The scent of daisies

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hey now - london grammar 

Hey now

Letters burning by my bed for youHey nowI can feel my instincts here for youHey now

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Zora stares at the ivory fabric hanging from the wooden hanger hooked onto her mirror. She dares it with her eyes. She hopes that if she looks long enough, it will catch fire — and take everything with it. Her grief. Her rage.

And that she will burn with it.

She stares at the long ivory fabric. White cloth, the symbol of purity, of innocence. White like the dove caged and silenced. White, docile. White, tamed.

White has never been her color. Never. 

She stares at the long ivory fabric. A simple dress. Chosen by her mother. A long silk train, sleeves and collar in Calais lace. The finest fabrics for the most beautiful bride, her mother said.

The finest fabrics for her shroud.

Zora stares at the long ivory fabric and shivers. Yet the bedroom window is cracked open, letting in the warm August breeze. Everything here makes her shake, makes her tremble, makes her cold.

They managed to steal summer from me. To make me hate it.

The estate given by Alexei's father is magnificent — she cannot say otherwise. A sublime stone house on the eastern coast, surrounded by gardens that stretch for acres, perched high upon rocky cliffs. A narrow path leads straight to the shores of the Black Sea and to its azure waters.

Zora can even hear the reverent whispers of the waves' endless motion in the distance. It is the only thing that keeps her from drowning here — clinging to the sea, to the waves, to the shifting shades of blue, to the sun as it sinks into the water at day's end. Clinging to anything that reminds her that even if she is trapped, life keeps moving forward.

In a few hours, she will no longer be Zora. They will have taken the most precious thing she owns, the thing she has fought to guard, the thing she has fought against them for again and again.

Her freedom.

Her mother and Alexei's have arranged everything — the guest list, the meal, the ceremony. Her dress, her shoes, her bouquet. The venue, the music, the decorations.

Her life, her heart, her future.

The entire Ministry has been invited. Every great family has been invited. Her mother made sure that journalists would be here. She made sure that every eye would be fixed on this union, that the whole world would see how her daughter has succeeded. The perfect match.

But no one will see the monster who sold her daughter to the highest bidder to save her own skin.

It has been a week now that Zora has been here — in their new house. In his house. It will never be home to Zora. Never.

The house is gigantic. Three floors, and she has not even had the time — or the will — to explore it all. In truth, apart from the kitchen and her bedroom, Zora has seen very little.

Downstairs, the living room opens onto the terrace and the view. On the other side, the austere dining room holds only a long, endless table, a porcelain cabinet, and tapestries bearing the Vassiliev crest.

Next to it, the kitchen runs through the house. Wide bay windows open onto the estate, where the sea melts into the sky. Zora likes to sit there in the mornings, when everyone is still asleep. When he has not yet risen, when the servants have not yet arrived.

When it is just her, her coffee, and her thoughts. And the memories she tries to bury. To lock away in some dusty corner of her mind. She wants them to fade, to disappear. They hurt too much.

But sometimes she cannot help but taste them again. Her gaze drifts over the garden, the first rays of sun brushing the pines, her bare legs swinging from the high stools, and she surrenders to her thoughts.

She lets the images stroke her memory, softening the ache for just a heartbeat. She lets herself be tempted by Angelina's laughter, by Adeline's gentle attention, by evenings eating chocolate and candies in Gryffindor's common room. It was only a few weeks ago, and yet Zora feels it belongs to another lifetime.

Some memories cut deeper than others. The ones that hold him. Oliver. The ones that hold his reassuring voice, his slightly tilted smile, his warm breath on her skin, the feel of his hands trailing over her.

But they never last long. Just a stolen instant that keeps her moving forward. That gives her the strength to face it all.

The rest of the day, she stays locked in her room. Unable to face her own life, her own future. The truth. What awaits her. She stays inside this room that seems to shrink day by day, threatening to close in around her.

Her bedroom is large. There is an adjoining bathroom, with fresh flowers and blue faience tiles. The flowers are changed daily — sunflowers, every time. And every time, a message of Alexei.

I heard these are your favorites.

But Alexei is wrong. They were her favorite flowers. They are no longer, not since she discovered the scent and love of daisies.

Not since Oliver filled my mind and my heart with daisies. Not since Oliver gave me a half-crushed daisy and his heart.

Zora withers in here like a flower without sun or water. She paces her room. Counts the stones in the walls, the time between waves breaking on the shore, the number of minutes she can go without breathing, the number of seconds she can go without thinking of him.

The result is always the same: she can go more than a minute without air — but never without him.

