Nearby halls were filled with the low murmur of voices as they were
lead through the old castle to their rooms. Liz could hear the prefects
calling to stray first years as they clamored up the stone stairwells.
Luckily for Liz, it seemed to her, she was alone this particular wing
hadn't seen attacked by an onslaught of students, new or old. She walked
slowly down the hall, similar to the one she had entered through with
Hermione earlier. Large iron torches stood, bolted to the walls, the thin
veil of wispy black smoke curling towards the ceiling. Along the wall a
few rich, velvety tapestries hung, various pictures woven into them. She
stopped in front of one that captured her attention. An old looking man
with stern eyes and a long, knarly staff stood on top of a barren
promontory. Below him a small ship was tossed unmercifully about in the
waves of a raging sea storm. At the man's feet, a pretty young girl knelt,
her hands clasped in supplication while an airy creature, a fairy maybe,
floated by the old man's head tossing fire in-between it's slender fingers.
The intricately woven scene that met her bespectacled eyes seemed warmly
familiar to her, as she heard her father's voice whispering in her memory.
"No one knew he was a wizard, they just assumed he was a brilliant muggle. And even though the old magician's character seemed to mirror his own, no one ever knew that the story was really a sort of autobiography."
"If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them…" she whispered almost mutely to the fabric, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Those words, and so many like them, they always brought her home and gave her comfort in the darkest of places. In the darkness of the corridor, she thought she heard the faint clip of footsteps landing on the cobbled floor. Nonsense, she told herself, your mind's just playing tricks on you. "The sky it seems would poor down stinking pitch, but that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheeks, dashes the fire out." She continued quietly, hoping to calm her frazzled nerves at the thought of company. All her speech did was to incite her supposed- imaginary guest to finish her line, his own low voice rumbling through the passage like a warm wind.
"Oh, I have suffered with those I saw suffered. A brave vessel that had no doubt some noble creature in her, dashed all to pieces."
Liz stiffened only slightly and turned slowly to face the voice's owner. Her eyes widened and she managed a tiny gasp as an unearthly gorgeous boy, no, young man stood before her. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The lights from the torches cast odd shadows over hi face, but he was still… perfect. His eyes, those fathomless brown eyes, stared intently at her while a small grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, those full lips…
"Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer may know, oh you wonder, if you be maid or no?" the embodiment of all virtues finished. Liz smiled as she recognized the words, that most welcome feeling of comfort washing over her, doubled now because it came from such a being.
"That's Shakespeare," she said, her thin voice echoing majestically in the hall. "The Tempest." The man nodded.
"Right after Ferdinand finds Miranda. Am I right?" he asked. Liz nodded, barely, her ears ringing with his voice, so low and delicately rumbly, with a strong Scottish accent rolling through his words. Like music, she thought, like bagpipes, she added, smiling.
"I thought so," he assured himself, pushing off the wall. He walked to the tapestry, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Ah, Prospero. What apiece of work is man." He sighed, shaking his head.
"That's from Hamlet." She quietly corrected. He started for a moment, then turned his head to look at her, his eyes boring right through her.
"So it is. My mistake." He smiled. Smiled. And Liz felt her knees start to go weak. No, please no, she thought, mustering all the strength that would respond, please don't let me faint. Not here, not now. It would be mortifying. For once her body obeyed and merely slumped against the wall, darting her eyes towards the hanging and away from his dangerous eyes.
"I'm Oliver, by the way. Oliver Wood." He said, never taking his eyes from the girl.
"And who might you be, besides the second biggest Shakespeare expert at the school?"
Liz looked at him oddly. "Second?"
"Well, I would be first, wouldn't I? Not withstanding my little Hamlet mix up, I'm proud to say I'm possibly the world's foremost scholar of the bard." Liz just stared at him, fighting hard not to laugh.
"So, do you have a name, or shall I call you my dark lady?"
"Elizabeth." She managed, her eyes glimmering with undone laughter.
"Elizabeth… what?"
"Elizabeth… Shakespeare, actually." She said, bursting into a fit of laughter. Oliver just started at her, blushing.
