The first 365 days without you

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stay in touch - interpol

That's how you make a ghost

Watch how you break things you learn the most

Something about the one that negates hope

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This chapter contains mention of depression and depression state. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

S E P T E M B E R

Name : Zora Maria Vassilieva

Age : Nineteen

Date of birth : 7/07/1976

Nationality : Bulgarian

Eight : 173 cm

Weight : 64 kg

Position : Chaser

Broom : Firebolt Supreme

"Are all these details correct, 12?"

The voice of the Vultures' team healer snaps Zora back to reality. She doesn't even notice that she's tearing the thin paper covering the table she's lying on. She doesn't feel the beads of sweat running down her spine. The air under the medical tent is stifling.

Zora Maria Vassilieva.

She doesn't notice that her nails are digging so hard into her palm that blood is starting to gather beneath the skin.

Zora sits up, her face and senses numb with hatred, with disgust. She stares at the healer. "That name is wrong. My name is Zora Krum."

The healer frowns slightly and glances back down at her papers before looking at Zora again. Her short hair gives her a gentle air. "I'm sorry, but the papers I received clearly say Vassilieva."

Zora grips the edge of the examination table, doing everything she can not to scream that he will never have her name.

She shakes her head. "Forget the papers. Keep Krum, please."

The healer seems to understand her almost pleading tone and simply nods, scribbling on the parchment, clearly changing Zora's name. She sets the papers down on her makeshift desk and steps closer, a hesitant smile on her lips.

Her name is Aksana. She's in her forties, tall, with a long neck and piercing grey eyes. She doesn't speak much, except to scold players when they neglect their bodies and their health. She calls everyone by their team numbers and doesn't hesitate to raise her voice if someone dares to question her medical advice.

"Turn around, please, Twelve," Aksana says, her tone flat. 

Zora obeys, shifting to sit on the other side of the medical table. Wearing nothing but a sports bra, she waits quietly for the healer. She feels Aksana's hands—ice cold—brush over her shoulders, trace her spine, skim her sides, linger at her neck.

"Injuries?"

Zora lets out a dry laugh. "Oh, yes."

"Ribs, right?" Aksana says, her hand moving over the lower ones.

The memory hits Zora—her fall at Hogwarts, the stabbing ache in her ribs, the gentleness of the nurse, the vile potions she had to swallow. And she still feels it, the ghost of heat on her skin where Oliver's fingers had once brushed over her tattoo. She swallows.

She nods. "Ribs, right shoulder two years ago, and my wrist when I was ten," she says, lifting her left wrist.

Aksana closes her hand around it, turning it carefully, studying the movement. "That's your throwing wrist, isn't it?"

"Yes. But it was treated well. By a healer from the Bulgarian National Team back then."

"It's still fragile. You need to be careful."

Zora nods. Aksana checks her breathing, her blood pressure, moving with the practiced gestures Zora knows so well. A wand flick here, a diagnostic charm there. She ticks boxes on her parchment before disappearing behind the white canvas of the tent, only to reappear seconds later with a small vial.

"That's it for me, Twelve. You can get dressed."

Zora pulls on her T-shirt, hops off the table, and slips into her sneakers. Aksana hands her the vial, her expression suddenly sharp.

"Drink this after every training. Helps relax the muscles."

Zora smiles, reaching for it. "Thanks, Ak—"

"And nothing reckless on the pitch, understood?" she cuts in. "I know your reputation, Twelve. You're a pro now. No stubborn choices, no playing in storms, and you listen when you're told. Got it?"

Zora freezes. How does she know about Hogwarts? About the time she put in danger her team and Cedric's one ? The way she throws Zora's mistakes back in her face leaves her disarmed. Words die in her throat before she forces herself back into control.

"Got it. Thank you."

Without another glance, she leaves the medical tent and heads for the locker rooms. The Vratsa stadium is half open-air; sunlight pours through the roof, and beyond, the mountains of Northern Bulgaria stand tall and proud.

Today marks the official start of training for the European Cup. Zora has been here two weeks already for the summer program, but the full team hasn't been assembled until now.

She's met a few of them—more than enough, in her opinion. With so many veterans retired, the coach has built an almost entirely new roster. Only Charles Montrose, the calm, calculating Keeper, remains from past seasons. He's also captain now, and she looks forward to meeting him.

For now, she knows only Stefan Jones, a Beater, and the two Chasers, Alexander Tsonov and Boyan Yotov. Stefan and Boyan are thick-headed sons of wealthy families who care more about beer after practice than training. 

They've spent more hours trying—and failing—to prove they can be better than her than fixing their own weaknesses. She already hates them.

Alexander is quieter, more tolerable. Keeps to himself.

When Zora pushes open the locker room door, a figure greets her. She startles—she thought she'd be alone in the women's section.

"Thank God I'm not the only girl!" the figure says, dropping heavily onto the bench. A hand pressed dramatically to her forehead, a loud sigh.

Zora closes the door, drops her bag beside her, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. She's relieved too.

"I wouldn't leave you alone with those dickheads, trust me," Zora jokes as she pulls out her training gear.

The girl laughs, a light, bright sound. Zora glances back at her and smiles. The girl stops mid-laugh, lips parting slightly. "Hey, you're Zora Krum, right?"

Zora frowns, then nods. "Yeah. How do you know me?"

"You were at the summer camp, weren't you?"

Zora nods again.

"I was gutted when they didn't take me," she says, lowering her head. "I was like what do you mean you fucking refuse me ? I was eleven, I had anger issue at this time. But it didn't stop me from making it anyway. I was so excited when I got my acceptance for the Vultures after tryouts."

She stops and looks at her. "I thought you'd already be on a National Team by now. You got offers, right ?"

Zora flinches. It's always like pressing a bruise. It pains her. 

She realises news fly fast in the Quidditch world. Seeing Zora doesn't answer, the girl steps forward, hand out. "I'm Irina Kolarova. Beater."

Zora shakes it, taking in the details—black hair like ash, straight and sleek, small sea-blue eyes. Tall, strong, with a disarming confidence.

Zora likes her immediately.

"Nice to meet you, Irina," Zora says, changing into her gear. "Beater, huh? Glad to see it—it's rare to see women in that position."

Irina grins. "Yeah, I know. The guys hate it when they realize I'm a Beater. They think it's their territory."

Zora rolls her eyes. "You know any of the guys on the team?"

"Just one—the Seeker. Emil Kolev. We did Quidditch together as kids. Both went to Ilvermorny. He's a year older than me, I think. You?"

Zora exhales sharply. "Met your Beater partner, a certain Stefan Jones. Let's just say he and one of the Chasers are both unbearable."

Irina ties her ponytail and steps closer, smiling. "Even more reason to show them we're better than them, right?"

Zora grins back, watching her leave the locker room. A sudden weight lifts off her chest. At least she isn't alone here. She laces her boots and heads out, eager to meet the rest.

On the pitch, the team is already in a circle around the coach. Charles Montrose stands beside him, speaking. Off to the side, Emil Kolev talks to Irina.

Zora jogs toward them, nodding at the coach, who returns a smile.

"Well, Vassilieva," Boyan calls. "Just because you're married to the son of the big sponsors doesn't mean you can get away with being late."

Zora turns to him. He's laughing with Stefan. Normally, she'd explode—shut him up, put him flat on the grass just to make a point.

But there's nothing but a heavy, unbearable sadness eating her from the inside.

They've stolen my anger.

She feels hollow, adrift in a sea of desolation with no surface, no bottom in sight.

Before, she was Viktor's cousin, the second Krum, the one to marry.

Now, she's Alexei's wife. Zora Vassilieva. The bride.

She's never had a name—only a title borrowed from the men in her life. Always someone's shadow.

"Don't call me that," she says, her voice thin, tired, almost not there.

Boyan raises a brow, stepping closer. "But it's your name now. Better get used to it."

She wants to boil over, feel her fists clench, her heart race. Instead—emptiness.

"Start with not calling me at all, that'll do just fine," she says.

She turns away. She watches herself disappear, little by little.

And no one is there to see it.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Name : Oliver Wood

Age : Nineteen

Date of birth : 12/09/1976

Nationality : Scottish

Eight : 194 cm

Weight : 92 kg

Position : Keeper

Broom : Cleansweep Eleven

"Everything correct, Oliver?"

The voice of the National Team's healer slices through his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. He blinks, nods once. Her quill scratches across the parchment in brisk strokes before she sets it down on the table beside her.

"Good," she says, smiling. "Let's take a look at those shoulders now."

Oliver exhales, already dreading the familiar sting in his left arm. He tugs his T-shirt over his head, wincing as the fabric pulls across the joint. The dull ache sharpens into something meaner, and he has to bite back a hiss. Two weeks into training, and this is already his third trip here.

First time—concussion from a badly aimed Bludger.

Second time—the same shoulder he's holding now.

