The seal of my own slow death

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

romance - fontaines DC 

And deep in the night I confideThat maybe my goodness has diedI pray for your kindnessHeart on a spit

And maybe romance is a place, yeahMaybe romance is a place, yeahMaybe romance is a placeFor me and youAnd youAnd-

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver closes his trunk and leans back against the bed, sitting on the floor. His Quidditch bag lies nearby, still open, half-unpacked. He doesn't have the strength to finish. To close the bag. To close this chapter of his life and never open it again.

Hogwarts is over.

Tomorrow, he goes home. Back to Scotland. He starts a new chapter. The National team. His dream. Everything he's ever dared to want—everything his father once made feel out of reach.

He should be excited. He should be counting down the hours. He's won the Cup. His friends all know where they're headed next. They'll keep seeing each other.

But there's this taste—bitter, metallic—in his mouth, in his gut, in his chest. The taste of sorrow, slow and suffocating, taking every spaces in him. It's the kind of sadness that doesn't crash down all at once—it seeps in. And it drags him into a long, aching fall.

Because this new chapter doesn't have her in it.

How did it come to this?

God knows he's imagined what life after Hogwarts would look like. A million times. He pictured the practices with the National Team, taking care of Nora and his mum, lazy weekends at home.  Pouring everything he has into the National team. 

But also—finally—living. Doing all the things he never let himself have. Late-night walks. A life in London. Meeting his friends at their houses, in pubs. 

And in every single version of that future... she was there.

He imagined her showing up at training with that smile on her lips, throwing jabs at his reflexes or his form. He saw himself introducing her to his teammates, catching the flicker of jealousy in their eyes—the envy also, maybe. He imagines they would wonder how someone like him could be with someone like her. And how proud he would be about this. 

Zora, with that smile that could unmake a man, her gaze, taking the words out of your mouth, her way of tearing you down in three lines—and somehow, making you want her to do it again. That effortless power she carries without even trying.

He imagined weekends with her in Scotland. He could see her—outside in the garden, hair wrapped in one of her ridiculous, colourful scarves, laughing so hard she nearly falls over. He saw her in his kitchen, barefoot and half-asleep, one of his shirts slipping off her shoulder, legs swinging from the counter as she watches him make coffee. Zora in his bed, pressed against him, her face soft in sleep.

He pictured him at her own practices too— he would watch her becoming one with her broom, the sky and the Quaffle, all moving as one. Flying so fast you could barely track her. Sweat on her skin. Her braid unraveling at the ends. The way she'd sprint across the pitch after it, laughing, genuinely happy. 

These memories aren't even real—and still, they're branded into him. It's like he can smell her shampoo as she steps out of the shower. Hear her accent as she tells him to focus on his bloody reflexes. Feel the warmth of her body beneath his cotton sheets. Her touch, her voice, the world she carried with her.

He exhales shakily, eyes closing as if it might help—as if forgetting her is even an option.

But none of it will happen. Absolutely none of it.

Behind him, he hears the dormitory door swing open with a loud crash. He instantly recognizes George's voice, cursing as he trips over something, followed by the sound of the door clicking shut again.

Oliver takes a deep breath before turning around to face him.

"Hey, Ollie," George says, his voice soft. He feels his eyes on him, full of compassion. He doesn't even try to hide it. Oliver can feel his friend's eyes scanning him, searching for the smallest crack.

He doesn't have to search hard.

Oliver's eyes are hollow. A bottomless well of sorrow.

"Hi," Oliver answers, voice tight, feigning composure—badly.

Everyone knows what happened with Zora now. He and Angelina told their closest friends. They couldn't hide it. Not when they both looked like ghosts of themselves. Not when the silence around them was starting to scream.

"Finished packing?" George asks, crossing his arms.

Oliver nods and gestures vaguely at his Quidditch bag. "Yeah. Just the gear left. Then I'm done."

Silence falls again. Oliver sniffs quietly. "You?"

George snorts. "Please. You know us. Fred and I are doing it five minutes before we leave. Minnie's gonna lose it. Tradition, really."

Oliver tries to smile. It doesn't land.

"You coming tonight?"

"Tonight?" Oliver frowns.

"The party."

"What party?" he blinks, genuinely lost.

George laughs, stepping closer, clapping a hand on Oliver's shoulder. "Good to know you're still the same old Ollie. Oblivious as hell."

He gives him a gentle shove and this time, Oliver actually manages a ghost of a smile.

"Seriously. What party?"

"Hufflepuffs are throwing an end-of-year thing. Kinda in Cedric's honor, too. It's not gonna be wild or anything. But... it's something. One last goodbye, y'know?"

