Chapter Five

"Which is first?"

Ainsley didn't react to Wood's question until she realized it had been directed toward her. She looked up slowly, finding him gazing patiently at her from his place across the table and four seats down. "Well, it's Slytherin, yeah?"

"What?" Now he just looked utterly confused. "No. I mean, which subject, Ainsley."

"Oh, I thought you were talking about Quidditch," she mumbled.

"Not surprising. But we haven't even started practice yet—there's still time for me to talk about other things." He grinned. "So…Divination or Ancient Runes? Which one first?"

She shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me, Oliver. I'm up for anything."

"Well, then. D'you mind if we start with Ancient Runes? You could always fake your way through another week of Divination, if it comes down to it."

"But I don't like to lie," she replied.

"But you could, if you had to," he argued. "It's harder to fake Ancient Runes."

"You've been doing well enough for the past three years, haven't you?" she asked.

"Well, yes. And that's exactly why a week of faking Divination won't hurt you."

Ainsley sighed. "But I don't want to fake Divination. I want to learn it."

"Then you will learn it." He grinned. "After I learn Ancient Runes."

"But I—" She stopped abruptly and sighed. "Oliver, d'you realize that for all this arguing, we could probably be halfway done with your homework by now?"

Wood shrugged. "We could. But then we wouldn't have had this much fun at breakfast, would we?"

* * *

An hour later, they were at a table in the Gryffindor common room, Wood's Ancient Runes texts spread out before them. They'd started with translations, but Ainsley had quickly declared that the least of his worries, moving instead to divination by Runes. That shouldn't have been a problem for Wood, considering his skill in Divination, but for some reason he was fantastically awful at it.

Of course, Ainsley was fantastically good at divination by Runes, and fantastically bad at all other forms of divination, so it made sense, in way. The only problem was that neither of them could figure out exactly what his problem was.

Then, almost out of nowhere, it hit Ainsley. "Oliver, it's no wonder have a problem with this!" she exclaimed. "You've got…I don't know, it's like some sort of mental block."

"Is there a spell for that?" he grumbled.

She laughed. "Not a spell, no. But it's so simple to get around. I can't believe no one's noticed it before."

"Professor Wilcox isn't the most observant man, you know."

"Never mind Professor Wilcox," she said. "I'm only concerned with you."

Wood looked down at his textbook, then back up at her. "So what's my problem, then?"

"You're trying to read the Runes like a Divination student," replied Ainsley. "You're trying to read them subjectively, and it's really so much more straightforward." She sighed. "No, that doesn't make sense, does it?"

"Not entirely."

"What I mean is—is that you're making it unnecessarily hard on yourself." She fell silent, trying to find a way to explain it to him. "Okay. Try this. You don't need to read into the Runes; you just need to read them."

He sighed hopelessly. "I thought you had to infer a lot, with Ancient Runes."

"Well, yes. If you're trying to translate runic letters. But you're all right with that, yeah?"

"I—well, mostly." That wasn't entirely the truth, and they both knew it, but he was better at the translations. "So what do I need to do?"

"Stop reading the Runes like—like you're in Divination, Oliver," said Ainsley. "It isn't as though you're reading tea leaves, or a crystal ball. You're not looking for anything."

"So then, I'm just looking at them?"

She smiled. "That's right. I can't believe Professor Wilcox never picked up on that."

"Professor Wilcox is used to logical students," he grumbled.

"And you're not one of them."

"No, I'm not." He sighed. "I'd rather like to be, though."

"I'd help you, if I…" Ainsley trailed off thoughtfully. "Can you teach logic, I wonder?"

He shrugged. "I suppose you can. Really, though, we'd never know unless we tried, would we?"

"And there's not a bit of harm in trying," she added. "It's bound to help us learn something, anyway."

* * *

And so Ainsley set out on the near-impossible quest of turning Oliver Wood into a logical thinker.

It was her opinion that no one could possibly devise the sheer volume of Quidditch plays that he did without having at least some bit of logic in him—but unfortunately, that bit of logic was apparently well-hidden under layers upon layers of randomly connected thoughts and ideas. Or at least, that was the way Wood saw things. Ainsley didn't seem to think that posed much of a problem at all.

And it didn't—not really. She had an infinite amount of patience where Wood was concerned, and she spent most of the beginning of that week tirelessly helping him work through his Ancient Runes homework. Even Wood had to admit, by Wednesday night, that some of it was starting to make sense.

