Disclaimer: I don't own anything, nor will I pretend to. Actually, it could be argued that the characters own me, but that's a subject of debate. The text, however, is a product of my mind, and I know the fandom stereotypes, but I'd appreciate if that doesn't go anywhere. If you're bound and determined to steal, I can't stop you, but please be smart about it. Also, this story is contemporaneous with PoA, but that much should be made obvious.

Chapter One

There weren't many things that could take Oliver Wood's mind off of Quidditch.

Actually, aside from his classes, to which he only paid enough mind to keep his marks high enough to be eligible to play Quidditch, he didn't bother with much at all. It wasn't as though he had time, anyway.

He was in his seventh year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Captain and Keeper for the Gryffindor Quidditch team, and entirely focused on surviving his last year—and winning the Quidditch Cup for his house. They had a fantastic team, probably the best Hogwarts had seen in years, and they really should have been able to win the Cup by now. In fact, it was only owing to a rather unfortunate set of circumstances that they hadn't won yet.

But this year was Gryffindor's year. He could feel it. And that meant one thing, for certain—Oliver Wood's mind was going to be focused entirely on Quidditch this year. Which meant, quite simply, no distractions.

No distractions meant no trips to Hogsmeade, no late nights in the Gryffindor common room, and most importantly, no girls. Not that that was a problem, as practically the only girls he'd spoken to in the past few years had been his own Seekers—Angelina Johnson, Katie Bell, and Alicia Spinnet. All nice young women, of course, but he had no romantic interest in any of them.

Nor did he have a romantic interest in anyone else inside of Hogwarts—or outside of it, for that matter. No, Oliver Wood was going to be single, and single-minded. Every fiber of his being that wasn't required for class would be focused entirely on Quidditch.

Wood had decided most of this well before the summer had ended, of course. But now, on the morning of his return to Hogwarts, his mind was firmly set. He was going to bring the Quidditch Cup back to Gryffindor, or die trying.

"Have you packed, Oliver?" his father asked, as he walked into the kitchen that morning.

"Good morning to you, too, Dad." Wood grabbed a piece of toast from the plate on the table, biting into it without bothering to sit down. If his mother had been there, she would have had something to say about his poor manners. Luckily, she was still upstairs—and his father was immersed in the Daily Prophet. "I've had my things downstairs since last night. When are we leaving?"

"Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen," his father replied, his eyes not leaving the paper in his hands. "Bruce Waters asked if you'd stop by before you left."

"Should I go now, then?"

He nodded slowly. "Might be a good idea, Oliver."

Wood laughed to himself and took another piece of toast on his way out the door. Mr. Waters wouldn't mind if he hadn't finished eating by the time he reached the house. Then again, it would be surprising if he hadn't finished eating by the time he reached the house, as it was a considerable distance from his own. That was to be expected in the highlands, though. The Waters family lived in the closest neighboring home, and the nearest homes beyond that were several miles away. Wood was used to the solitude, really—it was so much easier for wizarding families to live apart from Muggles, anyway.

He'd finished his toast by the time he was halfway to the Waters' house, and he jogged the rest of the way, wishing he hadn't already packed his broomstick away. It would have been easier to ride than walk, really, he decided as he knocked on the front door. Then he wouldn't have to dread the hike back to his own house.

Mr. Waters answered the front door, smiling brightly as he saw Wood standing there. "Oliver. Hello." He opened the door a bit wider. "Won't you come in?"

"That's all right, Mr. Waters," he replied. "I can't stay long, anyway."

Mr. Waters nodded and stepped outside as well, closing the door behind him. "Ready to go back to Hogwarts, Oliver? I hear Gryffindor is set to win the Quidditch Cup this year."

Wood nodded. "Of course we are. We've got the best team in the school."

"So I hear. Potter's still your Seeker, eh?"

"That's right. And the rest of our team's fantastic, too. There's really no reason we shouldn't win the Quidditch Cup."

"That's what I like to hear, Oliver." He reached out and ruffled Wood's hair. Wood forced a smile as he smoothed his hair back into place. "But you make sure you watch out for that Seeker. Can't afford to lose him this year, can you?"

His tone made Wood wonder if perhaps he knew more than he was letting on. "No, Mr. Waters. The last time we played without Potter—"

"Well, you won't play without Potter this year," he interrupted. "They'll make sure of that."

