Chapter Four
Ainsley rolled over for the fourth time in as many minutes, dropping her head onto the pillow with a heavy sigh. She couldn't sleep tonight, and she really had no idea why. The other four girls seemed to be having no problem, if their deep breathing was any indication.
Ten minutes later, she came to the slow realization that sleep wasn't coming anytime soon. She rolled out of bed, wrapped her bathrobe around her shoulders, grabbed the Defense Against the Dark Arts textbook from her desk, and headed out of the room. There was no better remedy for insomnia than some considerably heavy reading in a considerably warm and silent room.
The common room was warm, as expected, but not entirely silent. The soft scratches of quill on parchment drew her attention immediately to a table in the corner, where Wood sat, working intently on something. For a second, she thought he was so absorbed in his work he hadn't noticed her, but then he looked up and smiled. "Hello, Ainsley."
"Hello, Oliver," she murmured, as he returned to his writing. "What're you doing?"
"Writing my parents," he replied. "D'you want me to add something from you?"
She sank into one of the armchairs by the fire, dropping the book into her lap and curling her legs up underneath her. "Just tell them I said hello. There's nothing urgent I need to pass on."
"There never is," he muttered. "You're up late, Ainsley."
"So are you," she retorted. "I thought you weren't spending any late nights in the common room this term, Oliver. Isn't that detrimental to your Quidditch game?"
"Quidditch hasn't started yet, and I needed to write this letter before my parents started to worry about me. I can't concentrate with half the house down here." He glanced up at her again. "What's your excuse?"
"Couldn't sleep," she murmured.
"So you thought you'd spend the night in the common room?" He laughed. "Sometimes I just don't understand you."
- "Sometimes I don't understand myself," she replied. "No reason you should have to trouble yourself, Oliver. You've never troubled yourself before."
Wood paused, quill hovering over parchment as he gazed at her. "Oh, that's just not true."
"You're right; it's not. You troubled yourself to the point that sometimes I just wanted to hit you."
"Lucky you didn't, or we might not be friends now."
"I think we might still be friends," she said softly. "It seems…destined, somehow, don't you think?"
He was silent for several seconds. Then he coughed lightly—or maybe nervously? She couldn't quite tell. "I can't say that for sure, Ainsley. It's not as though I really know anything about your destiny, after all."
"Aren't you the stellar Divination student, though, Oliver?"
"Doesn't mean I know a thing about your destiny," he replied. "Not without some sort of reading, at least. And I won't tempt the fates by pretending I do know something."
"That's why you're so wonderful with Divination, and I'm awful at it, I reckon." She sighed heavily. "When d'you want to start trying to change that?"
"What about Saturday?" he asked.
"Not a problem for me. You don't have—" She stopped abruptly as she remembered what he'd said earlier, that Quidditch practices didn't begin until October. "Saturday, then. What time?"
He grinned at her. "Wouldn't dream of burdening you with a specific time, Ainsley. Let's try for after breakfast, yeah?"
"All right," she replied. He stared at her for a second, looking for all the world like he wanted to say something else, but then he just sighed and went back to his letter. Ainsley opened her textbook to the section on curses—which they weren't studying, thankfully, but which were more than enough to put anyone to sleep. A few minutes passed in relative silence (the only sounds being her page turning, Wood's writing, and the crackling fire), before she heard Wood fold and seal his parchment. Then he stood up and crossed the room to sit in the chair beside hers. "What're you reading about?"
"Curses." She yawned softly. "Needed something to put me to sleep."
"And History of Magic wouldn't have done that?"
"I want to sleep, Oliver, not die." Ainsley closed the book and looked up at him. "Don't know why I'm reading ahead, anyway. Lupin's more focused on practical lessons than book learning."
"That really goes for all of Hogwarts, doesn't it?"
"Everyone expect for Professor Binns," she replied.
"And Professor Wilcox," he added. "All we ever do is translate."
"Translation's rather useful, Oliver. Particularly when it comes to those old spell s we've lost along the way."
He laughed softly. "You only like Ancient Runes because your father's obsessed with it."
"And you only like Divination because you're a good liar," she shot back.
"Fair enough." Wood looked at her intensely for a few seconds, just long enough for her to find herself a bit nervous under his gaze, before his expression brightened. "So tell me about Italy," he said.
Ainsley's eyebrows shot up, partly in surprise at the subject change, and partly because she'd never thought he'd want to hear about her summer. "I spent two months in Italy, Oliver," she finally said. "I don't think you'd want to hear it all."
He smiled. "Then tell me as much as you like. We can't just sit up all night, talking about nothing in particular."
"And why can't we?" she asked.