Zora looks again at the ivory fabric. Today, she is getting married. Today tastes like the end of the world.

She is about to stand when the door bursts open, and a small, frail figure slips inside, a smile stretched wide across her face.

"Zora!" she exclaims, her voice burning with excitement, yet fragile, as if it's unaccustomed to being used. "Finally, we meet!"

Zora jumps, frowning at the unfamiliar silhouette. She tries to take her in despite the restless movements coming toward her — small, skin and bone, moving so much Zora half-worries she might snap from the effort. Long sun-bleached hair, eyes black as the ocean's deepest trench. Skin so pale it's almost transparent.

But what catches Zora's attention is the girl's left cheek. Before the stranger throws her arms around her, Zora catches the mark — spreading from just beneath her eye, trailing down her neck, spilling over her shoulder before vanishing beneath the strap of a delicate t-shirt.

Zora doesn't react when the girl's thin arms wrap around her. She smells faintly of roses.

"I'm so excited for today! You must be overwhelmed," she says, her voice nearly trembling with joy.

Confused, Zora just waits for the girl to let go. She bounces back, standing before her like a child full with nervous energy. Zora's eyes flick — unwilling, but unable to stop — to the girl's left side. The skin is darker there, puckered, textured like paper left too close to a flame.

Burned.

Zora shakes her head, forcing herself to focus. "I'm sorry... do we know each other?"

The girl gasps, hands flying to her mouth, a flash of guilt in her expression. "I'm sorry, Zora, I'm forgetting my manners," she says, settling onto the bed beside her, smiling. "I'm Dora. Or Tedi, if you like. My name's Teodora, but I hate it. I'm Alex's sister."

Zora must look even more confused because the girl chuckles and sighs. "Yes, his sister. Aside from the hair, I know we don't look much alike. I'm guessing he hasn't told you much about me, has he?"

"I—, I didn't even know he had a sister. But—how is it we've never met before?"

The girl only smiles again, shaking her head as she rises. She crosses to the mirror, running her fingers gently along the fabric of the hanging gown. Then, in the reflection, her eyes meet Zora's.

In the warm light, the burn stands out — the uneven landscape of skin, like mismatched patches sewn together. Shifts of tone, of texture. A living memory of the fire that marked her flesh, her life, her soul.

"Why do you think?" Dora says simply, eyes still locked on Zora through the mirror.

She turns then, offering a smile. "Anyway. Enough about me. I'm here to help you get ready for your special day."

Normally, Zora would have snapped. She would have told her to get out, that she doesn't need help. That she wants to be alone. That it isn't a special day, that it isn't a beginning at all — it's the end of every scrap of hope she has left.

But something about this girl disarms her. She radiates love, brimming with it. It should repel Zora, on this day. But it doesn't. Even a blind man could see she's desperate to give it away, to spend every second of her live to give the love she never had the chance to give. 

And Zora shivers at the thought that if Alexei or his parents never mentioned her, if she has never been allowed to see her, it might be because of the scars. She refuses to believe that.

More, Dora reminds her of someone. Overflowing with love, with happiness, with innocence. She reminds her of Nora.

So Zora smiles, rising from the bed. Even if it takes her all the strength in the world. She takes Dora's hand and squeezes it gently. 

"Alright," she says. "Let's go."

Dora's smile deepens. She places both hands on Zora's shoulders and gently guides her to the dressing table. Zora sits, her breath shaking.

Dora moves toward the mirror, their reflections merging in the glass, as if the two of them already inhabit the same moment — two fractured souls framed together.

Slowly, she gathers Zora's hair, sweeping it away from her face and letting it fall over her shoulders. In the reflection, she smiles. Zora notices that despite the burn scars, her smile remains whole, untouched.

"Your hair is beautiful," Dora says. "You're lucky. I wish mine were as thick."

She picks up the brush and begins to work gently, without asking what Zora wants — so Zora assumes her mother has already decided on something specific for her.

"You went to Durmstrang?" Zora asks after a stretch of comfortable silence, her curiosity winning out.

Dora nods, her hands lost in Zora's hair, a flat hair clip held between her teeth. She chuckles, finishes her movement, then plucks the clip from her lips. "Yes. Just for a year. I don't think you'd remember me — I'm two years younger than you."

"Why only a year?"

She laughs under her breath, a sigh hiding inside it. "Let's just say my face wasn't to everyone's taste."

Zora only nods. In the mirror, she watches Dora work, her face focused, two black eyes alert. She notices the tip of her tongue peeking out in concentration.