"Who will?"

Mr. Waters shook his head. "You just keep your mind on Quidditch, Oliver. You've got a tough year ahead of you."

"I'll be fine." Even as he said the words, he somehow doubted him. Then again, Mr. Waters could do that to even the most confident man. "I have to leave soon, so…"

"Oh! I almost forgot why I sent for you." He held a small roll of parchment out to Wood. "Would you mind taking this up to my daughter? I'd send it by owl, but I think she'd rather have it tonight."

Wood nodded as he slid the parchment into his pocket. Ainsley Waters was a fifth-year Gryffindor, one of the few people outside of the Quidditch team that he actually spoke with on a regular basis. Of course, she'd spent the summer in Italy, visiting her mother's sister, so he hadn't seen her at all since they'd left Hogwarts. "I'll see that she gets it, Mr. Waters. Goodbye."

"Oh, and Oliver?"

He'd been halfway turned around when Mr. Waters had spoken again, and he bit back a groan as he turned to face the older man. He had a feeling he knew exactly what this next request was going to be. "Yes, sir?"

"Look out for my little girl, would you?"

"Of course," Wood replied, before he had time to think twice about it. He liked Mr. Waters too much to refuse, but it really was a difficult task. Beneath her quiet outer shell, Ainsley was really a bit of a spitfire, and she'd never taken well to him trying to look after her. In fact, she downright hated it, and Wood had a feeling she hated him by association.

But a promise was a promise, and Wood intended to do exactly as Mr. Waters had asked, no matter what Ainsley thought about it.

"And good luck with the Quidditch season, Oliver!"

The exclamation reached his ears halfway to his own front door, and he turned and waved to Mr. Waters before continuing on his way. Well, at least he's got my mind back where it should be, he thought to himself.

He didn't need to think about Ainsley Waters; he needed to think about Quidditch. And so he did—all the way to King's Cross Station, during the walk to platform nine and three-quarters, and as he said goodbye to his parents and boarded the Hogwarts Express. He secured himself an unoccupied compartment, knowing the solitude wouldn't last the entire trip, but not really caring. He had more important things to worry about, anyway.

Those more important things included a whole stack of Quidditch plays for the upcoming season—plays he'd spent most of the summer designing and perfecting. Now most of them just needed a bit of tweaking and fine-tuning before they were ready to present to the Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Wood was so caught up in his work—a movement of a Chaser here, a block by a Beater there—that he almost didn't realize there was someone else in the compartment. Almost, that is, until a flurry of giggles caught his attention. He looked up to see four fifth-year girls (he thought they were Hufflepuffs, although he couldn't be entirely sure) smiling at him. "Hello, ladies. Can I help you?"

A short blonde girl giggled again. "You're Oliver Wood. Aren't you?"

"I am," he replied. "You're in Hufflepuff, right? Shouldn't you be off hounding someone like Cedric Diggory?"

All four girls deflated a bit at that. "Cedric's talking to some Gryffindor girls," said a brunette. "So we thought we'd see what you were up to."

A few of them had been eyeing his Quidditch plays, Wood realized, and he casually slid another sheet of parchment on top of them. Luckily, there hadn't been much to see in the plays, but he really wasn't up for taking chances. "You thought you'd see what I was up to," he repeated. "In other words, you're just using me to upset Diggory?"

"If you are using him to upset Diggory, you might do well to know he's got no idea what going on in here," a voice spoke up from the doorway. "He's still two cars down, talking to Ainsley Waters."

The Hufflepuff girls scattered, and Wood looked up at the girl who's provided his saving grace—Alicia Spinnet, as it turned out. She smiled brightly and sat beside him. "Hello, Oliver. It's lucky those girls didn't eat you alive."

"They might have, if you hadn't turned up." He pulled the stack of parchment back into his lap. "I think they just wanted to see my Quidditch plays, anyway."

"I think they wanted a bit more than your Quidditch plays, Oliver."

She was right, of course, and he felt a bit daft for not having realized it sooner. "You're right, Alicia. They would have wanted to see us practice, too."

"Sure," Alicia said slowly. "Sure, if that's what you want to believe. Anyway, I should get back to Angelina and Katie. I only stopped in to save our Captain from being torn to shreds."