By this point, he knows Leanne well enough to read the slight tilt of her head when she's about to scold him.

He knew national team training would be brutal, but he hadn't expected to feel worn out like this so soon. The truth is, the rest of the squad is making it harder for him. 

From the first second he stepped onto the pitch, he knew he wasn't Oliver Wood, Gryffindor Captain, master of game plans and drills, the one who could dictate tempo and tactics anymore. 

Here, he's not the captain. He's not the strategist. He's just the youngest recruit Scotland's seen in years—and more importantly, he's the rookie. His teammates, all veterans with seasons under their belts, have taken great pleasure in reminding him of it.

He remembers, all too vividly, the first words out of Timmy Torn's mouth. The captain—one of the Chasers—had barely glanced at Oliver's carefully drawn-up drill he brought before his eyes raked him from head to toe.

"Hey, rookie," Timmy had said, almost smiling. "Here, you're nobody. You listen, you nod, and that's it. Try stopping a Quaffle or two before you start giving advice."

Oliver had been too stunned to reply, the laughter of the others ringing in his ears. Since then, they've been relentless—calling him "Rookie" or "Big Head," making sure he knows that breaking records to get here doesn't earn him special treatment. They work him until his muscles scream, until he's dragging himself off the pitch in the dark.

But he doesn't fight back. He's not here to win their approval—he's here to prove something. That every sacrifice was worth it. That standing up to his father was worth it. That the days and weeks away from his mother and Nora mean something.

Mostly, to prove her, even if she's not here to see it, that she was right to be proud of him.

So he takes the hits. Works himself raw. Sleeps more nights at the stadium than in his own bed.

When Leanne's hands settle suddenly on his shoulder, he flinches before he can stop himself. Her fingers vanish instantly.

"Sorry—are my hands cold?" she asks, genuinely concerned.

He shakes his head quickly. "No, no—sorry," he mutters, staring at the floor.

He's never liked being touched. Never been comfortable with casual hugs or friendly hands on his back. Always awkward, always tense.

And it's worse now—since Zora. Since he's learned the weight and warmth of her hands, the glide of her skin against his, her fingers lost in his hair, the way she braces herself to his neck when she kisses him. No one else's touch feels like that.

It's as if his skin could only bear the gentleness of her fingers.

It's as if his skin existed solely to feel the softness of her touch.

Leanne tries again, her fingers slower, gentler this time. "Well, looks like it's healing fine. Still hurts?"

Oliver rolls his shoulders, swallows a wince. "It's fine."

Her eyes narrow. "Take it easy, okay? Otherwise you won't last the season."

He gives a short laugh with no humour in it, pulling his shirt back on. "Easier said than done."

"You've got nothing to prove, Oliver. The coach picked you. That should be enough."

He just nods. Enough? For who? Certainly not for him nor his teammates. 

Leanne shakes her head, picks up her parchment again, jotting something down without a word.

"All right, you're good to go," she says finally.

He pushes himself up, mutters a "thanks," and heads toward the tent's exit. He's halfway through the flap when her voice stops him.

"Oh—by the way," she calls, "you still taking number seven for your jersey? Need to send it in for the season's kit."

Seven.

Lucky charm? Or maybe just a number he's determined to make mean something.

"Yeah," he says. "Seven."

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O C T O B E R

Zora waits in front of the tall iron gates of the house. Barefoot, she shifts her weight from one foot to the other, hopping in place with barely contained impatience. Angelina and Adeline should arrive any minute now for the weekend, and Zora is hovering in a fragile space between breathless anticipation and something close to a panic attack.

It's been nearly four months since she's seen her friends. Not since she slipped away from Hogwarts like a thief. Not since she left without a goodbye. Not since she ignored every letter they sent—until two weeks ago, when she finally wrote back to invite them for a weekend, while Alexei is away on Ministry business.

Four months of complete silence. Four months of cutting herself off from everyone, unable to face the truth, unable to bear their eyes, their words, their grief, their pity. Unable to face them... and, somewhere deep down, herself. They know her too well. Being with them is like standing before a mirror that reflects only the parts of you that despise you.

She is torn in two. On one side—excitement. The thrill of seeing her two best friends again, her sisters, her anchors. She couldn't stand not seeing them, not hearing from them. She was losing her mind in this house: too big, too silent, too suffocating.

On the other side—fear. Fear that her silence has broken something beyond repair. That they've decided she isn't worth the trouble. That she's been replaced, forgotten, resented. And if that's the case, she can't even blame them.

The first autumn breeze drifts over her bare legs and slips under the hem of her shorts and T-shirt, tracing her skin with warmth. It's still hot for October in Bulgaria this year. Eyes fixed on the dirt path that leads up to the house, she tries to steady her heartbeat.

Will they actually come?

Zora starts pacing, mind spiraling. Maybe they changed their minds. Maybe, in the end, they've decided never to see her again, to leave her behind. And maybe she deserves it—

Her thoughts collapse the second she spots two figures on the path, gesturing wildly, their voices raised. A smile erupts across her face—sudden, unrestrained, and so wide it almost aches. 

The first real smile in days. In weeks. In months. 

She doesn't think; she just runs. Pebbles and grit bite at her feet but she doesn't feel it, her heart pounding, the air rushing in and out of her lungs as if her body has remembered what it's for.

As she nears them, she catches their voices, bags slung over their shoulders and broomsticks in hand.

"I told you we should have Apparated or used the Floo Network," Adeline is saying, scolding Angelina. "We're late, and my broom ruined my hair. I hate you, Johnson."

"You're joking, right, Adeline? We're late because you are literally the only woman on the planet who brings three trunks for a weekend where—spoiler alert—we're not even going out!"

"Excuse me if a lady chooses to be prepared for any occasion!"

Zora's laugh bursts out before she can stop it, carried along by the giddy rush of joy flooding her, hearing them bickering. Her chest feels warm, alive again.

When she reaches them, she doesn't pause—she throws herself into their arms. The argument cuts off instantly, the girls wrapping around her.

For a moment, nothing else exists. Only the tight, silent press of their embrace, the unspoken weight of missing each other, the loud joy that doesn't need sound.

Angelina tightens her hold, biting down hard to keep her tears from spilling. Under her hands, Zora feels different—where there were once strong, lively muscles, there's only bone and fragile skin. Angelina's brows knit together; she hugs tighter. When she finally pulls back, she cups Zora's cheek. Her lips press together as her gaze takes in the changes: the exhausted set of her features, the shadows under her eyes so deep they could swallow her whole.

The brightness is gone. The playful eyes, the sunbeam smile—gone.

Gone is the Zora she remembers.

"Oh, my Zora..." The words escape before she can stop them, and then she's holding her friend again, Adeline still tucked into the other side of Zora's neck. 

This time Angelina doesn't fight the tears; they run freely down her cheeks. It's worse than she imagined. She thought she'd see Zora not happy, maybe, but thriving in her new professional life.

Not this ghost of her friend. 

"I'm so happy you're here," Zora whispers, her voice muffled but steady. "So, so happy."

They stay like that for a few moments longer before they pull apart. Zora looks from one tear-streaked face to the other and frowns. "No tears this weekend, please."

She forces a small smile, then glances down—and spots the three massive trunks at Adeline's feet. "Seriously, Ad? Two nights. Three days."

Adeline rolls her eyes.

Angelina does too. "That's what I told her." She pauses, then leans in toward Zora with a conspiratorial grin. "I think she was hoping Viktor would be here. That's what she means by 'occasions.'"

Adeline smacks her arm but can't help the laugh that escapes. She glances toward Zora, expectant.

"Sorry. No Viktor this weekend."

Adeline shrugs. "Don't care. This weekend's about you, Z," she says, linking her arm through Zora's.

They start walking the path toward the house, the trunks floating obediently behind. When they reach the front, Adeline stops in her tracks.

"Putain. Despite everything, you can't say he didn't spoil you with this place," she says, adjusting her hair. "This is one hell of a house you've got, Z."

Zora and Angelina both turn to look at her, unimpressed. Adeline presses her lips together. "What? Too soon for jokes?"

Zora exhales, shaking her head—but there's a small, reluctant smile tugging at her lips as she opens the door. Angelina swats her shoulder with a muttered "idiot" and steps inside.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The night is warm, the wind carrying the salt of the sea and the low hiss of waves colliding with the cliffs below. The terrace is bathed in moonlight, the wide stone balustrade framing a horizon that glitters silver where the water catches the light. Somewhere down in the harbor, a bell tolls, slowed and lonely.

Adeline props her elbows on the railing, half-turned toward the others, still riding the tail end of a story. "...and then he made us do twenty push-ups because Marius dropped the Quaffle twice in a row. Twice! My arms are basically detached now."

Zora leans against the wall, one leg bent, sipping from her glass. "You knew what you were getting into, right ? French are demanding."

Adeline grins. "Yes. And I love it."

Angelina chuckles, shaking her head.

