Forever

the days - chrystal (notions remix) 

Do you think about the days when we sat downSmoking, wine and drinking haze or?Was it the other way?

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗ 

Morning arrives in whispers.

Soft light filters through the curtains, turning the bedroom into something golden, something sacred. The kind of light that makes dust motes look like falling stars, that paints skin in shades of honey.

Zora wakes slowly, surfacing from sleep. For a moment, she doesn't move. Just breathes. Just exists in this perfect stillness where nothing hurts yet.

Oliver sleeps beside her, face relaxed in a way it never is when he's awake. All the worry smoothed away, all the tension released from his jaw. He looks younger like this. Softer. 

She watches him for seconds, maybe minutes. And then she can't help herself. Her fingers find his face, tracing the line of his cheekbone with the lightest touch. Along his jaw. Down to his neck, where his pulse beats steady and sure beneath her fingertips.

Her fingers drift lower. Over the broad plane of his shoulder, down the curve of his bicep. Across his chest, feeling the rise and fall of each breath, the warmth of skin that's memorized the shape of her body pressed against it.

She thinks about all the ways he's been there. How he never stopped reaching out. How he held her when she couldn't look at herself in the mirror.  

How he gives and gives and gives without ever asking for anything back.

And she wants to be that for him too. Wants to show him he's extraordinary, that he matters, that loving him is the easiest thing she's ever done. Wants to prove that she's here.

Oliver's eyes flutter open, finding hers immediately. He smiles instantly and rubs his eyes.

"Hi," he murmurs, voice rough with sleep.

"Hi," she whispers back.

His hand comes up to cup her face, thumb brushing her cheekbone in a mirror of her earlier touch. They stay like that, just looking, the morning light wrapping around them like a blessing.

"Did you sleep well?" he asks, his Scottish accent thicker in the morning.

She nods, but the truth is so much bigger than that simple gesture.

Because sleep—real sleep, the kind that heals instead of haunts—used to be impossible. For two years, her bed was a battleground. A place where nightmares lived and anxiety thrived, where she'd lie awake counting the hours until dawn like a prisoner marking days on a cell wall.

But with him? Sleep became easy again. Natural. His breathing beside her became a rhythm she could follow back into darkness without fear. His warmth chased away the cold that used to seep into her bones. His presence turned her bed from a prison into a sanctuary.

With him, she doesn't lie awake wondering if she'll ever feel whole again. With him, she simply closes her eyes and trusts that morning will come, and he'll still be there when it does.

"Better than well," she says finally, her voice soft.

Something shifts in his expression—tenderness mixed with that fierce protectiveness she's come to know so well. "Good," he breathes. "That's all I want. For you to feel good."

"I do," she promises. "I always do with you."

"I could wake up like this every morning," Zora adds.

Oliver's smile is slow. "Nothing's stopping you."

"Is that so?"

"Mmm." He pulls her closer, diving into her neck. "Though you should wait until I make you breakfast. Then you can make that decision."

She laughs, the sound bright and warm. "Confident, are we?"

"In my cooking skills? Always." He kisses her jaw. "In my ability to keep you in my bed forever?" Another kiss, lower. "Absolutely."

Before he can continue, she rolls them over, straddling him, her hands pressing against his chest. Oliver's eyes widen slightly, surprise mixing with heat as he looks up at her. She leans down to kiss him properly. Deep and sure, the way she used to before everything broke. Her hands map the planes of his torso, relearning the geography of muscle and warmth and skin that wants her touch.

She kisses along his jaw, down his neck, feeling the heat of his skin beneath her lips. His hands find her waist, sliding under her shirt to rest against bare skin, but he lets her lead. Lets her take what she needs at her own pace.

She means every touch, every kiss, every moment of this. Her body might still feel foreign sometimes, but here—with him—she's beginning to remember what it feels like to want to be touched. To want to touch back.

His breathing grows ragged as she trails kisses across his chest, her hair falling like a curtain around them both. His fingers tighten on her hips, and she can feel how much he wants her, how much restraint it's taking for him to stay still and let her control this.

"God, Zora," he breathes, and she kisses him again to swallow the words, deeper this time, her whole body pressed against his.

His hands slide up her back, pulling her impossibly closer, and she makes a sound against his mouth that seems to undo something in him. He rolls them over carefully, settling between her thighs, his weight perfect and grounding.

"Is this okay?" he asks, always asking, always making sure.

"More than okay," she breathes, and pulls him down for another kiss.

His mouth finds her neck, that spot just below her ear that makes her arch against him. Her hands tangle in his hair.

"OLLIE!"

They freeze. Nora's voice comes from right outside the door, followed by an enthusiastic knock.

"Can I come in? I made toast but I burned it a little and I need help!"

Oliver drops his forehead against Zora's shoulder with a quiet laugh that shakes them both. "Timing," he mutters.

Zora bites her lip, trying not to laugh too loudly. She quickly adjusts her shirt while Oliver rolls off her.

"Come in!" Zora calls.

The door bursts open and Nora launches herself onto the bed, landing between them with zero regard for personal space or the moment she's just interrupted.

"Good morning!" she announces cheerfully, already burrowing under the covers. 

Nora wiggles between them, getting comfortable. "Can we have pancakes instead of my burnt toast?"

Oliver sighs, but he's smiling. "Yeah, princess. We can have pancakes."

Zora smiles and looks at OliveR. She thinks she could actually do this. Wake up like this every morning. Be part of this family. Build something real and lasting from all the broken pieces they've survived.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗ 

The pancakes are gone. The kitchen is clean. Their bags sit by the front door like a countdown to goodbye.

Nora has been quieter than usual all morning, pushing her food around more than eating it, her usual chatter replaced by heavy silences. Now she stands in the entryway, arms wrapped around herself, looking smaller than she did yesterday.

"We'll be back tomorrow evening," Oliver says gently, crouching down to her level. "It's just one night, princess."

"I know," Nora says, but her voice wavers.

Zora kneels at her lever, taking her hand. Oliver walks outside to grab their brooms. "Hey, what's wrong ?"

For a moment, Nora just stares at the floor. Then, in a voice so small it barely reaches them: "What if you don't come back?"

The words land like stones in still water, ripples spreading outward.

"What if you leave again and never come back? What if something happens and you just... disappear again?"

Zora feels her chest crack open. Of course. Of course Nora would think this. She'd done it before, hadn't she? Vanished for two years without explanation, without goodbye, leaving this little girl to wonder what she'd done wrong.

"Look at me," Zora says softly. "Please look at me."

Nora's eyes—so much like Oliver's, that same deep brown—finally meet hers, and they're bright with unshed tears.

"I know I left," Zora says, her own voice thick with emotion. "I know I disappeared and didn't answer your letters and wasn't here when you needed me. And I'm so, so sorry for that. I was lost, Nora. I was so lost I couldn't find my way back to anyone, not even myself."

A tear slides down Nora's cheek. Zora catches it with her thumb.

"But I'm not lost anymore," she continues. "You know why? Because of you. Because of your brother. And I promise you—I promise—I'm coming back tomorrow. Wild dragons couldn't even keep me away."

"But what if—"

"No what-ifs," Zora says firmly, pulling Nora into a tight embrace. "I'm coming back. You're stuck with me, whether you like it or not."

Nora clings to her, small arms wrapping around her neck with desperate strength. "I like it," she giggles into Zora's shoulder. "I want you to stay forever."

"Then forever it is," Zora says, pressing a kiss to the top of Nora's head. 

Mrs. Pemberton, their neighbor who's watching Nora for the days, appears in the doorway with a kind smile, Oliver behind her. "Ready, love? I've got fresh biscuits waiting at my place."

Nora takes a deep breath, squaring her small shoulders like she's preparing for battle. "Okay." She hugs Oliver one more time, then turns to Zora. "You promise?"

"I promise," Zora says, holding up her pinky. "Pinky swear."

Nora links her pinky with Zora's, then Oliver's, creating a chain between the three of them.

And as Nora walks next door with Mrs. Pemberton, turning back three times to wave, Zora feels Oliver's hand find hers.

"You meant that," he says quietly. "The forever part ?"