"Thank you for that. I don't know how we'd ever win the Quidditch Cup without a full team."

"I don't know how we'd win without you as Keeper," she retorted, as she stood up. "But Oliver?"

Wood looked up from his stack of plays. "Yes?"

"That top play looked absolutely terrible."

He grinned. "Decoy. Can't have those Hufflepuff girls leaving with too much information, can we?"

She laughed softly and shook her head. "You're impossible, Oliver."

"I know." He smiled at her as she turned to leave the compartment—and then an idea struck him. "Wait, Alicia. Did you say you'd seen Ainsley Waters?"

Her smile turned almost devious. "Why? Is Ainsley just irresistible to all the Captains?"

"All the Captains" no doubt included himself and Cedric Diggory, and probably Roger Davies as well. But then… "Flint's not been after her, has he?"

Alicia shrugged. "I don't know, Oliver. I should hope not, though." She shuddered—understandably, as Marcus Flint was hardly a heartthrob. "Why do you care so much, anyway?"

"I don't. I just—" He realized then that there was really no way to extract himself from the mess, so he didn't even try. "Ainsley's father wanted me to give her this," he said, pulling the parchment out of his pocket. "Would you mind…?"

"Oh, of course," said Alicia, as she stepped back toward him and took the parchment. No sooner had he released it from his grip than she cried out and dropped it onto the floor. "Ouch! What was that?"

"Probably a trick of her father's," Wood replied with a laugh. "I'll have to find her myself, I guess."

"D'you want me to send her down here?"

The real question was, did he want to see Ainsley Waters before he absolutely had to? "That's all right, Alicia. I'm sure I'll see her later."

Alicia nodded and left the compartment without another word—probably just as well, as Wood wasn't much in the mood for a prolonged conversation, anyway. No, the only thing on his mind was Quidditch—and specifically finishing the last of his new plays before he had to deal with any further interruptions.

If the rest of the team were half as dedicated as he was, Gryffindor would be able to win the Quidditch Cup in their sleep.

* * *

By the time the train reached Hogwarts, however, Wood didn't feel dedicated to Quidditch. Of course, that probably had a lot to do with the fact that no sooner had he finished with his stack of plays, than Fred and George Weasley had descended upon his compartment, making it absolutely impossible to concentrate. Then, of course, there had been the business of the dementors, which was the subject of many whispered conversations around him.

Most notably, though, his Quidditch teammates seemed to be thinking and talking about anything and everything but the game. As they entered the Great Hall, he heard Katie Bell chattering away about a trip to France, Alicia and Angelina hanging on her every word. Surprisingly enough, Wood found himself joining the conversation. "So then you had a good summer, Katie?"

Katie stared at him for a few seconds, her eyebrows nearly at her hairline. "It was wonderful, Oliver," she finally said, cautiously. "I'll be more than ready for the Quidditch season, if that's what you're asking."

"I was asking if you'd had a good summer," he replied. "Don't see why I can't talk about something other than Quidditch."

Angelina looked at him oddly. "Are you feeling all right, Oliver?"

"Why would you want to talk about something other than Quidditch, anyway?" Alicia asked.

"You must have your eyes on the Quidditch Cup this year," Katie chimed in.

He grinned. "Doesn't it already have Gryffindor's name on it? We're the best ruddy team in the school. Once we start practice, and—"

"That sounds like the Oliver we know," said Angelina, with a laugh. "Alicia says you've got some fantastic plays for us."

"Alicia wouldn't know," he replied. "She's only seen my decoy play. You'll see them all together."

Angelina and Katie both glared playfully at Alicia, and Wood smiled at the trio before stepping around them on his way to the Gryffindor table. Yes, Gryffindor would win the Quidditch Cup this year. And yes, he would focus every available facet of his mind on Quidditch.

"Hello, Oliver!"

He turned at the chorus of voices to see a group of sixth-year girls from his own house—he recognized their faces, but couldn't even guess their names—waving at him. He graced them with a small smile, feeling his stomach turn as they erupted into giggles. They sat near one end of the table, and he moved to the opposite end, hoping he didn't look too obvious. He just wasn't in the mood to make idle conversation with people he didn't really know.

"Isn't it just an awful pain to be popular?"

