Chapter Three

By dinner on Friday, Ainsley was certain that if she was ever going to find out exactly what Wood's problem was, she'd have to talk to him. Of course, that could prove to be a problem, as he'd managed to avoid her since their encounter over lunch on the first day of classes.

Luckily, George Weasley offered his help before she'd even thought to ask him. "D'you want to talk to Oliver tonight?" he asked, as they walked together to the Great Hall.

"I think so," she replied, a bit too shocked at his question to wonder exactly how he knew there was a problem. "I just don't know…"

"Oh, he won't avoid you," he assured her. "Fred and I'll make sure of that, if you want."

"Would you?"

He nodded. "We'd be happy to. Just leave everything to us."

Ainsley knew better than to be reassured by that. Amazingly, though, George was true to his word; he and Fred cornered Wood at the Gryffindor table, sitting on either side of him and effectively trapping him in his seat. Ainsley, meanwhile, was able to slide into a seat between some seventh-year girls and Lee Jordan—a seat that, conveniently enough, was directly across from Wood.

George grinned at her, and she flashed him a grateful smile before looking at Wood. "Evening, Oliver."

"Evening," he mumbled, not meeting her gaze.

"How have your classes been so far?" she asked.

"The same as they were the first day," he replied flatly.

Well, that might have been a step above one-word answers, but it wasn't much. She glanced helplessly at Fred, who shrugged. On Wood's other side, George's expression matched his brother's, and she realized with a sinking feeling that neither Weasley would be able to help her.

Thankfully, before the silence could grow too uncomfortable, Lee Jordan spoke up. "Did you hear about Draco Malfoy, Wood?"

Everyone knew about Draco Malfoy's encounter with the hippogriff by now, but that didn't stop the twins from pouncing on the subject. "Miserable little git's been back from the hospital wing since yesterday, and he's still whining about his arm," Fred muttered. "From what I heard, he wasn't even that bad off."

"Not as bad as Harry was, when Madam Pomfrey had to regrow half his bones last year," George added. "I can't believe they're letting Malfoy get away with this."

Wood glanced up at Ainsley. "So Malfoy beat you to the hospital this year, Ainsley? Lucky you weren't there with him, really."

"I know," she replied, barely able to keep her heart from leaping out of her chest with elation. Maybe things were normal, after all, and she'd just been imagining his hostility over the past few days. "Thanks to you, Oliver. I really do appreciate that."

"Don't mention it," he replied. Then his smile faded, and she could almost see him mentally slapping himself. When he spoke again, his voice was sharper. "Watch those stairs from now on. I won't always be there to catch you."

"Lucky you were, though," she murmured, hoping she'd imagined his gruff tone.

He shrugged. "Likely it won't happen again."

No, she definitely hadn't imagined the tone. "Oliver…?"

Wood suddenly became very interested in the food on his plate. Ainsley, still a bit confused about what had just happened, managed to choke a bite of her meal. It was very nearly inedible—and through no fault of the house elves in the kitchen. It was more the tension at her end of the table that made her unable to swallow her dinner.

Oliver Wood, it seemed, wanted nothing to do with her. That shouldn't have bothered Ainsley at all; really, she should have been elated, because all she'd wanted since she'd entered Hogwarts was for Wood to leave her alone. But now that it had actually happened—now that he'd snubbed her so openly, just when she'd thought they might become friends—she wasn't the least bit elated. Actually, it made her completely miserable.

Ainsley was only able to force down three or four more bites of her dinner before it became too much. She was going to either vomit or cry, and she really didn't want to do either in the Great Hall. With tears beginning to blur her vision, and her stomach in a thousand knots, she pushed away from the table and walked blindly toward the door.

The second she left the Great Hall, the sense of panic left her, taking her nausea with it. Her tears, though, remained, spilling out of her eyes with increasing speed as she tried desperately to control them. She knew she really shouldn't be crying over something so stupid, and this issue with Wood was stupid. But as hard as she fought her tears, they only fought back that much harder. Finally, she just gave in to them, letting them run down her face and completely blear her vision as she retraced the steps she knew so well to Gryffindor Tower.