"And you?" Zora asks, turning her gaze to Angelina. "How is it going with the Harpies?"

Angelina tilts her head, thinking. "Good. I love it. Gwenog's terrifying. She once made one of the other Chaser cry during drills last week."

"That's nothing," Adeline says. "Our coach made me re-run the entire playbook in the rain because I was three minutes late to warm-ups?"

Zora's mouth twitches into a smile. "Sounds like you deserved it."

"And you Z ? How is it with the Vultures ? When is the upcoming match ?" Angelina asks. 

Zora sighs. "It's okay, I guess. We have our first match against the Catapults at the end of the month." 

Angelina frowns. "It's okay ? That's it ?" 

"I made a friend. Her name is Irina. She's a Beater. You'd love her." 

"A Beater ? How nice. She must be cool," Adeline says. 

Zora nods. "She is. Apart from her, the Captain and one of the chaser, they're all dickheads." 

Angelina nods but feel her heart breaking. Even Quidditch doesn't manage to make her joyful, doesn't make her hand move like she used to when she spoke. There's just hollow words now. 

"It's not too hard ?" she asks. 

"No. We only have training three times per weeks and matches on the weekend. Honestly, I'm fucking bored in here." 

"You're mostly alone ?" asks Adeline. 

"Well, yes. Even when Alexei is here, I stay in my room until he goes to sleep. He is often at work. I really get on with his sister though, Dora. She comes often here. I like her." 

"What about Viktor ?" Adeline dares to ask. She wants to know about him, maybe even figure out why he hasn't answer her letters. 

Zora turns her face. It's like a shadow passes over her face. "I saw him once since the wed—" her voice breaks and she stops, inhaling deeply. "The wedding. I haven't tried to reach to him but he didn't send me anything too. So, I don't know." 

Zora turns silent for a few seconds before turning to Adeline. "You don't talk ?" 

Adeline sighs, not wanting to talk about her problems in front of Zora. "Well, I—, it's just, I didn't—"

"He hasn't answered her letters," ends Angelina for her. 

Zora frowns. "What ? Really ?" 

Adeline nods. "But it's okay. He's probably busy with the National team and the trainings."

The conversation falls, replaced by the quiet hum of the sea. The three of them stare out at the horizon for a while, each lost in their own thoughts.

Then Angelina shifts, setting her glass down with a soft clink. "Are we going to talk about it?"

Zora's eyes lift, wary. "Talk about what?"

"Everything, Zora." Angelina's tone is calm, but her gaze doesn't waver. "About everything. About your life with Alexei now. About the wedding. About the contract. About how you left and never answered any of ours letters. About you. How you feel," she adds. She takes a deep breath. "Just, talk to us Z. Please." 

For a moment, Zora says nothing. She swirls the wine in her glass, the liquid catching the lamplight, and then her voice comes—flat, detached. "There's not much to tell. It's exactly what it looks like."

Adeline frowns and sniffles. "Why didn't you answer us ? Our letters ? We were so worried Z." 

"I just—, I don't know. I'm sorry. I'm the worst," Zora answers, her voice breaking. She feels sobs threatening her. "I know I should have. But you guys just remind me of everything I lost and —"

"You didn't loose us, Z. We're right here," Angelina says calmly. 

"I know. It's just, I see myself in everything you do; your calmer, gentler gestures, your pitying looks at me, your words. Everything has changed. Because of me."

Angelina and Adeline stay silent for a while. After a few seconds, Angelina's sobs break the silence and accompany the song of the sea. 

The song of peace and the song of pain.

"When we saw you in that picture in the press..." Angelina exhales sharply, shaking her head. "It was awful. You looked—" She hesitates. "God, it was worse for Oliv—"

"Don't."

The word lands heavy. Zora's voice is sharp enough to silent everything between them. 

Zora finally looks at them both.

"It hurts too much," she says.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

N O V E M B E R

Zora,

I don't know if I should keep writing to you every week. I don't even know if you're getting my letters, if you open them, if you read them. But I'll keep going. Until I can't write anymore, until my hand no longer knows how to hold a quill. And even then, I'll find a way to send you my words and soothe your wounds.

We played our first match yesterday. A friendly against the Transylvanian team. It was easy. Their Chasers had nothing on you—no one shoots and disrupts the game the way you do.

I feel like, little by little, I'm finding my place in the team. Torn has finally stopped calling me "the rookie," and the other day, one of the Beaters asked me for tips to work on reflexes. I think with the match and the trainings, I've finally managed to prove I belong here. 

I can't help to think if you were in my place, you would have already threatened to hex their brooms if they called you that again. I miss your audacity and your strength. I miss everything. 

In March, we're playing a friendly match against the French team. Adeline has already sent me threatening letters saying they'll crush us. I can't wait to show her she doesn't stand a chance against my team.

I wish you could come to one of my matches or trainings. Every single time, I can't help but look toward the stands and hope to see your eyes on me, your long brown hair, your smile. Even if it's only to make fun of my technique or to list all the fouls you spotted—I don't care. I just want you near me.

Last week, I had a drink with the guys. Thomas, Andrew, and Samuel. We met in a pub in Diagon Alley. It felt good, for a moment, to get out, to see something different. They asked me how you were. Apart from Angelina and Adeline, I don't think anyone has seen you. Samuel asked me to tell you to answer his letters. So, if you ever see this—

At home, it's heavy. My father isn't speaking to me. Nora's grades aren't great at school, and with trainings, I barely have time to help her with homework at night on top of everything else. 

And Mum... she's getting worse. She was hospitalized for three days after a severe episode of madness attack. In front of Nora, too. I wasn't there—I had to deal with the aftermath. It was awful. Nora was in tears and in chock. 

I hope trainings are going well with the Vultures. I know you must get along with Montrose, your captain. I think you see Quidditch in the same way. I had the opportunity to meet him last year in a workshop. He's very nice. Just know I'll make sure to be at every single match of the European Cup. Every single one.

I hope, wherever you are, you're holding on. I keep imagining you in a big house where you can't even see the sun, with no one to talk to. It drives me mad, Zora. It drives me mad, and I can't do anything about it, and that's worse.

I try to stay busy, and I am busy, but it doesn't matter. Every second, you haunt my thoughts, and I can't stop it. You're everywhere—in every thought, in every gesture, in every scent, every song, every sound, every step I take. Everywhere.

And yet, you're not with me.

I miss you, Zora. I miss you so much I never thought it could be possible. I miss you like someone ripped out a part of my body, and I have to keep living without it. Pretending.

If you could just try to answer me if you read this letter—even just a smiley like you used to send—I'd take it. I just want to know if you're okay.

Eternally yours, 

O.W.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

D E C E M B E R

"Try to at least smile this time."

Alexei's voice slithers into her ears, cold and unbearable.

They stand frozen in front of the towering door of his parents' mansion, waiting for someone to open. Zora trembles beneath the heavy fur coat Alexei insisted she wear, as though wrapping her in animal skin could disguise the emptiness gnawing at her bones.

His voice irritates her so violently she wants to tear out his vocal cords and strangle him with them. "Fuck off," she mutters, teeth clenched.

Behind the door, shadows stir, approaching. Alexei's hand snakes around her waist. She puts it away, palm flat, sharp. "Don't even try."

"God, you're unbearable. At least pretend, hm?"

"I have been pretending. For months. Pretending I didn't mind gutting my own life just to decorate yours. What else do you want? A hundred galleons and a Mars bar?"

He doesn't have time to answer. The door swings open to reveal Alexei's mother, smiling, lacquered in her polished perfection. She ushers them inside, into the cavernous house that reeks of money and pretension.

The moment Zora steps across the threshold, she shuts everything down. The trick is survival: switch it all off. Muffle the voices, the fake laughter, the poisonous compliments disguised as conversation. Silence the clink of crystal, the glitter of diamonds catching chandelier light.

It's the only way to survive this Christmas masquerade.

The Vassilievs have made this gathering a tradition—every year parading the elite of Bulgaria through their halls, feeding them champagne, excess, a performance of power. For Zora, it's less celebration and more camouflage: a way to keep themselves from staring each other in the eyes, from facing the hollow truth of their existence. Underneath the sequins and the shallow sparkle, there is nothing left but an unbearable void.

She knows this house too well. She flees, slipping into the side room by the entrance—a cloakroom as large as most people's living rooms, wedged between the vestibule and the grand staircase that leads upstairs. She has to shed this monstrous coat, itchy, suffocating.

The door clicks shut behind her. Relief. The muffled din of laughter and music falls away, leaving only her breath, shaky, ragged. She crosses the room toward an empty hanger, fingers fumbling at the buttons. One is stuck—jammed—and she claws at it, frustration growing as if even the coat refuses to let her go.

"For God's sake," she mutters, ready to tear the coat apart if she has to.

"Need a hand?"

Zora startles, but she recognizes that soft, lilting voice instantly. A small smile breaks across her face as she turns—Teodora is perched on the staircase, tucked in the shadows.