"Every word," Zora confirms, squeezing his hand."

He pulls her close, pressing his forehead against hers. "Good. Because I'm holding you to that promise too."

She smiles and he kisses her forehead. Then Oliver picks up their bags, and together, they head outside.

Zora mounts her broom and waits for Oliver to do the same. 

"Ready to go back to camp?" she asks. 

Oliver looks at her, and slowly, a grin spreads across his face. "More than ready. What a day ! Being able to finally beat you after all this year at camp." 

Zora laughs. "Behave yourself, Wood," she says, but she's grinning too.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗ 

They land in front of the iron gates just as the morning sun reaches its zenith.

Zora's feet touch the ground, and for a moment, she just stands there. Staring. Remembering.

The same massive wrought iron gate. The same intricate design she used to trace with her fingers while waiting for the others. The same old manor rising three stories beyond the bars, weathered stone holding decades of dreams and determination.

But everything feels different now.

The last time she stood here—that final summer before everything shattered—she'd been afraid. Afraid this would be her last time. Afraid without Viktor beside her, she was only half a person. Afraid that no matter how hard she flew, how perfectly she played, she'd always been see as second, as "Viktor's cousin", nothing more. 

The one who tried so hard to prove she deserved to exist in her own light.

Now the breeze carries the same scent of honey and coffee from the kitchens, the same warmth of summer in France kissing her skin. The two Quidditch pitches stretch behind the manor, grass emerald and perfectly maintained. The golden fields beyond shimmer under September sun instead of July heat, but they're just as beautiful.

Viktor still isn't here. Might not come at all.

But she's changed. She's no longer that uncertain girl desperate for scraps of recognition. She's the World Cup champion. And she chose herself. Stopped living in everyone's shadow. 

Oliver's hand finds the small of her back, gentle and grounding.

"You okay?" he asks quietly.

She turns to look at him, and something in her chest expands. "I was just thinking about the last time I came here. How terrified I was that it would be my last summer. How empty I felt without Viktor."

"And now?"

"Now I'm wondering how I ever thought I needed him to be myself." She takes a deep breath.

Oliver's expression softens with pride, with love, with that look that says he always knew. She leans into his touch, letting the nostalgia wash over her. The memories are everywhere. 

That first summer when they were eleven, when Oliver couldn't even look at her without scowling because she'd beaten him in tryouts. The year they were fourteen and he'd accidentally knocked her off her broom during a drill, then spent three hours in the infirmary refusing to leave until she woke up. Sixteen, when they'd stayed up all night arguing about Quidditch strategy under the stars, and she'd realized his eyes were the exact color of melted chocolate.

Eighteen, when everything changed.

"I can't believe Jacques is retiring," she whispers, her gaze drifting to the old willow tree by the lake, barely visible in the distance. 

"Yeah, me too," Oliver says. A smile tugs at his lips. "He was immortal for me." 

"Krum and Wood arriving together at summer camp? Never thought I'd see the day!"

The voice comes from their left, familiar and warm with laughter. Angelina Johnson leans against the stone pillar just inside the gates, arms crossed, grin spreading across her face like sunshine.

"Actually," she adds, "scratch that. We all saw it coming. You two were the only ones in denial."

Zora laughs, the sound bright and genuine, and releases Oliver's hand to throw her arms around her friend. Angelina catches her easily, squeezing tight.

"Missed you," Angelina whispers into her hair. "Missed this."

"Missed you too," Zora breathes back. "So much."

When they pull apart, Angelina keeps her hands on Zora's shoulders, studying her face with the careful attention of someone who knows what broken looks like. "You look good. Really good. Like a bitch again."

Zora rolls her eyes and laughs. "It was about time the Balkan bitch came back, right ?"

Angelina's eyes shimmer slightly, but she blinks it away and turns to Oliver, punching his shoulder affectionately. "And you. Took you long enough to make an honest woman of her."

Oliver's ears turn pink, but he's grinning and shaking his head. "Some things are worth waiting for."

"Seven years though, Ollie? Seven?" Angelina shakes her head in mock disappointment. "Even my George confessed his feelings faster than you, and that man spent six months trying to ask me out using joke products. Let that sink in." 

Zora watches them, smiling fondly. 

"Come on," Angelina says, linking her arm through Zora's and pulling her forward. Oliver falls into step on Zora's other side. "Everyone's already here. Thomas has been checking the gates every ten minutes like a lost puppy. Samuel bet Andrew twenty Galleons you would show up together."

"Samuel bet against me?" Zora asks, mock-offended.

Angelina laughs but soon falls silent. "What—, what if Viktor shows up ?" 

"Then he shows up," Oliver interjects, his voice steady. His hand finds Zora's free one, lacing their fingers together. "We'll deal with it together."

Angelina looks between them, and her smile turns softer, more genuine. "Yeah. I think you will."

As they walk toward the manor, Zora breathes in the familiar scent of cut grass and summer flowers, lets the sun warm her shoulders, listens to Angelina's chatter about who's already arrived and what Jacques has planned.

This place holds every version of herself she's ever been. The competitive eleven-year-old who'd rather die than lose. The passionate teenager who would give everything to her friends. The confused eighteen years old who didn't know how to want Oliver Wood without hating herself for it. 

And now her. The new version of herself she is trying to build. She is trying to be. She is trying to find back, running after all the broken pieces. 

The ghosts are here. All of them. But they're the kind that remind you how far you've traveled, how much you've survived.

The kind that whisper: You made it. You're home.

The courtyard explodes into noise the moment they round the corner.

"ZORA!"

Andrew and Thomas reach her first, pulling her into quick, tight hugs. 

"World Cup champion," Andrew says, grinning but his eyes searching her face carefully. "Looks good on you."

"Really good," Thomas adds. "Look at you all glowing."

Samuel hangs back slightly, but when Zora meets his gaze, there's so much in that look—relief, concern, lingering hurt. He steps forward and embraces her quietly.

"I was worried," he says simply, pulling back to study her. "So worried."

"I know," Zora says. "I'm sorry."

"You're here now," Samuel replies, his hand squeezing her shoulder. "That's what matters. And you look... better. Stronger."

"I am," she promises.

Andrew's usual energy returns gradually. "Right, well, now that we've confirmed you're actually alive and not a ghost—"

"We have so much to catch up on," Thomas finishes. "And first, tell me who flirted with you at the Cup ceremony ? The Irish player ?" 

Everyone glares at Thomas, especially Oliver. Silence falls on everyone and Thomas scoffs. "What ? I'm asking for a friend." 

Everyone laughs and greets each other. Zora watches the scene and feels like happiness is overwhelming her. Not the fragile, careful kind she's been protecting these past months. But real, solid happiness that floods through her like sunlight breaking through clouds.

All these people. Her people. Together again. Laughing and teasing and being exactly who they've always been.

Like nothing had changed. Like the past two years were just a bad dream she's finally woken up from.

A single tear escapes down Zora's cheek, and immediately the teasing begins.

"Oh, is the World Cup champion crying?" Thomas calls out.

"Shut up," Zora laughs, wiping it away.

They fall into easier conversation. Eventually, Angelina calls them toward the pitch.

"Come on. Coach Joe is over there, and you know she'll have our heads if we don't say hello."

Coach Joe stands on the sidelines with Gwenog Jones and some other former professionals, mid-argument about Keeper positioning. Her grey hair pulled back severely, arms crossed, that familiar scowl in place.

"—and I don't care what the modern coaches say—" She spots them approaching and cuts off. She excuses herself from the group and walks toward them. Her eyes land on Zora, and for a moment, her expression doesn't change.

Coach Joe and Zora's relationship has always been complicated. She's always preferred Viktor and never hidden it. But she's helped her improve so much. She's never given up on her. Never. And it's partly thanks to her that she's where she is today.

Then something cracks in her. 

"Krum," she says, voice rough.

"Coach."

They stare at each other for a long moment. Then Coach Joe steps forward and pulls Zora into a brief, tight hug. When she pulls back, her eyes are bright.

"World Cup champion," she says. "Told you you'd make it."

