All you need is dance and banitsa

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

top of the bill - gurriers 

Oh but I like it a lot, I like it a lot

Dance, dance, why does it matter?Again, again, with all the wrong words

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Oliver Wood has never considered himself a jealous person.

When classmates got their hands on the broom he had always dreamed of at camp or at Hogwarts, he never felt jealous. He told himself he would do just as well, maybe better, with less.

When others went to every Quidditch match he longed to see, he didn't envy them. He told himself it would be him they'd come to watch, eventually.

When Thomas spent less time with him during the last years at camp and more with Zora, Angelina, Adeline, and the group, he didn't feel jealous. He tried to convince himself they were wrong to let distractions pull them away from the practices.

Oliver doesn't see himself as a jealous person.

At least, not until he met Zora.

Not until he felt his chest tighten when Samuel draped his jacket over her shoulders.

Not until his fists clenched seeing her laugh with Adrian Pucey.

Not until this very moment, exactly three forty-three in the morning. Oliver is leaning against the bar, a beer in hand, and it has been precisely three minutes and twelve seconds that he's been watching her being flirted with by the Irish Keeper.

The ceremony stretches on endlessly. After the award presentation, Oliver has spent the evening enduring drunken teammate banter, questions of journalists, the crowd too loud. But he bears it because he can still catch a glimpse of her head laughing and smiling across the room.

Because he can watch her dismantle every person in the room with nothing but words and a single look, watch her bring grown men and women to their knees with the curve of her lips that promises everything and nothing at once. He can hear how her laugh drowns out every other sound until the world goes silent, until there's nothing but that music spilling from her throat. How her hair catch the light like a living thing, wild strands turning to gold under the chandeliers. 

How she exists without asking permission, without begging for attention—she simply breathes, and suddenly she's the only source of light in the room, leaving everyone else to fade into shadow.

All of it is worth these long, torturous evenings for Oliver.

The worst part, the sharp sting in his chest, is that she is just a little tipsy—but too much to notice that the Irishman is blatantly flirting. She doesn't see his sly smiles, the way his hand lingers just a little too long on her arm, the way he leans in whenever he speaks.

Oliver exhales, swallowing the bitter warmth of his beer. He grimaces. The taste has turned metallic in his mouth. From the corner of his eye, he watches the Irishman. He rolls his eyes at the man's deliberate flexing, the way he rakes a hand through his hair, the practiced movements that are meant to charm.

It's almost laughable.

"I think he actually believes that kind of thing works on Zora," a small voice whispers beside him.

He startles, turning to see Adeline's blonde head peeking up at him. He chuckles quietly, taking another sip of his beer. They fall silent for a moment, the background of laughter and clinking glasses fading around them.

"Do you hate me too, Ollie?" she asks, fragile.

Oliver sighs, searching for words. "I don't hate you, Ad. I could never hate you."

"But—?"

He looks at her, seriously now. "But you shouldn't have said that to Zora. Honestly, what were you thinking?"

Her head drops, a faint sigh escaping her lips. "I don't know... I—I just want Viktor to come back and for Zora to be okay. I didn't think... I wasn't thinking. I'm the worst."

Oliver turns his gaze back toward Zora. "I think the hardest part is knowing that Viktor knew who hurt her most. And now imagine hearing that you're still talking to him."

"Yes," Adeline answers. "At first, I hated him. But part of me wanted to understand. And... everything in this whole story is just—messy. I just... I want it to go back to the way it was."

Silence settles between them. Heavy. The music from the dance floor, the laughter, the clinking glasses—all of it fades into a distant hum as both of them watch Zora.

Finally, Oliver speaks. "I think... you let time do its work. But she'll come back. Remember—there's no Zora without Adeline."

Adeline smiles faintly and narrows her eyes. "You remember that?"

Oliver grins, a soft warmth in his expression. "You wouldn't stop saying it at camp whenever Coach Joe tried to split you three up. Zora was unbearable about sticking together."

Adeline shakes her head, laughing softly. "God, it's disgusting how much you love her. You even remember the moments you hated her."

Oliver turns to her, cheeks tinged pink, uncomfortably caught in the truth of his feelings. But Adeline, as always, doesn't give him a chance to respond. She sighs, finishing her glass.

"I'm heading back. Have a good night, Ollie. Thanks for being the best friend in the world," she says, resting her head briefly on his shoulder before making her way out.

Oliver stays there for another moment, beer growing warmer in his grip, watching the Irishman lean even closer to Zora. The man's laugh is too loud, too practiced, and when his hand slides down to rest on the small of her back, something twists in Oliver's chest.

He sets his beer down, fingers lingering on the glass as memories flash through his mind. Adrian Pucey cornering Zora at the party, his own pathetic attempts at intervention that only made him look like a fool. Cedric Diggory asking her to the Yule Ball while Oliver stammered through some excuse about Quidditch practice. All those moments when his words failed him, when he tried too hard and came off desperate.

Do something. But something clever. Not something desperate. 

Don't. Make. A. Fool. Of. Yourself. 

The Irishman whispers something in Zora's ear. He pushes away from the bar.

This time, he doesn't rush. Doesn't stumble over his own feet or rehearse clumsy lines in his head. He simply walks. Steady. Deliberate. 

