She let him think that she was not hopelessly trapped.

She had been wrong from the start. Wrong not to tell him the second her world began to collapse. The second she learned about the contract.

Wrong to keep seeing him like nothing was breaking. Wrong to let him believe there was still time.

That they had still time.

She was wrong to lie to him and to keep seeing him. Wrong to be selfish, to hold on to the time they had left, clinging to it like it was her last breath before the fall.

And now she can't face him.

Can't face his hurt. His sadness. His anger.

Because facing it would make it all real. And real means it's the last time.

The very last time she gets to face his feelings. Any feelings.

Zora sits still, her spine curved with exhaustion, her eyes on the soothing movements of the Black Lake.

They're leaving tonight. After the memorial dinner. After the final speeches. After the last candles for Cedric.

She swallows hard.

What a devastating way to end her year at Hogwarts.

Cedric.

She still doesn't believe it. That he's gone. That someone so warm, so bright, could just vanish like that — snatched from their lives, from their future, as if he were never meant to last.

She remembers his laugh. The way he winked at everyone when he passed in the corridors. The Quidditch jokes. The stupid bets. How he always gave Oliver a run for his money. How he always made sure everyone was seen and appreciated.

He deserved better than this. He deserved more time.

She presses her forehead into her palm. A sharp breath. A quiet sob she won't let out.

Viktor stirs slightly in his sleep.

Zora's eyes fall on him. Her cousin. Her brother. Her rock. Her everything.

Her only family left.

And for a second — a heartbeat — she thinks about telling him.

About the contract. About the deal sealed in blood and paper. About the lie her mother orchestrated and the price she agreed to pay to keep them all safe. To save their name. To protect him. His dream. His future.

She wants to. God, she wants to.

It would make her feel lighter. To share this with him. It would make her feel less alone in all of it.

But she doesn't.

Because if she tells him... he'll look at her differently. He'll try to fix it. He'll blame himself. He'll feel like he owes her something — and she couldn't bear that. Not from him.

She wants this version of them to stay untouched. Wants this last piece of normal to remain.

She doesn't want pity. Or worse — sacrifice.

She shifts in the chair, the stiffness in her neck making her wince just as Viktor's eyes flutter open.

There's a moment where he blinks, lost between dream and reality, then his gaze lands on her.

"слънце?"

She nods. Offers him a tired, barely-there smile. "How are you feeling ?"

He pushes himself upright with effort, rubbing his eyes. He looks pale.

"How long have I—?"

"You slept ten hours this time," she says softly. "You needed it."

He swallows and leans back against the headboard. The silence stretches, then he speaks again, voice hoarse.

"I can't believe this is how we are leaving Hogwarts. Cedric and everything, it's—"

Her chest tightens. She shakes her head. "Yeah," she breathes. "Me too."

She has to dig her nails in her arms to prevent herself from crying.

"What about you?" he asks. "Did you sleep ?"

She shakes her head. "Twenty minutes."

Viktor sighs. "You should have taken my bed, or went back to your dorms. You need to sleep, Zora."

Believe me, I will have the rest of my life to sleep. To sleep forever. Because my future isn't even worth living.

"How do you feel ?"

Zora's throat contracts. For a second, she considers lying. She almost says "fine." Almost says something easy.

But all that comes out is a quiet, broken, "I don't know."

And Viktor doesn't press. He just shifts closer, his fingers brushing hers before gently curling around her hand.

His palm is warm.

"It's going to be okay," he whispers, with a certainty that neither of them quite believes in, but both need to hear.

She squeezes his hand back, eyes burning, before standing up and turning toward the doors.

He can't see me cry.

I am not allowed to cry.

She inhales deeply, breath shaking. "I'm going to pack and get ready for the dinner. See you there, ok ?"

Zora doesn't wait for Viktor's answer as she gets out of his dorm and walk to hers. She walks down the boat, the walls unfamiliar in their silence. Her steps are light, unsteady, like she's not entirely there. Like she could vanish between two breaths. Her body moves out of habit. Her mind—somewhere else entirely.

They're leaving tonight.

She doesn't feel ready. She doesn't feel anything at all.

She pushes open the door to her room and closes it behind her, slowly, like if she moves too quickly the walls might collapse on her.

The bed is unmade. The sheets still smell like sleepless nights. Her trunk sits at the foot, already half-closed. She doesn't remember packing. She doesn't remember much of the last three days.

Except this unbearable agony.