They finish the hairstyle in silence. Once done, Dora picks up her wand and performs a charm Zora doesn't recognize to hold everything in place as long as possible.

"There. What do you think?" Dora asks gently.

Zora finally dares to look at herself in the mirror. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun. Neat, obedient — exactly as she'd guessed. But somehow, as if Dora had understood her, she's left a few loose strands to frame her face.

She smiles in the reflection. Drawing a deep breath, she finds the courage to say it. "It's perfect," she whispers. Dora's smile widens, satisfied.

Turning away, Dora rummages through her things and returns a moment later with a quilted pouch. "Now, makeup time!"

Seeing Zora's flicker of distress, Dora laughs. "I won't put on much, don't worry."

She sits in front of her. "Excited to start the season with the Vultures?" she asks while rummaging for shades to match Zora's skin tone.

Zora exhales. The Vratsa Vultures.

They begin the trainings mid-August. It's not the National team, but still one of the best in the League — with techniques sharper every year, and at least there she knows she'll have her place.

Still, she had struggled to send her acceptance letter. Everything about it carries the cost. The cost of playing professionally, of winning for herself and her team. Of being recognized for her talent.

More than once, she's wondered — was my fall worth it?

"I can't wait," she says with a sincere smile. "I've missed Quidditch so much. There's nothing here — I can't play. I keep up physical training so I don't lose my edge, but it's not the same."

Dora smiles. "I'll come watch your practices! The coach and Daddy are good friends."

A chill runs through Zora. Knowing her future club is tied to the father of her future husband — to all the people she despises — almost makes her sick.

"You play?" Zora asks, just to change the subject.

Dora chuckles. "Don't talk, or I'll mess up!" she warns, lipstick in hand. She wipes the corner of Zora's mouth, and Zora surprises herself by laughing too.

"No, Dad won't let me," Dora adds, her focus still on the task.

"Why?"

But Dora avoids the question and steps back, delighted. She turns the chair toward the mirror again. "There. Like it?"

Zora nods, barely glancing at her own reflection, too busy watching Dora's. There's something in this girl — a flame that still burns despite everyone's attempts to smother it.

"All right, now the dress!"

Zora rises, closing her eyes, steadying her breath. Her steps carry her mechanically to the ivory fabric. Her fingers graze it — silk gliding over her palm, light and regal. She shivers.

"It's beautiful, Zora," Dora whispers beside her. Zora turns to see her eyes shining at the sight of the gown. She smiles.

She stands before the mirror and peels off Oliver's T-shirt and her shorts. Raising her arms, she feels Dora carefully slide the gown over her body. The lace scratches faintly against her skin, and she is grateful she can still feel something — proof she hasn't drifted completely away.

Eyes still closed, she feels Dora fastening the buttons, adjusting the fabric with slow, deliberate movements — as if Zora were something precious, something about to break.

She's probably right.

Dora straightens the sleeves, then steps back. Zora can almost hear her smiling. She doesn't dare open her eyes.

Her heart hammers against her chest — pounding for her, for every unspoken thing. It beats so hard it feels like a warning, like it knows it will never beat the same way again.

When she opens her eyes, it's like her worst nightmare has claimed the other side of the mirror. She sees herself — but not herself. Only a shadow, trapped in a role she never wanted, one she doesn't know how to play.

She hates what she sees. Hates this reflection she doesn't recognize. Hates this dress that cages her, that reminds her she lost, that she surrendered. It reminds her of what the world expects her to be. Not what she is, what she wants to be. 

She wants to rip off the dress. It itches. It burns her skin. 

In that moment, Zora swears never to look in a mirror again. How could she face the girl who ruined everything she believed in? Who ruined everyone she loved ? 

Her stomach twists. But beside her, Dora sniffles, eyes wet with tears.

"Sorry," she says, laughing awkwardly. "I—I know I'll probably never get married, so all this just...it gets to me."

She blows her nose and looks back at Zora. "Well? What do you think?"

Zora swallows her tears, bites her tongue, and flashes a smile.

"It's perfect."

She walks to the mirror and turns it away. Then she turns to Dora with a smile. "Okay, your turn to get ready now. I'm not great with hair or makeup, usually Angelina and Ade—" Her voice breaks at the names of her friends.

Angelina and Adeline. She's worked so hard to bury what made her happy that she hasn't stopped to think how absurd this is — her wedding day, without them. They should be the ones here with her.

She breathes in, forcing a smile. "Anyway, I'm not very good but I can try something."