The Irishman is in the middle of some story about his latest match when Oliver reaches them. Without a word, without hesitation, he steps up behind Zora and settles there, his chest pressed against her back. He simply watches the Irish player, eyes dark. 

The Irishman's words die mid-sentence.

Oliver doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to. 

The silence stretches. The Irishman shifts uncomfortably, glancing between Oliver and Zora.

"We were—I was just—well," he stammers, gesturing vaguely. "Just talking about the match, you know? Professional discussion and all that—"

"Yeah, I'm sure your attitude was purely professional," Oliver says, his voice perfectly even, his eyes never leaving the other man's face. 

"Yeah, well, I—"

"So feel free to get out of my sight like a pro," Oliver adds. 

The Irishman's face drops. He opens his mouth as if to protest, but something in Oliver's expression makes him think better of it.

"I should... I think my teammates are looking for me."

He's gone before Oliver can even blink.

Zora turns slowly, her body sliding against his as she faces him. There's a playful glint in her dark eyes, her head tilted to one side in that way that always makes his pulse quicken.

"Someone jealous?" she asks teasingly, her accent wrapping around the words.

Oliver's hands find her waist, fingers pressing into her skin. "Should I be?"

"You tell me. You're the one who just scared off half the Irish National Team with a look."

"There's nothing more irritating than Irishmen who think they can charm you by laughing loudly and flexing their muscles," Oliver says. "What do they take you for?"

Zora throws her head back and laughs, genuine and delighted. "God, you're mean. He wasn't that bad."

"Wasn't that bad?" Oliver raises an eyebrow. "The man practically dislocated his shoulder trying to show off his biceps."

She's still laughing, her hands sliding up his chest to rest against his shoulders. 

"So, I scared just half the team?" His voice is rough, barely above a whisper as he steps closer, eliminating what little space remained between them.

"Mmm," she hums, watching him, head tilted, her fingers playing with the collar of his shirt. "The other half probably didn't see that impressive display of territorial behavior."

Her touch is driving him mad, the way her fingertips trace patterns against his neck, the warmth of her body pressed against his, sending shivers along his skin. 

"You know," he whispers, leaning down so his lips brush against her ear, "I hope you didn't forget words have consequences."

She shivers, and he feels the satisfaction of this low in his stomach.

And before she can respond, his hand finds hers, fingers intertwining as he leads her away from the crowd, down a dimly lit corridor. 

Oliver presses her against the cool stone wall, his body caging her in, and for a moment they just breathe each other in—the familiar scent of her, his cologne, the warmth radiating between them. 

"You have no idea," he whispers against her lips, "how long I've wanted to do this tonight."

"Show me," she whispers back, her voice breathless.

His mouth crashes against hers, hungry and desperate. Her hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he responds by pressing harder against her, his hands sliding down her sides, her waist, her hips.

She tastes like champagne and something distinctly hers—something that makes his head spin and his control slip. She bites his lips and her hands travels under his shirt, fingers wandering toward his lower stomach, earning a moan from him between her lips. 

He trails kisses down her jaw. His mouth finds that sensitive spot just below her ear, and she arches against him with a soft gasp that makes him dizzy.

"Your skin," he whispers against her neck, his lips brushing over her skin. "I've dreamed about your skin, about your perfume." He inhales deeply, his hands sliding up her back. 

Her breath hitches, and she pulls his head back up to kiss him again, deeper this time, more desperate. His hands roam her body with increasing urgency, one sliding up to cup her face while the other traces the curve of her waist.

"I missed this," she whispers against his mouth. "I missed your hands on me."

The confession undoes him completely. His kisses become more urgent, his hands bolder as they explore the familiar territory of her body. 

His hand slides down her thigh, gripping it firmly to pull her closer against him, and that's when he feels it—how thin she's become, how the soft curves he remembered, the force of her muscles, have sharpened into angles. His fingers span her leg too easily now. 

And it's like she feels it too. Like she realises it too. 

"Wait." Her voice breaks, fragile and panicked. "Oliver, wait. Please."

Her hands push against his chest, more urgent now, and he immediately releases her, walking away. 

"I'm sorry," he breathes, the words tumbling out as he takes in her expression—the way she's wrapped her arms around herself, the tremor in her hands. "God, I'm so sorry."

He exhales shakily, running both hands over his face, then through his hair, his breathing uneven. When he looks at her again, she's pressed back against the wall, looking so small, and he feels like the worst kind of monster.

"I shouldn't have—" His voice cracks. "I didn't think—"

He's spiraling now, panic clawing at his chest. 

How could he have been so selfish? So blind? 

She'd been through hell, and here he was, acting like nothing had changed, like those two years hadn't carved pieces out of her.

"I'm such an idiot," he whispers. "I'm sorry, Zora. I'm so fucking sorry."

"Oliver." Her voice is soft, gentle. "Oliver, look at me."

When he finally meets her eyes, she's moved closer, her hand reaching toward him hesitantly.

"It's not your fault," she says quietly. "You didn't do anything wrong. I wanted it too, I just—" She swallows hard. "I can't."