"I beg you. I can't take this dead beast on my shoulders anymore. I'm going mad."

Dora chuckles as she skips down the stairs, leaping over the last three steps before rushing to Zora's side. With nimble fingers, she wrestles the stubborn button free, peels the monstrous coat from Zora's body, and tosses it carelessly to the floor. Without hesitation, she throws her arms around Zora's neck, and Zora clings back even tighter, almost desperate.

"God, I missed you," Zora breathes.

The two girls have grown close over the past few months. Dora has become the person Zora sees the most. She spends nearly all her time at their seaside home, and somewhere along the way, Zora discovered that Dora and Alexei are, in truth, inseparably close.

And so, she and Dora have only grown closer. Dora is Zora's only light in this ocean of shadows, her lighthouse in the storm, her fragile hope in a world she once thought irredeemably lost.

In her, Zora has found an ally against the suffocating chaos. A reason to go on. To savor the smallest things—the warmth of daylight, the scent of cookies, the sound of gentle laughter. To find reasons to rise each morning. She loves listening to Dora speak for hours, watching her eyes spark with joy, seeing her overflow with life. She loves her soft voice, her little kindnesses, the way she brings cookies after Quidditch training, as if that sweetness alone might keep Zora tethered to the earth.

For Zora, who is slowly fading away—her life reduced to a bedroom in a sprawling house, to the Vulture practices, and to the pile of unopened letters stuffed under her bed, letters that bleed with memories of a life she will likely never recover—Dora is oxygen.

"You too," Dora says with a grin. "But tonight I'm coming home with you guys. That's pretty great, right?"

Zora nods, then glances back at the stairs where Dora had been standing seconds before. "Don't tell me you're going to spend the whole evening up there again?"

Dora looks away, sheepish. "I am. Ever since I walked with you at the wedding, the parents have been worse with me. But it doesn't matter. I stole some cake," she giggles. "And you're here now."

Zora's heart clenches, a nauseous pang. Once again, the guilt gnaws at her—it's her fault. Her fault for asking Dora to attend the wedding, for letting her walk at her side. Her fault for not thinking ahead, for not seeing the fallout.

As always, she was being awfully selfish.

And as if Dora can read her thoughts, she takes Zora's hands in hers. "Hey, none of that. This isn't your fault. You didn't do anything. I wanted to be at that wedding. Don't worry—"

"Hey, Tedi." Alexei's voice rings behind them.

Zora stiffens instantly, retreating a step back, every muscle locking.

"Ah, there you are," Alexei says when his eyes fall on Zora, who rolls hers in return.

He steps toward his sister, pulling out a small bag filled with food, which he hands to her. "There's tarator, meat, and baklava. Your favorites."

Zora watches them—brother and sister. Watches Dora's bright smile, the protective gleam in Alexei's eyes, the way she bounces with joy before throwing her arms around him. In that instant, Zora sees a different side of Alexei, one he never shows to anyone else—a softer side, protective, almost tender. Not that it changes anything about how she sees him. Or how little she values him.

Then he turns to her. "Come. They're waiting for us in the salon."

Zora looks at Dora instead. "I'll put on a good face for a while, then I'll slip away. Nobody talks to me anyway."

Alexei exhales sharply. "If you stopped snapping at people the second they ask you a question, maybe they'd try to talk to you. If you stopped sulking, maybe—"

"They only ever talk to me to talk about you," Zora cuts him off. "So you see, the moment I don't have to see your face anymore, I'd be more than fucking happy not to throw you flowers in front of strangers."

"It's always the same—"

"Stop! Enough." Dora shouts. "It's Christmas. No fights, okay? Do this for me."

Zora rolls her eyes but finally nods, leans down to kiss Dora on the cheek, and follows Alexei out of the room. She takes a deep breath, closes her eyes, and braces herself.

The champagne flutes sparkle too loudly. The chandeliers burn too bright, scattering light like shards of glass. Fake laughter rings against crystal, food piled in grotesque abundance, eyes sharp with judgment grazing her, weighing every word, every gesture.

Spending Christmas here is torment.

She remembers Hogwarts feasts. Remembers evenings with Viktor at the Manor, feet stretched toward the fire, cheeks flushed from the warmth. Quidditch matches in the icy morning air. Joy that was real.

Here, Christmas is nothing but business, alliances forged and paraded, handshakes disguised as affection. No celebrations. No gifts. No sharing.

The evening blurs past in a haze for Zora. She sits silent at the end of the table, eyes locked on the fork spinning between her fingers. More than once, she wonders how far she'd have to throw to land it right between Alexei's eyes. Or his father's.

She forces a smile a few times—when Alexei's grip on her hand grows too tight, when he cracks jokes she doesn't even hear, when he brags again about his Ministry triumphs she's already heard a hundred times.

Smile. Pretend. Fade. Forget herself a little more each day. Watch herself disappear.

After dessert, as the guests drift toward the salon for the last stretch of the evening, she slips away quietly, climbing the staircase. She stops at Dora's door, knocks softly, and hears the light steps racing across the wooden floor before it opens.

Exhaustion shadows Dora's face, but she still smiles and lets Zora inside.

"I've got a present for you," Zora says, hands tucked behind her back.

Dora's whole face lights up, impossibly brighter. She clasps her hands over her heart. "Zora, you shouldn't have. You're insane!"

"Merry Christmas." Zora hands her the little package, and Dora tears it open with eager fingers. Inside is a sewing set and fabric. She stares at it, mouth falling open in half a smile.

"Because I know you love fashion," Zora explains. "This way you can make those little hair bows things  you're always wearing."

Dora bursts into laughter, throws herself at Zora, knocking them both onto the mattress. "Thank you, thank you, thank you thank you thank you!"

She pulls back, running her fingers reverently over the fabric, letting it slip between them like silk water. "It's beautiful. It's the best gift ever. Thank you, Zora."

Zora only smiles. A drop of warmth falls heavy on her heart, melting through the ice that's been sitting there for too long. She almost feels alive. Only Dora's smile can resuscitate even the deadest heart.

They lie down side by side. They look at each other and share an easy silence, smiles ghosting on their lips. Until suddenly, Dora's face clouds. She inhales sharply, shakes her head, gaze fixed on Zora.

"I'm so sorry, Zora," she whispers, voice shaking.

"For what? I don't want gifts, if that's what's bothering you. I don't gi—"

"No. For everything. I feel so awful. On your wedding day... helping you get dressed, acting like everything was fine, when I knew you didn't want any of it. I feel horrible. If I could've stopped it, I would've done anything to make it not happen."

Zora shakes her head, rolling onto her back, eyes tracing the ceiling. "None of this is your fault. Believe me."

When Teodora learned that her brother's marriage was nothing more than a contract Zora had no real choice but to accept, she felt wretched. Ashamed. Filthy with guilt for having stood there on the day, helping Zora dress, smoothing her hair, adjusting her veil—offering her to the wolf with her own hands. If she had known, she told herself, she would have locked herself in her room.

"Love shouldn't be forced," Dora whispers, eyes lost in her usual romantic haze. "Love should be like the stars at night, the song of birds at dawn, the endless blue of the sky. Something that has always been there, in its place. Unforced. Natural. Something you don't question. You just accept it. And something you know you could never live without it."

Zora feels her chest cave in. Her fingers knot themselves in the bedsheet as though clinging to it might keep her from drowning. 

Because she knows that love. She knows the blue of the sky, the song of birds, the light of the stars. He has dark hair, a dimple carved into his left cheek, and words that always come at the exact moment she needs them most. He looks at her as though she's the last thing worth saving in this ruined world, and his arms are the only sanctuary that has ever made her feel safe.

She closes her eyes. And suddenly she sees it: the underside of her bed, back in her room by the coast. The stack of letters hidden there. Dozens of them. 

His letters. 

Sealed, untouched. Letters that weigh more than stone, fragile paper carrying the whole burden of her despair. Every envelope is a wound torn open again, a reminder of her choice, of what she's lost, of who she's lost.

Thousands of words he's written for her, that she has refused to read. Refused to even give power to. She has denied them the chance to soothe her. Or denied them the chance to break her further.

Every letter is a torture. Every time she recognizes the curve of his handwriting, it is a torture. Every time she sees the way he shapes his O's, the way he writes her name like a prayer, it is a torture.

And the worst torture of all is forcing herself to leave them sealed. Because the agony of hearing her heart breaking is still lighter than the agony of facing his heart locked inside paper. Of facing the storm hidden behind every letter, every consonant, every vowel, every sound of him that drags her under.

She is terrified that if she opens them, she will never be able to read ever again.

Because Zora knows—she doesn't deserve any of it. She doesn't deserve the minutes, the hours he has bled into at his desk, shaping letters to her. She doesn't deserve the ink, the breath, the seconds of his life, his heart pressed between words meant only for her.