Dora steps forward, shaking her head, her smile shrinking. "No need, Zora. I—I'm not going to be there anyway."

Zora frowns. "What do you mean? The wedding's here, you don't need to go anywhere."

Dora laughs softly, uncomfortable. "I mean...I won't be outside, with you, for the ceremony. So it's pointless."

"Of course you will, your brother's getting mar—"

"I'm not allowed to be seen in public, Zora," she cuts in, her voice turning hard.

Zora steps back. It's exactly what she feared. She just didn't think they'd go so far as to keep her from her own brother's wedding.

"You're kidding, right ?"

Dora shakes her head. "There'll be journalists. The whole Ministry. I can't — you understand, it would damage the family's reputation."

It feels like the nightmare stretches on. Zora's anger stirs awake. She steps closer, taking Dora's hands. "Listen to me. If there's one thing damaging the Vassiliev reputation, it's how they treat you. You are coming to that wedding, whether they likes it or not. From this moment, you're my maid of honour — or whatever they call it — and you're walking down the aisle with me. Got it?"

Dora chuckles but shakes her head. "No, Zora, I can't. You're too nice, but Daddy—"

"You. Not your parents. You. What do you want? Do you want to or not? If not, I understand. But if you want to go, please do it. What do you want ?"

She hesitates, biting her lip, her dark eyes fixed on the floor. Zora sees the tears welling up and squeezes her hands tighter.

The words dissolve into sobs. "I'd love to walk with you, Zora."

She collapses into Zora's arms, and this time, Zora holds her back. She squeezes so hard she's afraid she'll shatter in her embrace. She fights her own tears, moved by Dora's raw sincerity.

By how badly she just wants to exist.

"Okay, listen to me. Go get your prettiest dress and come back here. We'll make you shine, all right?" Zora says, and Dora, wiping her tears with her palm, nods. Her crying blends with laughter, her bright smile lighting up the room.

Then she slips through the door, her laughter growing fainter with every step.

Zora smiles and breathes out, trying to focus on the situation. Trying to control her breathing. Trying to cope with her thoughts, with Alexei waiting downstairs, with Dora, with everything. 

A few minutes later, the door opens again. She turns, half-expecting Dora to come back laughing, but it's Viktor.

He stops in the doorway like he's not sure if he's allowed in. They haven't really talked since he learned about the engagement. 

His eyes lands on her, on the dress, slow, hesitant. She sees the way his face falls when he sees her like this, the way he crumbles too. 

Viktor takes her in, like he's trying to memorize her before she vanishes. Like he knows too, she is already not the same anymore. 

"You look... bea—" 

"Don't," she cuts him off and he nods, almost relieved he didn't have to say it. 

He takes a slow step closer, still studying her. He sighs and runs a hand on his face, bewildered. He almost laugh out of nerves. "I still can't believe it," he whispers. "Fuck, Zora, seriously !" 

"Believe what? That I can clean up nice?" she shoots back, trying to keep her voice light. Trying to brush things off with humor. But he just shakes his head, eyes locked on hers.

"That you fucking agreed to marry him," he says. "That you fucking agreed to this. C'mon, Zora, it's not you." 

She shrugs like it's nothing, like they're just talking about the weather. "Well, you know me. Always full of surprises."

Viktor looks at her with pity. She hates it and looks away. He shakes his head, full of disbelief. But he also looks sad, like he's in pain, agitated. 

"You're not happy about this," he says. "No matter what you say to me." 

Zora's lips twitch. "What gave it away?," she answers, laughing coldly. 

"Zora..." His voice catches, and something in her twists because it sounds like her name hurts him to say.

He moves before she can say anything — closing the space between them, his arms coming around her in a sudden, almost desperate hug. She freezes for a second, her forehead pressed against his chest, and then she lets go of the tension in her shoulders and leans in.

It's not the kind of hug you give someone before a wedding. It's the kind you give before goodbye. The kind you give when words aren't enough.

His hand rests at the back of her head, she feels his breath on her hair, shaky breathes. He sniffles. 

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

She pulls back just enough to look at him. "For what?"

He hesitates — his jaw working, eyes dark — and then he shakes his head, like he's debating to let the words out. "Just... I'm sorry," he says again. "Really." 

The room feels heavy, and she knows that if she says anything else, she might actually break.

So she tries to smile and says, "C'mon, at least we can get drunk on the finest bottle of Mr Vassiliev. Cool, right ?"

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The garden is quiet from up here. Too quiet.