"Because I'd like to hear about your summer," he replied. "If you don't want to share, I'm sure I could get another version from someone else—"
"That's quite all right," interrupted Ainsley. "Someone else" could very well mean the Weasley twins, and there was just no telling what stories they might come up with. "What d'you want to hear?"
"Everything," he said. "Or at least, everything you want to tell me. Just…start at the beginning."
"The beginning? Oh, but that would be when I got to Rome, and—Oliver, are you sure you want to hear about all this?"
Wood smiled. "I'm sure. Never spent a summer apart from you, have I? Maybe I'd like to see how you fared."
"I fared quite well, thank you."
"So I see," he murmured, an expression she couldn't quite read passing over his face. "Well? What are you waiting for? I don't think you'll ever find an audience so willing again."
"All right, then." She traced back her memories to the end of the previous school year, smiling faintly as she did so. "Well, I suppose it started when the Hogwarts Express got back to London, and Aunt Fiona met me at the station—you might remember that, though, because you'd hardly left me alone that entire day."
Actually, he did remember that—only vaguely, though. He'd been a bit concerned with finding his own family, but he remembered Fiona greeting him with a hug, as most of Ainsley's family did. "Right. And then what? You used floo powder?"
"Well, yes. But only because it's an awful pain to travel like Muggles from London to Italy." She shrugged. "Anyway, that took us straight to her flat in Rome, which is—oh, Oliver, have you ever been there?"
Wood, having never been to Italy at all, just shook his head.
"Well, you'll have to come with me, the next time I visit Aunt Fiona," said Ainsley. "Rome is…well, it's magical, for one thing. There are Muggles all over the city, and they never even seem to notice. It's almost as if…well, I suppose they can't feel it, but—"
"Do you always ramble like this?" he asked. "Have I just not noticed before because you've been too busy ignoring me?"
"I've never ignored you," she protested. "And I thought you wanted to hear all about Italy."
He nodded. "I do. So tell me."
So she did. She told him about the magic in the air—and not just in the air, but in the monuments, and the artwork, and especially the Vatican (because religion was really deeply rooted in magic, although Muggles tended to ignore that). She told him about the cities she'd visited outside of Rome—Venice, Florence, Milan, and at least fifteen smaller towns. She told him about the people she'd met—Italian Quidditch players, wizards and witches from across Europe, Beauxbatons students.
Actually, the only thing she didn't tell him about was Jean, the Beauxbatons boy with whom she'd spent several days in Venice. She didn't know why, really, but she had a feeling that Wood most likely wouldn't appreciate that story. So she just kept it for herself, a private memory of a summer that had changed her so much.
Finally, her story drew to a close with her return by floo powder to Diagon Alley, and their subsequent arrival at platform nine and three-quarters. "Then…well, you heard about the Hogwarts Express, of course."
"I was on the Hogwarts Express," he replied.
"I know that, Oliver, but—well, I was referring to all the visits our compartment had."
"Visits? You mean the dementors, then?"
Ainsley looked at him like he'd just asked the most inane question she'd ever heard. "Alicia told you, Oliver. I know she—" She broke off with a sigh. "Well, I suppose it wasn't that important, anyway."
"What wasn't?"
"That all the other Quidditch captains came by," she replied. "Damndest thing, really—I mean, Cedric Diggory wasn't a surprise, but when have any of us ever spoken to Roger Davies? And Marcus Flint—"
"Flint doesn't need to be speaking to any of you," he interrupted tersely. "If he tries—"
"He wasn't trying anything, Oliver," she said gently. "I don't like Flint any more than you do, but don't you think you'd be better off if you weren't so suspicious of him all the time?"
"Well, no. There's no telling what Slytherin might do to win the Quidditch Cup."
"Or the House Cup," she added. "Remember what Malfoy did to Potter, with that duel year before last."
"Which only further proves my point," said Wood. "Flint's got a vendetta with me, just like Malfoy has with Potter." He sighed. "Well, not just like Malfoy has with Potter, but you get the idea."
"And you think Flint would use your Chasers to bring you down?"
"Actually, I was thinking more of you," he muttered.
Ainsley nearly laughed. "Oliver, that's absurd. Not only would it fail miserably, but Marcus Flint doesn't think like that. Sometimes I wonder if he thinks at all."
"You can't play Quidditch with half a brain."
"Sure you can, if your team's good enough. But you can't play Quidditch and pass your classes with only half a brain. And need I remind you that Flint's in his eighth year at Hogwarts?"
"Point taken." He laughed. "Ainsley, how did your story about Italy turn into a conversation about Marcus Flint?"
"I don't know, Oliver. Maybe you're in love with him."
He tossed a throw pillow in her direction. "Brat."
"Flint-lover." She threw the pillow back, then yawned. "I think I might be able to sleep now. What time is it?"