She deserves only to be forgotten.

So she tells herself: if she never opens them, if she never replies, one day he will tire. He will stop writing. He will finally see that he deserves better. That she is not worth the ink, not worth the ache.

And yet—despite all of it—she craves him with a hunger that splits her open. If she could just see him, just once. Catch his scent in the curve of a corridor. Brush her fingers against his like they did a hundred times before. Just once, and maybe she would find the strength to go on.

If she could just collapse into his arms and pretend, even for a heartbeat, that nothing has changed. That she hasn't ruined everything. Pretend that time bends for them, gives them one merciful instant where she can feel his warm breath on her cheek, his fingers tangled in her messy hair, the thunder of his heart steadying hers.

His lips everywhere at once—on her mouth, her neck, her knuckles, her cheek. Kisses that taste like endings. The way his hands hold her hips as though to say: you are safe, you are mine.

Just him. Oliver. A few seconds.

The taste of eternity. The pain of her punishment.

"I know that kind of love," Zora whispers suddenly. The words spill, breaking free like blood from an open vein.

The need overwhelms her—the need to confess. To speak of him. Of Oliver. Of the sky's blue and the stars' light. Of the eternity that could have been, and of the agony of her punishment.

Teodora sits up sharply, intrigued. "What do you mean?"

"That unconditional love, that unshakable truth. That kind of love that simply is. I know it," Zora breathes. And then, her voice fractures. "I knew it."

Because he is an evidence. The most undeniable truth of her life.

And now— a truth lost. A fallen love. A failed eternity.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

J A N U A R Y

The stands of the Scottish National Quidditch Stadium are empty. The sound of gulls and a faint breeze cutting through the steel ribs of the structure can be heard. Down on the pitch, the grass is freshly trimmed, glistening faintly under the pale Scottish light. 

Oliver sits on the edge of the substitute's bench, shoulders stiff, a dark blue training jersey sticking to his skin. His hair is damp, clinging to his forehead, freshly showered. He looks like he'd rather be anywhere else.

A quill hovers above parchment, charmed to follow the words of the journalist in front of him. She's cheerful, brisk, glasses slipping down her nose. Oliver's jaw flexes as he folds and unfolds his fingers in his lap, the way he does before a match.

When he found out he was going to have to agree to the interview for the Quidditch Times, Oliver thought he was going to faint. An interview with strangers while he has to talk about himself is the literal embodiment of his worst nightmare.

"Thanks for allowing us this interview, Oliver," the journalist starts. "I know you don't have a lot of time. So. The youngest recruit of the National team in decades. There's been a lot of talk about you since September." 

Oliver nods, not really knowing what is he supposed to answer. Seeing he doesn't answer, she raises her eyebrow and gives an awkward glances to her assistant. 

"Anyway. How do you feel about your form ?"

He clears his throat, eyes flicking away toward the stands. "I feel... good. Focused. The team's strong this year. We're... we're training hard, covering each other's weak spots. I think we've got a real chance for the Cup next year."

"Do you feel the pressure of the World Cup on your shoulders already?"

He shakes his head slightly, though his foot taps against the ground. "Pressure's always there. Doesn't change anything. You still play your game, you still defend the hoops, no matter the size of the stadium. But the Cup's in a year. We will have time to deal with the pressure."

She smiles. Scribbles. Then leans in. "Your style of keeping has been called... well, obsessive. Ruthless even. Do you think it intimidates your opponents?"

Oliver blinks, caught off guard. A small, dry huff escapes him. "I don't think so. If they worked well before the match, they have studied my style and my game. They should be prepared."

She nods, moving smoothly. "Speaking of teammates... You've been spotted out in London a few times. Rumor says you're still close with your old Gryffindor friends? Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell? Even your friends from Quidditch camp ?"

At that, despite wondering how it's interesting for her, his mouth softens into something almost like a smile. His shoulders ease a fraction. "Aye. They're family, really. We try to see each other as often as possible."

"It must help, having that support system."

Oliver nods once. His gaze drops to the grass. 

Yes. Except is only support system is gone. 

"It does. More than people realise."

The interviewer pauses. Then her tone shifts, switching to something flirty. "And what about you, Oliver? You've got the talent, the career ahead, the kind of face that makes you very popular with our readers. I imagine you've got more than a few admirers. Is there someone special?"

The question lands like a slap. His entire body goes still. The faint trace of a smile disappears. He inhales sharply through his nose, dragging his hand over his mouth. His eyes don't move toward her—they lock on the pitch, unseeing, as if staring into something only he can see.

Silence stretches. The journalist shifts, clears her throat. "You don't have to be shy. Our readers are dying to know. You're young, successful, attractive. It's only natural. A girlfriend, maybe? Someone waiting for you at home?"

His throat works. His fingers curl into his palms until the knuckles go white. The interviewer presses, gentle but insistent. 

"Oliver? You've never commented on your love life before. Surely there's someone? Or... are you saying Quidditch is the only thing you've given your heart to?"

That's when he finally turns his head, just slightly. His expression is hard, as if the words scrape him from the inside out. His voice, when it comes, is hoarse, and final. 

"I already gave my heart away. Long time ago. And I don't plan on taking it back. It's hers now. Only hers."

The quill freezes in midair. The journalist blinks, startled, searching his face as though she might find more, but there's nothing. His jaw is set, his gaze distant, devastation carved into the quiet lines around his mouth.

She hesitates, then whispers. "...And who is this—?"

He cuts her off with a shake of his head. "Next question, please."

The quill hovers over the parchment, the last line trembling where it recorded his words. 

I already gave my heart away. Long time ago. And I don't plan on taking it back. It's hers now. Only hers.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

F E B R U A R Y

Oliver feels like his stomach has been tied in knots since morning. Sitting in the stands of the Montrose Magpies stadium, the roar of the crowd around him makes his head spin. He's done this thousands of times as a player himself, but today, he isn't flying, he isn't preparing—he's watching. Waiting for her.

He and all the friends from camp have agreed to go watch the Magpies vs. Vultures match. They've all agreed to free up some time, knowing that this might be the only chance they'll have to see her, to talk to her.

Oliver is a mess. In a state. This is the first time he's seen her since the salty goodbyes at Hogwarts harbor. Since she took his broken heart, since all his breaths and thoughts has been for her.

Adeline nudges him with her elbow. "Hey. You okay ? It's hard for us too."

"I'm fine," he mutters.

"Fine," Thomas snorts from two seats down. "He looks like he's about to throw up in Adeline's lap."

She grins. "Please, not my lap. Do it in Angelina's."

Angelina rolls her eyes, but there's warmth in her expression. Thomas, sitting beside her, doesn't even bother to hide his chuckle.

Angelina leans forward, resting her chin on her hand. "It's going to be okay, Ollie. I promise she's fine. She will probably hex her teammates and scores all the Quaffle in half the time."

Oliver swallows hard. His throat is dry. He doesn't answer, because he doesn't trust his voice to come out steady. So he nods. He's spent weeks imagining this moment—seeing her again after so long. He doesn't even know how she'll react. She doesn't know they're here. If she will want to go and see them. Talk to them. 

To him. 

The announcer's booming voice rings in the stadium. "Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the European Cup ! The Montrose Magpies versus the Vratsa Vultures today! A match promised to be fiercy."

The crowd erupts. Flags wave, scarves ripple in the winter air, and Oliver's pulse slams in his ears. His palms are clammy.

"Charles commands the Vultures with an iron fist, a formidable Keeper in his own right. Yet most of the talk circles back to Zora, number 12—the Chaser who puts every Quaffle in the hoops, making the Keeper go crazy." 

The Vultures walk out and he spots her. 

Zora.

Finally. 

There she is.

The girl who left him hollow.The girl who still owns his every heartbeat.

And he's terrified she'll never look his way again.

The world tilts for a second. He stands slightly. He'd like to run to her. To take her in his arms. To tell her he's here, it's going to be okay. 

She's in her Vultures robes, black and crimson. Her hair is tied back in her usual braid, a few strands escaping. She is adjusting her gloves when a brunette, the beater of the Vulture, comes and whispers something in her ear. 

She looks extinguished. Empty. But still, what little energy and nerve she has left seems to be made for this match.

The noise of the stadium fades, muffled. All he can hear is the sound of his own breath and the rush of blood in his veins.

"The papers won't shut up about her. The Seeker Weekly even wrote a column about her flying style," Thomas says. 

"They call her style reckless," Angelina says with a grin. "Recklessly brilliant, more like. She's a goddamn Quidditch goddess."

"Recklessly annoying, if you play against her," Adeline adds, giggling.

Oliver can't speak. His chest aches with how much he missed her. The way she holds herself, her fierce stride, the fire in her eyes. Merlin, her eyes—he hasn't seen them in months, and yet he remembers their every shade, every flicker. He even missed the way she pushes a strand of hair back with her glove in that impatient little gesture she always does.