Zora stands at the top of the aisle, fingers numb around the bouquet, the air heavy with the smell of sea salt and cut flowers. From here, the guests are just shapes—splashes of color against the white chairs, faceless, waiting. Her heart should be pounding. Her hands should be trembling. She should feel something.

But there's only that hollow space again. The kind that eats everything.

She doesn't hear the music. Doesn't feel the heat of the sun. It's like she's already gone and this body is just doing the motions, some puppet on invisible strings. Somewhere down there, Alexei is waiting, and the thought doesn't even sting—it's too far away to touch her.

They transformed the garden to host the ceremony. Rows of benches and chairs were set up. On the side, tables were filled with food and fine drinks for the reception.

A light, quick rhythm of steps behind her breaks the fog around her. 

"Zora!"

She turns, and there's Dora—beaming, a little breathless, yellow dress catching the light.  Zora smiles at the sight, a real sincere smile. 

"Thank you, for doing this," Dora says, looping her arm through hers.

The weight on Zora's chest eases—not gone, but lighter. Less choking. "Thank you, Dora."

Dora tells her it's time for her entrance. Zora feels like she's outside her body, she feels like she's not going to be able to do it. That she will crumble before she even reaches Alexei. But she glances at Dora, smiling and they start to walk. 

Dora leans in, whispering something about the way one of their aunt is always wearing so much perfume it could kill. Zora snorts, then giggles, the sound startling even herself.

But then, as the first heads turn, she hears it. The soft, slicing murmur of whispers—too quiet to catch words, loud enough to feel the sting. Eyes flicker between Zora and Dora, lingering too long on the left side of Dora's face.

Zora squeezes her arm tighter, a silent ignore them.

So she doesn't look at anyone. Not the guests wanting to see, not the ones leaning to their neighbors. She just looks at Dora, at the way she laughs without apology, and lets that carry her forward.

Then she sees them—her mother, and Alexei's parents. Front row, all wearing the same look. Horror painted neat and clear across their faces. Horror to see their own daughter walking publicly. Horror to see their own daughter smiling, existing. 

And just for that, Zora feels the smallest spark of triumph. Because on this, she wins.

Freedom and life will always win. Always. 

At the altar, she finally stops. Turns to Dora, takes her in her arms. "Thank you," she says, the words heavier than they sound.

Then she steps forward, head high.

She doesn't even glance at Alexei. But the moment she passes him, she feels his fingers close around her wrist, hard enough to bruise.

"What did you do with Tedi?" he grits out through his teeth. It's anger, but Zora can feel worry behind. 

Zora puts her arm free, shrugging. "I fucking listened to her."

And then she shuts him out. Shuts everything out. The officiant's voice is just a muffled sound now, a language she doesn't speak. The faces of strangers and family blur into a painting she doesn't really understand. 

She only hears the ocean—the steady, endless roll of the waves beyond the garden wall. The wind slipping through her hair. The soft, eternal rhythm that will still be here tomorrow, even if she won't.

Because she doesn't know if there's anything left of herself to find after this.

The vows blur past. The officiant turns to the rings.

Alexei takes her hand. The gold catches the sun, flashes warm against her skin, and for a moment she thinks it might burn right through her. As he slides the ring onto her finger, it feels like something is closing around her—something that will never let go.

She is breaking, quietly, invisibly. The edges of her blurring until there's nothing but a shell in a white dress, smiling for strangers.

The sea keeps moving. The wind keeps touching her face. And she keeps disappearing.

The officiant's voice fades into something final, and all eyes shift toward them. It's the cue.

Alexei takes a step closer. She feels the expectation burning through the guests, a held breath waiting for the seal of their union.

But when his hand lifts toward her face, she flinches. Almost imperceptibly, but enough for him to notice.

Something unreadable passes in his eyes. Then, with a faint, calculated smile, he takes her hand instead. Brings it slowly to his lips. The brush of his mouth against her skin is empty—no tenderness, no love. Just ceremony. 

And she wants to run towards the water, to drown and wash away what they did to her. What she made of herself. What she became.

Applause blooms around them. The next moments are a blur of movement. People stepping forward, voices congratulating, cameras clicking. She barely hears a word. The garden spins into a sequence of still images and white noise: a cousin's too-wide smile, the sound of her mother's heels on stone, the sting of a flash in her eyes. 

But suddenly, her eyes lost somewhere in the garden, beyond the crowd, she sees it. 

A single daisy, shaking in the wind, in the middle of the perfectly mowed and maintained garden.

Its thin stem bending, its petals quivering, but still upright. The only thing moving naturally in this stiff, frozen scene.