He nods frantically, hating how lost he feels, how helpless. "Whatever you need. Anything. I should have asked. I shouldn't have assumed—"

"Stop apologizing," she says. "Please. Just... can we sit here for a minute?"

They end up sliding down the wall together, sitting on the cold stone floor in the corridor. The distance between them feels like miles even though their shoulders are almost touching.

"It has nothing to do with you. It's me, I—, I hate it," she whispers suddenly, her voice barely audible. "I hate my body now."

Oliver's heart clenches, but he doesn't speak. He just listens.

"I used to be strong," she continues, staring down at her hands. "I could feel the power in my muscles, the energy coursing through me. My body carried me through everything—Quidditch matches, long practices, late nights. It was mine, you know? It belonged to me. I had control."

Her voice breaks slightly. "Now I look in the mirror and I see this... stranger. This thin, hollow version of who I used to be. Everything feels harder. Everything demands more energy. I feel like I could collapse everytime." 

Oliver's hand finds hers, his fingers intertwining with hers before he begins tracing gentle circles on her palm with his thumb.

"I feel like I'm dragging myself through each day now," she whispers. "Like I'm carrying this weight that's so much heavier than my actual body. The pain in my heart, in my head—it changed everything. Even the way I move, the way I breathe. I don't know how to be comfortable in my own skin anymore."

"Zora..." he says softly.

She looks at him then, tears threatening to spill over. "I want to feel strong again, Oliver. I want to feel like myself again."

Seeing her like this, on the verge of breaking, anxiety creeping over her, he remembers—back at Hogwarts when his anxiety would spiral, when the pressure would become too much and he'd panic. How she'd take his hand and place it over her heart, grounding him with her steady presence.

Slowly, carefully, he takes her hand and presses it against his chest, right over his heart.

"Do you feel that?" he asks quietly.

She nods, her palm flat against his chest.

"My heart beats because of you," he tells her, his eyes never leaving hers. "It beats for you. And it will keep beating no matter what happens to you, no matter what you're going through, no matter what you look like." His voice grows stronger, more certain. "It's yours, Zora. It always has been."

Her breath catches, fresh tears spilling over as she feels the steady, strong rhythm beneath her palm.

"I know you can't see yourself the way I see you right now," he continues, his other hand coming up to gently cup her face, his thumb brushing away her tears. "But you're still you, Zora. You're still the strongest person I know. Because you're here, fighting to find yourself again."

She leans into his touch, closing her eyes as more tears fall.

"Your body isn't your enemy," he says softly. "It carried you through the darkest time of your life. It kept you alive when everything else was falling apart. That's not weakness—that's incredible strength."

"I don't feel strong," she whispers. "I'm just skin and bones now." 

"You don't have to feel it right now," he tells her. "I'll feel it for both of us until you can feel it again."

She opens her eyes, looking at him with such raw vulnerability that it nearly breaks his heart.

She shifts closer then, resting her head against his shoulder, her hand still pressed over his heart. He wraps his arm around her carefully, holding her like she's made of something precious and fragile.

"Thank you," she whispers into the quiet of the corridor.

He presses a soft kiss to the top of her head. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The first week of September brings an unexpected chill to London's streets, and Zora pulls her coat tighter as she walks beside Oliver through the cobblestone paths leading toward St. Mungo's. His hand shakes in hers—she can feel the nervous energy radiating from—so she squeezes tighter. In her other hand, she clutches a small bouquet of pink peonies, their petals already beginning to curl in the cool air.

They spend the morning in London, wandering the streets and doing some shopping. Oliver hasn't spoken much, but she can see the tension in the set of his shoulders.

These past few days, she's been feeling... better. Not whole, not yet, but better. Having Oliver beside her makes breathing easier somehow, like there's more oxygen in the world when he's near. Everything is still hard—getting dressed in the morning, eating full meals, sleeping through the night without nightmares. And doing it all without Viktor, without her other half, feels like learning to walk with one leg missing.

Celebrating her World Cup victory without him there had been the hardest part. Standing on that podium, holding that trophy, knowing she could have share this with him... it had felt hollow despite everything.

Or maybe she wanted to show him she did it. That there is indeed only one Krum for the team. 

Sometimes the darkest parts of us whisper our thoughts. Since the revelation, Zora replays every moment of her relationship with Viktor. Every memory dissected like a specimen under glass.

Family love or desperate need to prove she was more than his shadow? 

The line blurs until she can't tell where devotion ends and self-destruction begins.

All those years protecting him. Defending him. Choosing him over everyone else, over herself, over Oliver. 

Was it love, pure and selfless? Or was it the frantic scramble of someone who'd spent her entire life being introduced as "Viktor's cousin" and nothing more?

She remembers being eight years old, watching adults' eyes light up when they realized whose blood she shared. How their interest in her always led back to him. How she learned to make herself smaller so his light could shine brighter.

Maybe her sacrifice wasn't noble at all. Maybe it was just another way of proving her worth. 

Look how much I can bleed for you. Look how much I matter because of what I'm willing to lose. For you. 

Sometimes, she wonders. Does she actually miss Viktor? Or does she want him to witness her finally stepping out of his shadow and into her own light?