He shifts in his seat, heart hammering. She looks exactly the same, and yet not at all. She's stronger now, somehow. Stronger, and further away.

Missed her. The words are too small. He's been starving for her. For her laugh, her sharp words, her warmth. And seeing her there, so close and yet untouchable, feels like both salvation and torment.

Oliver's eyes lock on her she walks in the middle of the pitch, the number 12 emblazoned on her jersey. His stomach twists. Twelve. His birthday number. His heart dares to hope, to wonder: did she—could she—have chosen it because of him? Did she remember, in some small way, that he had always chosen hers?

He shakes his head, trying to push the thought away, but then—his gaze shifts a little bit higher. And freezes.

Vassilieva.

His blood runs cold. His heart stops. That name. That man. The thought of seeing his name on her jersey disgusts him. Makes him want to scream. This isn't her. 

This will never be her.

At the same time, Zora realises the name on her shirt as well. Irina just told on her ear a few seconds ago. She didn't even notice it when she put it on in the lockers, far too away in her thoughts. 

A shout rips through the stands—not from the crowd, but from her.

"Are you fucking serious ?! I asked to never put this name." 

The stadium, the pitch, the teams—all of it freezes for a heartbeat. Her voice is sharp. Her team looks around, confused. The coach blinks, unsure. She storms toward him, pointing and yelling.

Oliver's throat tightens as he watches her rage, that fierce, untamed energy that has always been hers. He can almost feel it resonate in his own chest, a reflection of his helpless fury.

Then a blur of motion—someone from the sidelines runs up with another jersey, freshly pressed, number twelve.

Zora doesn't hesitate. In front of the gasping stadium, she yanks off her old jersey, tossing it to the ground. Her teammates stare, frozen. The bitter, stolen name lying at her feet.

She's only in her sports bra, and the chill of February cuts across her bare skin. She slips the new jersey over her head—number twelve, but this time with ZORA emblazoned across the back. Her name. Her identity.

Oliver feels his chest tighten, a mix of awe and relief. Every nerve in him hums as she steps onto the pitch again, confident, burning. She stomps on the old jersey, a final gesture of defiance, reclaiming what is hers.

The silence of the stadium snaps into thunderous cheers, the crowd erupting in approval. And Oliver? He can barely breathe. He can barely think. He watches her, every movement, every flick of her hair in the wind, every controlled lift of her broom. 

He leans forward, gripping the railing like it's the only thing keeping him upright. The ache in his chest is almost unbearable. The longing, the desperation, the months of separation—all of it crashes down as she soars above the pitch. And for the first time in far too long, he dares to hope.

Hope that she is still hers, in some way. Hope that the fire in her eyes is still the one that once belonged to him.

"Well, Zora is definitely not gone," Angelina says, shaking her head, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips. "The coach looks like he is about to shit himself."

Adeline grins, bouncing slightly in her seat. "Damn right." she laughs, "She's scaring everyone. Look at her teammates."

He catches Angelina's eye and she nudges him gently, reading the relief in his expression. "Look at you smiling like an idiot."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Zora mounts her broom, the wind biting at her cheeks, her lungs filling with the crisp February air. She tries to center herself, to summon the rhythm and flow that usually guides her through every match. 

But nothing went right from the start. First, they gave her the wrong jersey, even though she specifically asked for one with ZORA written on the back. Her coach claimed that Alexei had asked to register Vassilieva and that he had the right to do so because he was funding the team. In the end, Zora was relieved to see Aksana arrive with her jersey.

And then, her gaze locks onto the stands, and there he is.

Oliver.

Burning eyes tracking her every move. Like always. 

Her heart lurches, betraying her even before her legs and arms find their balance. Every muscle tightens, every thought fractures. She can feel his presence like a weight pressing against her, the one she's been craving without even realizing how much.

What is he doing here? Why does he has to be here? 

Shame burns through her veins. Her hands tighten on the broom as guilt and self-loathing surge. They're seeing her like this—the coward, the traitor, the girl who left and never answered, who abandoned him and went to marry everything she despises. She can almost hear their judgment, the unspoken words that accuse her of breaking his heart, of breaking the bond that once held them together.

The game starts and she tries everything to focus. She has to. This is her team, her game. But every quaffle she passes, every maneuver she attempts, her thoughts scatter. 

Oliver's eyes don't leave her. They burn into her, and suddenly the Quidditch pitch shrinks, the wind seems colder, the air heavier.

Her hands fumble. The quaffle slips from her grip. A whistle cuts through the air, and Captain Charles Montrose's scowl drills into her from the sidelines. 

"Zora, focus for god's sake ! What's gotten into you ?" 

But she can't. Not while he's there. For the first time, he is stealing her focus from the game. And it's him. Only him.

She bites back a curse, the broom jerking beneath her as she tries to recover. Her teammates shout, urging her on, but their voices fade into the roaring storm of her thoughts. All she can see is him: his face, his hands, the weight of all she's done, the love she left behind.

She endures the match. She endures the seconds, the weight of her body on the broom, the lag in her movements. 

She endures his gaze, delights in his attention.

All she waits for is the end—the whistle that will sound her deliverance.

And when it finally comes, when Emil Kolev catches the Snitch and secures their victory, she gets off her broom and rushes for the exit.

Running away rather than hurting you. 

Better to flee than grasp at a hope already lost.

Running away rather than watching you suffer.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

M A R S

Scottish and French fans are cheering from the stands of the National pitch. But all of it seems muted to Oliver. He mounts his broom and  instead of the usual thrill, there is a hollowness gnawing at his chest. 

Zora isn't here. She should be watching,  leaning forward in the stands with that look in her eyes, following his every move. The thought makes it hard to focus, each goal and pass feeling slightly unreal.

"Focus, Oliver! Don't let them have the upper hand!" His Captain voice reaches him.

"I'm focused," Oliver mutters under his breath, though the words felt hollow.

The Quaffle comes toward him, and he dodges the French Chaser throw with a tight and violent twist of his broom, sending the Quaffle away. Adeline shoots a smile at him. 

"Easy there, lass!" Thomas calls as he tries to diffuse the tension.

The Scottish side erupts, but Oliver barely hears it. The cheer feels distant, a reminder of the empty space where Zora should be.

The French team is skilled, fast, precise—but so is Oliver. He can still play like himself, even if his heart isn't in it.

"Oi, Wood! Watch the side!" one of the Scottish Beaters calls.

"I've got it!" he yells, forcing himself to focus on the wind in his hair, the balance of his broom, the spin of the Quaffle.

Another pass. Another feint. Another goal for Scotland. The crowd goes wild, and yet, the cheers feel hollow. He steals a glance at Adeline, who grins as she catches the Quaffle back from Thomas. Their teamwork is flawless, teasing and precise. A reminder that even though the match is friendly, skill and rivalry still run deep.

"Come on, Oliver! Dreaming won't help to keep the goal!" His coach shouts again.

The first half ends tied. Sweat runs down his face, hair plastered to his forehead. The Scottish team congratulates one another, high-fives and laughter all around, but Oliver stands slightly apart, catching his breath. 

Zora isn't here, and every cheer, every play, every victory feels incomplete.

Yet still, he mounts his broom for the second half, forcing himself to focus, forcing himself to play. Because that's what he does—he plays, even while drowning.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The Scottish team won against the French. Adrenaline still buzzes through Oliver's veins as they leave the pitch. Everyone has gathered together and decided to go have a drink to celebrate. Even Adeline and Thomas who just lost but want to enjoy some time with their friends. 

By the time they reach the pub in Diagon Alley, the chatter grows louder. Beer flows, plates of fish and chips pass around. The warmth inside the pub is comforting, but for Oliver, it feels artificial—like a stage set for normalcy he can't step into.

"So seriously," Adeline says, leaning back in her chair, grinning, "that last feint? Oliver, mate, I thought you were gonna fall off your broom!"

"I didn't fall, did I?" he shoots back, forcing a laugh.

"Barely," Thomas smiles. "You almost kissed the ground for Scotland."

Everyone shares their little news, trips, minor victories in life outside Quidditch. Andrew tells everyone how he considers stopping Quidditch, saying it doesn't really stimulates him anymore.

But underneath it all, the laughter feels hollow. Their voices have a nervous edge. Everyone knows they're all pretending.

The room falls into a strange, quiet pause. Oliver feels the weight pressing down, heavy and unrelenting. He keeps his eyes on his glass, pretending to drink, pretending not to notice the silence stretching between them.

Then Adeline speaks. "Zora would have loved to see the match. Torn between Ollie and us," she says, a small smile on her lips, looking at Oliver and Thomas. 

Everyone smiles but its awkward. Everyone looks away, silent. Her ghost is everywhere, haunting every memory where she wasn't even present. 

Angelina lets out a nervous chuckle. "Are we fucking going to ignore the fact Zora is slowly fucking dying?"

The table goes still. The words hang in the air, shocking in their bluntness.