"You also told me I'd never make it past regionals if I didn't fix my defensive positioning."

"And did you fix it?"

"Eventually."

"Damn right." Coach Joe clears her throat, stepping back. "Don't let it go to your head. You've still got work to do."

"Yes, Coach."

Her gaze shifts to Oliver. "Wood. National team treating you well?"

"Very well, Coach."

"Good. You've earned it."

Jacques Vural appears then, his presence commanding despite his age. "Ah, my star pupils."

"Your star pupils," Coach Joe huffs. "I taught them proper technique."

"And I taught them strategy," Jacques replies warmly. "Together, we made champions, non?"

He embraces each of them. When it's Zora's turn, he holds her longer.

"My dearest troublemaker," he says, studying her face. Zora smiles. "Now a champion! We will talk later, oui?"

Zora nods and watches Coach Joe and Jacques greet and talk with the rest of her friends before they all join the hall to eat lunch. 

The hall is packed with old quidditch players who have agreed to spend the day back at camp to celebrate Jacques' retirement. 

It's exactly like Zora remembers—voices bouncing off the high wooden beams, laughter echoing against stone walls, the clatter of plates and cutlery creating a symphony of noise that somehow feels like home. Long tables stretch the length of the room, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with faces both familiar and half-forgotten, everyone talking over each other in that particular way that only happens when Quidditch players gather.

Roasted chicken and herbs, fresh bread still warm from the oven, that slightly burnt smell from the kitchen that means someone tried to make Jacques's mother's tarte tatin again and failed spectacularly. Coffee and wine and the faint sweetness of summer fruit.

It's all too familiar. 

For a moment, Zora is seventeen again, sitting at these same tables, believing summer would last forever.

"Well I see Gwenog Jones is holding court at the head table?" Thomas asks, craning his neck. "Again."

"Of course it is," Andrew replies. "Where else would the queen sit?"

Gwenog catches Zora's eye across the room and raises her glass in salute, that fierce grin unmistakable even from a distance. Beside her, Joscelind Wadcock—ancient now but still sharp-eyed—is engaged in what appears to be a heated debate with Roderick Plumpton about the evolution of Seeker strategies.

"Merlin, Plumpton's still going on about the Plumpton Pass," Samuel mutters. "Some things never change."

"At least he has something to go on about," Angelina says. "Unlike half the people here who peaked at seventeen."

Their group claims a spot toward the middle of the table. They start to eat and fall into the usual conversation. 

"So the new Firebolt Ultra," Andrew starts, eyes gleaming. "Tell me you've tried it."

"Tried it?" Thomas grins. "The Bulgarian team has six of them. Zora practically lives on hers."

"It's good," Zora admits, reaching for bread. "Really good. The turning radius is insane."

"Better than the Thunderbolt VII?" Andrew asks skeptically.

"Not even close to comparable," Zora says. "The Thunderbolt handles like you're flying through honey. The Ultra is—"

"Like cutting through air with a knife," Thomas finishes. "I got to test one last month. Nearly cried."

"You did cry," Andrew corrects. "I have witnesses."

"I did not cry—"

"Speaking of emotional breakdowns," Zora turns to Andrew with a wicked smile. "How's living with your parents again going?"

Andrew groans. "Low blow, Krum. Low blow."

"Wait, you moved back in with your parents?" Oliver asks, trying not to laugh.

"It's temporary!" Andrew protests. "My roomates had to leave and—"

"He's been there for eight months," Samuel adds.

"Your mum still making you Sunday roast?" Thomas asks innocently.

"And doing his laundry," Angelina adds. "He told me."

"I told you that in confidence!" Andrew shouts, making some heads turn.

"Nothing is sacred at this table," Zora says. "You should know that by now."

"Fine. Fine." Andrew points at Thomas. "At least I'm not engaged to some French girl after dating her for three months."

Everyone gasps at the table. Zora brings her hand to her mouth. "What ?" 

"Four months," Thomas corrects.

"Oh, four months. My mistake. That makes it so much better," Andrew says, happy with himself. 

"Wait—, but like ? What ? How ? When ? Who ?" says Zora, eyes wide. 

"When you know, you know," Thomas says defensively, but he's grinning as he turns to Zora. "Yes, I'm engaged. How ? By asking her. Last week. Her name is Helena."

Zora exchanges a look with Oliver. "You knew ?" she mouthes. 

He shakes his head, looking as shocked as everyone else. 

"And you were planning to tell us when ?" says Angelina, glaring at him. 

Thomas shrugs. "Tonight. If Brague didn't spoil it for me. And you're all just jealous." 

"We're not jealous," Samuel says. "We're concerned about your life choices."

"Says the man who turned down a starting position with the Uganda national team to play for the Magpies," Thomas shoots back.

Samuel shrugs, unbothered. "I wanted to be closer to home. Sue me."

"When do we get to meet Asha by the way?" Angelina asks with a knowing look.

Samuel shrugs. "When you want. She's kinda nervous to meet all of you."

Zora snorts. "I really can't see why." 

"What about you, Angie?" Andrew asks. "How's domestic life with a Weasley?"

Angelina rolls her eyes but she's smiling. "George is... George. Last week he tried to test a new product on himself and turned purple for three days. The week before that, he 'accidentally' set our kitchen on fire trying to make breakfast."

"And you're still with him?" Thomas asks.

"I'm still with him," Angelina confirms. "Turns out I have a thing for disaster-prone redheads."

"We could have told you that years ago," Zora says. "You dated Fred."

"Exactly. I have a type and I'm committed to it."

The conversation flows easily. Across the table, Oliver catches Zora's eye and smiles, that soft private smile that's just for her.

Angelina nudges Zora's shoulder after a while. "So. Have you heard from Adeline?"

The question lands heavy.

"No," Zora says quietly. "Not since... your party."

Angelina nods. "Yeah, I didn't have much news either. I tried to fucking understand why the fuck would she do something like that, so fucked up. But she wants to talk to you. She's told me that."

"And what would we talk about?" Zora asks, keeping her voice neutral.

"It's complicated, Z. You know it is."

Zora does know. "Is she coming? Here?"

Angelina hesitates. "I don't know. Jacques invited her. Whether she actually shows up..." She trails off, then adds more gently, "Viktor was invited too."

Zora's stomach tightens. "I figured."

Angelina squeezes her hand under the table. 

"How's the house?" Zora asks, deliberately changing the subject. "Really?"

Angelina's face softens. "Good. Really good, actually. He's talking about opening another shop location, and I'm helping him with the business side while I figure out this if I'm going to stay with the Harpies or doing the whole coaching thing." She grins. "Turns out I'm pretty good at telling people what to do."

"Shocking," Zora says, smiling.

The lunch unfolds. Eventually, the noise begins to settle. Coach Joe taps her glass with a spoon, and the room gradually quiets as Jacques stands.

For a moment, he just looks at them all.

"Thirty years," Jacques begins, his French accent thick with emotion. "Thirty years I have stood on those pitches and watched children become champions. Watched them arrive with dreams too big for their bodies and leave with the skills to make those dreams real."

The room is silent now.

"When I started this camp, I was young. Foolish, perhaps. I thought Quidditch was about winning. About being the best, the fastest, the strongest." He pauses. "I was wrong."

"Quidditch—real Quidditch—is about what happens between the wins and the losses. It is about the friendships forged in competition. The rivals who become family. The moments when you push past what you thought possible and discover you are capable of so much more."

His gaze finds Zora, and she feels tears threatening her eyes.

"I have watched you all grow. Watched you fall and get back up. Watched you lose everything and find yourselves again. And I am... I am so very proud."

His voice cracks slightly, and he clears his throat.

"This place will continue without me. Coach Joe will make sure of that. But I wanted one last gathering to say thank you. Thank you for letting an old man be part of your stories. Thank you for making this place magic."

He raises his glass.

"To the next generation of champions. May you fly high and fall soft, and may you always find your way home."

"TO JACQUES!" Everyone shouts, raising their glass, half-smiling, half-crying, all happy. 

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

At the end of the meal, when everyone is full and sipping coffee, Zora realises Jacques is gone. She stands up and takes the way to find him. 