Maybe everything she told herself about family loyalty was just elaborate self-deception. That she chose the cage not out of love, but out of the desperate hope that this time—this one time—her pain would mean something to him.

That she would finally be more than just Viktor Krum's shadow.

Even if it killed her.

Self-destruction activated. 

But she's holding on. Clawing her way back to herself one day at a time.

And today, she's decided to spend that energy on Oliver. To make up for all the times she wasn't there, all the letters she didn't answer, all the moments she missed while she was drowning.

Starting with meeting the woman who raised the man she loves.

When Oliver offered her to meet his mum, she saw how much it meant to him. She didn't hesitate one second. 

Once they step inside, St. Mungo's swallows them whole with its sterile embrace. The sharp bite of disinfectant hits Zora's nostrils first, and suddenly she's nineteen again, standing in front of her bathroom mirror, dabbing the same acrid liquid onto the cut her mother's ring left on her cheek. 

The walls shimmer with pearl-like iridescence, but the white light that bathes everything feels too familiar—cold and unforgiving, like the glow from the refrigerator she used to stare into during those endless nights. Too empty to eat, too disgusted with herself to try, just standing there letting the light wash over her hollow face until the automatic door would swing shut, leaving her in darkness again.

As they walk through the corridors, past rooms filled with beds and broken people, Zora's chest tightens. She knows that look in the patients' eyes—the same glazed emptiness she used to see reflected in her own bedroom window. Her bed had been both refuge and abyss during those two years, the place where she'd curl up for days at a time, letting the world continue spinning without her.

The soft chimes echoing through the halls, the gentle flutter of paper airplane messages, the careful spells designed to soothe and heal—it all feels like a beautiful lie. A pretty bandage over wounds that run too deep to ever fully close.

Oliver's hand shakes in hers, pulling her back to the present, and she realizes they've stopped moving.

She looks at him and then at the door they're standing in front of. "WOOD". His breathing has become shallow, and she can see the war happening behind his eyes. She sees everything there—the fear, the love, the grief for someone who's still alive but slipping away piece by piece.

Slowly, she reaches up and combs her fingers through his hair, the dark strands soft between her fingertips. Her palm curves against his cheek, thumb brushing over the sharp line of his cheekbone as she studies his face—memorizing this moment, this vulnerability he's sharing with her.

"It's going to be okay, all right?" she says quietly.

He closes his eyes and leans into her touch, nodding slowly. "Yes, I... I just want her to see you, I want you to see her before..." The words catch in his throat, and he can't finish the sentence.

But he doesn't need to. She understands.

He turns toward the door, and together, they step inside.

Zora stops at the door. The room is small. 

His mother sleeps in the narrow hospital bed, so small she barely makes a dent in the white sheets. Her hair are silver threads spread across the pillow. Her face, carved thin by illness, still holds traces of the woman who raised him. The same strong jaw. The same stubborn curve to her mouth, even in sleep.

But it's her hands that break Zora's heart.

They rest folded on her chest, fingers interlaced like she's praying. But they're too still. Too fragile. These hands that Oliver described cooking for the family, that held him when nightmares came—they look like autumn leaves. Ready to crumble at the slightest touch.

Oliver moves suddenly, purposefully, like motion might outrun the pain threatening to drown him. He strides to the bedside table, rearranging the healing potions with practiced efficiency. Straightening labels. Aligning bottles. His hands shake slightly as he adjusts her sheets, pulling them higher, smoothing invisible wrinkles.

"She sleeps a lot now," he says, voice carefully controlled as he gently brushes a silver strand from her forehead. "All the medications, the calming spells—they help prevent the episodes. The confusion. The—" He swallows hard. "The fear."

Zora watches him work. Watches him pour love into every small gesture. The way he adjusts the pillow beneath his mother's head. How his fingers linger on her wrist, checking her pulse even though the magical monitors already track every heartbeat.

This is what love looks like when it's helpless, she thinks. This desperate need to do something, anything, even when there's nothing left to fix.

Oliver sinks into the worn chair beside the bed, reaching for his mother's still hands.

"Mummy," he says softly, his voice different now—younger, more vulnerable. "I brought someone to meet you. Someone important."

The words crack something open in Zora's chest. She sees it then—the boy he must have been. The son who still believes his mother might wake up and smile at him the way she used to.

"Her name is Zora. I've told you about her, remember? The girl from the camp who beats me at everything." His thumb traces gentle circles over his mother's knuckles. "She's here to see you, Mamaidh."

Zora steps closer, her heart hammering against her ribs. She kneels beside the chair, close enough to smell the lavender soap they use to wash her hair.

"Hello, Mrs. Wood," she whispers. "Your son... he talks about you all the time. How you teach him how to cook." She glances at Oliver, sees the ghost of a smile touch his lips. "I bet he gets his stubborn streak from you, doesn't he?"

Oliver's mother eyelids flutter, but don't open.

A soft knock interrupts the moment. A Healer enters—young, kind-faced, her robes rustling softly.

"Mr. Wood," she says gently. "Could I have a word about your mother's new treatment plan?"

Oliver hesitates, glancing between Zora and his mother.

"Go," Zora says. "I'll stay with her."

As Oliver steps into the corridor with the Healer, Zora lets her eyes wander the small room. The walls are covered in photographs—a lifetime of memories pinned like butterflies to a board.