Zora walks toward the small mirror hanging above the dresser. She doesn't recognize the girl staring back. Pale. Hollowed. Her hair loose around her face like smoke.

She pulls on a black dress.

Black—like the sky above Hogwarts, like the weight in her chest, like the hole in her heart.

Black—like mourning, like grief that doesn't scream but sits heavy and endless.

Black—like the life she's walking into without him.

The dress feels like it's trying to strangle her into silence. Each breath feels like it scrapes against the inside of her ribs. She wonders if suffocation might be quieter than this.

Zora lifts her gaze to the mirror.

Just like your father.

At this moment, she is looking at herself like her mother would. Like her mother always had. She sees only treason, lies.

Tears blur her reflection, heavy and rising.

She notices her eyes, her mouth, her nose, her eyes. Her hair.

Don't cry, Zora. Only the weak are allowed to cry.

But the tears fall anyway. Hot and heavy, shattering as they slide down her cheeks.

Her breath is getting heavier, panting.

Like a punishment, she grabs the brush, dragging it through her hair with vicious strokes. It rips through knots like tearing flesh. Her scalp burns.

Never leaving her drowning gaze in the mirror, she grabs a pin and style her hair into a perfect bun like a final insult to what little is left of who she was.

Then, in one sudden movement, she throws the brush across the room. It hits the wall with a sharp crack and clatters to the floor, forgotten. She stumbles toward the mirror, taking the sides in her shaking hands.

She swallows her tears and wipes her nose with the back of her hand. She bites her tongue, her face twisting in the mirror from the pain, the taste of blood feeling her mouth. And then, she flashes a smile on her wet cheeks.

"Happy now, Mother ?" she whispers in front of her reflection, before breaking in sobs, her knees on the ground.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The Great Hall is unrecognizable.

Gone are the floating candles. Gone is the chatter, the clatter of cutlery, the comforting noise of life.

Tonight, the air is reverent, suffocating. The silence takes all the space. Everyone dressed in black or dark colors. All eyes down, not daring anything.

Zora steps inside. She doesn't look at anyone. She tries not to breath and hopes to disappear.

But she can already feel it. His eyes on her.

Always.

She spots Viktor at the end of the Slytherin table. He's already seated, shoulders hunched, elbows on the edge of the table. He looks up as she approaches, but he says nothing. Just moves slightly to give her space beside him.

She slides into the seat.

She folds her hands in her lap. Her palms are clammy, fingers numb. Every sound—the scrape of a chair leg, a cough across the hall, the soft shuffle of robes—feels thunderous. Too loud in a room where grief sits at every table.

They serve food, but no one touches it. Zora keeps her eyes fixed on her plate. Not because she's hungry, but because it's easier than meeting anyone's gaze.

She forces herself to sip water. It tastes metallic. Like blood. Like her end.

Someone starts speaking—a boy from Slytherin. He's trying. Saying something about Cedric. About his laugh. His kindness. His stupid jokes. His Quidditch's skills. Zora tunes it out.

Her hands tighten around her glass.

They're all pretending it was a tragedy. An accident. An unfortunate end to a tournament.

The room feels like it's lying.

Viktor's hand grabs her under the table. She doesn't pull away. She knows right now, he needs it as much as she does.

Dumbledore stands. His voice is gentle. "Tonight, we are here not only to honor Cedric Diggory, but to remember what he stood for. Bravery. Loyalty. Kindness."

Not a sound. Sobs break the silence. Everyone holds their breath.

"There will be time, in the days ahead, to reckon with what happened. To demand truth. But tonight, I ask that we begin simply—by remembering him."

She blinks hard. Her throat burns. She no longer hears Dumbledore's words. Everything becomes a blur. She only sees a brunette at the other end of the room, raising her hand. At the end, her wand, glittering.

So she does the same thing. Grabs her wand and raises it in the air. Viktor looks at her, confused at first. Then follows her. Soon, the entire Great Hall is sparkling.

People begin to speak then. Little stories. Small memories. About Cedric.

Under the table, Zora squeezes Viktor's hand, hard.

Then someone plays a soft melody from the front of the hall. A violin. Just a single instrument. The Hall fall silent again.

And Zora lets it slide. A single tear falls into her lap.

A single one.

For Cedric.

From the Gryffindor table, Oliver watches her. He can't do anything else but to watch her.

It has never hurt as much as it does to look at her now.

She looks shattered. Her black dress and Durmstrang coat like an armor. She sits beside Viktor.