Thursday afternoon found Wood in Potions, trying desperately to stay awake after a particularly heavy lunch. After a well-placed elbow in the ribs courtesy of Percy, who sat beside him, Wood was finally able to pull himself out of his drowsiness and at least pretend to focus on Snape's lecture.

Unfortunately, truth potions just didn't provide enough mental stimulation, and soon Wood found his thoughts drifting away from Potions, away from school—and onto Quidditch, and specifically a new play that had just popped into his head. "Beater should go there," he mumbled under his breath, lightly sketching a path on his parchment as Snape continued to drone on about the truth potions.

It was really inevitable that he'd be caught—no Gryffindor could let his mind drift in Potions without eventually being caught—but somehow, that thought didn't cross his mind. It didn't even sink in when Snape broke off his lecture in the middle of a sentence, or when the class around him fell deadly silent, or even when a dark form loomed in front of the table he shared with Percy.

"Mr. Wood."

Wood froze at the sound of Snape's voice, his gaze rising slowly to see the Potions master standing directly in front of him. "Erm. Yes, sir?"

"Can you please repeat for the class what I just said about truth potions?"

Actually, he couldn't repeat what Snape had said about anything, as he'd spent most of the last five minutes idly sketching a Quidditch play on his parchment. "No, sir. I'm sorry."

At the next table, Marcus Flint snickered. Wood glared at him, but Snape barely afforded the boy a glance. "Well, Mr. Wood, as you seem to find Quidditch more important than your classes, I trust you won't mind a bit of inter-team cooperation?"

Don't make me work with Flint. Please don't make me work with Flint. Had he fully realized what he was doing, Wood might have laughed, but right now it seemed like a fully logical course of action to try to influence Snape's thoughts through his own. Unfortunately, Snape didn't seem to be budging, so he sighed resignedly. "I won't mind that at all, sir."

"Work with Flint then," snapped Snape. When Wood hesitated slightly, he glared at the boy, his voice dropping a notch. "Five points from Gryffindor, Wood, and if I have to ask you again, it'll be fifteen."

Wood practically ran to the next table, leaving Snape to glare at Percy, who'd been all but abandoned. "Five more points from Gryffindor, Weasley. Head Boy should be able to keep his classmates in line."

Flint didn't say a word to Wood until at least halfway through the class, when they were well into the brewing of a simple truth potion. As he added a pinch of crushed lotus wing to his cauldron, he glanced over at Wood and snickered. "It's rather sad, isn't it, Wood? You've lost Gryffindor ten points for your Quidditch plays, and you still won't win the Quidditch Cup."

"We'll do well enough," replied Wood tightly. "And at least I won't have to fail all my N.E.W.T.s to keep my team in the running for another year."

"That's assuming you pass your N.E.W.T.s at all, git. Rumor has it you've got that little Waters twit tutoring you in Ancient Runes." He laughed. "A fifth year, Wood? Have you lost what little mind you have?"

The idea of Marcus Flint insulting anyone's intelligence might have made Wood laugh, had Flint not just insulted Ainsley. As it was, his jaw set firmly as he chopped a handful of daisy roots. "Ainsley's the best Runes student in the whole school. But I suppose you wouldn't know that, as she'd never lower herself enough to talk to you."

Flint nodded, a smug smile playing on his lips. "I suppose you're right. She does lower herself, but not to talk to me. Her mouth is busy doing…other things."

Wood slammed his knife down onto the table—and very nearly took off a finger in the process. He didn't quite notice that, though, Flint's comment having made him a bit too angry to actually see straight. "Look, Flint. If you want to insult me, that's fine. But don't drag Ainsley into this."

"What's the problem, Wood? Don't want rumors being spread about your girlfriend?"

"She's not my girlfriend," he snapped. "But I do care about her. And I know she's miles above the likes of you."

Flint snorted. "Then she's miles above the likes of you, Wood. You're no better than I am."

"If you say so." Wood shrugged, tugging gently on the handle of his knife to extract it from the dent he'd made in the tabletop. "But I suppose it's something that she'd rather be my friend than give you the time of day."

"Your friend?" said Flint, with a sneer. "You honestly expect anyone to believe that's all she is, with all that 'studying' you do?"

"If you did half as much studying, Flint, maybe you'd have graduated by now."

"Well spoken, Mr. Wood."