Oliver as a gap-toothed child, grinning beside a homemade broomstick. Nora taking her first steps, tiny hands reaching toward the camera. Family holidays by Scottish lochs, his mother young and vibrant, her arms wrapped around her children.

Pictures from the camp. Oliver mid-laugh, grass stains on his Quidditch robes. Group shots with all their friends sprawled on the pitch after practice. And there—tucked between a photo of Nora's first day of school and one of Oliver in the Scotland national gear—a picture of her and Oliver from two years ago.

The Manor. The weekend they all spent together. 

They're dancing, her head thrown back in laughter, his eyes fixed on her face like she's the only person in the room. She remembers that night. Vividly. How they'd stayed up until sunrise talking in her bed.

How perfect everything had felt.

The tears come without warning, hot and relentless. Life is unfair. 

Oliver returns just as his mother's eyelids flutter. Open.

He rushes to her, breathless.

"Mum?" His voice trembles. "Mamaidh?"

His mother blinks slowly. As if the light hurts. But when her gaze finds her son's, there's nothing.

Nothing.

No recognition. No love. Not even confusion.

Just that terrifying emptiness. That complete absence that turns the eyes he knows into boarded windows.

She nods politely, the way she would to a stranger.

"Mum, it's me." His voice breaks. "It's Oliver. Your son. I'm here."

Nothing. Not even a polite smile. 

Blank. Oblivion. 

Zora feels Oliver's pain like a punch to the chest. Her hand finds his, squeezes tight. His leg bounces with barely contained emotion.

"Mum... please..." He tries again, desperate. "Ollie bean, remember? You used to call me—"

Nothing. Still nothing.

Oliver closes his eyes, breathes deep. When he opens them, he's found that fragile calm again.

"Mum, I'd like you to meet someone." His voice is steadier now. "This is Zora."

She turns her head toward her. That same empty gaze. Polite. Absent.

But then...

Something shifts.

Her eyes linger on Zora's face. Search. Seek.

And slowly, like a miracle refusing to happen, her hand reaches out. Finds Zora's. Takes it in hers.

Tears stream down Zora's cheeks, silent and relentless.

"Is this your girl, my darling boy?" She says slowly, her voice soft. "Very pretty."

Oliver's smile lights up his entire face. That pure, desperate joy.

"Hi, Mrs. Wood," Zora whispers, her voice choked with tears.

But already, already, the light fades from her eyes. She releases Zora's hand, retreats back to that place where no one can follow.

This is it. This disease that steals souls in pieces. That leaves you the body of the person you love, but takes everything that made them them. It's watching someone disappear in fragments, until only the empty shell of who they were remains.

And the cruelest part? These moments. These seconds of grace when they come back, just long enough to remind you of everything you've lost. The cruelest magic of all. When the fog lifts and they surface, gasping, real again. Just long enough for you to see them drowning. Just long enough to know they're already gone.

It's dying while living. It's being erased word by word, until you become a book with blank pages, bound in familiar skin.

And those who love you are left reading the same story over and over, desperate to find the ending where you remember their name.

Oliver settles back into the chair, his voice gentle but strained. "How's the food been, Mum? Are you eating enough? The nurses said you liked the shepherd's pie yesterday."

She looks at him with that polite confusion, nodding slowly. "The food is... fine. Yes. Fine."

"And you've been reading? You always loved your books." He gestures toward a worn novel on the bedside table. "Is it good?"

She glances at the book as if seeing it for the first time. "I... yes. Maybe. I think so."

Oliver swallows hard, tries again. "Nora's started her last year at the village school, you know. Before Hogwarts. She's nervous about getting her letter, but I keep telling her she's brilliant. Takes after you. She was so excited to go back to school. Can you imagine ? Your daughter soon in Hog—"

His mother tilts her head. "I'm sorry, but I think you have me confused with someone else." Her voice is kind but firm. "I don't have any children."

The words hit Oliver like a physical blow. He sits frozen, mouth half-open, staring at the woman who gave birth to him. Who sang him lullabies. Who cheered at every Quidditch match.

Who doesn't remember he exists.

A knock at the door saves him from drowning in the silence. A different nurse enters, her smile warm but efficient.

"Time for dinner, Mrs Wood. Let's get you to the dining hall."

She nods, allowing herself to be helped from the bed. She moves slowly, carefully, like someone walking on ice. Oliver stands to kiss her forehead. "Bye Mum, I love you." 

She doesn't answer. 

Once the door closes on his mother and the nurse, the silence is suffocating. 

And Oliver crumbles.

He collapses onto the bed where his mother just lay, his body shaking with sobs that tear from somewhere deep in his chest. All the composure he'd held together shatters at once.

"FUCK!" The word explodes from him as he sweeps the worn book from the bedside table. It crashes to the floor. "It's not fucking fair! She never deserved this. She was good, she was so fucking good, and this is what she gets?"

His voice breaks completely. 

Zora wraps her arms around him from behind, pulling him against her chest. He turns into her embrace, burying his face against her shoulder. "It's not fair..." he says, voice muffled. He stays like that, in her arms, until he has nothing left to cry. 