She keeps her gaze locked on it while the photographer calls her name, while Alexei's hand presses lightly at the small of her back, while strangers' laughter cuts too loud. She watches it sway, bend, straighten again.

The world has narrowed to that fragile stem. The flashes go off, and it's still there. The voices swell, and it's still there.

She looks at it and clings to it. She is suddenly taken back to that evening when Oliver had picked up the daisy and offered it to her, his whole being along with it.

And somehow, knowing that daisy is still standing is the only thing keeping her from falling.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

When the ceremony, the congratulations and the pictures end, Zora walks away from the crowd, from everything. 

Her feet pound the garden path, a frantic rhythm that matches the rhythm of her heart, the breathing in her lungs. The world blurs, the faces dissolve. She feels as if she could collapse any second.

She bursts through the heavy wooden door of the house, the cool air inside a sharp slap against her heated skin. The party has only begun but she decided she has done her part. 

Breathing hard, vision blurring, she fears she might pass out. She walks toward the the closest room and locks herself in. She lands in the library, the soft afternoon light illuminating the hanging dust and the endless rows of old books.

She leans against the wood of the shelves, trying above all to catch her breath. She breathes through her mouth and begins to undo the buttons of her dress, feeling suffocated by the fabric.

But panic and her condition prevent her from doing so. In a final effort and with a cry of relief, she finally rips off her dress. 

Zora finally feels air fill her lungs and she leans back against the shelves, trying to catch her breath.

Almost instantly, she feels the ring on her left hand. Heavy, unbearable. She rips it off, hurting her finger in the process, and throws it into a corner of the room.

In the corner of the room, she notices a small cabinet behind the armchair. On it, two bottles of whiskey and some glasses. Hands shaking, she grabs the bottle, the glass cold and solid beneath her fingers. She lifts it to her lips, drinking straight from the neck. She regrets instantly, the liquid burning her throat. 

She falls on the armchair, eyes scanning the books. 

History of Bulgaria, tales of grand battles, magical novels. Ancient magic, dark spells, History of Magic. The largest are those dedicated to the Vasiliev family, to the exploits of ancestors, to family trees. 

She stands and walks along the shelves and her fingers stop to the one marked "Languages." She lets them glide along the books — Old Bulgarian, Runes — until they settle on one worn leather-bound volume: Scottish Gaelic.

Her heart misses a bit. She pulls the book free, clutching it to her chest and walks back to sit on the armchair. The cover creaks as she opens it, a cough escaping her lips from the dust.

As she goes through the pages, she hears it. His voice, deep, low, reassuring. His accent. 

She keeps going, turning the pages, searching for something, anything.

Almost at the end of the book, she sighs when she spots a word that sound familiar. 

Brèagha. 

She frowns and stands up, trying to recoil where she heard it. Zora looks for the translation. 

Pretty, beautiful. 

And then it hits her.  She sees herself again, sitting on the stones along the stream at her home, at the Manor. Oliver leaning over her, his hands on her, his lips on her skin, his words whispered.

"Yes, very sexy. Even in rainboots, brèagha."

Her fingers shake as she takes the daisy she tucked inside her dress on the way in, now fragile and pressed, and slips it gently between the pages.

She inhales, trying to hold back the tears. To fight back what could have been. What they could have been.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The morning light filters softly through the half-open curtains of Oliver's house. He stands near the door, methodically checking Nora's small backpack one last time—socks, jacket, toys, blancket —all carefully packed. Nora, barely able to contain her excitement, bounces on the balls of her feet.

"What exactly are we going to do in France, Ollie?" she asks, tugging gently at his sleeve.

Oliver looks down at her, offering a small, reassuring smile. "We'll meet Angelina and Adeline there. We'll explore the city, go see Adeline crush her last tryouts and eat. A lot."

Nora's eyes brighten at the thought. Adeline had suggested that Oliver join her and Angelina in Paris. She figured he probably needed to change his mind before he started training for the national team. And when he asked if he could take Nora with him, Adeline was even more delighted.

Nora then hesitates, looking up at him with a hopeful expression. "Do you think Zora will be there?"

Oliver's smile falters. He clears his throat, unsure how to answer. It still stings. It will always sting. To plan without her. To do thing without her. "I don't think so."

Nora shrugs, accepting the answer, a sad expression now on her face. Behind them, Oliver hears his father walking down the stairs. The room instantly feel too short, too cold. 

"You have everything ?" he asks shortly. 

Oliver nods. 

"You sure ?" 

He turns to him, glaring. "Yes. I am. Is mother alright ?" 