"Alright then, maybe I'm not number one after all." He chuckled, his warm baritone rolling through her delicate soprano. So, she does laugh, he thought with relief. Watching the bizarrely stoic girl at dinner had worried him, slightly. He'd never seen anyone so stressed, so uneasy at Hogwarts, the teachers and over all environment usually forced the happiness right out of you, whether you wanted it or not. But this girl seemed genuinely at peace with her distress, and that disturbed him. until he heard her laugh, that is.
"So, are you an actual…"
"Descendant? Yes, I am. Pure blooded all the way back."
"Wow. A real live Shakespeare, right before my very eyes. Do you write?"
"A little. Not as well as gramps did, but I try."
Gramps? He thought. "You're not from here, are you?" she shyly shook her head.
"I transferred here from Salem Academy in Massachusetts."
Wood's eyes widened. "America? You're from America then?"
She nodded.
"Wow. We've never had a Yankee here before."
Liz smiled. So, she was an oddity. She wondered how well she would fit that part, the mysterious foreigner. Hmm…
"Listen, I saw you stalk out here,"
"I did not stalk." She corrected with quiet dignity.
"Alright, walk, out here and I was wondering where you were going,"
"Well, I actually don't know. I just thought I might wander around a bit, get a feel for the school, I guess."
"No, around here you don't just wander. Not unless you have an experienced guide."
"And you, I suppose, would pass for an experienced guide?"
"Well, I didn't want to say anything, but yes. I mean after all, I have gone here all seven years. If that doesn't give you some first hand knowledge with this place's geography I don't know what will."
"So, you're a seventh year, too?" she asked. He nodded in reply. "Hmm. Well, I seem to think that that Hermione girl would be a better guide than you, Mr. Wood."
"Granger?" he asked, feigning shock. "How can you be serious? She's nothing but a little fifth year." He said with amusingly fake affectedness. "Besides, Hermione doesn't know where to find "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" in the library, and I do. So that's two strikes against her."
Liz just stared at him, his face washed with his brilliant smile.
"So, you think you could show me where the library is?" she managed shyly. Oliver's face fell into seriousness as he held out his arm for her. Liz slipped her own tiny limb through his, marveling at how big his arm was, at how warm he was…
Oliver smiled down at her politely, quietly making their way down the hall to the library. He breathed, a strange new smell permeating the musty hall. Roses. He looked down at the girl next to him and smiled. She smelled like roses, beautiful roses. Stop it Wood, he warned himself. No good in thinking stuff like that, now is there? And to tell the truth there wasn't. But there also was no good in his taking this strangely alluring recluse to the library their first night back. Nor was there any good in his following her at all. But he was, and he had a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that he was going to be doing exactly what he was doing for quite sometime.
"No one knew he was a wizard, they just assumed he was a brilliant muggle. And even though the old magician's character seemed to mirror his own, no one ever knew that the story was really a sort of autobiography."
"If by your art, my dearest father, you have put the wild waters in this roar, allay them…" she whispered almost mutely to the fabric, a small smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. Those words, and so many like them, they always brought her home and gave her comfort in the darkest of places. In the darkness of the corridor, she thought she heard the faint clip of footsteps landing on the cobbled floor. Nonsense, she told herself, your mind's just playing tricks on you. "The sky it seems would poor down stinking pitch, but that the sea, mounting to the welkin's cheeks, dashes the fire out." She continued quietly, hoping to calm her frazzled nerves at the thought of company. All her speech did was to incite her supposed- imaginary guest to finish her line, his own low voice rumbling through the passage like a warm wind.
"Oh, I have suffered with those I saw suffered. A brave vessel that had no doubt some noble creature in her, dashed all to pieces."
Liz stiffened only slightly and turned slowly to face the voice's owner. Her eyes widened and she managed a tiny gasp as an unearthly gorgeous boy, no, young man stood before her. He was leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. The lights from the torches cast odd shadows over hi face, but he was still… perfect. His eyes, those fathomless brown eyes, stared intently at her while a small grin tugged at one corner of his mouth, those full lips…
"Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe, my prayer may know, oh you wonder, if you be maid or no?" the embodiment of all virtues finished. Liz smiled as she recognized the words, that most welcome feeling of comfort washing over her, doubled now because it came from such a being.
"That's Shakespeare," she said, her thin voice echoing majestically in the hall. "The Tempest." The man nodded.