"I'm just... I'm glad she got to see you once," he whispers finally through his tears. "Even if she won't remember tomorrow. At least she saw you."

Zora's own voice trembles as she holds him tighter. "You're so strong for doing this, Oliver." She says, stroking his hair. He stands and she grabs his cheeks with her hands. 

"She called you her darling boy, Oliver. That came from somewhere deeper than memory. That came from her heart recognizing yours."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Later in the afternoon, Zora and Oliver walk in heavy silence through the village streets, the weight of St. Mungo's still clinging to them. Oliver hasn't spoken since they left the hospital, his jaw set tight, eyes fixed somewhere in the distance. The visit has shaken something loose in him, left him unsteady.

Zora steals glances at him as they walk, wanting to reach for his hand but afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace he's managed to find. Her own stomach churns with a different kind of dread—one that has nothing to do with illness and everything to do with a little girl who has every right to hate her.

"I brought these," she says finally, pulling a small bag from her pocket as they turn onto the street that leads to the school. The Chocolate Frogs inside rustle softly. "I remembered she loves them."

Oliver glances at her, and for a moment, something soft flickers in his expression. "She has boxes under her bud. She'll love it."

"Good," Zora whispers, though her voice wavers. "That's... that's good."

But even as she says it, she knows it won't be enough. Chocolate Frogs can't erase two and a half years of silence. They can't heal the hurt of unanswered letters, of birthdays that passed without acknowledgment, of a little girl who stopped asking Oliver when Zora was coming back because the answer was always the same.

Never.

Zora clutches the bag toward her chest. As they approach the school gates, her anxiety grows strongeR. 

What if two and a half years of silence is too much to forgive for a little girl?

"Hey." Oliver's hands find her shoulders, warm and steady. "I can't promise you her reaction. But I'm sure she'll be happy to see you despite everything."

Zora nods, but her throat feels tight. "What if she—"

The school bell cuts through her words, its bright chime echoing across the courtyard.

And then they come—a flood of children spilling through the doors, voices raised in that particular song of freedom that only the end of a school day can bring.

Zora scans the crowd, heart hammering, until she sees her.

Nora.

But not the little girl she remembers. This Nora is taller, leaner, her dark hair falling in curls past her shoulders instead of the messy pigtails she used to have. Her face has shed a little bit of its baby softness, revealing sharper angles, Oliver's stubborn jaw already emerging. She's almost ten now, Zora realizes. 

Zora's face breaks into a smile as she steps forward. "Nora!"

The girl's head whips around at the sound of her name. For a moment, her face lights up with pure joy.

And then recognition hits.

The smile dies. Her expression hardens into something cold and distant that looks heartbreakingly like Oliver when he's trying not to feel.

"Hi, Nora," Zora tries, her voice smaller now. "How are you? How was school?"

But Nora walks right past her as if she's invisible. As if she's nothing more than another stranger on the street.

"Ollie," she says, reaching for her brother's hand. "What's she doing here?"

The words land like a slap. Sharp. Clean. Devastating.

This is the price of vanishing. This is what happens when you choose silence over the people who love you. When you let your own pain eclipse everyone else's. When you're so consumed with drowning that you forget other people need you to breathe.

Selfishness, Zora realizes, has its own kind of cruelty. And sometimes the people who pay for it aren't the ones who deserve to.

Zora stays frozen, her back to them, unable to turn around and face the reality of what she's done. Behind her, she can hear Oliver's careful breathing, the rustle of Nora's school bag.

"She's staying for the weekend," He says slowly. 

"No." Nora's voice is sharp, final. 

Zora closes her eyes, feels something crack open in her chest. When she finally turns around, Oliver mouths I'm sorry over Nora's head, his face etched with pain for both of them.

He crouches down to Nora's level, hands gentle on her shoulders. "Yes, she is, princess. Zora's staying with us."

Zora steps forward, the bad of Chocolate Frogs still clutched uselessly in her hand. "Maybe... maybe it would be better if I just—"

"No." Oliver's voice is firm, eyes meeting hers. "You're staying."

They walk home in suffocating silence. Nora chatters away to Oliver about her day—spelling tests and playground drama and a drawing she made of dragons—but her words form a careful wall that keeps Zora on the outside. Every laugh shared between the siblings feels like another door closing.

Zora walks behind them, watching Oliver's patient nods, his encouraging words, the way he ruffles Nora's hair when she gets excited, the apologetic looks he gives her. She fights to keep her breathing steady. 

They reach Oliver's house after a twenty minutes walk. The front door closes behind them with a soft click, and Nora disappears up the stairs without a word, her footsteps echoing through the house. 

Zora stands in the entryway, breathing in the familiar scents of his house. The kitchen smells like coffee and some roast dinner made yesterday. The faint smell of Oliver's aftershave lingering in the air. Afternoon light filters through the lace curtains—the same light that had wrapped around her during those few precious days she'd spent here after learning about her mother's letter. When this house had felt like sanctuary.

It still warms something deep in her chest. But the warmth feels muted now, dimmed by the weight of Nora's anger pressing down from upstairs.

She follows Oliver into the kitchen, sinking onto one of the worn wooden stools at the counter. Her head drops into her hands, exhaustion finally catching up with her.