His father nods. 

Oliver sighs. They haven't really talked since their argument about the team. "Promise you won't leave this week." 

His father rolls his eyes. 

Oliver walks to him, a bit threatening. "Yeah, I promise." 

"Thanks," Oliver replies without meeting his gaze, walking away and pulling Nora's jacket around her.

His father watches him for a moment before turning to Nora. He bends down to her height and opens his arms. "Hey baby, come say goodbye to daddy." 

Nora turns to him and offers him barely a look. "Bye, Daddy." 

Nora reaches up, taking Oliver's hand in hers. 

His father stays silent, watching his two children and wondering how he got to this point. He sighs. "Have fun in Paris." 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

They arrive at Adeline's place just as the city awake around them. Nestled in the magical district of Paris, the tall stone building towers them. Adeline has a house in the countryside but mostly lives in her flat in Paris with her parents. 

Nora and Oliver go in and walks up the stairs. Once in front of what Oliver thinks is the good flat, the front door swings open before he can even reach for the handle. Adeline and Angelina burst out of the house, laughter spilling from their lips as they pull Oliver into a tight embrace.

"Ollie!" Angelina smiles.

Adeline smiles, then kneels down to greet Nora with an enthusiastic hug. "And you must be the famous Nora! We've heard all about you."

Nora, shy but beaming, hugs back, clutching her small backpack as if it contained all her courage.

Inside, the house smells like fresh linen and coffee. It's spacious. It looks like Adeline. Effortlessly chic. The long kitchen table is already set. 

"Thanks for having us over Ad," Oliver says, leaving his bag and Nora's in the corridor. 

Adeline walks to him and puts a comforting hand on his shoulder. "Anytime, Ollie. I am so happy to have you here. And Nora. Do you like bread and butter, ma puce ?" 

They settle in for breakfast—fluffy pastries, fruit, and the smoothest French butter. The chatter is lively, plans for the day tossed back and forth with excitement: a walk along the Seine, a visit to the magic shops near Rue du Chaudron, maybe a late afternoon picnic in the Jardin des Tuileries.

Everyone is happy to be together again. The girls ask Nora questions about school and Quidditch. They're impressed by how much she already knows about rules, teams, and strategies, and then remember who her big brother is.

After breakfast, Oliver offers to help Adeline in the kitchen. As she washes dishes and he dries, their movements sync naturally. 

"How do you feel about the Try-outs ?" asks gently Oliver. 

Adeline smiles. "I feel so good, actually. I've been training every day since I got back. I'm so glad you are here. It helps me think about something else." 

Oliver nods. "You will get it. And even if you're just a reserved player, it's still huge." 

"Yeah. But I'll get it," she adds, smiling. He chuckles. 

"So," Adeline says after a beat, her voice hesitant, "have you heard anything from her?"

Oliver stiffens and almost drops a plate. 

He hasn't heard from her. Nothing. Not a single letter back. Total silence. 

He shakes his head. "No. You ?"

She pauses and shakes her head. "No. I'm starting to really worry, you know. Viktor is not answering either." 

His jaw clenches. This is worse than he thought. He was pretty sure the girls would hear from him. Now he's not sure of anything, left alone with nothing but silence.

He sighs, running a hand through his hair. "I just hope she's holding on."

Adeline inhales and nods. "She's tough. She is. She will. Well, I hope."

"Yeah. Me too." 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The next day, the group walks through the late afternoon streets to a large sports complex where Adeline's tryouts for the French National Quidditch team are being held. 

Oliver shivers when he arrives at the stadium. The stadium is impressive, golden. The architecture is sophisticated and well-crafted.

He can already feel the adrenaline pumping as he watches the few players on the field, his hands on the barrier. He can hear the sound of brooms cutting through the air, the coaches' whistles, the ragged breaths.

After giving Adeline a final hug and cheers, and Nora a big kiss on her cheek, they watch her leave for the changing rooms.

The three find seats in the stands. There is not a lot of people coming to watch the tryouts. Nora is perched on Angelina's lap, clutching face paint sticks she's acquired from a vendor outside. She is painting Angelina's face in pale blue, the color of the French team. 

Oliver tries everything to contain his laugh when he notices Angelina's face. Nora's drawing skills are not as excellent as on paper. Angelina glares at him and he snorts. "Nice, Angie. I think George would love it."

She gives him another nasty look and but ends up smiling too. When Nora is finished, Angelina smiles and kisses her forehead. "Thanks, baby. Now Adeline is going to win, that's for sure." Nora nods, feeling proud. "Come on, your brother's turn now."