Oliver nods slowly, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah. Right. I don't think I'll come."

"Come on, man. The whole team's going. It'll do you good."

Oliver lets out a cold, humorless laugh. "Nothing's gonna do me good, George."

George hesitates, then adds, "We still need our Captain, you know?"

Oliver breathes out. Long. Heavy. "I'll see," he finally says.

He sits down on his bed with a sigh. George follows suit. For a few seconds, they don't speak. And that silence, oddly, helps. There's comfort in not having to fill the space.

"Angelina's a mess," George says eventually. "I— I don't know what to do for her. I don't think she even got to talk to Zora before she left. It's just... complicated."

A bolt of guilt runs through Oliver's body. 

He got to see her.

Got to taste her lips, feel her hands on his face.

Got to be the last one.

He feels ashamed. Like he stole something he shouldn't have. Like he was given a gift meant for someone else. And Angelina—Angelina who's like a sister—didn't get this chance. 

And he hates himself for feeling grateful about all of this. 

But maybe again it's because she doesn't plan on erasing Angelina of her life as she asked with him. 

"I'm sorry," he says at last. His voice barely there. He shifts upright. "I'll come. I'll try talking to her tonight."

George nods, then turns to face him more fully. "I'm sorry too. I just— I feel so fucking useless. For you. For Zora."

Oliver blinks fast. His eyes burn, vision blurring. He stands up before he breaks. 

He nods. "Mostly for her, yeah."

He crosses the room to his Quidditch bag, grabs his broom. It feels heavier than usual in his hand.

"I'm going to fly for a bit. See you tonight?"

He doesn't wait for George's answer. Doesn't give him the chance to look at him with that pity again.

The door slams shut behind him.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

As always with Oliver, it's all too much.

The music pounds in his ears, the laughter feels fake, the air too hot, the smiles stretched tight like masks. Like everyone is pretending. Like everything suffocates. He doesn't belong here—not tonight, not like this.

He regrets coming. He remembers he only agreed to come for Angelina. He doesn't even see her. 

In the corner of the Hufflepuff common room, he catches sight of a tribute—Cedric's corner. Dozens of photos are floating in the air : Cedric grinning in his Quidditch gear, hugging friends, walking through the castle, flying. His broom is propped up nearby, along with a Golden Snitch and his Prefect badge.

Oliver's in one of the photos too. Last year. All four team captains side by side, arm-in-arm, so full of fire. He swallows hard. That moment feels like a lifetime ago. 

He pushes through the crowd and stumbles toward the bar, already past counting how many drinks he's had. The firewhiskey burns its way down his throat, numbing his chest but failing to dull the sharp, nauseating edge of pain.

His vision blurs.

He finds his friends huddled together in a circle of yellow couches, their voices low, expressions tired. He collapses into the nearest armchair, limbs heavy, eyes dull. He lifts his glass again and takes a long swig, ignoring the silence that settles around him and his friends' gazes on him.

"Easy, Ollie," Fred says gently. "That's gotta be, what, your sixth?"

Oliver doesn't answer. He empties his glass in one shot, slams it down.

"Is it now?" 

George, Angelina, and Lee all exchange the same look—concern, quiet panic. Lee reaches out, snatches Oliver's empty glass, and sets it down under his own.

"That's it. No more. Alright, Captain?"

Oliver just slumps deeper into the armchair, closing his eyes. His body feels like it's melting into the cushion, sweat trickling down the back of his neck. His throat scorches. His head spins.

He hates this.

He hates the music, the noise, the heat.

He hates himself.

He hates being here, drinking, pretending any of this matters—when Zora is likely locked away in some manor in Bulgaria, being offered to a man like she's a gift in a box.

But even that reality can't compete with the ache in his chest. The pain is physical. Real. A hollow carved deep inside him. The pain of her absence. Of her vanishing.

It's only been a few days.

But it feels like centuries since they stood on the dock, since she kissed him through tears and said goodbye like it would destroy her.

His hand lifts without thinking, fingers brushing his lips.

He tastes her again. The salt of her tears. The sweetness of her mouth. The addictive heat of it all. He tastes the ending.

He opens his eyes, barely, blinking back the burn.

His team is still here, trying their best to have a good time. To move forward. To celebrate what should have been the end of a chapter—not a funeral.

It's too much for Oliver. He stands, nearly tripping over the couch, muttering apologies, not that anyone's listening. He stumbles toward the exit.

He needs air. He needs quiet.

He needs her.