She finds him in his office—the same wood-paneled room she remembers from all those summers when she'd been called in to discuss her "attitude problems" or her personal training program. The door is slightly ajar, and through it, she can see his silhouette standing with his back to her, looking at the wall.

She pushes the door open quietly and steps inside.

Jacques doesn't turn, but she knows he's heard her. She moves to stand beside him in comfortable silence, following his gaze to the walls covered in memories.

Photographs everywhere. Decades of them. Young faces grinning on broomsticks, team photos with arms slung around shoulders, action shots frozen mid-flight. Framed newspaper clippings and magazine covers. Posters from World Cup matches featuring former campers. A timeline of dreams realized, mapped out in yellow paper and fading ink.

Her eyes catch on a photo she doesn't remember being taken—herself at fifteen, sitting on her new Nimbus 2001, grinning like she owned the world. On top of it, a photograph of all the players from her year during the last camp. All her friends. Smiling. 

Beside it, much more recent, hangs the official poster from the World Cup final, her name emblazoned across the bottom in bold letters. And there, tucked between them, and extract of the Quidditch Times where Oliver and her made the front page. 

"You are beautiful together in this one," Jacques says quietly.

Zora smiles, warmth spreading through her chest. "Yeah. I have to admit, we look pretty good."

Jacques turns to face her finally, and she's startled by the emotion in his weathered eyes. "I am so very proud of you, Zora."

The words hit her harder than she expected. Her throat tightens.

"Your journey," he continues, gesturing to the progression of photos on the wall. "From that angry little girl who arrived here determined to prove the world wrong, to this—" He touches the World Cup poster gently. "A champion. Not just in Quidditch, but in life."

"Jacques—"

"Non, let me finish." He takes a breath. "I was there, you know. At the final. I did not want to disturb you before the match, but I could not miss it. I sat in the stands and watched you fly, and I thought—this is what I have spent my life working toward. Seeing my students become the people they were meant to be."

Tears prick Zora's eyes. "You were there?"

"Of course I was there. You think I would miss such a moment?" He smiles. "And when you scored that final goal, I cried like a baby. My wife had to give me her handkerchief."

Zora laughs, wiping at her eyes.

"I know what happened," Jacques says more seriously. "What you went through these past years."

Zora stiffens. "How—?"

"Oliver," Jacques says simply. "He came to me. Asked for my help. He was... desperate. Determined to save you. But I couldn't do much, unfortunately."

Something cracks open in Zora's chest. Of course Oliver had. Of course he'd reached out to anyone who might help.

"I am happy it is resolved," Jacques continues. "That you found your way free."

They stand in silence for a moment.

"What will you do now?" Zora asks finally, needing to shift the conversation. "Now that you're retiring?"

Jacques's expression softens. "I will go home to Provence. Spend time with my wife, who has been very patient with me all these years. Play with my grandchildren—three now, can you believe it? Little monsters, all of them." He smiles fondly. "I will still own the camp, of course. But Coach Joe will run it with a new assistant. The place will be in good hands."

"It won't be the same without you."

"Non," Jacques agrees. "But that is how it should be. Things must change, must grow. I have had my time. Now it is yours."

He turns to face her fully, placing both hands on her shoulders. "You have done something remarkable with your life, Zora Krum. You have taken all the pain, all the obstacles, all the people who told you that you could not—and you have made them wrong. You are exactly who you were meant to be."

The tears fall freely now. "Thank you. For everything. For every summer, every lecture, every time you told me to push my limits." 

"That is what we do for the ones we love," Jacques says simply.

And then she's hugging him, this man who has been more father to her than her own ever was, and he's holding her tight, one hand cradling the back of her head the way a parent holds a child.

"You are going to be extraordinary," he whispers. "You already are. But the best is still to come, I think."

When they finally pull apart, both of them are wiping their eyes.

"Go," Jacques says, gesturing toward the door with a watery smile. "Go be with your friends. With Oliver. Enjoy this weekend. It is a celebration, non? No more tears."

"Okay," Zora manages, but she pauses at the door, looking back. "Jacques?"

"Oui?"

"Thank you. For every time you believed in me even when I didn't believe in myself," she says between tears.

His smile is radiant. "It has been my greatest honor, darling."

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

Of course, Jacques's retirement at camp wouldn't have been complete without an afternoon dedicated to Quidditch. Everyone has changed, grabbed their gear, and is waiting for instructions in front of the pitch. 

The air buzzes with competitive energy and nostalgia mixing into something electric.

Zora pulls on her gloves, the familiar leather settling against her palms. Around her, the group is already at it.

"I'm calling it now," Andrew announces, stretching dramatically. "We're going to destroy you all."

"You couldn't destroy a wet paper bag," Thomas shoots back. "Your defensive positioning is still garbage."

"My defensive positioning won the match against the Bats in april—"

"That was luck—"

"Luck? LUCK?" Andrew says, walking dangerously towards Thomas. 

Samuel stands off to the side, methodically checking his broom, but Zora catches his small smile. Angelina is already trash-talking anyone within earshot, her competitive fire burning as bright as it did when they were teenagers.

Zora spots Oliver across the pitch, completely focused as he adjusts his gloves with meticulous precision. She watches him for a moment—the way his shoulders shift under his robes, the concentrated furrow of his brow, those long fingers flexing to test the fit of the gloves, the unconscious way he rolls his neck to loosen up.

She walks over slowly, deliberately. He looks up as she approaches, and that awareness between them sparks instant and electric.

"So," she says, stopping close enough that she has to tilt her head back to meet his eyes, close enough to smell the familiar scent of his cologne. "Are we rivals again today, Wood?"

Oliver's expression shifts into something dangerous, competitive. He narrows his eyes slightly as he looks down at her. "We were always rivals, Krum."

"Is that so?" She steps even closer, invading his space the way she used to, her chest almost brushing his. That old challenge dancing in her eyes.

"Absolutely." His voice drops lower, rougher. "And I fully intend to show you how to win."

"Show me?" She laughs, reaching up to straighten his collar as she did so many times. "That's bold coming from someone who's about to get absolutely destroyed."

His breath catches slightly at the contact. "Big words from someone who's gotten soft playing for Bulgaria." His hand comes up to catch her wrist, thumb pressing against her pulse point. "When's the last time you faced a real Keeper?"

"Two weeks ago, actually. Made him cry." She doesn't pull away, smiling.

They're standing too close now, the competitive tension bleeding into something else entirely. Oliver's gaze drops to her mouth and stays there for a long moment before dragging back up to meet her eyes.

"Try to keep up, Wood," she whispers.

"I've been keeping pace with you for all my life, Krum. I'm not stopping now." His thumb strokes once across her wrist before he releases her, stepping back with visible effort.

"ALRIGHT, LISTEN UP!" Coach Joe's voice rings on the pitch. Everyone immediately shuts up and turns to face her.

She stands at the center of the pitch, clipboard in hand, looking exactly as intimidating as she did when they were kids. "We're playing on both pitches simultaneously. I'm splitting you into teams, and I don't want to hear any whining about it."

She starts reading off names. Zora finds herself on a team with Andrew and Samuel as her Beater and Keeper, plus a few older players. Oliver ends up on the opposite team as Keeper, with Thomas as one of his Beaters, Angelina as Chaser, and several others.

The others are made into a team for the second pitch. 

Perfect.

Jacques takes his position as referee for their pitch, silver whistle gleaming in the afternoon sun. "Alright, mes enfants. Let us see if you remember anything I taught you."

They mount their brooms, and Zora feels that familiar rush—the moment before flight when anything is possible. She catches Oliver's eye across the pitch. He grins at her, cocky and challenging, and she winks at him shake his head with a laugh.

Jacques's whistle pierces the air and the game starts. 

Zora shoots forward immediately, her Firebolt Ultra responding like an extension of her body. The Quaffle comes her way within seconds, and she catches it one-handed, already angling toward the goals where Oliver hovers, alert and ready.

"Andrew, clear me a path!" she shouts.

"On it!" Andrew sends a Bludger screaming toward Thomas, who has to dive to avoid it.