Amazingly, no one seemed to have noticed her departure—or maybe no one really cared that she'd left. The more depressing of those two thoughts struck Ainsley halfway up the last staircase, and she raised her hand to her face to brush away the tears. They stilled for a moment, and she wiped briefly at her eyes as she continued up the stairs.

Or rather, as she tried to continue up the stairs, for she'd inadvertently stepped directly into the trick step that everyone usually remembered to jump. She'd only done it once before, in her first year, but she remembered the experience well. As her leg was already imbedded almost up to her knee, there was really no way to free herself from the step; she'd have to wait for someone else to come along. Of course, considering her luck, that "someone else" would no doubt be the entire Gryffindor house returning from dinner.

So it was a great surprise when she heard a single set of footsteps on the stairs, not two minutes later. And it was a very great surprise when she turned around and saw Oliver Wood walking up the stairs toward her.

She wiped hastily at the tears still rolling down her cheeks. "What are you doing here, Oliver?"

"I came after you," he replied. He looked concerned, she realized, as he approached her. "Are you all right?"

"I'm stuck in the stairs, Oliver. I'm stuck in the stairs, and you've been horrible to me all week, and I—" She stopped herself and took a shaky breath, trying desperately to keep her tone calm. "This has really been the worst week ever. All I want is to get my leg out of this stair and go back to my dormitory and forget any of this ever happened."

"Well, I can help you with part of that." He leaped lightly over the stair that still held her leg, then took hold of her arms and pulled her to the next step, which was blessedly solid. "There now. Is your leg all right?"

"It's fine," she replied glumly. "Now if I can just get back to the tower without anything else—Oliver, where are we going?"

Wood hadn't released her arm after he'd pulled her out of the stair, and he'd now led her up the staircase and in the opposite direction of Gryffindor Tower. He glanced at her in mild surprise. "You don't think it's time we had a talk, Ainsley?"

"No, I—no," she replied lamely. "I just…"

"We're not going back to the common room," he said softly, releasing her arm as they walked side by side down the hall. "Do you want Fred and George and that whole lot eavesdropping? Here, it's just you and me." A crash sounded somewhere nearby. "And…Peeves," he added weakly.

"And Peeves," she repeated. "I think I'd rather take my chances with all of Gryffindor."

"You say that now," he murmured. Then he sighed. "We haven't been here a week, Ainsley, and already it feels like a month. I don't know what's going on here."

"What do you mean?" she asked, feigning innocence.

Clearly, he didn't buy her attitude for an instant. "You know exactly what I mean, Ainsley. Look, I've really been a complete prat to you this week, and I'm sorry about that. And I'm sorry I made you cry."

"You didn't make me cry," she lied.

Wood stopped short, taking her arm again and turning her to face him. "Do you honestly expect me to believe that? By this point, everyone in the school knows I made you cry."

"But do they know why?" she asked softly. "Do they, Oliver? Because I don't. I have no idea why you've been so cold and…and hateful to me since classes started. And I think I deserve an explanation."

"I'm trying to give you an explanation," said Wood. "If you'd only just listen to me—"

"I'm listening," she murmured.

"All right, then. I'm afraid it's not a very good explanation, but it's all I've got." He sighed heavily. "Ainsley, you know how I feel about Quidditch?"

"I'd have to be completely daft to not know how you feel about Quidditch, Oliver," replied Ainsley. "What's that got to do with anything?"

"It's got everything to do with it. This year is my last chance to win the Quidditch Cup, and I…"

"Oh." It was all starting to make sense now. Maybe Percy had been right, after all. "You want to focus everything you've got on Quidditch, you mean? No distractions?"

"No distractions," he repeated softly. "And then you came back. And I thought it'd just be the same as always, and it really wouldn't matter if I didn't pay you any attention, because that's what you've always wanted."

"And then I decided that maybe I wanted to be your friend after all," she finished dully. "But that would have been a distraction, wouldn't it? And if the great Oliver Wood took his mind off of Quidditch for one second, to make friends with a girl who'd always been a brat to—"

"Ainsley," he interrupted sharply. "You might do well to let me finish."

Ainsley sighed. "Then finish. Finish, Oliver. And I'll forget I ever thought we could be friends, and I'll let you focus on Quidditch." The tears were coming back to her eyes again, and she blinked a few times, hoping they'd go away. They didn't. "Just…just tell me you want nothing to do with me, and I'll leave you alone."