The night air hits his face and it makes him gasp—like surfacing from underwater. He steps into the courtyard just outside the corridor, dropping onto the low stone wall. He can breathe out here. At least a little.

He doesn't hear the footsteps behind him.

Angelina appears under the moonlight, her face tired, and sits beside him without a word.

"Fucking hell," Oliver whispers. It's the only thing he can say.

Angelina gives a dry laugh. "Yeah. That about sums it up."

He rubs his face again. "I can't believe it ends like this. Cedric. Harry. And now Zora..."

His voice breaks on her name. 

"I'm going home tomorrow. My dad's gonna give me shit about Puddlemere. I don't even know what kind of shape my mum's in. I've gotta take care of Nora for the summer, train again in August, start prepping for the new season. All of that was fine, before. Because she was gonna be there."

He stares at his hands.

"Now? Now it just feels impossible."

Angelina leans her head against his shoulder. The weight of it is familiar. Warm. Human. He lets out a slow breath, grateful she came after him. Grateful he doesn't have to say all of this to an empty wall.

"Zora would call you a soft arse who gets all weepy when things go wrong," Angelina teases, her voice shaky but smiling.

Oliver lets himself smile too, even as his eyes sting. "Yeah. She probably would."

The silence stretches. The muffled music thumps behind them, too far to touch. A lone crow caws somewhere in the darkness. 

"She say anything to you before she left?" Angelina asks, so quiet he almost doesn't hear.

He stiffens. The guilt returns in full force. That the girls didn't get to say goodbye. That it all happened so fast.

He clears his throat. "She told me not to write to her. That I deserved better. That I'd find someone better. She told me to greet Nora for her. And then she said..." his voice breaks and he has to take a pause, "she said she was proud of me."

Angelina lifts her head, her eyes shining. "Oh, Ollie..."

He shakes his head, dizzy again from more than the alcohol. "I'm not giving up. I'll find a way. I'll write every day, even if she never opens them. I'm not stopping. You don't just give up on someone like Zora."

Angelina squeezes his hand. "You're not alone, alright? I'm here too."

He grips her hand tighter. "How's Ad?"

She shrugs. "Same as us. We haven't really talked about it much as she left right after the dinner for Ced too. The whole Ivan thing hit her hard. And what happened during the third task... well. She didn't say it, but it rocked her. I'm going to France next week to help her before her tryouts."

She pauses. He feels something hot land on his hand—her tear.

"She was supposed to come too. Zora. To France. But I guess... it'll just be the two of us this time."

He straightens, unsure what to do, how to respond. He has always been a good listener but should he hug her? Lie and say it'll be okay? But she answers for him—throws her arms around him and buries her face in his shoulder.

He wraps his arms around her in return.

He still doesn't know how he's going to survive all of this.

But at least—he won't have to survive it alone.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The return to Krum Manor feels endless for Zora. The boat ride is heavy. Wordless. The Durmstrang students are lined up on the dock in silence, suspended in a kind of quiet that has nothing peaceful about it. 

Their headmaster gone—vanished in disgrace, having betrayed not only the school but his own students—there's nothing left to hold them together now. Just scattered loyalty and a sinking cold.

Curled up on one of the benches, Viktor's arm draped protectively around her shoulders, Zora has only one thought in her mind. Her mother.

Mother.

She thinks of her immaculate posture waiting for her at the gates, the sharp click of heels across polished floors, and the look—always that look—full off disdain and disappointment. 

She thinks of the schemes she's about to bend to. The way she will kneel before her, offering herself like a pawn returned to its queen.

She's lost. Her mother has won.

And what she hates the most—what makes her sick to her stomach—is that a part of her still hopes that maybe this sacrifice will make her mother love her. Even just a little.

Zora and Viktor have spent the entire ride in silence, eyes fixed on Ivan sitting across from them. After the incident with Adeline, Viktor hasn't said a single word to him. And when they finally reach land, Zora—without a word—flicks her wand and sends Ivan straight into the water with a quick spell.

Behind her, she hears him shout and the sound of water. In front of her, Viktor is walking and extends his hand behind him which she claps, proud of herself.

It earns her a smile. A tiny one. The first in days.

Once her feet touch solid ground, she lifts her gaze. Durmstrang towers ahead. A shiver runs down her spine.

Back to the start. Full circle. 

"You okay?" Viktor asks, grabbing her trunk along with his own. Zora only nods. There's no use in answering.

Their parents are supposed to be waiting outside the school. She spots her uncle and aunt—but not her mother. 

And despite everything, the absence manages to hurt.

They head straight for the manor. The only thing Zora's looking forward to is Nikita.