"That was my head !" Thomas yells.

"Your head was in the way!" Andrew yells back. 

Zora flies toward Oliver's goal posts. He watches her approach, positioning himself perfectly, reading her body language the way he always could.

"Come on then, Krum!" he shouts. "Show me what you've got!"

She feints left, and his body shifts with her. Then she throws right, hard and fast toward the center hoop—but Oliver is already there, catching the Quaffle one-handed with a theatrical flourish that makes her want to kiss him and strangle him in equal measure.

"That the best you can do?" he calls out, throwing it to Angelina.

"Just warming up, Wood!"

Angelina catches the Quaffle and immediately flies toward Zora's end of the pitch. "Let's see how you like it, Z!"

"Andrew!" Zora calls.

Andrew sends a Bludger toward Angelina, forcing her to dodge. The Quaffle goes loose, and Zora dives for it, catching it just before one of the older players can intercept.

She's back in the air, racing toward Oliver again. This time Andrew and the other beater work in perfect sync, keeping the opposing Beaters busy while she approaches.

"Thomas, a little help here!" Oliver yells, but Thomas is too busy dodging Samuel's relentless Bludger attacks.

"Kind of busy not dying!" Thomas shouts back.

Zora comes in fast and low, pulling up at the last second. Oliver stretches, his body fully extended as she sends the Quaffle toward the left hoop.

His fingertips just brush it. Not enough.

It goes through.

"Yes!" Zora pumps her fist in the air, doing a victory loop.

"Luck!" Oliver shouts, but he's grinning.

"Skill, baby! Pure skill!"

Jacques whistle blows. "Ten points to Krum's team! Wood, tighten up that left side!"

"Yes, Coach," Oliver mutters.

The game intensifies. Angelina scores on Samuel with a beautiful feint that has everyone applauding. Andrew and Thomas engage in what can only be described as aerial warfare.

"Stop aiming for my face!"

"Stop putting your face in front of my bludgers!" Andrew shouts. 

Jacques whistle blows sharp and angry. "Brague! Smith! If I see that again, you're both benched! I don't care if you're twenty-one years old!"

Zora gets the Quaffle again and heads straight for Oliver. He's ready for her this time, positioned perfectly in the center of the hoops.

"Not getting past me this time," he calls.

"Watch me."

She comes in fast, but at the last second, flips the Quaffle backwards to one of the older player, who's come up behind her. Oliver realizes too late, turning to see him score easily.

"That's how it's done!" Zora shouts.

"Beautiful play!" Jacques calls out. "This is what I taught you—teamwork!"

Oliver shoots Zora a look that's pure competitive fire. "Clever."

"I know," she grins, flying past him teasingly.

The next approach, Oliver's ready for tricks. When Zora comes at him, he doesn't bite on her feints. They hang there in the air for a moment, eyes locked, each waiting for the other to commit.

"You're not going to score," he says.

"I already have. Twice."

"Third time's the charm—for me."

She throws. He blocks. The Quaffle rebounds, and they both dive for it simultaneously. They collide mid-air—not hard enough to hurt, but enough that suddenly they're tangled together, both reaching for the same ball. They both laugh, smile on their face, fighting for the Quaffle. 

Then Angelina swoops in and steals the Quaffle from right between them.

"Pay attention, lovebirds!" she laughs, flying away.

"Fuck you Ange—" they both start, then look at each other and laugh, smiling fondly. 

Coach Joe's whistle blows sharply. She has been watching them from the other pitch. "WOOD! KRUM! EITHER SCORE OR GET OUT OF MY QUIDDITCH PITCH!"

They break apart, frightened and get back to their team. 

The match keeps going. Zora executes a perfect Porskoff Ploy, passing to another chaser at exactly the right moment. Then She scores her third goal, and Oliver groans dramatically.

"You're killing me, Krum!"

"That's the idea, Wood!"

Andrew sends a Bludger toward Thomas with such precision that Thomas has to barrel roll to avoid it, ending up completely disoriented.

"I can't see anything because of Brague ! Which way is up?"

"THAT WAY!" several people shout, pointing in different directions.

Oliver blocks Zora's next two attempts, each save more impressive than the last. On the second one, he catches the Quaffle inches from the hoop, and Zora can't help but admire the athleticism of it—the way his whole body moves as one unit, perfectly controlled.

He notices her watching and winks. Oliver Wood winked. 

"Like what you see, Krum?" 

"Did you wink, Oliver ?" she asks, shocked.

Coach Joe's whistle blows long and final. "GAME OVER! Good work, you lot. Some of you remembered what I taught you." Her eyes land on Andrew. "Some of you clearly forgot everything."

"Krum scored all her Quaffle thanks to me!"

"You also committed five fouls, Brague. Sit down."

As they land, sweaty and exhilarated, Zora finds herself immediately beside Oliver. They're both breathing hard, faces flushed from exertion and sun and something else entirely.

"Not bad, Wood," she says, reaching up to wipe some dirt off his cheek, her fingers lingering perhaps a moment too long.

"Not bad yourself, Krum." He catches her hand, brings it to his lips for just a second before letting go. "Though I definitely won."

"You absolutely did not—my team scored more—"

"Individual performance matters more than team score—"

"That's not how Quidditch works—"

"Isn't it though ? Between us?" he says, smiling wildly, teasingly. 

Samuel appears between them, physically stepping into their space. "You two are exactly the same as when you were fifteen."

"They're worse," Angelina corrects, throwing an arm around Zora. "At fifteen, they at least pretended to hate each other. Now they're just obscene."

Oliver and Zora shake their head, rolling their eyes and everyone laughs. 

The group walks back toward the manor together, still arguing about who actually won, reliving the best plays, teasing each other mercilessly. Oliver's hand finds Zora's, their fingers interlacing naturally, and she squeezes once.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

September in France has that particular quality of light—golden and thick like honey, the air still warm but carrying the whisper of autumn. The kind of afternoon that feels suspended in time, caught between summer's end and fall's beginning.

The lake stretches before them, shiny under the sun's rays and perfect, surrounded by willows whose branches trail in the water. Zora remembers every inch of this place—the flat rock where they used to sun themselves, the old dock that creaks under weight before they jump in the water.

"To the lake!" Thomas announces, already pulling off his shirt as he walks.

"Just like old times," Angelina grins, falling into step beside him.

"Wood never came to the lake," Andrew points out, looking at Oliver with a smile. "Too busy practicing."

"I was there. Sometimes," Oliver protests.

"Twice," Samuel corrects quietly. "You were there twice in seven summers."

"Quality over quantity," Oliver mutters, but he's smiling.

"He was too busy pining over Zora from the pitch to actually join us," Thomas teases and earns a punch of Oliver in his shoulder that nearly dislocated it. Everyone laughs and Oliver apologises at the force of his punch. 

They reach the shore, and without ceremony, Andrew runs straight for the dock and launches himself into the water with a cry. Thomas follows immediately, the splash enormous.

"Freezing!" Andrew yells from the water. "It's absolutely freezing!"

"It's September, you idiot!" Angelina shouts back, but she's already stripping down to her swimsuit.

Zora feels the nostalgia crash over her in waves. How many afternoons did they spend here? Countless. Swimming until their fingers pruned, lying on towels in the sun, talking about everything and nothing until the stars came out.

She's pulling off her shirt and short when arms wrap around her waist from behind.

"Oliver, don't you dare—"

But he's already lifting her, and she's laughing and squirming as he runs toward the dock.

"Wood, it's freezing, I swear to—"

They hit the water together in an explosion and laughter. When they surface, gasping, Zora immediately splashes him. She shivers and swims to him. 

"You're dead!"

"Worth it," he grins, and she tries to dunk him, but he's too strong, catching her wrists and pulling her against him instead, laughing. 

For a moment, they're just treading water together, faces close, droplets clinging to their eyelashes. His arms wrap around her waist under the water, keeping them both afloat.

She smiles, enjoying his face and his messy wet hair falling over. 

He leans in and kisses her, his lips soft and wet, before Samuel cannonballs right next to them, breaking the moment with a massive splash.