"Right after Ferdinand finds Miranda. Am I right?" he asked. Liz nodded, barely, her ears ringing with his voice, so low and delicately rumbly, with a strong Scottish accent rolling through his words. Like music, she thought, like bagpipes, she added, smiling.
"I thought so," he assured himself, pushing off the wall. He walked to the tapestry, his eyes glinting in the dim light. "Ah, Prospero. What apiece of work is man." He sighed, shaking his head.
"That's from Hamlet." She quietly corrected. He started for a moment, then turned his head to look at her, his eyes boring right through her.
"So it is. My mistake." He smiled. Smiled. And Liz felt her knees start to go weak. No, please no, she thought, mustering all the strength that would respond, please don't let me faint. Not here, not now. It would be mortifying. For once her body obeyed and merely slumped against the wall, darting her eyes towards the hanging and away from his dangerous eyes.
"I'm Oliver, by the way. Oliver Wood." He said, never taking his eyes from the girl.
"And who might you be, besides the second biggest Shakespeare expert at the school?"
Liz looked at him oddly. "Second?"
"Well, I would be first, wouldn't I? Not withstanding my little Hamlet mix up, I'm proud to say I'm possibly the world's foremost scholar of the bard." Liz just stared at him, fighting hard not to laugh.
"So, do you have a name, or shall I call you my dark lady?"
"Elizabeth." She managed, her eyes glimmering with undone laughter.
"Elizabeth… what?"
"Elizabeth… Shakespeare, actually." She said, bursting into a fit of laughter. Oliver just started at her, blushing.
"Alright then, maybe I'm not number one after all." He chuckled, his warm baritone rolling through her delicate soprano. So, she does laugh, he thought with relief. Watching the bizarrely stoic girl at dinner had worried him, slightly. He'd never seen anyone so stressed, so uneasy at Hogwarts, the teachers and over all environment usually forced the happiness right out of you, whether you wanted it or not. But this girl seemed genuinely at peace with her distress, and that disturbed him. until he heard her laugh, that is.
"So, are you an actual…"
"Descendant? Yes, I am. Pure blooded all the way back."
"Wow. A real live Shakespeare, right before my very eyes. Do you write?"
"A little. Not as well as gramps did, but I try."
Gramps? He thought. "You're not from here, are you?" she shyly shook her head.
"I transferred here from Salem Academy in Massachusetts."
Wood's eyes widened. "America? You're from America then?"
She nodded.
"Wow. We've never had a Yankee here before."
Liz smiled. So, she was an oddity. She wondered how well she would fit that part, the mysterious foreigner. Hmm…
"Listen, I saw you stalk out here,"
"I did not stalk." She corrected with quiet dignity.
"Alright, walk, out here and I was wondering where you were going,"
"Well, I actually don't know. I just thought I might wander around a bit, get a feel for the school, I guess."
"No, around here you don't just wander. Not unless you have an experienced guide."
"And you, I suppose, would pass for an experienced guide?"
"Well, I didn't want to say anything, but yes. I mean after all, I have gone here all seven years. If that doesn't give you some first hand knowledge with this place's geography I don't know what will."
"So, you're a seventh year, too?" she asked. He nodded in reply. "Hmm. Well, I seem to think that that Hermione girl would be a better guide than you, Mr. Wood."
"Granger?" he asked, feigning shock. "How can you be serious? She's nothing but a little fifth year." He said with amusingly fake affectedness. "Besides, Hermione doesn't know where to find "The Complete Works of William Shakespeare" in the library, and I do. So that's two strikes against her."
Liz just stared at him, his face washed with his brilliant smile.
"So, you think you could show me where the library is?" she managed shyly. Oliver's face fell into seriousness as he held out his arm for her. Liz slipped her own tiny limb through his, marveling at how big his arm was, at how warm he was…
Oliver smiled down at her politely, quietly making their way down the hall to the library. He breathed, a strange new smell permeating the musty hall. Roses. He looked down at the girl next to him and smiled. She smelled like roses, beautiful roses. Stop it Wood, he warned himself. No good in thinking stuff like that, now is there? And to tell the truth there wasn't. But there also was no good in his taking this strangely alluring recluse to the library their first night back. Nor was there any good in his following her at all. But he was, and he had a nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that he was going to be doing exactly what he was doing for quite sometime.