"What do you want us to do?," Thomas says quietly, almost too soft to hear. "She doesn't answer and we can't go when her bloody husband is there. Viktor doesn't even answer." 

At the word husband, Oliver shivers and clenches his fist. 

"God, she has gotten so thin," Adeline adds, her voice tight. "I thought we could see her, last month, after her match. She just—, disappeared."

Oliver's chest tightens, and the room tilts. His hands shake slightly as he grips the edge of the table. He wants to say something, anything, but the words stick. He can't. He can't even look at them.

"I'm sorry, I just—, I can't" he whispers, voice breaking. Without another word, he shoves his chair back and stumbles toward the door. 

Outside, the cold air hits his face. He presses his hands to his mouth, vision swimming with unshed tears. His legs carry him down the alley before he realizes it. 

The thought consumes him. Her absence, the emptiness she carries, the silence, the slow decay no one wants to name. It is too much. 

And he wonders when will it stop.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

A P R I L

Dear Zora,

Hi. I miss you lots. I dont know why you dont answer me. I keep trying. Maybe the letters get lost. I don't know. I'll have to check with our owls. 

Oliver keeps all the Quidditch magazines where you are in them and I look at them all the time. You are so pretty and strong n them. I wish I could see you for real.

Mama is at the hospital all the time now. Oliver says its going to be ok but I dont like it. I try to be brave but sometimes I cry in my room. I wish you were here. I wish you could come.

I am a little mad at you. You dont write. You dont come. I try to understand but it makes my heart hurt. Oliver misses you a lot too. I know it. He looks sad when he is alone and he doesn't know I am looking.

Today I drew a picture of you and Oliver flying on brooms. I drew me too but I am very small in the corner. I put some clouds and a little sun and hearts. I hope it makes you smile. I also wrote your name in big letters on the top. I almost ran out of my red pen.

I am proud of Oliver so much. He is in the national team! All my friends at school think he is really famous and are in love with him. I think he is brave and good. I try to be brave like him. I try to help mama. I try to do homework without crying. I try to clean my room sometimes.

I dont know what else to say. I miss you. Please write me back. I want to know if you are eating sweets and if you are happy at all.

I hope you come see us. I hope you dont forget us. I love you Zora. I really do.

N o RA 

Zora stays curled on her bed long after she read all the letter. The letter presses against her chest, crumpled in her hands like something fragile she doesn't deserve. She wants to write back, to tell Nora she is okay, that she's trying—but even thinking about it feels like dragging herself up a steep, endless hill.

It's the only letter she allowed herself to open and on the first letter, she regretted it. 

Her hands shakes as she reaches for paper. Every movement feels like wading through water thick with mud, each finger too heavy to lift. She picks up a pen and stares at the blank page. The white emptiness glares back. Words lodge somewhere deep in her chest, tangled, out of reach.

I can't.

Her voice sounds strange to her own ears, thin and fragile. The thought of telling someone how hollow she feels, how every day drags her along like a shadow of herself, makes her stomach twist. Nights spent staring at the ceiling, counting every tick of the clock. Days where she barely leaves her bed, barely swallows anything, barely exists at all.

She wants to vomit. She wants to scream. She wants to vanish into the floorboards. 

She presses the pen to the page anyway. A few letters crawl out. She erases them. Tries again. Stops. The paper fills with blotches, cross-outs, half-formed words. A battlefield of her indecision. Of the hollow mess she is. 

Dear Nora, she finally writes, and the motion alone sends a dull ache through her ribcage.

She stops. Her vision blurs. She thinks of Nora's little hearts, the careful letters, the effort his sister poured into the page, and the guilt rises in her like bile. 

How could she answer with honesty when honesty would mean admitting she cannot even care for herself?

She stares at the page. She wants to continue, to reassure, to promise—but she cannot. 

The pen slips from her fingers and clatters to the floor. She collapses against the mattress, curling tighter. The room smells faintly of her own sweat and the stale air that hasn't moved in hours. Her lungs feel heavy, her heartbeat slow and labored. Every instinct screams to hide, to avoid light, to avoid anyone who might see her like this.

Hours crawl by. This is how she spends her days now. 

Her bed like a shroud, shutters closed like the abyss of her own world. 

She no longer believes in anything. Turned off. Only gets up for training sessions and sometimes misses some.

She doesn't eat. She doesn't move. Her body aches from inertia. 

Whispers of lying down, the sheets like her prison.

Merging with the night, merging with her pain, with her disappearance.

Victim of her own death. Or was it her own betrayal?

Outside the trees are in bloom. Inside, her soul is withered, without any hope.

Spring filled with hope, she no longer believes in anything.

Nagging fatigue, no sleep. Daydreaming, restless torture.

Self-destruct activated.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

M A Y

The Bulgarian and English national teams warm up on the pitch, the smell of wet grass and sweat hanging in the air. The crowd is a sea of color, banners snapping in the wind. Zora sits in the VIP box, next to the Vassilievs, her long gown pressed neatly, hair pinned back. Every inch of her screams for control. Every inch of her wants to run.

She can feel her stomach twisting, the hunger gnawing, the fatigue that has become her constant companion. Her hands rest in her lap, shaking slightly. She hasn't eaten in days. Each movement feels heavy, her body a fragile cage that barely holds her upright. The thought of another hour here, of sitting while everyone cheers, of keeping up appearances, makes her feel weak and nauseous.

She inhales and ends up looking at the stands, trying to forget everything. She spots him first. Oliver, grinning at their friends—Adeline, Thomas, Angelina, Andrew, Samuel—all of them laughing. Her stomach lurches. She wants to run. She wants to disappear. Her throat closes. She presses her hands to her mouth and fights not to gag.

The whistle blows, and the match begins. Zora watches mechanically, eyes on the pitch, body numbed, pretending interest in the plays while her mind is elsewhere. Every cheer from the stands is a dagger. Every goal feels meaningless. 

She tastes metal in her mouth, feels dizzy, her chest tight. She's barely holding herself upright.

Finally, without excusing herself, she walks out and moves away, far away, toward the corridors, the polished floors cold under her heels. Her vision blurs. She leans against the wall, breathing shallow, almost unable to force herself forward. A few minutes passes and she feels like she can collapses at any moment. 

Then she hears it. A voice. His voice. Calm, familiar, carrying warmth she can't touch. "Zora?"

Her blood freezes. She doesn't turn. She can't. She presses herself against the wall, staring at the tiles, willing herself invisible. 

"Zora," he says again, softer this time, closer. The weight of concern in his voice makes her stomach twist further. She hears his steps slow behind her. She wants to run, wants to hide, wants to vanish—but her legs feel like lead.

She swallows hard, her throat dry, her body trembling. The letter from Nora, the emptiness, the shame, all press down on her. 

Oliver pauses a few feet away, watching her silently. The stadium noise is distant now, muted, as if the world has narrowed to this corridor, to this impossible, fragile moment between them.

Zora's back is to him, her hands balled into fists, shoulders shaking.

Oliver stands behind her. Still. Breathing like he's trying to hold his ribs together with nothing but will.

"You shouldn't be here," she finally says. Even her voice is not the same anymore. Fading away. "It's the VIP space."

"If you think I fucking care about all of this fucking nonsense," he says, sharper that he wanted to. 

She hears him step forward, toward her. She inhales and stands up a little bit. "Don't." 

"Zora, c'mon, talk to me, just—, let me at least see you," his voice is a plea, begging. 

Zora turns away slowly. Oliver feels as if every part of his body is being ripped away as he sees her in front of him. Hollowed out, sick.

He fights the tears in his eyes and runs to her, cupping gently her face in his hands. He feels like he's going to faint of how good it feels to feel her skin, her scent again. To know she's still there.

He looks at her, breathing deeply. "Come with me. Run with me. We could go. Now. You'll never have to see him again. You'll never be away again. Come to my house. Live with me. And Nora. Or not, that's up to you. Please. Don't go back there, Zora. I'm begging you." 

Under his hands, she shakes her head, exhausted. She tries to pull away from him, but she can't. "I can't. I fucking can't and you know it," she says, finding it harder to breath and to stand. 

"Viktor will understand. And then we'll make sure to destroy the contract. Please. I can't bear to know you away, I can't bear the fact that I can't protect you, Zora." 

She finally pulls away. "Please, stop telling me what to fucking do !" she says, her voice low but he takes a step back. Not because of her words — but because of how much she means them.

There's a long pause. His jaw works. His fingers twitch like he wants to reach for her but knows she'll flinch.

Finally, he says, voice hoarse, "You think pushing me away is going to make this easier?"

Her eyes flicker — fear, fury, grief. "It'll make it easier for you."

He takes a step toward her. Then another.

"Don't," she warns, voice tight, eyes glassy. "Don't come closer."

She's scared of how much she needs him, his presence. Of how much she craves him. 

But he does. Not fast. Not reckless. Just—desperate.