It's the start of a splash war that quickly devolves into everyone trying to dunk everyone else. Angelina and Zora team up against the boys, which is a fail until Thomas betrays his own team and tries to dunk Samuel.

"Traitor!" shouts Oliver. 

"Every man for himself !"

At one point, he swims up behind her and wraps his arms around her waist, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Having fun?" he asks quietly, pressing a kiss to her wet shoulder.

"The best," she confirms, leaning back into him.

"Good." Another kiss, this time to her neck, and she shivers despite the warm water.

After a while, Zora swims to shore, wrapping herself in a towel and settling on the grass. The sounds of her friends playing in the water drift over.

Samuel emerges from the water a few minutes later, settling beside her on his own towel. For a moment, they just sit in comfortable silence, watching the others.

"I'm sorry," Samuel says finally, his voice quiet but clear.

Zora turns to look at him. "For what?"

"For everything. Well, for not doing anything. When everything was happening with you." He stares out at the water, jaw tight. "I knew something was wrong. We all did. But we only had pieces of the story, and I... I should have pushed harder. Should have found you, made you talk to us. Save you."

"Samuel—"

"I'm serious, Z." He finally looks at her, and his eyes are pained. "Viktor wouldn't tell us anything. Just that you were dealing with family stuff. And when you stopped answering letters, I..." He shakes his head. "I can't understand what he did. How he could know you were suffering and just... let it happen. That's not the Viktor I thought I knew."

"Me neither," Zora whispers, tensing. 

"I'm angry at him," Samuel continues. "And I'm angry at myself for not figuring it out sooner. For not being there when you needed us."

Zora reaches over, squeezing his hand. "You couldn't have known. I didn't want anyone to know. I was... I was barely surviving, Samuel. I couldn't face any of you."

"But now you can?"

"Now I can," she confirms. "Because of Oliver, honestly. Because he wouldn't let me disappear completely."

Samuel smiles slightly. "He's good for you. Always has been, even when you were both too stubborn to admit it."

"Yeah," Zora agrees softly. "He is."

They sit quietly for a moment, then Samuel clears his throat. "Speaking of relationships... I have news."

"Oh?"

"Asha and I are getting married."

The words hit Zora like a physical blow—not because she's jealous, but because marriage means something so different to her now than it did two years ago. Contracts. Cages. Loss of self.

But this isn't that. This is Samuel and Asha. Sweet, brilliant Asha who makes Samuel serious about this kind of things.

She swallows hard and forces a smile. "Why didn't you tell everyone at lunch ? Samuel, that's wonderful. Really. I'm so happy for you both."

"Are you?" he asks gently, seeing right through her.

"I am," she says more firmly, and realises it's true. "I really am. You deserve all the happiness in the world. Asha's perfect for you."

His whole face softens. "She is, isn't she? We're planning a small wedding, just family and close friends. Nothing fancy. Next spring."

"That sounds beautiful."

"Z..." He hesitates. "I didn't tell everyone because I wanted to ask you first. I want you to be my best woman. My witness. Will you?"

Zora's breath catches. "Samuel—"

"You're one of my best friends. You've been there through everything. I can't imagine getting married without you standing beside me."

Tears prick Zora's eyes, but they're good tears this time. "Yes. Of course, yes. I'd be honored."

He pulls her into a tight hug. "Thank you. It means everything."

When they pull apart, both wiping their eyes, Samuel grins. "Asha's going to be so happy. She was worried you'd say no because of... you know."

"Never," Zora says firmly. "What happened to me doesn't get to poison everyone else's happiness. You two are choosing each other freely. That's beautiful."

They sit together a while longer, the weight of the past slowly lifting. Then Samuel stands, offering his hand.

"Come on. Let's go back in before they think we're being too serious."

Zora takes his hand, letting him pull her up. They run toward the dock together, and when they jump in, the group immediately turns on them.

"Finally!" Andrew shouts. "I was about to come drag you both back in!"

"Were you having emotions over there?" Thomas asks with mock horror. "Gross."

"Very gross," Angelina agrees. "No feelings allowed at the lake."

"We were discussing Samuel's upcoming nuptials, actually," Zora says all smiles, swimming over to the group.

Everyone gasps and turns to Samuel to congratulate him. 

"Nuptials!" Andrew shouts. "Listen to her with the fancy words!"

"Yeah well she's not you," Thomas adds.

"I know big words too," Andrew protests. "Like... um... photosynthesis."

"That's a science word, you absolute walnut," Angelina says.

"Walnut is barely an insult—"

"Would you prefer turnip?"

Oliver swims up to Samuel. "Congratulations man, that's huge ! I'm so happy for you and Asha," he says, shaking his hand. 

Samuel smiles. "Well, you'll be there too as Zora has agreed to be my witness. And I want you to be one of my bestmen with Andrew and Thomas." 

Oliver laughs, genuinely touched. "Wow—, I, yes, of course. That would be an honor." 

"Can I choose my suit colour man ?" Andrew asks. Everyone glares at him. "What ?" They all exchange a glance and swim to him to try to dunk him.

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

The field stretches golden in the late afternoon light, the exact spot where they've gathered for countless summer evenings. Samuel and Oliver started a fire. They all gathered arond the fire with beers where they used to party before joining everyone else for the diner. 

Zora sighs. It's perfect. Achingly, beautifully perfect.

"Did anyone see the Vultures' last match ?" Angelina asks, taking a long sip of her beer. "Absolutely brutal. Three players sent to St. Mungo's."

"The ref was blind," Zora says. "That Bludger hit in the second half should've been a foul."

 "That was intentional targeting if I've ever seen it," Andrew adds. "And I know all about it." 

"Speaking of targeting," Samuel says quietly, "Wood, how's the Scottish team handling the new Beater they signed? McKinnon?"

Oliver leans back on his elbows, more relaxed than Zora's ever seen him in a group setting. "He's good, I think. Aggressive, but good. He played with us during the last month of the Cup. Took him three weeks to stop apologizing every time he sent a Bludger my way during practice."

"That's because you glared at him like you wanted to murder him," Angelina points out.

"What ? No—"

"You have an intimidating resting face, Wood," Thomas adds. "It's your whole vibe."

"My vibe? What does that mean ?" he asks, oblivious. Everyone laughs. Zora smiles. 

"Scary Scottish Keeper who will end you. That's your brand."

Oliver rolls his eyes. "I don't have a brand or a vibe or whatever this pish is."

Zora sits slightly apart, beer in hand, but she's not really listening. She's watching Oliver.

He makes a joke about the Scottish team's pre-game rituals that has Thomas nearly spitting out his beer. Andrew leans over to punch his shoulder affectionately. Samuel nods at something he says, that quiet approval that means so much from him.

He belongs here. Finally, after all these years of hovering at the edges, of being too focused on training to really be part of the group, he's let himself in. He's laughing freely, his shoulders loose, his face open and calm.

She loves him for this. For finally letting himself have this.

She loves seing him like this. Like he finally belongs. 

But then, she sees it. 

Two figures in the distance, walking across the field toward them. The dying sunlight paints them in silhouette, but shapes are carved into her bones. She would know them anywhere.

Adeline. Viktor.

The world stops.

Not slowly. Not gently. It stops like a heart stopping. Like breath stopping. Like everything that keeps you alive suddenly forgetting how to function.

The beer slips from her hand. She doesn't hear it hit the ground.

All she can see is him. Getting closer. Real. Here.

Her body remembers before her mind catches up. Her lungs forget how to pull in air. Her hands start shaking—not trembling, shaking, violent and uncontrollable. Her chest feels like it's caving in, ribs cracking inward, heart trying to fold itself into nothing.

Her throat closes. Panic rises, cold and suffocating. She can't move. Can't breathe. Can't do anything but stare as her past approaches in human form.

Everything she's built since breaking free—every step toward healing, every moment of peace, every night of sleep that didn't taste like nightmares—it all dissolves. Two years of being invisible, of not mattering, of screaming into silence while he knew, while he watched, while he chose his comfort over her survival.

Her double. Her other half.

He's here. He's real. He's walking toward her like he has any right to breathe the same air.