For a second, Wood thought he might have inadvertently sat beside Percy Weasley. Naturally, it was a great relief when he realized the shock of red hair belonged to not Percy, but George. "I wouldn't know, George. I'm not that popular."

He grinned. "Sure you are, Oliver. Everyone knows the Quidditch Captain. Shame you don't know any of them, really."

"I know them," he protested.

Fred, on the other side of George, laughed. "No you don't, Oliver. You know the Quidditch teams, and that's really about it. I'd bet you can't name more than twenty other students in all of Hogwarts."

Wood wanted to argue that, but there was really no point. To be honest, he really didn't know many students outside of the four Quidditch teams. Then again, that wasn't necessarily a bad thing. "Would you rather I spent more time meeting the other students, and less time drawing up Quidditch plays? Maybe you'd like to lose the Quidditch Cup again this year."

They both looked positively horrified at that. "No, keep your mind on Quidditch," Fred said quickly. "We'll win the Cup this year, Oliver. I'm sure of it."

"Are you three talking about Quidditch again? Honestly, it's like you never talk about anything else."

Wood turned at the familiar voice, his heart sinking a bit as he realized that this shock of red hair did belong to Percy Weasley. He liked Percy well enough, of course, but judging from the Head Boy's pompous smile, he'd have a better time sitting next to Marcus Flint. At least the Slytherin Captain would be good for an exchange of insults. "Hello, Percy," he said dryly. "D'you want us to talk about something else, then?"

Percy stuck out his chest a bit, his Head Boy badge catching the light as he did so. Wood noticed that he still hadn't realized it read Bighead Boy. "Anything, Oliver, so long as it's not Quidditch. I've heard more than enough from my brothers this summer."

"Then why don't you tell us about making Head Boy?" Fred asked.

"Oh, yes," George chimed in. "Do tell us. We've heard so little about it."

Percy looked mildly annoyed at that. "You're just jealous. Really, Oliver, don't you think Head Boy is an accomplishment?"

There was really nothing Wood hated more than playing mediator to an argument between the Weasley brothers. Before he could say anything to put a stop to the quarrel, however, George jumped in. "You do realize you're speaking to the Quidditch Captain, Perce?"

"And you do realize this is his third year as Captain?" Fred added.

"And you two do realize that some things are more important than Quidditch?" Percy snapped.

"Not many," Fred mumbled. "Don't you agree, Oliver?"

Caught between Percy's glare, and the twins' beseeching grins, Wood wasn't really sure what to say. Fortunately, he didn't have to say anything, because the conversation was cut short by the arrival of the first-years. The entire Great Hall fell silent, in anticipation of the Sorting Ceremony.

Halfway through the ceremony, George leaned over to Wood. "You do agree with Fred, though?"

"'Course I do," he whispered back. "Just didn't want to say so with Percy glaring at me like that."

George grinned. "So you're scared of the Head Boy, eh?"

"No, I—"

"Quiet, you two!" hissed Percy, from across the table.

Chastened—or at least pretending to be—they both sat back silently and watched the Sorting Ceremony. It was interesting, to a degree, although one could argue that it hadn't been really interesting since two years ago, when Harry Potter had become a Gryffindor. Now, it was just typical—sunny, gentle-looking children became Hufflepuffs, bookish ones Ravenclaws, slimy little brats Slytherins, and the rest Gryffindors.

At least, that was the way Wood always thought about it, even if it wasn't entirely true. It was just that members of the other houses were generally distinguishable just by appearance—one would never take a Hufflepuff for a Slytherin, for instance. Gryffindors, though, were nearly impossible to pick out by appearance alone (unless, of course, it was one of the Weasley siblings). But somehow, they all seemed to end up right where they belonged. And that was why the Sorting Hat was absolutely invaluable.

"Oi! Oliver!" Fred's voice pulled him back to reality. "Aren't you going to eat anything?"

Wood looked at the table, surprised to see that the dishes before him had already filled with food. Apparently, he'd missed all of Professor Dumbledore's speech. "Sorry, I…I wasn't paying attention."

"We noticed," said Fred, reaching for some potatoes. "Did you hear Dumbledore?"

Wood sighed. It was best to answer honestly, really. "Not at all. Was there anything important?"

"Dementors guarding the school," George replied. "And we've got two new teachers."