Her only joy in this prison. Her only light in a life that's folding in on itself.

She kisses her aunt and uncle quickly, already slipping away. The sounds blur. She avoids their eyes. Doesn't answer their questions. Her ears are buzzing. She feels her aunt's hand resting gently on her arm, but she pulls away without thinking. She can't stand being touched. Not now.

And then, when she stands in front of the manor gates—she stops.

Paralysed. She can't go in. She can't move.

Everything is suddenly too real. The image of her future crashes into her. A life behind the walls of some Vassiliev estate, playing the perfect wife until the end of time.

Her fingers twist the edge of her shirt—Oliver's shirt, the one she never gave back.

His scent still lingers on the cotton. She sleeps in it now. Like an idiot.

"Zora? What's wrong?" Viktor's voice rings out.

She doesn't need to answer. Because at that moment, Nikita runs toward her, tail wagging, tongue out, throwing herself into Zora's arms so hard she falls backward, flat on the ground.

That makes Zora laugh. She lets herself laugh.

Maybe for the last time. Who knows?

Eventually, she drags her feet toward the house. Everyone is already inside—probably in the drawing room, Viktor telling what happened to Hogwarts to their parents. He enjoys the short time he has with them as he has to go back to the training center tonight. 

Zora climbs the stairs slowly. Each step feels like a descent into something irreversible. Her legs are heavy. Her body resists, as if it knows she's walking toward her own undoing.

She walks the long corridor to her bedroom. Familiar, but unfamiliar now. Like everything else. Like her.

She pushes the door open with one hand, ready to collapse onto the bed and disappear for good.

But on the threshold—her body locks. Her blood runs cold. She freezes.

Mother.

She's sitting on the edge of Zora's bed, straight-backed and still, head held high. Hands folded. One leg elegantly crossed over the other, her foot tapping softly in the air. She doesn't even turn when Zora enters—just keeps her eyes fixed out the window, staring at the estate beyond.

And then—she smiles.

Beside her, Zora sees it. A stack of papers. Perfectly arranged. One of her mother's finest quills resting delicately on top.

And there—a letter.The letter. The one where she agreed to everything. The one where she sold her future, where she sold herself. 

Zora recognizes the smudge of ink, the salt-drenched stain where a tear fell, warping the parchment like the seal of her own slow death.

"You know, Zora," her mother says, her voice cool, composed. "I'm so proud of you."

Zora swallows hard. Closes her eyes. That lump in her throat is rising fast. Her hand clutches the doorknob like a lifeline—anything to stay upright, anything to keep from falling apart.

She almost laughs. Out of spite. Out of rage.

Out of all the years this moment didn't come. Out of all the years she didn't say it. Out of all the times she didn't say she was proud of her. 

Not when she got into Quidditch camp. Not when she won every match at Durmstrang. Not when she got back up after a brutal fall at ten years old.

No. Not then.

Only now. Now that she's given up.

Zora shivers.

Her mother finally stands and meets her eyes. Zora studies her. And it hits her—how little they look alike.

Her mother is blonde, hair thin and always perfectly styled. She has sharp-featured. Almond-shaped green eyes. Thin brows. She is short, slim, always perched on heels.

But what truly strikes her isn't the face. It's her gaze.

For the first time, Zora doesn't see disappointment. Or resentment. Or shame. Or rage.

She sees satisfaction. Nothing more.

Lilyana steps forward and places a hand on her daughter's shoulders. Zora flinches. The contact makes her skin crawl. She's not used to it. Doesn't want it.

"I always knew you could do it," her mother says. "I knew you'd see this is the better life—for everyone. For you."

Zora feels it—burning inside her is rage.

Her mother is playing with her. Twisting the knife exactly where she knows it will hurt.

She knows Zora didn't do this for glory or for gold, for the family's reputation and fortune. She knows she did it for Viktor. For Quidditch.

For the things she loves.

Not for a husband. Not for legacy.

Her fists clench. Nails digging into her palms. Her right hand grips the doorknob tighter. The cold metal bites her skin. But it keeps her grounded.

"They'll take good care of you, the Vassilievs. I'm sure of it," Lilyana continues, as if this is all perfectly normal. "Anton left Alexei a beautiful estate—you'll be comfortable there, the two of you."

The words lose their shape in Zora's mind. They turn to static. She closes her eyes again. Her neck prickles. She's trying not to scream.

"You're making the right decision, Zora. You know that."

Her mother's voice is calm. Soft, even.

And Zora?  She's crumbling silently from the inside.

Zora inhales deeply. Exhales.

She's tried to block out her mother's words. Tried to pretend they can't reach her.