"But you've got it all wrong," said Wood, his voice gentle. "The problem isn't that I want nothing to do with you. It's that…well, I just can't understand that you'd want anything to do with me, really."

"And why's that?"

"You've always hated me, Ainsley. I just don't understand why you'd think any differently of me now, that's all."

Ainsley shook her head. "I never hated you," she murmured finally. "I suppose it's only that I didn't know how to be your friend before. But when I came back, it felt like everything had changed, somehow. Maybe I was wrong about that, but—"

"No, it has changed." He smiled cautiously. "You've grown up, Ainsley. Before I left home, your father asked me to look out for you, but…but I'm not so sure you need that anymore."

Slowly, she returned his smile. "Maybe that's it, Oliver. Maybe I don't need a protector anymore. Maybe what I need most is a friend. And maybe…maybe that's what you need, too."

"Could be," he said. "You don't think that's a distraction?"

"I'm not asking you to fall in love with me," she replied. "I'm only asking you to be my friend. And isn't that really the best kind of distraction?"

He nodded. "I think so. Fortuna major." For they'd somehow come around to the entrance to Gryffindor Tower, and the Fat Lady had been waiting patiently for the password.

Ainsley crawled through the portrait hole, Wood just behind her, feeling lighter than she had all week. The common room, oddly enough, was still empty, which meant their conversation had taken considerably less time than she'd thought. She couldn't help smiling as she spun around to face Wood. "So that's that, then? We're all right?"

"I am if you are," he replied. Then, without warning, he'd wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tightly to him. "I'm glad we've got this worked out, Ainsley," he whispered into her ear.

She returned the hug, her smile growing impossibly brighter. "So am I, Oliver."

And so Ainsley, who had once wanted nothing more than to ignore Oliver Wood's very existence, became his friend.

* * *

Much to Wood's dismay, Professor McGonagall cornered him in the hallway on Monday morning. "Wood, might I have a word with you?" she asked.

He nodded silently, following her into her classroom. She returned to the chair behind her desk, and he stood nervously in front of her. "Is…is there a problem, Professor?"

"I don't know, Wood. Is there?" She eyed him carefully. "How does the Quidditch team look?"

"Just fine, as far as I can tell," he replied. "I won't know until we start practice in October, really, but we've got some new plays, and—well, you know Gryffindor has the best team in the school."

"I should hope so," she said. "I expect the team will be well-prepared for the first match?"

"Absolutely, Professor. Flint and Malfoy won't know what's hit them."

Professor McGonagall smiled. "Good. Good. Now, Oliver, we need to discuss your schoolwork."

Wood gulped, hoping it wasn't too audible in the classroom. School had always taken a bit of a backseat to Quidditch—always, since he'd joined the team. Now, though, in his final year, his classes were more important than ever. "My schoolwork, Professor? I suppose that's the problem?"

"Of course not. You did well enough last year." She cleared her throat. "Except, of course, for Ancient Runes. I honestly don't know why you're so insistent on keeping the subject, Wood. You've struggled with that class since the day you set foot in it, and last year's marks were nothing short of abysmal."

Exactly how she knew that, he had no idea, but he couldn't deny that she was absolutely right. He'd only taken Ancient Runes because Mr. Waters had spoken so highly of it. Of course, it wasn't until a term too late that he realized how difficult the subject actually was—and then it was just too much trouble to drop it. "I suppose I'm just not destined for the study of Ancient Runes, then."

"I should hope not, Wood. Even Professor Trelawney might get that prediction right." She sighed. "But I do expect you'll take some extra instruction?"

If only things were that simple. "I've spoken with Professor Wilcox before, and he—"

"I know he can be difficult to deal with, Wood," interrupted Professor McGonagall. "I was actually thinking you might take some help from one of your fellow students."

"Are any of my fellow students good with Ancient Runes, Professor?"

She smiled. "It isn't my job to know that, Wood. You'll have to find out for yourself."

"All right, then." He nodded. "Thank you, Professor."

Halfway to the door, her voice stopped him. "And Wood?" He turned back to face her, surprised to see that her expression had softened. "You might do well to look beyond the seventh-years."