"Don't know. I don't wear a watch, you know." He yawned, stretching as he stood up and returned to his table. "I'd guess…maybe three-thirty?"
"You don't wear a watch, though."
He grinned. "No, but I have a fantastic internal clock."
"Prat." She cuffed his shoulder as she passed him. "I suppose I'll see you at breakfast, then?"
"Assuming you wake up in time," he replied, ducking away from her slap just in time. "Goodnight, Ainsley."
She couldn't help but smile over her shoulder on her way up the stairs. "Goodnight, Oliver."
* * *
The next morning, Ainsley was up almost with the sun—which was probably only three or four hours since she'd gone to bed, she figured. But there was just no arguing with a mind and body that wanted to be awake, so she just got up, dressing quietly so as not to wake her roommates.
The common room was surprisingly populated for an early morning, but she took little notice of the students there. They were mostly sixth and seventh-years, anyway, and Wood wasn't among them. Actually, she wondered if Wood was awake at all.
That question was answered as soon as she reached the Great Hall, where Wood sat alone at the Gryffindor table. He looked up and smiled as she sat across the table from him. "Morning, Ainsley. You're awake early."
"And so are you," she replied. "Did you sleep well?"
"Considerably," he replied. "You?"
"Feels like I've had ten hours of sleep. Did I even have half that?"
He shrugged. "If you fell asleep when I did…probably not. But for what it's worth, you look like you had a full night's sleep."
Ainsley nodded and poured herself a cup of tea. "That's good to know, Oliver. You look alert, yourself." She looked up and grinned at him. "By the way, how's Marcus?"
"Marcus?" It took a second for their discussion the night before to come back to him, and when it did, he laughed—and nearly spit out his own tea. "I don't know, Ainsley. Why don't you ask him yourself?"
"Thought you might know better," she mumbled, turning her eyes to her porridge.
"I don't know a thing about him, you know."
"Sure you do." She looked up again—not at him, but at something beyond his shoulder—and grinned. "Might interest you to know he just walked in." He nodded absently. "And he's staring at you," she added.
Wood jumped, the toast in his hand flying across the table to smack Ainsley squarely in the nose. "He what?"
She laughed. "Oliver, did anyone ever tell you they've got 'gullible' written on the ceiling?"
"Not in the Great Hall, they haven't," he replied. "Can't have people writing all over an enchanted ceiling. And Flint's not staring at me, is he?"
"Well, he wasn't, until you started screaming. Drew a fair bit of attention to yourself, really." She glanced around quickly before meeting his gaze again. "Half the hall's looking at us now. I hope you're happy."
"Oh, I am." He grinned. "I know how you live for the attention, Ainsley."
"It's impossible to have grown up with the great Oliver Wood and not grow used to the attention," she muttered. "Anyway, most of that attention is yours. And a fair amount of it's coming from the Slytherin table."
"Because…what? Flint's just as in love with me as I am with him?" Wood laughed. "Ainsley, I think you've gone mad."
"You say that like it's a bad thing." She pushed her porridge bowl away. "You know, Oliver, you're eventually going to have to come to terms with these issues. I think I'm going to buy you an owl and name him Marcus. That should help, shouldn't it?"
"Well, yes. If you want me to be sent to Azkaban for the senseless murder of a defenseless creature."
"Who's a senseless murderer?"
The twin chorus from beside them could only mean one thing—Fred and George. Ainsley turned to see George seated beside her, Fred across the table. "No one. Oliver wouldn't dare, would he?"
Wood raised his eyebrows at the challenge. "I might, if—"
"You wouldn't destroy a gift, would you?" she interrupted. "Seems a bit impolite, to me."
"You're not the only one," George piped up. "Oliver, what's this talk of you destroying gifts?"
"It's only talk," he replied. "Haven't got any gifts to destroy, after all."
Fred shook his head. "I'm not surprised. You won't have any at all, with that attitude."
Ainsley sat back and let them bicker, watching the trio with a bemused smile. Fred and George knew exactly how to bring out Wood's more spirited side—the boy who was more concerned with playing Quidditch and having fun, and less with making sure Ainsley stayed out of trouble. Of course, Ainsley had begun to learn to bring out that exact same side, it seemed, and it was becoming easier by the day.
And she had to admit, she rather liked the results.
* * *
"So I see you and Wood have got your problems worked out," said Cedric, as they repotted rosebushes in the greenhouse that Wednesday. "What was it, anyway?"
Ainsley paused for a second, a clump of soil in her hand. "I don't know, really. Something about—well, to be honest, I rather think he thought I was playing mind games."
He laughed. "Do you even know how to play mind games?"
"'Course I do," she grumbled. "I've got a mind, haven't I?"