Too late.

She feels her mother's hands in her hair, trying to smooth it back, to tuck the strands behind her ears like she always does. "Of course, we'll have to do something about your appearance, because—"

That's it. Too much.

Zora lets the anger rise. She doesn't hold it back this time. She lets it swallow her whole, take over her limbs, her breath, her bones. She gives in to it—relieved, almost, to finally let it spill out of her skin.

She pushes her mother away and steps back. The door handle comes with her, wrenched out in the motion. She throws it across the room.

Her mother stares, momentarily thrown.

Zora lifts a shaking finger, pointing it to her mother's chest. "Don't touch me."

Her mother doesn't reply. She just shakes her head slowly, lips curling into the faintest smile. 

She looks at her daughter like she's a fool, like she has already lost. 

And that's what does it. That quiet, condescending smile. Zora snaps.

"I hate you. And I hate that deep down, I don't even hate you that much. You're a monster. You're happy your own daughter is wasting her life. You don't have a heart. You never did."

She doesn't hold back anymore and screams. Her voice rips through the room. It fills the manor, bursts through the walls, wraps itself around every stone with its pain. Like grief trying to find a voice.

"But you know what?" Zora shouts. "I think everything you do is just to make yourself feel better. To feel less miserable about your pathetic little life. You want me to rot like you did. Because deep down, you know what you are? A woman so rotten and empty inside that the only thing keeping you standing is the attention of men who only want you for your money or to fu—"

The sound comes before the pain. Zora hears it before she feels it. 

A slap across the face like thunder splitting the air.

Her head jerks right, making her neck crack, and the world tilts. Her balance breaks. The pain blooms after. Her cheek burns. Her skin stings. Her vision blurs. She stumbles back. Her hand catches the doorframe. Her breathing falters.

Then she feels it. Her mother's hand, tangled in her hair.

Zora is dragged to the bed. She's forced down to her knees on the cold floor, in front of the stack of parchment.

Her mother leans in, voice low, almost hissing in her ear.

"I wanted to be kind, Zora. But apparently, kindness doesn't work with you. You only know how to be insolent. It'll be your downfall, my poor girl."

With her other hand, she grabs the quill and shoves it into Zora's fingers. Zora doesn't react. She's not even sure she's still breathing.

Her mother flips through the parchment slowly, deliberately. Zora doesn't read. The words are just lines now, blurring across the page.

She glances at the last page. Two blank spaces. One already signed.

Zora's whole body shudders.

"Sign the papers."

Zora can't. She can't do anything. The quill slips from her trembling hand.

Her mother sighs in frustration, grabs the quill again, and slams it back into her fingers. "Stop acting difficult, Zora. I swear to you—"

She closes Zora's fingers around it, hard. Zora doesn't move. 

The grip in her hair tightens again.

"Sign them, you ungrateful brat," her mother spits.

Zora can't feel her face anymore. Her head pulses like it's cracked open. Her cheek burns like fire. Her mouth tastes of bile.

She lifts her hand—barely. Shaking. Dragging the pen toward the paper.

The ink touches the parchment. Her name forms slowly, each letter trembling, melting, slipping out of shape.

And then— A drop of water falls.

Onto the immaculate page. A single tear.

A seal of her own slow death.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

July 7. Zora's birthday.

Lying on her bed, sheets twisted around her body, Nikita curled beside her, she allows herself to indulge in memory.

A pleasure she permits herself less and less. To remember. Because now, it hurts too much.

She remembers a birthday when her father was still alive. He had given her a new Quidditch broom. It was the year before she started Quidditch camp. They had spent the day looking at it with Viktor. Her father had explained everything — the differences between the brooms, which had the best speed, the best balance, the best precision.

And she allows herself to think about all the birthday's celebrated at Camp. 

They had a tradition. They celebrated hers and Viktor's on the 7th — Viktor was born on the 5th. Coach Joe let them bake a cake in the common kitchen, and everyone ate outside as the sun set behind the hill overlooking the wheat fields. Zora's favorite place in the world.

July 7.

Her favorite day. Her favorite month. The peak of summer, the sun burning skin, waking up at camp with Angelina and Adeline jumping on her bed, the heat already choking their shared room. Breakfast outside with everyone. Blowing out candles with Viktor.

She remembers it was the only evenings Oliver ever came to. 

Last year, they didn't celebrate. Viktor wasn't at camp. Zora didn't see the point.

And this year, nothing is the same anymore. Her mother and Viktor's parents have planned a huge party tonight. So many guests. Family. Friends. To celebrate her and Viktor's birthday. Most of them she doesn't even know. 