"Defense Against the Dark Arts?" he asked. That was a reasonable guess, as recently Hogwarts hadn't been able to keep that position filled for more than a year.

Percy nodded. "Professor Lupin, up there." He pointed to a man Wood didn't recognize. "And Hagrid's teaching Care of Magical Creatures, but you don't take that, anyway."

"And Harry's here," George added.

"'Course he is. He's been here two years, already."

George shook his head. "No, Oliver, I mean—" He broke off with a sigh. "Never mind. I'll never get it through to you, anyway."

Normally Wood might have argued a comment like that, but right now he was just a little too hungry. He hadn't even served himself, he realized, so he made quick work of filling his plate. Rather, he made quick work of filling his plate, until a familiar dish caught his eye. "What's this? Haggis?" He glanced at Percy, who shrugged. "Well, it is haggis, Perce. But we've never had it at the welcome feast before. What's it doing here?"

"Maybe someone asked for it," Fred mumbled around a bite of pork chop.

George snickered. "Don't be daft, Fred. Who would ask for haggis?"

"I would," Wood muttered.

"And so would I."

Wood looked up from his plate, directly into the gaze of a blonde girl who seemed unsettlingly familiar. "I'm sorry?"

"I said, I'd ask for haggis, Oliver." She smiled. "Actually, I did ask for haggis. I've had enough pasta over the summer to last me two lifetimes. Wanted something good and Scottish, for a change."

It was her words, more than her appearance, that made it click in his mind. "Ainsley? Is that you?"

Beside him, Fred and George burst out laughing. "'Course it's her, Oliver," Fred managed to sputter. "You mean to say you don't recognize your own neighbor?"

Wood glared at him, prepared to make a snappy retort, but it was Ainsley who spoke first. "Sod off, Fred. He'd recognize me if I'd spent any of the holiday at home. Wouldn't you, Oliver?"

"I—I—of course I would have," he stammered. "If you'd been home, I—well—you've grown up, Ainsley."

That much was certain. Ainsley Waters had grown up. Gone was the short child with the brown braid he'd tugged on throughout their childhood. Gone was the girl who could handle a broom better than her own two feet, but who couldn't play Quidditch worth a damn. Gone was the brat who'd spent most of the past four years avoiding him—and the rest of it cursing his very existence.

In her place was a confident, self-assured young woman who'd traded in her waist-length brown braid for shorter blonde curls, and who had acquired a considerable amount of poise—and who, most amazingly, was smiling at him. Clearly, the summer in Italy had agreed with her, because he was now looking at a completely different Ainsley Waters. She was mature, and polished, and graceful, and—

Well, perhaps not graceful, he decided, as Ainsley reached for the potatoes and accidentally knocked her goblet of pumpkin juice into Percy's lap. Percy swore and leapt to his feet, and Ainsley covered her mouth to hide her smile. "Oh, Percy, I'm so sorry! I honestly don't know what happened!"

Percy sat back down with a sigh. "It's all right, Ainsley. They'll dry."

Across the table, George smiled. "Maybe we—"

"No, George," he interrupted crossly. "No magic. Not from you."

Wood laughed. "Then what if I—"

"Not from you either, Oliver. If I trusted your spell work, I'd probably have two heads by now."

"Or a broomstick up your arse," George muttered.

"You mean to match the one he's already got?" Fred asked innocently.

Wood honestly didn't mean to laugh at that, but he did—and almost succeeded in snorting pumpkin juice through his nose and all over the table. As it was, he very nearly choked, and it was only after a prolonged coughing spell that he was able to regain his composure. Percy glared at him, clearly annoyed, but when Wood looked to the place beside the Head Boy, he caught sight of Ainsley's wicked smile.

Then, before he'd really thought about it, he found himself smiling back.

* * *

It wasn't until he returned to his dormitory that Wood remembered the letter from Ainsley's father. "Oh, bloody hell," he muttered, pulling the parchment out of his pocket. "I can't believe I forgot this."

"Forgot what?" asked Percy, as he unpinned his Head Boy badge and placed it on his nightstand.

"Mr. Waters asked me to take this letter to Ainsley," he replied. "I meant to give it to her tonight, at the feast."

"Can it wait until morning?"