Wood gulped at the familiar voice and looked up for the second time that day, to see Snape standing in front of him. "I'm sorry, sir, but I—"

Snape held up a hand, and Wood stopped abruptly, expecting a reprimand. To his surprise, though, Snape's glare focused on Flint. "Flint! Five points for your insolence, and for provoking your partner. I'm ashamed to have you disgrace my House for an eighth year." He turned back to Wood. "You were saying…?"

"Only that I apologize for my behavior," said Wood softly. "I was just standing up for a friend."

"Ah, yes—Gryffindor and its ridiculous code of honor." Snape shook his head. "No matter. I believe you have a potion to finish?"

If there was one thing Wood had learned in Potions, it was not to argue with a punishment—or lack thereof—from Snape. So he didn't argue, just nodded. "Yes, sir. I'll do that, sir."

* * *

Wood didn't tell Ainsley about the incident in Potions, although he was certain that she was a large part of the reason why he hadn't been punished. He didn't think she really needed to know about any of it—and especially not about his exchange with Flint. It would have only angered her or made her uncomfortable, or possibly both. There was just no way it would have turned out well, so Wood kept it to himself.

Saturday morning, the weather was absolutely beautiful. Wood took pity on Ainsley's mournful gazes at the Great Hall's enchanted ceiling over breakfast and suggested that they work outside that week.

Ainsley agreed readily, figuring that the weather could make even Divination work worthwhile. Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on Wood making her read tea leaves—nor had she realized how absolutely militant he could be about Divination.

"So you've got to—no, Ainsley, you—oh, come on. Can't you relax?"

Ainsley looked up from the teacup in her hands and glared at him. "For your information, Oliver, I am relaxed."

His eyebrows lifted dubiously. "You don't look it."

"Forgive me for having good posture." She sighed, dropping the teacup onto her knee. "Why have I got to relax, anyway?"

"Your aura flows more naturally when you're not tense," replied Wood.

Ainsley stared at him for a few seconds, trying to determine if he'd actually said that, or if she'd just imagined it. When she realized his expression was completely earnest, she couldn't help but laugh, so she ducked her head, hoping he wouldn't notice her smile—or the fact that her shoulders were shaking slightly.

He did notice, though, and looked sharply at her. "What?"

"Do you actually believe in this, Oliver?"

He shrugged, looking a little embarrassed. "Well, Professor Trelawney's a bit of a fool, really, but I—what, Ainsley? It's not as if I can help being good at Divination."

"But Oliver—"

"No," he interrupted. "Do I laugh at you because you're good at Potions? Or because you're the only student in this school who can read a note written in runic letters? Don't you think that's a bit odd, Ainsley?"

"Of course I do," she replied. "I know I'm not normal, Oliver. You're the one who can't admit it."

"I didn't ask to be good at Divination, you know."

"No one asks to be good at anything," said Ainsley, leaning back against the grass. "I don't think you're a bit odd, really. I'm rather glad you're good at Divination."

He smiled. "You should be. Otherwise you'd never get your O.W.L.s."

"And is that all that really matters?" she asked softly.

"Sometimes you'd think so," he replied. "In some world, it is all that matters. Twelve O.W.L.s, or you'll never be worth anything. And what for the boy who only got seven, and won't have top-grade N.E.W.T.s, either?"

Ainsley sat up and looked at him for a long moment. She honestly hadn't known Wood to be insecure about anything, ever. He was a natural leader, after all, and someone she'd never seen show anything but supreme confidence in himself and his surroundings. Never once had she dreamed that he might have his own insecurities, and somehow that simple humanizing quality was not disappointing but reassuring.

"I think you're brilliant, Oliver," she finally said. "Seven O.W.L.s—and those weren't barely passing, either, were they?—and three years as Gryffindor's Quidditch Captain, to boot? That's an amazing accomplishment."

"Not so amazing as Head Boy, though. Is it?" he asked quietly.

"Percy Weasley could turn himself inside out and right again, and I'd still swear you were the better wizard. Isn't it more important to be well-rounded, anyway?"

"I don't know if any of that matters, if you want to play professional Quidditch."

She smiled brightly. "Right then. You're more than good enough to make it onto any team in the league, and then it's only a matter of time before you're off the Reserve team and actually playing. I'd give it three years before every young wizard wants to be just like you, and every young witch has your posters on her bedroom wall because you're just so cute—and all the while, our former Head Boy is slaving away at some low-end desk job in the Ministry of Magic."