Nineteen. That's worth celebrating, isn't it?

Zora hasn't left her room since she came home. Since she sealed her fate. Since she signed the pact with the devil. Since her mother left a bruise high on her cheek.

The Vassilievs will be there tonight.

Zora hasn't slept. She wants to throw up. To sleep and never wake. She doesn't want to celebrate her birthday.

She hates this day. She hates July. She hates herself.

Later this afternoon, Anna, the maid, knocks at the door. Zora doesn't answer, but Anna comes in anyway.

"Miss Krum, I'm sorry to disturb you," she says gently.

Zora pushes herself up on her elbows. Anna walks over, a dress in her hands, and lays it carefully on the desk chair.

"The guests will arrive soon, and Madame Krum asked me to tell you to get ready. They're waiting for you downstairs," she adds.

She crosses the room and opens the window, letting in a bit of air. Zora feels the heat from outside. It's late in the day, but the sun is still punishing, pouring into the room, thick and heavy.

Anna leaves. 

She walks past the window and looks out over the estate. Gardens stretch as far as the eye can see. Behind them, the forest, massive and imposing.

Below her window, everything is ready. Tables and chairs arranged on the lawn, a champagne fountain bubbling, platters of things to eat spread out. She sees her mother barking orders at the young men hired for the evening, her voice cold and commanding. 

Zora exhales and turns toward the mirror. She examines herself. Dark circles. Tangled hair. Her cheeks bruised. Her body swallowed by Oliver's T-shirt, the hem brushing the tops of her thighs. She needs a shower.

Her feet carry her to the bathroom. She turns on the water and peels off Oliver's shirt — his scent hits her instantly. She shivers. It's the only thing that's made her feel anything since she came back here.

She showers fast, under freezing water. It slides over her skin, seizing her muscles, her breath. She needs to feel something. Anything. The cold is so sharp it burns.

She steps out, trembling now, and walks back into the room. She eyes the dress her mother chose. A simple black dress with straps. It falls below her knees. With it, black kitten heels.

Zora pulls it on, unable to look at herself in the mirror anymore. She throws her hair into a low ponytails, slips on the heels.

And then she walks down the stairs. One step at a time. With every step, the sound outside grows louder.

Her mother's voice cuts through the noise. She hears Viktor's too. She's been dying to see him — he's spent the week at the training center.

Clinking cutlery. Soft music playing. A few guests already here. The noise of life.

She hates it.

She walks into the salon and comes face to face with Viktor. His smile blooms the second he sees her. He runs to wrap her in his arms.

"Happy birthday, слънце."

She presses her face into his neck and holds him tighter. "Happy birthday, V."

He sets her back down and the smile falls off his face.

"Zora, what the hell is this?"

His hand moves toward the bruise on her cheek. She freezes. Backs away. Her mouth opens — the words are ready — but her mother speaks first.

"She fell down the stairs, headfirst!" she says brightly. "You know how she is, right? It's Zora."

Zora looks down, fists clenched. Viktor frowns. "Is that true?"

Zora bites down hard on her tongue. Holds herself together. She inhales, lifts her head.

"Yes. I tripped."

She doesn't let him respond. She walks outside. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora doesn't feel her feet on the ground. The early evening is a challenge for her. She navigates among the guests, the music blending with laughter and conversation. It's too hot; she can feel the beads of sweat trickling down her spine.

She walks like a shadow. Some distant part of her registers hands brushing her arm, birthday wishes, the occasional too-bright smile from people she doesn't even know. 

She nods. A tilt of the head. A smile that doesn't touch her eyes. Her throat burns from the effort of keeping it all inside.

It's as if the evening is happening and she's not really there. As if she's seeing everything from the outside, seeing her body performing a dance whose steps she doesn't even know.

She finally sits down on a chair and tries to breathe a little. She feels like everyone is staring at her, that everyone already knows, that everyone feels sorry for her. She stares at the darkness beyond the gardens. A thunderstorm is rumbling far away, silent and electric.

She hears a crowd and more greetings. She turns her head.

The Vassilievs.

Tall, pristine, walking in together. The Perfect Family. Her mother rushes toward them, all pearls and politeness, cheeks flushed. 

But Zora's eyes are fixed on him.

Alexei.

Her future.

His suit is dark blue, nearly black, gold cufflinks glinting with every confident gesture. His ash-blonde hair is slicked back with a nasty dose of gel. He's smiling, but it all looks like a grimace to Zora. She feels a wave of nausea rise in her throat.

She doesn't move. Slumped in the chair with a bruised cheek, she must look great. She hopes he hates it. Hates her. The idea of her. 