Wood shrugged. "If it could, I'm sure he would have sent it by owl. I really should have given it to her at the feast." He sighed. "Unfortunately, I was a bit distracted by a certain Head Boy with stained pants."

Percy shook his head. "As if that was my fault, Oliver. If you ask me, Ainsley deserves to have that letter kept until breakfast."

"It's not her fault I forgot, you know."

He sighed. "I know. Would you like me to take it to her?"

"You can't. I already asked Alicia Spinnet to do it, but her father's put some sort of charm on it. Can't pass between anyone but myself and Ainsley."

"I wonder why?" Percy mused. Then he sighed again. "Fine, Oliver. Fine. Take the letter to the girls' dormitory. But if Professor McGonagall hears about this…"

"I know," Wood replied tiredly. "Then we'll both be expelled."

That wasn't true, of course. Professor McGonagall most likely wouldn't find out, unless Percy himself told her. Even if she did find out, she wouldn't do much more than cut a few points from Gryffindor. But if it gave Percy some sort of satisfaction to pretend he was putting them both in grave danger, Wood was perfectly happy to indulge him.

So Oliver Wood found himself heading into an area of Gryffindor Tower he'd never once entered in all his years there—the girls' dormitory. Actually, he'd barely opened the door to the staircase before he saw Angelina Johnson skipping down the staircase toward him. She stopped short when she caught sight of Wood, staring at him as though he'd just fallen out of the sky. "Oliver. You are aware that this is the girls' dormitory?"

"Sod off, Johnson, or you'll start Quidditch drills tomorrow."

"And how exactly would you explain that to Professor McGonagall?" She laughed lightly, skipping down the rest of the steps to stand in front of him. "What brings you here, anyway?"

"Ainsley." He held out the roll of parchment. "Her father asked me to bring this up. I completely forgot about it at the feast."

"And Percy let you break the rules?" She laughed again. "You can't go upstairs, Oliver. It'll just ruin the staircase, and then I'll never get back to my room."

Wood, who'd never even entertained the thought of visiting the girls' dormitory, suddenly began to understand just why he'd never visited. "Ruin the staircase?"

"Well, yeah. The steps all melt together, and then no one can get up. It's an old rule…I think it's been here since the school was founded." She shrugged. "I'll just…if you want, I can just go get her for you."

Angelina didn't even wait for a reply before she turned and jogged back up the steps. Not even a minute later, he heard several sets of footsteps descending the staircase, and before he knew it, five female faces were staring down at him. Obviously Angelina hadn't mentioned who was being summoned, or why, because the other four girls looked completely shocked.

Alicia was the first to regain her composure. "Hello, Oliver. Come to bring us the schedule for Quidditch practice?"

"Actually, I'm here for Ainsley." He thrust the parchment in her general direction. "Your father wanted me to give you this, and with all the commotion at he feast…"

"I don't blame you," she replied evenly. "I would have forgotten, myself."

"What happened at the feast?" Katie asked.

Brenna snickered. "Didn't you see Ainsley drop that goblet of pumpkin juice in Percy Weasley's lap?"

Katie stared at Ainsley in disbelief. "That was you?"

"None other," Ainsley said softly, blushing just a bit. She stepped around Katie, skipped down the last few steps toward Wood—and tripped over the last one, landing in a heap on the floor. "Bloody hell," she muttered, pushing her hair out of her face. "Didn't see that one coming."

Wood looked down at the disheveled witch at his feet, trying not to laugh. "Are you all right, Ainsley?"

"I'll be just fine," she replied, with a bit of a giggle. "No need to see Madam Pomfrey just yet, although I'm sure she has missed me. Likely I've spent more time in the hospital wing than any other student, except maybe Harry Potter. And the Petrified students last year, of course. But do you suppose they count, if they weren't conscious?"

As she'd spoken, she pulled herself to her feet and smoothed her clothing back into some semblance of its original state. Wood had just stared at her dumbly, and continued to do so for several seconds after she finished. "I—well—I—" he finally stammered, and then broke off with a sigh, holding the letter out to her once more. "Here. I'll just be going."

"No, stay. I'm sure he has something to say to you." Ainsley perched on the arm of a nearby chair and unrolled the parchment. "Here it is, right at the beginning: 'Dear Ainsley, first off, thank Oliver for delivering this. I hope it reached you faster than owl post.'" She stopped reading and smiled up at him. "You see? He'll say more, I'm sure."