Oliver nods slowly as Nora settles into his lap, ready to draw on his face. He gives Angelina a look that says, "I hate you." Angelina just laughs back.

"Zora would have loved it if I had drawn on her face to support Adeline, too."

Nora's small voice casts a deafening silence between Oliver and Angelina. They exchange a look, drowned in sadness. "Yes, she would have loved that," Oliver says finally. 

As the tryouts start, the players dart across the pitch with breathtaking speed and skill. Adeline's movements are fluid, her focus fierce. She's fast. But she needs to be careful about her precision. When it's her turn, she shots a Quaffle that goes precisely to the higher hoop. 

Oliver leans forward, clapping. "Yes Ad, that's it. She got this." 

Angelina nods. "That throw was perfect." 

The final moments of the tryouts are tense. The players are exhausted. It's hot on the stadium. The coach demands a lot and you can feel the tension everywhere. 

At the end, the coach gathers the players in the center to announce his decisions. 

Angelina, Oliver, and Nora are all ears, almost trying to read the coach's lips. But when Adeline's name echoes through the stadium, everyone stands and applauds. Adeline smiles like an idiot alongside the disappointed players.

Oliver is proud of her. She deserves it.

When Adeline comes back from the shower, cheeks flushed, her smile radiant,  she hugs everyone. "Thanks for coming, you guys. I couldn't have done it without you."

Oliver catches her eye and nods. "You deserved it, Ad. We're so proud of you."

Everyone smiles, shares hugs, and makes plans for the evening's celebrations. Mostly, everyone knows—Oliver, Adeline, Angelina, even Nora—that someone is missing. Everyone knows Zora should have been there. That the ghost of her presence haunts them. But everyone acts as if nothing happened.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The last day melts into evening, Paris lights flickering on as the group returns to Adeline's house after wandering through winding streets, stopping at cafés and tiny shops, savoring the brief reprieve from everything. 

Oliver slips into the living room after a much needed shower. Nora is playing with Angelina with Adeline's makeup, so he knows he has some time alone. He collapses onto the couch with a sigh, grabbing the latest issue of Le Cri de la Gargouille — the city's sharpest gossip rag — from the coffee table.

In the kitchen, Adeline catches him. She tries to run and takes it from him, but she's not fast enough. 

His eyes catch the front page before Adeline can reach for it.

There they are. Zora and him. 

Front page. 

THE NEW BULGARIAN UNION EVERYONE IS TALKING ABOUT: ZORA KRUM MARRIES ALEXEI VASSILIEV; A CASH AND SILVER WEDDING?

"Ollie, it's useless," Adeline says but Oliver doesn't hear a thing. 

His eyes fall on the wedding picture. He looks at her. 

She looks like a ghost. Hair pulled back. Dress that seems too tight for her. Face pale, tired and distant. She doesn't even look at the picture. 

His fist clench when he spots Alexei's hands on the small of her back. 

At her side, Alexei smiles like nothing is happening. Like he is not destroying her, pieces by pieces. The contrast is astonishing. 

As if he had just taken the sun of her smile, the warmth of her gaze, the life of her soul.

He traces the lines of her face, the way her eyes carry a hollow weight — like she's empty, piece by piece, crumbling in slow motion while the whole world watches and says nothing.

Adeline's voice breaks. "I'm so sorry, Ollie. We didn't know... none of us did. We didn't know it would happen this soon. I saw the paper this morning, I—"

Oliver's jaw clenches. He rips the paper and throws it across the room. "Fuck."

His voice cracks, barely a whisper.

He turns to Adeline, voice breaking. "I love her, Ad. I love her."

His hands tremble, the weight of the words dragging at his chest. "She didn't even let me say it. I love her. How am I supposed to keep going — how am I supposed to function — when she's married to someone else and I didn't get to tell her?"

He looks away, struggling to hold himself together. "Look at her... she looks... empty. God..."

The room falls silent except for his ragged breathing. Adeline moves closer, steadying him with quiet strength.

"I don't know, Ollie. I don't know." 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

heyyyy loves ! 

thank you for 100k read, it's amazing. i feel so lucky to have you, thanks for the likes and the comments, they mean the world. 

what do we think so far ? i'm sorry i'm loving writing this story so i hope you are loving reading it too, even the last few chapters. 

what do we think about Teodora, Alexei's sister ? I actually took inspo from Shireen Baratheon from game of thrones because my shaylaaaa. she will be important for the rest of the story. 

I LOVE YOU LOTS, STAY SAFE <3