He notices her and starts walking towards her. But she steps back into the crowd, away from him.

She doesn't remember much of the dinner. Laughter around her sounds underwater. She sits beside her mother, and across the table, Alexei keeps looking at her. She doesn't touch her food. She doesn't speak.

Her chest is tight. Her hands are locked on her lap under the tablecloth. She counts her breaths and tries not to crumble.

Then a spoon taps against a glass. Her mother stands.

"May I have your attention, please."

Zora's blood stills. She closes her eyes. Behind her, Viktor smiles. 

The room quiets as the guests turn toward the head of the table.

"Tonight is a celebration. Viktor and Zora's birthday. Look at you all grown-up," she says as everyone claps. "Viktor. We are all so proud of you about you being the Champion at Hogwarts and the National Team, of course. You make your family and your country proud. Happy Birthday my dear," her mother adds as Viktor stands under the applauses. 

Lilyana waits for the applause to stop. She clears her throat. "My daughter, Zora, has grown into a remarkable young woman."

Zora blinks. Her body doesn't belong to her. She fears what is going to happen. Everyone is silent now. 

"And I am proud to announce on her nineteenth birthday," her mother says, voice bright, "the engagement of Zora Krum and Alexei Vassiliev."

Gasps, applause, delighted whispers. Everyone rises from their seats and cheers. 

Zora doesn't move. 

So this is real. This is happening. 

Her mother grabs her elbow, and with a firm but subtle tug, pulls her to her feet. She pulls her to Alexei, smiling to his parents. Alexei rises too, steps closer to her side.

His hand finds her waist.

She jerks away, subtle but sharp, like she's just been burned.

Champagne is handed to them both. She takes it, eyes on the ground, and the glass shakes slightly in her hand.

Alexei lifts his flute. "To new beginnings."

"To Zora and Alexei," the guests echo, oblivious.

Zora drains the glass in one go. The fizz burns down her throat.

She lowers her arm slowly, eyes glazed, and then she meets Viktor's across the room.

He looks like he's seen a ghost. He looks horrified. He looks at her like he doesn't even know her anymore. 

It breaks her a little more. As if it is possible. 

When everyone has finished congratulating her on the news, Zora tries to leave the room. She needs to go outside, get some fresh air, breathe. 

Outside, she hears Viktor on her steps. He corners her in the garden. 

"What the fuck was that?" he hisses. He puts a hand on his mouth. She can feel him angry. Very angry. "Zora, what the fuck ?"

She stares at him blankly.

He grabs her wrist, pulls her to the side. "Zora. Why would you ever agree to that ?"

She feels her eyes tearing up. Again. Always. 

She nervously fiddles with the straps of her dress. She doesn't want to tell him. He knew her mother has wanted her to marry Alexei for a while now. He knew she's always spit on the idea. But he can't know about the contract. His career at stake. Her sacrifice.

She breathes, trying to find the good words. He presses her. "Zora, seriously ? What the fuck ? Why didn't you tell me ? Alexei ? Seriously ? I—"

"Because it makes sense," she cuts, her voice mechanical. "It's a good match. He has connection. Money. Mother approves. I think, well I just came to my senses. I thought about my future, that's all."

Her own words burn her throat, make her want to vomit. She stops herself from telling him everything.

His face twists with disgust. "You sound just like her."

She flinches and closes her eyes. He shakes his head, looking at her. 

"I don't believe you," he adds. "You hate him. I know you hate him."

She says nothing. He steps closer. "Tell me the truth."

"I already did." She turns away. "Enjoy the party, V."

She walks with her spine straight, but her hands are shaking.

"What about Wood ?" 

Hearing his name, she stops. She feels like she might collapse right there, right now. It's all too much.

What about Wood ? 

Everything is about Oliver. 

She inhales deeply and she doesn't even believe she found the strength to say what she is about to say. Her shoulders shake. 

"It was just a fling for this year. It's over." 

She walks fast towards the house now, wanting to get off that suffocating dress. Behind her, Viktor calls her, but she doesn't turn back. 

On her way, she finds Alexei in the hallway near the old study, against the wall. The light overhead flickers. Thunder rumbles again, closer this time. 

Seeing him here only reminds her anger that it's still there, deep down. He straightens up when he sees her and smiles.

"Zora," he says, voice smooth. "Where are you—"

She doesn't let him finish. She grabs his collar, pushes him roughly against the wall.

Before he can react, her wand is pressed hard against his throat.

"Try to touch me again," she says, "and I swear I'll break every fucking bone in your wrist."