"No doubt of that," he murmured, still a bit taken aback by her friendliness. This was, after all, the girl who'd spent the last four years of her life avoiding him at all costs. "Are you going to keep reading?"

"Oh, but it's such a pain…" She sighed and dropped her eyes back down to the parchment. "'Hope you arrived safely…tell me all about Italy…Sirius Black…do take care…' Oh! Here: 'Wish your Chasers and Beaters the best of luck, although with their skill, the luck might not be necessary. Tell Oliver we're all hoping for a fantastic season out of him, and remind everyone to keep a watch on that Seeker.' What do you suppose he means by that?"

"He asked me to look out for Potter earlier today," replied Wood. "Just before he reminded me to look out for you, actually."

If anything could make Ainsley bristle, that comment would certainly have done it. She didn't react, though; she simply yawned softly. "Right. Well, we should really be asleep by now, shouldn't we? Good night, Oliver."

"Good night," he said. "Oh, and Ainsley?"

"Yes?"

"D'you think I could see that letter sometime?"

"I'll have to translate it for you," she replied, through another yawn. "It's written in runic letters, you know."

"I didn't know you could actually write in runic letters," he mumbled.

Ainsley allowed a short laugh to escape her lips. "Oliver, don't you take Ancient Runes?"

"Yeah, and I'm lucky to pass it every year. My marks were abysmal, last year."

"That's a shame," said Ainsley. "It's a fascinating subject. Not nearly as wretched as Charms or Divination. And for the record, you can write in certain runic alphabets, if you're someone who likes to go to all the trouble. And my father does—he thinks of it as a sort of puzzle."

Wood couldn't remember the last time that Ainsley had been so talkative. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time she'd said more than five words to him in a pleasant tone. Naturally, he wasn't about to let this encounter turn sour. "Right. Well, I should be off, really. Good night, ladies."

"Good night, Oliver," they chorused, as he disappeared into the boys' staircase.

Admirably, they restrained their giggles until the door swung closed behind him.

* * *

"Ainsley Waters has certainly grown up, hasn't she?" Wood asked Percy, after he'd returned to their dormitory.

Percy stared at him for a few seconds, his expression nothing short of confused. "Ainsley Waters is an annoying little twit, Oliver. She's no more mature than my brothers."

"You're just saying that because she spilled pumpkin juice in your lap," he muttered, flopping onto his bed. "It was an accident, Perce."

"Accident or not, that girl hasn't changed."

"But she has," he said softly. "She…I don't know what it is, Perce, but there's something different about her. She's grown up."

"If you ask me, she's the same as always," Percy muttered, climbing into his own bed. "Irresponsible and uncooperative, and did I mention immature?"

"Once or twice," he said softly. "What've you got against her, anyway?"

Percy didn't reply for a moment. Then he sighed. "Did you know they wanted to make her a prefect? And she refused?" He probably thought her insane for refusing such an honor, Wood figured. "Said she didn't think she was right for it, or something like that."

Wood thought that was actually the most mature and responsible decision Ainsley could have made, but he didn't have a chance to say so before Percy spoke up again. "Why do you care about her, anyway? Haven't you already got enough to worry about, with the Quidditch team and school?"

"Of course I have," he replied crossly. "I never said I cared about Ainsley. She's always been a bit of a brat to me, anyway."

"She's always been a bit of a brat to everyone, Oliver. Don't waste your time trying to become her friend. She's had her mind set about you for a long time."

Wood sighed heavily, chewing on that piece of information for a while. "Good night, Percy," he finally murmured, drawing the curtains around his bed.

Percy was right—Ainsley Waters had made up her mind about him a long time ago. She thought he was bothersome and stifling, and he was sure there had been more than a few moments in her life that she'd downright hated him. And he didn't know if that was set to change anytime soon.

Of course, she'd been more than friendly in the Great Hall, and then again in her dormitory. And something about the smile they'd exchanged at the banquet made him wonder if maybe she did think differently of him. He almost hoped she did.

Almost, until he realized that this was most definitely not how he should be spending his time. His free time was to be dedicated solely to Quidditch. Ainsley Waters was nothing but a distraction.

At this point, the last thing he needed was a distraction.