But the first thing he noticed was her hair. It has send a shiver down his spine.

She doesn't glance at him. Not once.

It's unbearable.

But this—this slow, quiet version of her—is worse.

She looks like a ghost of herself. Like someone who's already halfway gone.

Her long, wild, beautiful hair. Disappeared. Gone. Gone in a perfectly styled bun.

Tamed. Silenced. Erased.

Every strand of hair pinned back feels like a thread of herself being buried.

And maybe that's the point. Maybe mourning isn't only for the dead. Maybe it's for all the pieces of ourselves we kill to survive.

He swallows hard and leans toward Angelina, voice low. "Angie. You have to get her to come with us after."

Angelina frowns. "Come where?"

"The pitch. We're doing it. You know—what we said. All of us, the Quidditch teams. On the pitch. For Cedric. Davies found the flowers."

She nods, eyes already glassy. "You really think she'll come?"

"I'm sure she will."

He says it like it's a fact. But really, it's a prayer.

"I'll try to talk to her," Angelina whispers.

When dinner ends, students drift out in small, heavy groups. Some are clinging to one another. Some are silent. Some are crying openly now that they're past the speeches and the pretending.

Angelina slips away from the Gryffindor table, headed toward Zora as she is already walking towards the exit. She looks unsteady, lost.

Oliver watches.

When Angelina reaches her, Zora listens. She doesn't argue. She just nods. Her mouth doesn't move, but she nods. That's enough.

Oliver exhales through his nose, relieved.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Outside on the pitch, the sky is threatening to break open. The grass is wet. The air, cold. Zora walks with Angelina and Viktor behind them, Adeline on his arm.

Oliver is already there. Helping Davies to bring the box of yellow daffodils.

The pitch is silent. Everyone is here. They all gather in a circle. Gryffindors. Hufflepuffs. Ravenclaws. Slytherins. Delegations team.

Davies clears his throat and takes a step forward. "Hello everyone," he begins and his voice falters a little. "I—, uh, I, well thanks, for coming. It would mean the world to Ced and—"

He stops, trying to prevent himself from crying. He exhales deeply, Oliver patting him on the shoulder.

"Ced was, well, you know how he was," he says, chuckling slightly. "I knew him very well. Pretty Boy Diggory as we all call him."

Everyone smiles or lets out a small laugh.

"He was the kindest, bravest and a hell of a seeker," he adds and Oliver nods behind him.

"I think he had an impact on everyone's life here. No matter how or when. And even if we weren't all the best of friends, we have one thing in common : the love of Quidditch. With Ollie, we thought we could honor him on the pitch. There's flowers for everyone, so—"

Davies can't even finish his sentences as he breaks into tears. "We love you Ced," he manages to say before turning his back.

He grabs a flower from the box and walks to the little wooden stick that comes out of the earth. On the top, a plaque with his name and a Golden Snitch on top of it. He puts the flower down and walks a bit further.

One by one, players step forward and place a single yellow flower.

A pile slowly forms.

Angelina weeps openly against George's shoulder. Adeline holds Angelina's hand so tightly their knuckles are white.

Zora dares to look at Oliver. He holds a flower in his palm. It's crushed a little from how tightly he's been holding it.

He steps forward. Tries to say something. But nothing comes out.

He stares down at the yellow petals. Then drops the flower like it's the last thing he has to give.

Then it's Zora's turn. She grabs the last flower on the box. She puts it down. She kisses her fingers and puts them against his name.

When it's over, people linger.

Except Zora. The moment she stands up, she turns away quickly and walks. Fast.

"Zora—" Oliver starts, but she's already vanishing into the dark. Back toward the castle. Her back is a line he can't cross.

He doesn't follow.

He stands there, on the pitch, fists in his coat pockets, his heart going fucking wild. He's terrified.

He's terrified because this is it. They are leaving. She is leaving. Leaving this place. Leaving him.

He exhales and stays with the other a little bit. They talk about Cedric. But his mind is far away.

After a while, everyone starts to go back to the castle to wave goodbye to the Delegations. Oliver doesn't follow them. He goes straight to the dock, a little bit further away.

The Durmstrang ship rocks softly on the water, black sails catching the moonlight.

He waits.

And waits.

Minutes pass. Long ones.

Is she really leaving without saying goodbye ?

He takes his head in his heads, sighing. He paces. He wonders when this nightmare will be over.

And then—he sees them. Durmstrang, walking on the dock. So, this is it.