He blinks, stunned. He tries to regain his composure. "You're going to be my wife. Surely you don't mean—"

"I agreed for Viktor. That's all. Not for you. Not for your father. Not for my mother. Him."

She presses harder, just enough to make his breath hitch.

"So let me get things clear. Yes, I'm going to be your wife. So I have a few rules that come with this, ok ?" she presses her wand and he nods. "Don't talk to me. Don't touch me. Don't pretend we're close or we are going to be close. Don't ever bring up Quidditch—this is my thing. You don't own me."

His jaw tenses.

"Got it ?" 

He nods. She lets him go. He stumbles slightly, chest heaving.

"And don't forget—I get to bring Nikita. It's perfect, I know you hate dogs."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The house is quiet when Oliver pushes the door open. Too quiet.

Nora is still at school — her last day. He drops his bag at the foot of the stairs, shoulders stiff, and lets out a breath that seems to have been sitting in his lungs since this morning.

Home. 

He hears the television in his parent's room. Her mother is here. Alone. 

Like always. Like she shouldn't be.

He takes the stairs two at a time. She's in her room, sitting in her usual armchair by the window. Light spills across her knees, and for a moment, she looks like someone else — younger, lost in some afternoon long gone, when she used to sew him Quidditch's jersey of his favorite teams. 

He approaches quietly. He opens the door. She doesn't even notice. 

She's humming something, a soft melody, and talking low to herself. "Tom won't be pleased if we ruin the sheets again, though. He always notices."

Tom. 

Her father. Long gone now. 

Oliver crouches in front of her, slowly. "Mamaidh*," he says gently.

She blinks. Confused. Looks at him. For a second, he hopes she will recognise him. "Do I know you?"

It still stings. Every time. But he doesn't flinch. 

"It's Ollie," he says. "Your boy."

Her eyes narrow slightly, searching his face.

He takes her hands — small and cold — and holds them between his own. "Did you eat today ?"

She shakes her head and starts to talk about Tom again. He sighs and goes down to the kitchen. He heats a warm bowl of soup and some bread and gets it upstairs. 

At first, when she began to be sick, she could be alone for the day. But day after day, she starts to forget to take care of herself. She forgets to eat, to shower. It's why he hates knowing her all alone for more than a few hours. 

"Here you go," he says, dropping the plate on her knees. "Careful, it's hot." 

Oliver watches her eat, chewing slowly. He listens to her talk about Tom, about her memories. Then she goes silent and he starts to talk to, about what happened to Hogwarts. About her. He doesn't even know if she listens, but it does him good. 

Then —

"So you beat the girl you like ?" she asks suddenly. He frowns and turns to her. Her eyes are sharp, lucid. "That's not very gentleman of you, Ollie. I didn't raise you like that." 

Oliver freezes. His throat tightens. His heart starts to beat fast and he can't help but smile. He takes her hand. 

"You remember her?" he whispers.

His mother smiles faintly. "How could I not? The way you talked about her, it reminded me of how your father talked about me before. A long time ago now."

He swallows hard, the pain pressing behind his eyes. He tightens the grip on her hands.  "You'll get to meet her," he says. "One day. I promise." 

She nods, content. 

And just like a magic trick, she is lost again. He sees it in the way her brown eyes stare at the void, in the way she doesn't answer anymore. He sighs and watches her finish her plate. 

When she falls asleep, curled up on the couch, he kisses her forehead and pulls a blanket over her knees.

Back downstairs, he opens the fridge and begins packing a snack for Nora — something quick. His hands move on autopilot. He grabs an apple and some chocolate frogs, her favorite. 

He grabs the bag, slams the fridge shut, and leaves.

The air outside is warm, thick with summer. He unlocks his bike and rides, fast and hard, letting the wind bite at his skin, letting the burn in his legs drown the heat in his head.

He stops in front of the school gates, breath heavy.

He waits.

Then — the bell. Children pour out.

And there she is. Nora. She goes out of the classroom, talking to some friends. Her hair is a mess, long gone ponytails and messy colorful hairpins all over her head. He smiles. He had missed her. 

She spots him, and her whole face lights up. "Ollie!"

She runs straight into his arms, and in that moment, he forgets it all. Nothing else matters. 

He hugs her tighter than usual, buries his nose in her hair. 

"I didn't know you were going to pick me up from school," she says happily. 

"Surprise," he answers. "I got snacks too." 

He puts her down and gives her the bag. "Happy to be on holidays ?" he asks. 

She nods. "Is Zora coming to visit ?" 

He stiffens and inhales. 

"I don't know, sweetheart. I don't know."