Disclaimer: It's all Jo's.

Author's Notes: I don't know why I bother, as every time I sit down to write about Katie and Oliver, it never seems to turn out as a romance. But nonetheless, I thought this would be an interesting little insight into the first time Oliver and Katie met. This piece will have four (or perhaps five) parts.

And, if you would, review. Make someone (me) smile today. ((winkwink))

Alisa

The First Day of Classes

((of rescuing a distressed damsel))

Oliver Wood hated the first day of classes. It involved getting up at a ridiculous hour, shoving food down your throat even though you're not very hungry, and then shuffling off to be locked in a room with dozens of other grumpy students and an irritable teacher where all you do is daydream about crawling back into your still-warm bed.

So far today, Oliver had managed to avoid the first two of those three things.

His Quaffle alarm clock—which would have normally played the Puddlemere United team anthem—had not gone off that morning, nor had his fellow roommates been bothered enough to wake him. Consequently, Oliver did not wake up until there were only ten minutes of breakfast left. Needless to say, he missed that as well.

Oliver had quickly thrown on the rumpled robes at the foot of his four-poster that he had worn the day before, gargled some toothpaste-y water to save time, and shoved whatever books he could reach into his black bag. He was halfway out the portrait hole when he realized he wasn't wearing any trainers, so he had to go back for those as well, and to top it all off, his stomach gurgled and a pang of hunger hit him.

It was just not his day.

Just as he was shoving socks on his feet did the bell to signal the beginning of classes ring. He swore loudly and a few sixth years with the hour off turned to stare disapprovingly at him.

He was late for the first day of school. McGonagall was going to kill him.

Not even bothering to pull his trainers on, he swung his bag over his shoulder, nearly tipping in the process, and bolted through the portrait hole.

Around the fifth floor he realized he was going the entirely wrong way. Admitting defeat, he dropped to the floor and began to pull his trainers on. It was then that he heard it.

It was a soft whimpering sound, so quiet he wasn't sure if he hadn't imagined it, but—there! There it was again! Then he realized—it was the sound of crying.

One trainer on his foot, laces still undone, and the other dangling from his hand, he pushed himself up.

"Hello?" he called quietly into the seemingly empty corridor. The crying stopped. There was shuffling.

Suddenly he noticed something. At the feet of the statue of Gregory the Smarmy was the crumpled figure of a girl, her wild tangle of hair spread around her shoulders, her wide, watery eyes staring at him.

Oliver shifted and took another step forward. "Erm… hello," he offered. "What're you doing?"

She sniffed and said in a very small voice, "I'm lost."

"Oh. Well—uh—what class do you have?"

She wiped her face on her sleeve. "Charms," she said.

"Well… I could take you there if you'd like," Oliver offered. He was late enough as if was, but why not help a little lost first year? He was sure to get detention anyway, and he had only missed a few minutes of class… why not skive off a bit more while he had the chance?

"Okay," she murmured, and gathered up her heavy-looking bag on one shoulder. She tipped under the weight.

Oliver was at her side in an instant. "Why don't you let me carry that," he said, and took the bag from her before she could say a word.

"Oh, hold on," he said suddenly, after they'd taken only a few steps. He dropped both their bags with a thunk that echoed in the long corridor, then sat on top of his own. He pulled his trainer on his foot and tied the laces of both shoes.

"Why weren't you wearing shoes?"

Oliver looked up, surprised that the girl had spoken. Now that her tears were dry and her fears were dispersed, she looked curious and alert. He had to pause for a moment to recall her question.

"I woke up late," he said. "I didn't have time to put them on."

"Oh." They stared at each other for a moment, then she said, "Are you going to take me to Charms?"

"Oh, right, of course," muttered Oliver, quickly standing and grabbing the bags. They set off down the corridor.

"You don't have to carry my bag, you know," she said, keeping perfect stride with him, looking about curiously.

"It's nothing," said Oliver, though he'd forgotten how heavy a first-year bag could be.

"If you say so," she said, and kicked at her too-long robes as they walked down a flight of stairs.

They passed a window overlooking the Quidditch pitch and paused to admire the playing field. The sun was shining weakly over the sparkling green grass.

"Do you play Quidditch?" the girl asked, her eyes taking in the field eagerly.

"Of course," was Oliver's reply.

"I'm going to be a Chaser next year," she told him seriously. "You're a Gryffindor, aren't you?"

Oliver nodded as they walked on again.

"Oh, excellent! Then we'll be on the same team!"

"What makes you so sure you'll make the team?" Oliver asked bemusedly.

"My Pa says I've got the best right hoop shot he's ever seen, and let me tell you, he's seen a lot of Quidditch," she said, and laughed.

"How d'you know he's not just saying that?" Oliver questioned. He adjusted the shoulder strap that was cutting into his skin.

She waved a hand. "Oh, my Pa would never lie to me, 'specially about Quidditch. He wants me to make the house team like he did."

Oliver nodded as they walked down another flight of stairs.

"Say, what year are you in?" she questioned.

"Fourth," Oliver said.

"I'm in my first, but I'm turning twelve already next week," she chattered. "I'm older than all the other first years. How old are you?"

"Fourteen," said Oliver, wondering how one little girl could talk so much, or possibly have so much to ask.

"So we're only two years apart! When's your birthday?"

"August eighteenth."

"Mine's September eighth. That means we're only two years and… three weeks apart! That's neat. I haven't met any fourth years before. Is it hard?"

"I don't know, I haven't had a class yet," Oliver said, exasperation lining his voice.

"Hmm. I heard Flitwick is a nice teacher. Is he a nice teacher?"

"Yes, I suppose," answered Oliver, eyebrows raised.

"I hope he likes me," she said, and for the first time sounded nervous.

"I'm sure he'll like you," Oliver assured her. They stopped outside a door.

"Well, here's your class. Good luck." He dropped her bag and flashed her a smile.

"Thank you for walking me here—erm…" She frowned. "What's your name?"

"Oliver Wood."

"Well, thank you, Oliver Wood," she said, and smiled. "I'm glad to have met you." And she took a deep breath before pushing the door open.

Oliver watched her walk in before hitching up his bag and making his way to Transfiguration.

By the time he got there, the class was halfway through. Oliver sighed and pushed the door open. The entire class, who had been scribbling out class objectives, turned to look at this new distraction with interest.

McGonagall's lips were pressed in a line. "And just where have you been, Mr. Wood?"

"I took a lost first year to class," he offered. Several people snickered.

"What was this first year's name?" asked McGonagall, as if she didn't believe him.

Oliver opened his mouth to reply, then realized something: he had no idea what the girl's name was.

"Uh… I'm not sure, Professor, but she has big brown eyes, blonde hair, about this tall" —he held up a hand to his chin— "was born on September eighth, wants to play Chaser next year, and talks incessantly."

A small smile passed over McGonagall's lips, much to the surprise of the class.

"You must have met Katie Bell," she offered in explanation. "I ran into her last night and wasn't able to get away for twenty minutes." She scribbled something on a parchment on her desk then said, "Have a seat, Wood."

"No detention, Professor?" he asked cautiously.

"Not this time, Wood," McGonagall said. "But the next time you decide to rescue a first year, make sure you know her name first."