"She has every right to be angry," Zora says, her voice muffled by her palms. "I know that. But what... what can I possibly do to fix this? How do I even begin?"

Oliver moves around the kitchen with practiced efficiency, pulling ingredients from cupboards, lighting the stove. "Look, I'll start dinner," he says quietly. "Maybe you could... try talking to her? In her room?"

Zora sighs. "Okay." She pushes herself up from the stool, legs unsteady. "Okay, I'll try."

He smiles to her and as she walks away, he grabs her hand and kisses her. She slowly walks the staircases, her thoughts a mess, trying to figure out what she is going to say. Once upstairs, she waits a minute, maybe five in front of her door. 

Then she knocks softly on the door. Once. Twice.

Silence.

She turns the handle anyway, pushes the door open just enough to slip inside.

Nora sits at her small desk, bent over a piece of paper, colored pencils scattered around her. She doesn't look up, but Zora can see her shoulders tense.

"Go away," Nora says without lifting her head from her drawing.

"Just let me talk to you for a few minutes," Zora whispers. "Please."

Nora's pencil stops moving, but she doesn't respond. Doesn't turn around.

Zora steps into the room, closing the door softly behind her. She spots a small wooden dragon on the floor—one of Nora's toys—and picks it up, turning it over in her hands.

"Remember when you used to make up stories about these?" Zora asks quietly, sitting down on the edge of Nora's bed, smiling slightly. "You said this one could breathe invisible fire that only hurt mean people."

Nora's shoulders shift slightly, but she doesn't turn around.

"Nora, I know you're angry with me. You have every right to be." Zora stares down at the dragon, its painted scales worn smooth from years of play. "It's just— I was—"

How do you explain depression to a child? How do you make a ten-year-old understand that sometimes adults break in ways that make them disappear?

Zora sighs deeply. "I was very sick. Not sick like when you have a fever or a broken arm. Sick in my mind, in my heart. Do you know what that means?"

Still nothing.

"It's like..." Zora struggles for words. "It's like there was this heavy, dark cloud thrown over everything. And I couldn't see past it, couldn't breathe under it. I couldn't even remember what it felt like to be happy. Writing letters felt impossible because I could barely get out of bed some days."

She sets the dragon carefully on the nightstand.

"I read all your letters," she continues. "Every single one. I kept them in a box by my bed. I thought about you all the time, about Oliver, about coming back here. But I couldn't."

Nora finally turns around in her chair. Her face isn't angry anymore. It's worse than angry.

It's sad. Disappointed. Old beyond her years.

"But I needed you," she says, and her voice is so small, so broken. "With you here, I didn't have to think about Mummy all the time. About how she forgets us. About how she's never coming home." Tears start to fall down her cheeks. "And you made Oliver sad. You made him cry at night when he thought I couldn't hear. And I will never, ever forgive you for that."

The words hit Zora like physical blows. Each one accurate. Each one deserved.

She sets the bag of Chocolate Frogs on Nora's desk with shaking hands. "I'm sorry," she whispers. "I'm so, so sorry."

And then she flees.

Because sometimes the truth is too heavy to carry. Sometimes sorry isn't enough. Sometimes love isn't enough either.

Sometimes you just have to live with what you've broken.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The evening unraveled painfully. Both Oliver and Zora were silent, both sad. 

She stayed in Oliver's room while they ate dinner downstairs—their voices floating up through the floorboards, Nora's chatter filling the spaces. Oliver spent the night trying to comfort with soft words and gentle touches.

Sleep never came. Zora lay awake counting the hours until dawn, listening to Oliver's breathing beside her, wondering how many more people she'd have to watch herself destroy.

Saturday was pretty much the same. Every second stretched, too slow, too heavy. A small mercy in the morning—Nora looked at her over breakfast, said "good morning" like it didn't cost her anything. By evening, the walls had gone back up.

Sunday arrived with pale sunlight creeping through the curtains. Oliver was still sleeping, exhausted. But Zora woke to find Nora already up, balanced precariously on the kitchen counter, small fingers straining toward a box of cereal on the highest shelf.

"Here," Zora said quietly, reaching up to grab it. "Let me help."

"Thank you," Nora whispered.

Two words. But they felt like forgiveness asking permission to exist.

"You know," Zora said, settling beside her at the table, "I missed you. Every day. I was so sorry. So sad."

Nora poured milk over her cereal, considering. Finally: "I missed you too."

It was a beginning.

Sunday was one of those Zora hates. It's still September but rain falls against the windows while Oliver tends the fire. It smells good, food waiting for dinner in the kitchen. Oliver surprised Zora and made Bulgarian specialties : tarator, a stew and banitsa, her favorite. 

She hated those rainy dark evening but with him, playing Exploding Snap, laughing, the warmth of the fireplace and music coming from the radio, she felt good. 

Everything could be perfect. Should be perfect.

Except for the empty chair at the table. The silence where Nora's laughter should be.

"Ha!" Zora throws down her cards triumphantly, grinning at Oliver's expression. "Exploding Snap champion, three games running."

"You're cheating," Oliver mutters, but his eyes are warm with affection. "No one's reflexes are that good."

