Chapter Twenty-Three

"Ginny said you'd be playing third wheel."

Oliver's and Harry's laughter filled the air in the Leaky Cauldron; while Oliver had surprised Ginny with his choice of restaurant, Harry had decided to play it safe and in familiar territory. Ginny blushed slightly; she had been hoping her little comment might have been forgotten over the past two days. When Harry had owled Oliver inviting him out to dinner with them before her painting class, Ginny had indulged a hope that things would go without a hitch. So far, if this was the worst it got, it looked like her wish would come true.

"Yeah, well, I couldn't find anyone to bring who was as pretty as your girlfriend," Oliver said, winking at Harry but looking at Ginny. Ginny felt her stomach tighten. "I didn't want to embarrass myself."

Harry reached over and put his hand on Ginny's shoulder, rubbing it fondly. "Well, good luck finding one ever," he said, grinning at Oliver, then softening slightly as he looked at his girlfriend. "No one's better-looking than my Ginny."

"Or more talented," Oliver added. He looked at Ginny, and his eyes were somehow reassuring. Ginny didn't understand why for a moment, before she realized that she was irritated. My Ginny. She knew he meant it innocently, and that Harry was just happy they were together, but honestly. How did her painting teacher, practically a stranger, somehow better understood her in some ways than her boyfriend of years. "From what I hear, Ginny's going to show you up at class tonight."

"Most likely," Harry said. "I failed at art class even in primary school, so anyone's better than I am. But you say Ginny is really talented anyway, right?"

"She's the best natural artist I've ever seen," Oliver said sincerely. "Her paintings are pretty good for anyone, and excellent for someone who's never had experience."

"You're both far too nice about my meager paintings," Ginny said, smiling. "Oliver's much better than me."

"You've hardly seen anything I've painted!" Oliver laughed, sipping his beer. "Wait until Harry sees some of my work; he'll love you even more knowing you've managed to avoid my loutish painting style."

Harry laughed, but Ginny felt her insides turn cold. She thought of the night of the first class, the painting that Oliver had made of her. She hadn't thought about it in a while, but suddenly she could remember every detail of her portrait. Harry and Oliver were talking about something, but their voices seemed strangely blurred. Ginny stood up abruptly.

"I think I'm going to pop into the loo for a moment," she said, trying to keep her voice solid. "Be right back."

Once Ginny had managed to find her way to the bathroom, she leaned on the cleanest-looking of the sinks and took several deep breaths, gulping air in quickly and letting it all out at once. What the hell was going on? True, Ginny had never been known for her imperturbable constitution, but she wasn't one to let romantic entanglements phase her. But now that Oliver had made his feelings clear…

Ginny took another breath, turning to look at herself in the small mirror hanging over the sink. Maybe the problem was that she had never been the conflicted one before. She'd always known who she liked; true, she had dated Michael and Dean while she was infatuated with Harry, but she had known why she did what she did. Now that she was unsure of her feelings for her boyfriend, Oliver had come in at the worst time. He was exciting and interesting; he understood things about her that no one else had ever understood. He got her desire to travel, he got her need for freedom. Harry didn't understand. It hadn't bothered her before… Or so it seemed. Maybe it had, and she just hadn't noticed because she didn't have any other options.

Ginny frowned at her reflection. Maybe now wasn't the best time to be having an internal battle over the men that came waltzing into her life and ruining things without a second thought for her well-being and peace of mind. Resolving to make it through the dinner and class alive, she sucked in another deep breath and left the bathroom, and hopefully her anxiety, behind.

"Okay, guys," Oliver announced once everyone was gathered in the studio. He had allowed Harry to sit slightly behind Ginny, closer than he usually let students sit, and her boyfriend was perched on a stool, sleeves rolled to his elbows, dividing his attention between Ginny and Oliver. "Tonight we're going to do brushwork. I know," he continued as Ginny and Hermione exchanged irritated glances, "I said I think it's pointless, but I meant that it was pointless for me. You people are new. You need experience and practice. Ginny tried it last week and loved it, I promise."

"Er, yeah," Ginny said, seeing Roger and Hermione facing her incredulously. "It was actually good."

"See? That enthusiastic testimony should convince all of you," Oliver said, grinning. "So grab canvases, paints, palettes, and one of the brushes that I brought in specifically for tonight's work, and get going!"

Throughout the next ninety minutes, Ginny found it difficult to concentrate on her painting. She wasn't sure why; true, part of the problem was definitely the pressure of Harry watching over her shoulder. But another aspect of the problem that surprised her was the fact that she didn't have Oliver to begin things. Last week, he had been right by her canvas to give her the red blur of a catalyst, right there to help her creativity flow. Now she couldn't seem to shake the feeling that he was avoiding her; through surreptitious glances, she observed Oliver spending twenty minutes straight next to Roger's canvas, and another thirty-five next to Hermione's. He merely paused by Ginny's, looking it over briefly and then moving on. He even spoke to Harry for a few minutes.

When at last the ninety minutes were up, Oliver had everyone show their unfinished canvases. Roger, Hermione, and Ginny had all painted still life images of things around the studio: Ginny a group of stools, Hermione a palette and brushes, and Roger an unusual grouping of finished paintings stacked on a shelf. Everyone was saying their goodbyes, putting away their paintings, and buttoning their coats when suddenly, Oliver spoke.

"Harry, I thought you might like to see Ginny's painting from last week."

Before Ginny could turn around, her face horror-stricken, Harry had already agreed, and she heard the sounds of rummaging. When she faced the men, Oliver was holding out her canvas to Harry; the painting seemed to be even more obviously a portrait of Oliver.

"Oh, my God."

The voices were so close together that no one could tell whether Harry or Ginny had spoken.