"Do you think I care if it's easier?" His voice is shaking now. "Do you think I want easy? I want you. You, Zora." 

She swallows. Her chin wobbles.

"And I won't stop. Never. I won't stop reaching out to you, trying to see you, talk to you. Trying to find a fucking solution to all this madness ! I will never ever stop, do you hear me ?" 

"Stop it," she says, shaking her head, tears threatening.

"Do you get it, Zora?" he breathes. "You can scream at me. You can break every part of me. You can hide. I'll still love you. Because I don't know how not to."

I'll still love you. 

"It's over, Oliver. Can't you see it's only hurting us both? Forget me—"

"I can't forget you, Zora. I never will," he says softly. He looks at her and watches how her face is crumbling. 

She lets a tear roll down her cheek. The first one in weeks, in months. The only one. For him. 

A tear for his love. A tear for eternity. A tear for her punishment.

Behind them, they hear voices. "Zora ? Are you there ? We have to take some pictures for the Daily Prophets !" 

Alexei's voice rings in the corridor. 

Zora sniffles and stands. "You have to go now." 

He sighs and takes her face one again. 

"I promise to you Zora I'll get you out of this. And then I'll spend every second of my life to make you feel whole again, to make you feel like yourself again. Every second of it." 

With that, she disappears in the corridors, leaving him in the shadows. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

J U N E

Zora lies sprawled on her bed, staring at the ceiling as though it might collapse and bury her. The air in her room is heavy, unmoving, thick with the scent of unwashed clothes and the faint, metallic tang of dust. The curtains are drawn, turning daylight into a dim grey blur that never changes, no matter the hour. Her body feels as though it is made of stone. Every bone aches. Her skin drags against itself. Her chest rises, falls, rises again—but it is not life. It is only survival.

Her thoughts loop back, endlessly, to that night a month ago. Oliver's face, pale under the lights of the stadium. His voice breaking as he told her he would never stop reaching for her. His eyes, so full of something she can't bear to name. It replays in her head with cruel clarity, the memory cutting her open each time it resurfaces. She can't escape it. She can't escape him.

Quidditch, once her only salvation, is now a word that means nothing. The broom at the corner of her room may as well be firewood. She hasn't touch it since the season is over, two weeks ago. 

The door slams open without warning.

"Zora!" Teodora's voice is high, panicked. She rushes into the room, her eyes wide, her hair half falling from its braid. "What are you doing? You're late. You're late for your tryouts. The Bulgarian National team tryouts—do you understand?"

Zora doesn't move. Her gaze stays fixed on the ceiling, unblinking. Her lips part, dry, cracked. "I don't want to go." 

Teodora stops dead, disbelief flooding her face. "What do you mean, you don't want to go? You've been waiting for this your whole life."

"I don't care," Zora whispers. She shifts slightly. "My body aches. I can't. I can't do this."

Teodora kneels at the side of the bed. "Zora, please. You have to try. Even just—stand up, put on your clothes. I'll help you." She grabs the folded training gear she brought with her and tries to place it in Zora's lap, but Zora lets it slide off like it burns.

"I can't," Zora repeats, her voice breaking this time. Her throat thickens, tears threatening, but even they don't come. The emptiness is too vast. "I don't want to anymore."

Teodora bites her lip hard, frustration and fear warring in her expression. She stares at her for a long, desperate moment—then pulls something from her pocket. A letter, creased at the edges, the ink faintly smudged as if it had been handled a hundred times already. She places it on Zora's chest.

"Then maybe he will get you to do it."

The words snap Zora's gaze away from the ceiling. Her heart jolts painfully. She looks down at the envelope, her hands shaking as she picks it up. She knows the handwriting instantly. The steady, careful letters. Oliver.

She unfolds the paper with shaking fingers.

Zora,

Angelina told me you have try outs for the National team. I can't stop thinking about it—about you. You don't know how much I wish I could be there in the stands, watching you take the sky. You belong up there more than anyone I've ever known.

Your dream ! Finally. She told me how the Coach told you to be on the team for the next season but you insisted on doing the tryouts like the others. That sounds just like you. 

Since I saw you last month, I am in pieces, Zora. I don't know if you realize how much it hurt, seeing you like that. I wanted to take you away, sit you down at my table, cook for you, make you laugh, remind you how it feels to breathe. I wanted to bring you back to yourself.

I dream of you every night. I dream of you by my side. You are the strongest person I know, Zora. The bravest. The only one who can make me believe there's still something worth fighting for.

If you think you can't do it (because I know you have a tendency of doing that), then take my strength instead. Take my faith. Take my everything. Because I believe in you more than I believe in anything else in this world.

Eternally yours, O.W

Zora's hands shake so hard the letter nearly slips from her fingers. Each word cuts into her chest and stitches her back together all at once. She reads it once, twice, again, until her tears finally break loose and wet the page.

She can almost hear his voice in the words, feel the quiet steadiness of his presence, the way he has always been—constant, unyielding, hers.

Something stirs inside her. A spark, faint but undeniable, flickers in the hollow space.

Zora pushes herself upright, legs trembling. Her vision blurs with tears, but she grabs the training clothes from the floor and pulls them on with shaking hands. Teodora's breath catches, relief spilling across her face, smiling slightly. 

Zora wipes her cheeks with the back of her hand, her voice hoarse but steady. "Let's go."

For the first time in weeks, she takes a step forward.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Viktor stands at the edge of the pitch, arms folded tightly across his chest. From the moment Zora mounted her broom, he had felt that familiar ache—guilt. 

And anger. 

He can't understand it. How she chose to marry him. To loose herself. To give up everything. And he can't bear to accept it. 

He hates himself for acting like he has. To get away from everyone, act like a ghost, and especially from her. Especially now that he sees the state she's in.

She looks like she could barely stand upright. 

But she is flying. 

She flies like nothing could tether her. Each move sharper, more precise than the last, as if her body remembers everything her spirit had forget. It's beautiful, the kind of flying that makes jaws drop, the kind of flying that makes legends.

But Viktor knows the truth. It's not strength. It's survival. This is her bleeding herself dry in front of them all, desperate to prove something he isn't sure she even believed anymore.

He stands silent, watching her, because all he can think about is how much this is costing her.

The whistle blows. The drill end. Zora touches down, her feet barely brushing the grass before her knees buckled. Viktor sees it before anyone else. He is moving before the others even realized something was wrong, pushing past players, coaches, anyone in his way.

Her broom clatters to the ground. Her body crumples.

"Zora!" His voice cracks, panicked, raw in a way he hated. He reaches her, her skin pale, damp with sweat. He gathers her against him, and for the first time in years, Viktor felt like a boy again—helpless, small, watching someone he loves more than life itself slip through his arms, ate by the guilt. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

J U L Y

Zora sits on the edge of her bed, the parchment in her hands. She reads it again and again, each word almost surreal. 

We are delighted to welcome you in the Bulgarian national team. 

Accepted. 

Bulgarian national team. 

Her name in print, official, final. She should be thrilled, elated. She should be smiling, laughing, celebrating. 

Her dream. Since forever. Since she has first touched a broom and watched a Quidditch match. 

But she isn't.

The room is quiet except for the soft pacing of Teodora behind her, her shoes clicking on the floor. "Zora? Are you... are you in?"

Zora folds the letter slowly. The words don't reach her anymore. Excitement flares for a fraction of a second, then vanishes, leaving only emptiness. She should be celebrating. She should care. She doesn't.

Her body, back from the hospital, has gained weight—just enough that she feels the heaviness of it, the reminder of the months she's spent broken, trying to survive rather than live. She should be proud. She should feel alive.

She made it. 

She should be proud. 

She isn't.

"Zora?" Teodora stops pacing, hands on her hips, worried now. 

Zora swallows. Her voice is barely a whisper. "I... I'm in."

Her eyes drift to the window, to the sky that used to call her, that used to pull her up and away. Nothing moves her. Nothing excites her. Her greatest wish, her dream, the thing that used to make her pulse with life, is in her hands, and she feels nothing.

Dora walks to her. "This is amazing Zora ! Amazing !" She is about to take her in a hug when she notices her face and stops. "What is it ?" 

"I don't know if it's worth it," she whispers. "If anything is."

Teodora reaches for her, hesitant, but Zora doesn't respond. She stares at the letter one last time, folds it neatly, and sets it beside her. Her lips press together.

How do you keep going when the sacrifice isn't worth the pain ? 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Hi !!! 

very, very, vey long chapters. but it wanted to because of the format of the "year." hope it doesn't bother you too much. 

this chapters was a bit hard to write because it deals with important topics such as depression and depressive state. 

next chapter is going to be full of twists and turns. thank you for sticking to the story, for the likes and comments and the love. you mean the world to me ! 

and I promise the heart breaking chapters are soon over (next chapter indeed). i am done torturing you, them (and me!) 

i love you all deeply <3