And she can't move. Can't run. Can't even make her body remember how to be anything other than frozen.

Oliver notices immediately. His head snaps and his eyes follow her gaze, and his entire body goes rigid.

"Hell no," he breathes.

Angelina turns too, and her expression hardens to stone. "No. No fucking way."

The conversation dies like someone cut its throat. Samuel stands slowly, his usual calm replaced by something cold. Andrew's jaw clenches. Thomas's face loses all its warmth.

Oliver is moving before anyone can speak, crossing the field with purpose and fury. There's nothing controlled about it—just raw protective rage that's been waiting two years for a target.

Viktor sees him coming and stops walking. Doesn't run. Doesn't even lift his hands to defend himself.

Just stands there like he's been expecting this. Like he deserves it.

Oliver grabs him by the collar with enough force to lift him off his feet, slamming him back against a tree. 

"How dare you come here!" Oliver's voice cracks, talking between his teeth. "How dare you show your fucking face after what you did!"

Viktor doesn't fight back. Doesn't struggle. Just lets himself be held there, eyes fixed on the ground, defeated.

"You were supposed to protect her!" Oliver's knuckles are white where they grip Viktor's shirt. "She loved you more than anyone in this world, and you—you let them destroy her. You knew and you did nothing!"

"I know," Viktor says, barely audible.

"What you did—" Oliver's voice breaks. "She almost didn't survive it. And you just let it happen. You just fucking watched."

"Listen, I just need to talk to Zora—" Viktor tries.

The sound of her name from Viktor's mouth breaks something in Oliver. His fist connects with Viktor's face with a sickening crack. Viktor's head snaps sideways, blood immediately blooming from his nose and mouth, but still he doesn't raise his hands to defend himself.

Andrew and Thomas are there in seconds, grabbing Oliver's arms and pulling him back.

"He's not worth it, mate," Andrew says firmly, though his own voice is tight with anger.

"You need to leave," Samuel tells Viktor, and his voice is colder than Zora's ever heard it. "Now. You have no right to be here."

Viktor wipes blood from his face with the back of his hand, but his eyes stay down. Beside him, Adeline is crying, mascara streaking down her cheeks, but no one looks at her.

"Please," Viktor says hoarsely. "I just... I need to talk to Zora. Please."

That's when Zora finally moves.

She walks across the field, everything distant and muted. Each step costs something. When she reaches them, Viktor finally looks up, and seeing his face—so familiar it hurts, like looking at a warped mirror—cracks something open inside her chest.

She wants to cry, to shout, to vomit. It hurts so much to see him. His face. His betrayal. 

This face taught her to fly. Promised they'd face everything together.

This face also sold her. Watched her drown. Broke every promise that ever mattered.

"Can I talk to you?" Viktor asks, his voice rough around the edges. "Please, Zora. Just five minutes."

She's trembling. Can't make it stop. Everything in her is screaming to run, to protect herself, to never let him close enough to hurt her again.

And one part needs to understand. Wants to understand. Wants to know the answer to the question that has been obsessing her. 

Why ? 

Oliver is suddenly there, his hand finding hers, pulling her gently back against his chest. His arms wrap around her, solid and warm and safe.

"You don't have to," he whispers into her hair, and she can hear his heartbeat racing against her back. "You don't owe him anything. Not a single second of your time."

But Viktor is still standing there with blood on his face, and she needs to understand. Needs to know how the person who knew her best became the person who destroyed her most.

"It's okay," she whispers, though her voice shakes. "I'll speak to him."

"Zora—"

She turns in his arms to look at him, trying to smile but failing. "I'll be okay. I promise."

Oliver's jaw clenches so hard she can see the muscle jump. But he nods slowly, reluctantly. His hand squeezes hers once, twice, before finally letting go.

"I'll be right here," he says. 

Then she turns to Viktor and nods once.

They walk away from the group. Viktor stops at the edge of the field, and for a long moment, he just stands there. Silent. Then his shoulders start to shake.

He's crying.

Zora has seen Viktor cry exactly three times in her entire life. When her father died. When he lost his first important match. After the third task.

Never for her. Never because of her.

"I don't—" His voice breaks. "I don't know where to start."

Zora says nothing. Just stands there, arms wrapped around herself, waiting.

The wound is opening again.

Not slowly. Not with warning. It tears wide open like surgical stitches pulled free too soon, and suddenly she's bleeding again. Internally. Silently. The kind of bleeding that doesn't show on skin but drowns you from the inside out.

"Your mother told me about the contract six years ago," Viktor says finally, wiping his face with shaking hands. "She explained the situation. The debts. The contract. Everything. It was impossible for me that she would go through with it. And most of all, that you would accept."

Each word is a stone dropping into still water. Each ripple spreads outward, disturbing everything. His voice is unbearable to listen to for Zora. 

He looks at her, and his eyes are red and desperate.

"I didn't know what to do. You were already so angry at everyone because no one took you seriously. And I thought—you wouldn't actually go through with it. You'd fight back. You'd find a way out. You always did."

Zora's nails dig into her palms hard enough to draw blood. The physical pain is easier than the other kind. Still, she says nothing.

Her silence is its own violence.

"But you accepted," Viktor's voice cracks. "You actually fucking accepted the marriage, the contract. And you didn't tell me. You did it on your own. And by then I was in too deep. And I..."

He stops, swallowing hard.

"Part of me wanted to save my parents. Myself too, maybe. I'm not going to lie to you. Part of me thought—if this saves my parents, if this keeps my career intact, if this means I don't lose everything—then maybe—. Maybe you'd be okay. Maybe you'd find a way through."

The words land like blows. Like fists. Like betrayal given voice.

And somewhere inside her, that last desperate hope—the one she'd been clutching without even realizing it—dies.

She'd wanted him to answer her Why with something that would make everything good again. That maybe he was under the Imperius curse and didn't do it purposefully. Wanted him to say their mother had controlled him, manipulated him, made him believe lies. 

Wanted any reason that would mean her double, her mirror, her other half hadn't chosen to sacrifice her with full knowledge of what he was doing.

But he had known. Had understood. 

The realization doesn't crash over her. It seeps in slowly, like poison, like ink in water, staining everything it touches until there's no clean space left.

"I was a coward," Viktor says, and he's openly sobbing now. "I was selfish and horrible and I destroyed you to save myself. I knew what I was doing. I knew, and I did it anyway. And I will never—I will never forgive myself for that."

The silence between them grows teeth. Becomes something that bites.

Viktor is starting to understand what he's done. She can see it in his face—the dawning horror of someone who's finally measuring the true cost of their choices. He's realizing that this isn't something he can fix with apologies. That there are some betrayals too deep for forgiveness. That he didn't just hurt her—he erased her. Made her invisible. Chose his own survival over her existence.

And now he has to live with that. Forever.

"Say something," Viktor begs. "Please, Zora. Yell at me. Hit me. Anything. Just—please."

When Zora finally speaks, her voice is so cold it doesn't sound like hers. It sounds like winter. Like death. Like the voice of someone who's already buried the person standing in front of her.

"I did all of it for you."

Viktor flinches.

"Every single choice I made. Every piece of myself I gave up. Every day I spent drowning in that fucking house." Her voice is steady now, detached, and that's somehow worse than screaming would be. "I did it to save you. To protect your career. To make sure you wouldn't lose everything. And I will never forgive myself for that."

"Zora—"

"I chose wrong," she continues, and there's something dead in her voice that makes Viktor take a step back. "I should have chosen myself. But I was to stupid. To blind to think you would have done the same for me."

"Please, I—I want to make this right—"

"You can't." She looks at him, really looks at him, and sees a stranger wearing her cousin's face. "There is no making this right. You don't get to fix this. You don't get my forgiveness. You don't get to feel better about what you did. You don't get anything from me ever again."

"We're family—"

"We were family," Zora corrects, and each word is a door slamming shut. "Now we're just two people who used to know each other. And I'm done. I'm done carrying you. Done sacrificing myself for you. Done pretending we're anything other than what you made us—nothing."

She turns to leave, then stops.