"Bulgarian hands," she says, wiggling her fingers in front of him, laughing, as he sighs, shaking his head. 

The opening notes of "Ain't No Mountain High Enough" drift from the wireless, and Zora's face lights up like sunrise.

"Oh, I love this song!" She stands to her feet, turning up the volume until Marvin Gaye's voice fills every corner of the room.

"Really ?" Oliver says, smiling. "Me too." 

When Tammi Terrell's voice joins in, Zora starts singing along, walking toward him, looking him in the eyes. Oliver watches her, smiling like a fool. 

If you need me, call meNo matter where you areNo matter how far

She walks behind him and grabs two wooden spoon from the kitchen and tosses it to him.

"Come on, Marvin," she laughs. "Don't leave Tammi hanging."

He catches the spoon and laughs, walking toward her. The chorus builds and they both sing out loud, laughing, jumping in the living room. 

'Cause baby,There ain't no mountain high enoughAin't no valley low enoughAin't no river wide enoughTo keep me from getting to you baby

Oliver brings the spoon up and pretends to sing, attempting a few rather successful dance steps, to Zora's applause and shouts.

I told youYou could always count on meFrom that day on I made a vowI'll be there when you want meSome way, some how

The chorus goes back and Oliver takes her hand, pulls her close to him and starts to slow dance. She melts into him, her hand on his chest, his in the small of her back, her eyes deep in his. They sway together, foreheads touching, the world narrowing to just this—this music, this moment, this feeling of rightness.

He makes her spin on her herself. She laughs and that's when Zora catches sight of a small figure at the bottom of the staircase. Nora stands there in her pajamas.

Their eyes meet across the room.

Zora doesn't say anything. Just opens her arms.

For a heartbeat, Nora hesitates. Then she runs across the room and launches herself into Zora's embrace, her laugh joining theirs. 

They spin together, Oliver's hand finding the small of Zora's back again, holding them both as Nora's arms wrap tight around Zora's neck.

He grabs Zora's hand and makes them both spin, Nora laughing with delight. He then crouches to his sister and Nora scrambles onto his shoulders with practiced ease, her small hands gripping his head for balance.

Now she's tall enough to look down at Zora, grinning like she's conquered the world. Oliver stands slowly, steadying her with his hands on her ankles, and they're all singing together, screaming the words at the top of their lungs while the rain drums against the windows and the fire crackles. Oliver sways gently to keep Nora balanced while Zora spins around them both, smiling. They're ridiculous. Completely, utterly ridiculous.

Oh babyMy love is aliveWay down in my heartAlthough we are miles apart

Zora laughs so hard she can barely get the words out, but she tries anyway, her voice cracking on the high notes while Oliver provides a surprisingly decent bass line underneath them both.

When the song is about to end, Zora walks to Oliver and puts her hands around his chest. He smiles, looking at her like she holds his future. They stay like that, all three of them, until the last note rings in the house.

Because she does.

She holds Sunday evenings that taste like home-cooked meals and sound like laughter echoing off the walls. She holds the promise of more dancing in firelight, more songs sung off-key, more moments when time stops.

She holds the weight of a love that survived two years of silence, that grew stronger in the dark spaces between them, that learned to bloom again despite everything that tried to kill it.

She holds Quidditch talk session late at night, she holds staying under the sheets in the morning, she holds sharing a cup of coffee after a long day. 

She holds the future where Oliver stops carrying the world alone, where Nora has someone else to braid her hair before school, where this house becomes theirs instead of just his.

Afterwards, they all had dinner together with what Oliver had prepared. The tarator was incredible—cold and refreshing, the perfect balance of yogurt and cucumber that made Nora declare it "genius" between spoonfuls. The stew was a bit overcooked, the meat slightly tough from Oliver's nervous energy translating into too much time on the heat, but nobody minded.

Oliver watches Zora taste each dish with the focused attention of a critic, her face lightning up, feeling pure joy of knowing someone cooked your favorite meals. The tarator earns a small nod of approval. The stew gets a polite smile and smaller bites, the overcooked meat requiring more chewing than it should.

But then she reaches for the banitsa.

The moment it touches her tongue, something transforms in her expression. Her eyes close, and she makes this small sound, a pleasure sigh, that goes straight through Oliver's chest. When she opens her eyes again, they're bright with something that looks dangerously close to tears.

"Oliver," she whispers, and her voice cracks on his name, emotion sharpening her accent. "This is... this is perfect. Exactly how my grandmother used to make it."

She tears off another piece with her fingers, not bothering with proper etiquette, cheese stretching between the flaky layers. She eats with abandon now.

"I can't believe you cooked this," she says, reaching across the table before she's even finished chewing. "I need more of this."

Oliver watches her eat like he's memorizing every expression, every small sound of contentment. And he realises he would learn to cook every dish from her childhood if it meant seeing her face light up like this. 

He realises he could do this forever. Cook for her. Watch her face light up over a perfectly seasoned stew. Listen to her laugh with Nora about the proper way to eat tarator. Spend his evenings making sure she never goes hungry again—for food, for comfort, for love.

He would do this until his last breath. Feed her. Care for her. Love her.

And that doesn't feel like a burden at all.

It feels like purpose.