Wood nodded again, then left the classroom, even more confused than before. How would he ever find a student good enough at Ancient Runes to tutor him in the subject? And how could a younger student possibly help him?

* * *

Two days later, he found his answer.

Breakfast in the Great Hall had been lively, as per usual. Fred and George Weasley had nearly started a food fight before a stern glare from Professor McGonagall had sobered them. Now, they were just flicking small pieces of toast at each other.

Wood, seated between the twins and a group of seventh-years, and across from Ainsley and his three Chasers, was still thinking about Professor McGonagall's suggestion. He honestly couldn't think of anyone good enough with Ancient Runes to actually tutor him in the subject—certainly not the other students in his class, as most of them had little more knowledge than he did.

Before he could think too deeply on the subject, the post arrived. The owls flew into the Great Hall, and one dropped the Daily Prophet at Ainsley's place, as usual. Wood reached across the table and snatched the sports page, but Ainsley didn't notice—actually, her eyes were still focused above, on a great tawny owl. "Haldir, you're back already?" she murmured.

Wood snickered at the name, and she arched an eyebrow at him. He shrugged. "What? I didn't name my owl Haldir. Bloody stupid name, if you ask me."

"Clearly, you have no appreciation for literature," she replied coolly.

"Not Muggle literature."

Ainsley laughed. "Oliver, you've hardly read anything other than Quidditch Through the Ages. And the Daily Prophet—is your Quidditch news really that important to you?" She reached for the paper, but he pulled it away just in time, grinning at her. "Fine, Oliver. I really don't care what you read. I just hope you remember who paid for that paper."

Wood ignored her and continued to read the paper. Meanwhile, the owl—Haldir—landed gracefully on Ainsley's shoulder, extending his leg toward her. She deftly untied the parchment from his leg, then smiled at him and rubbed his beak affectionately. Haldir hooted softly, snagged a piece of toast from her plate, and took off again.

Ainsley unrolled the parchment, sighing as she scanned the words. "Oh, not again."

"What?" Fred asked, through a mouthful of porridge.

"He's written in Runes. Does this every bloody time—thinks it's some great joke. It's such an awful pain to translate." She took a bite of toast, chewing slowly as her eyes flicked over the page. "Oliver, you'll appreciate this: 'Dear Ainsley, I hope your second week at Hogwarts finds you better than your first week. I'm glad to hear you and Oliver are on better terms. We'd always hoped you two might become friends one day. Your mother sends her love, and love to Oliver as well.'" She looked up from the parchment, meeting Wood's smiling gaze. "You'd think they cared as much about you as they do about me."

"They do." He reached across the table and pulled the top of the parchment down, squinting at the upside-down characters. "You just read that? It's all in runic letters, Ainsley."

"That's what I said before, isn't it?" She sighed. "And it's only a loose translation, really. I always have to infer so much. But I suppose that's what happens when people insist on writing in another alphabet."

"At least it's not Greek," George offered. "That's bloody impossible."

"Can't you read Greek letters, George?" She glanced up at him, then looked back at the letter. "The Greek alphabet isn't so very different from our own, really. Runes are something entirely different."

"And completely hopeless," said Wood, sighing. "I still can't believe I thought I could handle the class. My N.E.W.T.s are going to be awful."

Ainsley gazed at him over the top of her parchment. "If you're falling behind, I'd be happy to help you. I really know a bit too much about the subject not to share it with anyone." She smiled. "Besides, I hear you're wonderful with Divination, and I just can't seem to grasp it."

Whether she really was having problems with Divination, he didn't know. But it seemed like a fair enough trade. "All right, then. You'll help me with Ancient Runes, and I'll help you with Divination. How's that?"

"Brilliant!" She extended her right hand across the table. "Should we shake on it?"

"Of course." He folded his own hand over hers. "It's a deal, then."

"A deal," repeated Ainsley, smiling broadly.

Wood smiled back at her, not missing the incredible twist of fate that had just come into play. The week before, they hadn't even been speaking—and now their futures essentially rested in each other's hands. It really didn't take a psychic to see that there was something special about this relationship.

Then again, maybe it did take a psychic. Or at least, an excellent Divination student.