Her eyes find Adeline across the distance. Adeline, still standing there with tears streaming down her face, caught between the person she loves and the friend she betrayed.

Something passes between them in that look. Not forgiveness—Zora has none of that left to give. Not understanding either. 

Adeline's face crumples, and she mouths something that might be "I'm sorry."

Zora looks away. Some apologies come too late to matter.

Then she walks back toward Oliver, who immediately wraps his arms around her.

"We're leaving," Oliver says to the group, his voice leaving no room for argument.

They leave together—a different kind of family, the kind you choose—while Viktor and Adeline stand alone in the field

˗ˏˋ 'ˎ˗

They walk back in silence.

The weight of what just happened presses down on all of them—heavy and suffocating. Oliver keeps his arm around Zora's shoulders, and she leans into him without speaking. The others trail behind, forming a protective circle around her even though the threat is gone.

When they rejoin everyone else at the manor, people are already gathered in the hall. The buffet is already served. They all walk in the room. All her friend turn to her, silent, but everyone wants to scream and asks what happened. 

"Don't," Zora says quietly, before anyone can ask. "Please. I don't want to talk about it. It's over, now."

Everyone nods. Respects the boundary. But they all know what she's really saying: If I talk about it, I'll break. And I can't break again. Not here. Not now.

They all get something to eat and sit on the tables. Gradually, slowly, the festivities begin.

Jacques is drunk. Properlydrunk. He's telling increasingly embellished stories about legendary matches, his French accent getting thicker with each glass of wine.

"And then—and THEN—the Seeker, he dive straight into the lake! The lake! Can you imagine?"

"That didn't happen, Jacques," Coach Joe calls out, and she's clearly had a few drinks herself because she's actually smiling. "You made that up."

"I did NOT make it up! I was there!"

"You were seventeen and probably drunk then too!"

The laughter ripples across the tables, warm and genuine, and slowly the tension begins to ease.

The conversations flow around them—Quidditch talk, gossip about professional teams, wild stories from the older players about matches from decades ago. 

Angelina slides into the seat beside Zora after a while, and for a moment they just sit in comfortable silence.

"You okay?" Angelina asks finally.

"Yes," Zora says honestly. "I mean, I don't know. I just know I'm here with you and nothing could make me more happy." 

"I'm sorry, Z," she says, putting her head on her shoulder. 

Later, when the party has devolved into smaller groups and the older players have started disappearing to bed, Zora finds herself sitting slightly apart, watching everyone.

Oliver is talking to Coach Joe, his face animated as he discusses some Keeper technique. 

She watches the way he laughs at something Coach Joe says, throwing his head back. The way his hands move when he's explaining something he's passionate about. The way he glances over at her every few minutes, just checking, just making sure she's okay.

And suddenly she feels it—not like drowning, but like breathing. 

She feels it. How much love she has for him.

For two years, she drowned in sacrifice. Let Viktor's needs consume her until there was nothing left. Let her mother's demands erase her. Let the world convince her that loving someone meant disappearing for them. She's done with that. She's done sacrificing herself for the others. 

But this—this is different.

This love doesn't ask her to be smaller. Doesn't demand she set herself on fire to keep someone else warm. This love says: be more. be everything. be yourself.

With Oliver, love means choosing. Actively. Deliberately. Every single day.

She chooses this. This love. Chooses him. 

The kind of love that steadies. That grounds. That makes everything else make sense.

It's overwhelming, yes—intense in its certainty—but not in a way that destroys. In a way that builds. In a way that feels like the most fundamental truth she's ever known.

She spent so long letting other people's swallow her whole. Always putting everyone else first until she forgot she was allowed to want things for herself. But this love. This has always been there, waiting for her, helping her, saving her. 

She's done sacrificing herself on the altar of other people's happiness. Done letting love be the thing that unmakes her.

With Oliver, love is the thing that remakes her. That reminds her who she is. That gives her permission to take up space and want things and choose herself without guilt.

And she wants to tell him. Needs to tell him. Needs him to understand that this love—their love—isn't just something she feels. It's something she chooses. Something she fights for. Something she claims with both hands.

She's choosing him. She's choosing this. She's choosing a love that gives back just as much as it takes.

And God, she needs him to know. Needs to scream it, show it, make him understand the magnitude of what she's feeling for him. 

Oliver catches her watching him and excuses himself, crossing over to sit beside her.

"You alright?" he asks softly.

"Can we go somewhere?" Her voice is quiet but sure. "Just us?"

He nods immediately, and they slip away. They walk the fields and then into the forest,  to the small wooden cabin at the edge of the property—the one where everything first shifted between them.

Moonlight spills through the only window, painting everything silver. Oliver walks in it, hands in his pockets, smiling. 

"The storm" Oliver says quietly, and she knows he's remembering too. That night. 

Oliver smiles, shaking his head. "God I was so jealous," Oliver admits. "Of you and Samuel. Watching you two that summer, the way he looked at you... I hated myself for it. For feeling something I didn't understand yet."

Zora chuckles and smiles at him. "I remember lying here in the dark with you," Zora says softly. "And thinking I'd never felt so calm. So sure. And it felt so—right."

Oliver moves closer, and in the moonlight she can see every emotion on his face.

"Oliver, I—" She stops, and suddenly all her words fail her. All her confidence, her sharp tongue—gone. "I need to tell you something, and I don't know how to make it sound as true as it feels."

"Try," he says gently, putting a lock of hair under her ear. 

She takes a shaking breath, closes her eyes and says it. 

"Oliver, I love you."

Silence. 

"I love you so much, and for so long, that I can't remember what my heart felt like before it beat for you. I've tried to remember—what it was like before you—and I can't."

She opens her eyes again. Her voice grows stronger.

"The love I have for you. It's—, it's like the one true thing in a world that kept trying to convince me I was wrong about everything. You're my certainty. My constant. The one thing that never wavered even when I was drowning."

She steps closer, her hands finding his.

"I love you in a way that's solid and unshakeable and so completely sure that it scares me sometimes—because how can something this big, this fundamental, exist inside one person?"

She smiles, feeling more at ease now. 

"I love your steadiness and your strength and how you make me feel like I'm enough exactly as I am. I love your hands and your smile and the way you say my name. I love your awkwardness, your dedication."

Oliver's eyes are flooding with tears.

"I just need you to know that loving you isn't something that happened to me. It's something I am. It's woven into every part of who I am. And you deserve to know you're loved like this—completely, fiercely, certainly. Forever."

For a moment, Oliver can't speak. Just stands there with tears running down his face, looking at her like she's everything he wants right now, everything he needs. He breathes shakily. 

"The last time you stopped me from saying it," he finally manages, voice wrecked. "Before you left from Hogwarts. The last time I got to see you, to kiss you before everything." 

He closes the distance, his hands coming up to frame her face with a gentleness that makes her sob harder.

"But I will never be quiet about this again. Not for the rest of my life." His voice shakes. "I love you, Zora Krum. I've loved you since I was fifteen and too stupid to understand what it meant. I loved you when you were my rival, when I thought I hated you and I loved you through every single version of yourself—the strong ones and the shattered ones and everything in between."

His thumbs brush away her tears even as his own fall.

"You say this love is certain? You're right. It's the surest thing I've ever known. Like my heart always knew this is where it belonged."

"I love you in a way that consumes me, that completes me. I love your fire and they way you make me whole."

He presses his forehead against hers.

"You are not just the love of my life. You're my life. You're the one truth I never question. The one thing I know, all the way down to my bones, is exactly right."

His voice breaks completely.

"There is no version of my future that doesn't have you in it, because you're not separate from me anymore. You're part of who I am. I love you and I want to shout it to the world, to make sure everyone knows I will love you until my last breath, and even then, I'll still love you."

She laughs. He laughs too. He kisses her deeply. She grabs his hair to hold on to the intensity of the kiss. 

When they break apart, both of them are shaking, foreheads pressed together.

"I love you," she whispers.

"I love you too," he whispers back. "Forever."

And in that small cabin where something first shifted between them, they stand together—choosing this solid, unshakeable, absolutely certain love.

The kind that simply is, and always has been, and always will be.

Forever.