She left.

Without saying goodbye.

This is my end.

"Oliver ?"

He stands up and turns, startled. There she is.

Still so impossibly, painfully beautiful even with her hair messily pinned, even with her eyes red and raw and swollen from crying. Her lips are trembling.

"Zora," he breathes, voice breaking, running to her. "Oh God I thought—I thought you left."

She just shakes her head, hard, as if trying to shake herself awake. She is already panting, looking panicked.

"Listen," she says, her voice already ruined. "Please Oliver just—listen, okay?"

Oliver nods, even though everything in him is screaming not to.

"I'm sorry," she gasps, searching for air, her sobs already suffocating her. "I'm so sorry, Oliver. For everything. For not telling you. For keeping up with you even if I knew from the start it was going to end. I—God, I'm sorry I let you think there was more time. That we had time."

Her face drowned in tears, she breaks into sobs, her body shaking violently.

"Zora—"

"No. Let me talk. Please." She bites her lip so hard she tastes blood. Her breath hitches like she's drowning in air.

"I'm the worst. I know I am. I don't deserve any of this—you. I should have never come to your house, I should have keep my distance with you. I'm the worst because now everything is over. I'm leaving. I'm going to be married. And we're probably never going to see each other again, Oliver."

Her words are barely audible through her sobs. But surprisingly, Oliver understands everything.

Like every words were made to break him a bit more.

He shakes his head. "Don't say this. I'll find a way, Zora, I promise." His voice rises. "It's not—, it can't be the end, right ?"

"Don't you get it, Oliver ?" she screams suddenly, her hands shaking now. "Don't you get it? Every step I take toward that ship is a step away from you and I can feel it in my bones, Oliver. I feel it in my ribs and my spine and in my teeth—everything hurts. It hurts because it's the end. The end of us."

She inhales deeply, her face a mess of tears and pain. Oliver feels like he can't breath anymore. He shakes his head. He can't possibly accept that. This truth.

"It's over," she chokes. "Please. Don't try to write. Don't send anything. It would only hurt us even more."

Oliver steps forward, still shaking his head. "No, no. No. No, Zora. Please. Please don't do this."

He can barely speak through the storm in his throat. "It's not —, I won't let it be. You and me—we're not—"

"Of course it is!" she says firmly. "What do you think this is, Oliver? We can't fix this. I'm going where I'm told. You're going back to Scotland." She cups his face with her hands, and despite everything, she smiles. A true one.

"You'll have your life. Keeper for the National Team. I'm so proud of you, Oliver. "

Her breath catches again. She smiles and wipes his cheeks now full of tears.

"I wish you the best, Oliver. You deserve all of it. The team, the future, the peace. You'll find someone better for you, someone who will treat you right. And Nora—please, tell her she's the brightest little thing I've ever met. Tell her I think about her all the time."

Oliver stares at her like she's burning in front of him. Because that's what it feels like.

"Zora, don't leave me like this," he whispers. "I don't know how to function without you. I don't know how to breathe in a world where you're not in it. Not anymore. And I think I never knew."

Oliver is falling apart. Crumbling. He sniffles and pulls her hands away from his face.

He looks at her and shakes his head, unable to speak. He doesn't want to accept it. He can't accept it. He refuses.

Then he reaches out—grabs her face, touches her hair, her cheeks, her waist, everything— as if trying to memorize her, as if trying to press her into his skin, as if trying to hold on to something he already knows he's losing.

To remember. To keep. To never, ever forget.

He looks at her and Zora isn't sure how is she still standing. She inhales, trying everything not to give in in his arms.

"Zora, you can't tell me not to write to you. You can't tell me this is the end." He pauses, looking like he is at war with himself, trying to find the right words. "You can't because I lo—"

And she knows. She knows what he was about to say. It breaks what's left of her heart.

In her head, she's already screaming it back.

I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you. I love you.

Oliver, how I love you.

But I can't say it. I can't ruin you. I can't make this harder.

So instead, she kisses him. She doesn't let him say it. Because it would hurt to much.

These words without a future.

She doesn't deserve them.

Their mouths crash together. She can taste the salt of his tears mixing with hers, his trembling hands on her cheeks.

She kisses him like like it's the last time. He kisses her like he thinks if he does it hard enough, she'll stay.

But she doesn't.

She pulls away. Doesn't meet his eyes.

And then she turns.

And Oliver knows it.

It's the beginning of his end.