"A bloody brilliant one," he replied. "What I meant is, you wouldn't play mind games. You're better than that."
"Well, thank you, Cedric." She smiled at him and patted down the soil around the rosebush. "Why are we repotting roses, anyway? Wouldn't we be better off learning something more…I don't know, more magical?"
"If you'd like to critique a class, Miss Waters," said Professor Sprout, "perhaps you'd do better in Potions. I'm sure Professor Snape would just love the input."
Ainsley swallowed thickly. "Thank you, Professor, but if it's all right by you, I'd rather not die today."
"And I'd rather not have you die." She laughed. "You do realize, Ainsley, that roses are quite difficult to cultivate? And that rose petals and thorns are used in a wide variety of potions?"
"I did take notes at the beginning of class, Professor," she replied. "I'm just a bit surprised we started with wolfsbane and moved on to something as common as roses."
"Herbology places as much merit on the mundane as the exotic, Miss Waters. Perhaps your partner might enlighten you on the subject."
Arguing with Professor Sprout was just as pointless as arguing with Snape—even more so, in Ainsley's case, as Professor Sprout might actually take points from Gryffindor. She swallowed the retort on her tongue and nodded meekly. "Thank you, Professor. I think Cedric could enlighten me quite well."
Cedric smiled smugly as Professor Sprout walked away. "So you think I could enlighten you quite well?"
"Only if we're discussing how to become a smug prat," she replied. "I'm just lucky you're her favorite student, else Gryffindor might have lost points for that."
"Does that mean you'll start arguing Hufflepuff's case for all those points we've lost in Potions?"
Ainsley shook her head. She might have been Snape's least hated student, but she'd never go so far as to say she was his favorite. She didn't really think he could designate a favorite, anyway. "You might want to find a Ravenclaw to do that, Cedric. Don't think I can argue cases I haven't actually witnessed, really."
"You're better than you think you are, Ainsley," said Cedric, so softly she almost didn't hear him. But she did hear him, and she looked up sharply to meet his bashful smile. "Well, you are," he continued. "Just, you know…so you know that."
Ainsley didn't know quite what to do, so she just smiled and said, "Thank you, Cedric." Then she went back to work on the rosebushes, all the while wondering just what Cedric had meant.
* * *
"He's not going to come over here," Alicia Spinnet said, over Charms homework that night.
Ainsley looked up and met her friend's gaze. "Who's not going to come over here?"
"Wood," Brenna replied. "Come on, Ains," she continued, in response to Ainsley's shocked expression. "You've been staring at him all night. Everyone knows you've got a crush on him."
"I haven't got a crush on him," she protested weakly. But her friends, annoyingly, just stared at her with knowing smiles. "Well, I haven't. And even if I did, it wouldn't matter much. He's not interested in a relationship, is he?"
Katie grinned. "You seem to care an awful lot about what Wood's interested in, Ainsley."
"That's because he tells me almost every day. Now I think we should finish our Charms homework, don't you?"
"Professor Flitwick won't mind if we're missing an answer or two," Angelina mumbled. "Particularly if you're in the class, Ainsley."
Ainsley laughed. "That's only because it might give him an excuse to expel me from Hogwarts. All the more reason for me to finish my homework, don't you think?"
Angelina shrugged as they bent back over their rolls of parchment. They both knew it was true, to some degree. Professor Flitwick might not have expelled Ainsley, but he certainly would have pounced on the opportunity to take points from Gryffindor.
"Where's Brenna?" Alicia asked, after a few minutes of silence.
Ainsley looked up, realizing with a start that Brenna had vacated her seat at the table. Exactly when she'd left, Ainsley had no idea; nor, for that matter, did she know where Brenna had gone. But she had gone, and no one at the table knew where she was.
"Oliver!"
Brenna's laughter carried clear across the common room, and Ainsley exchanged a curious glance with Katie before all four girls turned in the direction of Brenna's voice. "Well, would you look at that?" Katie murmured. "It's a good thing you don't fancy him, Ainsley."
"A very good thing," Ainsley replied softly.
Across the room, before the fire, Brenna sat in an armchair beside Oliver Wood. He'd been reading a book that now lay open in his lap, and his attention was fully focused on Brenna's smiling face. She said something else, and he laughed merrily—and Ainsley felt her breath catch in her throat, although she had no idea why.
Then Brenna said something else to Wood and stood up, heading back across the room with a satisfied smile on her face. She slid back into her chair and grinned at Ainsley. "And you say you don't fancy him, Ainsley."
"I don't," Ainsley replied tersely.
If anything, her friends looked less convinced than they had before. And Ainsley, for some reason, felt less convinced as well. Of course, that didn't mean she fancied Oliver Wood, because she didn't.
Not at all.