Wood gazed at her, smiling bemusedly. "You really think I'm cute, Ainsley?"

Ainsley flushed scarlet. "Of course you'd pick up on that," she mumbled, before sighing. "Yes, Oliver, for what it's worth, I think you're an attractive young man. Does that answer your question?"

"Yes, thank you," he replied, trying not to laugh at her oddly formal tone. "Want to try those tea leaves again?"

"All right." She picked up the cup again, peering down into the residue. "All I see is a boy who's about to be destroyed for laughing at his neighbor."

"Looks like your aura's closed up again. What if you look harder?"

"If I look harder, there's just a mass of residue." She sighed. "And…well, I see love…and bad news in love…and disappointment—oh, I hope that doesn't mean Quidditch."

"So do I," murmured Wood, leaning over her shoulder to look into the cup. "No, that's not disappointment. That's…well, that's a cat, isn't it? Means deceit, or a false friend."

"Yes, but that's disappointment," she said, pointing to a clump of leaves shaped like a tower. "And that's all in the next three months, Oliver. All before Christmas."

"Then it looks like I'm in for a rough term, yeah?" He grinned. "Luckily, I don't have to take your predictions too seriously."

She shrugged. "You might watch out, anyway, just to be safe. What do mine say?"

"There's a bear—a few bears, actually." He sighed. "That means bad luck, Ains. Apparently a lot of bad luck. Sorry."

"Nothing I haven't dealt with before. What else?"

Wood looked into the cup again. "Erm…a bull—that's arguing with friends. And…well, look at it."

"What about it?" She leaned over and looked over the rim of the cup. "Oh, that's a huge bull. Does that mean a huge argument, then? Or has my aura closed up again?"

"If you're going to poke fun at me, I won't help you pass Divination. And then where will you be?"

"With seven O.W.L.s, same as you," she replied, smiling. "But then where will you be, with the lowest Ancient Runes N.E.W.T. that Hogwarts has ever seen?"

"Can't be the lowest. Flint's taking Ancient Runes, too."

"So you want to score higher than your boyfriend, is that it?" Ainsley laughed. "Never knew you and Marcus were so competitive, Oliver. Thought it was a bit more loving, really."

"Well, that's only when we're alone. Have to keep up the house rivalry in public." He hated to admit it, but it was actually a lot of fun to play along with Ainsley when she got into these moods—even if the thought of Marcus Flint still made him bristle with anger. "And what if I wasn't joking about that?"

"I'd be surprised if you fancied boys, Oliver," said Ainsley. "You'd have had a go with one of them ages ago, if you did. I'm sure there are more than a few who wouldn't mind having you for a boyfriend, if you wanted them."

"And you've never thought that maybe that's why I never had a girlfriend?"

"Of course not. Everyone knows you've never had a girlfriend because you're consumed with Quidditch." She smiled impishly. "And of course, I know you haven't forgotten the time I caught you and Andrea McEwan in the common room last year."

No, he hadn't forgotten that, nor had he forgotten the expression on Ainsley's face when she'd found the couple late one night. He grinned at her. "You don't suppose people think that's what we're doing down there, do you?"

"I should hope not," replied Ainsley. "And I hope you aren't inviting any rumors."

"Oh, I'm not. Wouldn't want you spreading your own rumors in retaliation." Actually, that wasn't the only reason. He actually enjoyed the nights they spent together in the common room, talking about nothing in particular, without anyone else interrupting. He wasn't going to inflate Ainsley's ego by telling her that, though. "Can't imagine what sort of lies you'd spread about me."

"Flint would have you dead in a day, I'm sure," she murmured, leaning back against the grass again. "Don't think he'd take to kindly to the idea that you were in love with him. He's always seemed a bit closed-minded to me."

"'Closed-minded' implies that he actually has a mind, Ainsley."

She looked up at him, not entirely able to hide her smile. "Oliver, that's not nice."

He grinned cheekily, and she gave in to the giggles rising in her throat. Before he knew it, Wood was laughing, too—Ainsley's laughter was just infectious that way, he supposed.

After receiving several odd glances from passing students, Ainsley finally managed to subdue herself. She propped herself up on her elbows and turned to Wood, her eyes still sparkling. "Oliver. Tell me if this is strange, but…d'you think we'll always be friends?"

"It's not strange," Wood replied. "And we'll be friends forever, if I have a say in it." He grinned. "Unless you run off and fall in love with Flint, of course."