The Difference Between What Sparkles and What is Gold

The Difference Between What Sparkles and What is Gold

By AADEN.

Chapter Two.

The maple chair sitting next to the one that Moire had grown to call her own was peculiarly empty when she walked into the History of Magic classroom on Wednesday morning. It was her first class of the day, and Moire had taken it upon herself to get an extra few minutes of sleep by skipping breakfast. The prettier Ravenclaw girls had clustered instead around another of the more flirtatious of the class's young men: today's choice was a lean Slytherin Quidditch player by the name of Adrian Pucey. The bookish Ravenclaw girls didn't seem too skilled at nosing their way in between the more boisterous Slytherin girls, Moire noted amused; at least no one would knock over her books today by 'accident'.

Two minutes after class started, Professor Binns materialised through the dusty chalkboard that marked the front of the classroom. Right on time, by his standards. Students scrambled into their chairs and unrolled parchment in order to prepare for some studious note taking. He didn't hesitate to begin his lecture straight away: Binns was never a professor to take roll. It was the student's responsibility to work hard enough to get a halfway decent mark, and the ghostly professor certainly had more important things to do than pester sixteen and seventeen year old adolescents to attend his lectures on more advanced subject matter. The class was an optional one, after all.

Moire unfurled a tattered scrap of parchment from last class's lecture on the significance of the Egyptian Book of the Dead and quickly reread her notes as Binns paraphrased the last lecture for anyone who had been ill. No, she hadn't missed any main points. Good thing, too--it didn't look as though she would be able to sneak a glance at Roger's notes today.

"Today," Professor Binns yawned, "we will begin the in-depth study and discussion of Plate XIV. Are there any questions on past material?" The apparition paused and surveyed the class. Receiving not so much as a murmer, Binns drew the conclusion that all of his students remained ready to proceed. He wasted no time and delved straightaway into how transfiguration is discussed openly in the third Vignette of Plate XIV.

Taking down every other word that Binns uttered, Moire Ainsley sighed and curled a few strands of her cornhusk-blonde hair around an otherwise unoccupied finger. She wished Roger were here. She did have a passion for History of Magic, sure, and she loved listening to Binns' lectures; but she wasn't going to lie to herself. Professor Binns' classes were always far more interesting if she could pass notes with Roger at the same time.

Potential and past lovers tended to occupy Roger's time before and after classes, but during class (especially Binns') Roger never denied her conversation and an array of humourous exchanges via quill and parchment. All of the other girls of their year had long since made it a habit to ignore her and tended to assume that she was just another rival for Roger's affections. Grateful for the solitude such an assumption provided her, Moire never bothered to correct them.

First year at Hogwarts, Moire and Roger had been the only ones to acknowledge each other's existence. Well, positively, at least, in Roger's case--a lot of older Ravenclaws had poked fun of his larger-than-average ears and the way his nose was just a little bit crooked if you squinted. Moire, well, she had just blended in with the scenery. She'd never actually said a word. Second year was the first time she'd mustered the courage to be completely sure she'd known his name: "It's Roger, right?" And thus their friendship unfurled.

Moire, lost in her thoughts, let a few minutes' worth of notes just fly over her shoulder, through one ear and out the other. Maybe she'd just ask someone else for notes later, Moire thought, biting her lower lip anxiously. She sighed and decided it might be a good idea to pay more attention. Class was a great deal less interesting without Roger, that was true, but his absence made it even more important for her to write down the more important points in Binns' lecture.

One hour and thirty-two minutes later, Moire found herself in the Herbology greenhouse reserved for Professor Sprout's more advanced classes. Minutes dredged by with a great deal less fervor now that Moire didn't have Roger's company to look forward to during lunch, or, after that, Arthimancy. Thankful that the task at hand was relatively monotonous and required little concentration, Moire allowed her mind to wander.

Thoughts of Roger slithered into her mind unbidden. How was he doing? She hadn't actually seen him since Friday afternoon. After dinner, he had walked off on his date with Cho Chang, their fingers twining. Quite unpleasantly, the image of Roger giving Cho a quick kiss loomed in the backwater of her musings.

Court and Michael and the rest of Roger's crew had told her that Roger was indeed in good health. After an obvious absence for such a long stretch of time, Moire wanted to make sure things were going smoothly for herself. She hoped desperately that he was all right. Maybe, she might bring him something nice to lift his spirits, which were surely basking in the waters of Styx at the moment. 'That might help,' Moire mused, having no actual personal experience to pluck sensical assumptions from. Despite her status as a sixth year, Moire had never gone out with anyone and, thusly, had never suffered the inevitable pain following heartbreak.

Moire sprung up in her stool as soon as she felt a thoroughly unwelcome sensation of pressure on her shoulder.

"I just wanted to ask if you're all right, Miss Ainsley," Professor Sprout conceded, a concerned smile on her pudgily maternal face. "You look a little bit preoccupied, I daresay."

Sick with nerves, Moire's skin prickled as though she had just fallen into a particularly uncomfortable patch of ivy. Her perfectly straight posture reverted to its instinctive protective slouch; she searched her brain for the appropriate words to use, to explain her inability to perform. "I'm sorry, Professor, am I making any mistakes?"

Professor Sprout inclined her head towards her student, endeared by the girl's modesty. "Oh no, dear, not at all. I was just wondering if something was the matter."

"I'm just..." Moire heard her voice falter. "Worried about a friend."

The Herbology Professor offered a knowing nod and stood to leave Moire to her work. "All right, love. If you need to talk or anything, just let me know. I'm not your head of house, that's true, but I'll always lend an ear and a helping hand if need be."

Moire offered her professor sincere thanks and resumed tending the plants that sat upon the table in front of her. The assignment had been to harvest gillyweed samples and prepare them adequately for potion making. Professor Sprout would then proceed to give the samples to Professor Snape, who would use them as supplies in his more advanced classes. 'What a good way to get on Professor Snape's good side,' Moire smiled. Professor Sprout truly seemed to know how to get along with people, and Moire truly doubted that even Professor Snape could show open dislike towards the jovial Professor Sprout, especially after all of this extraneous effort she was putting forth.

A little while later, Moire found her stash of gillyweed gone. The work had passed incredibly quickly: it was repetitive and relatively simplistic, so long as a student did not neglect the instructions Professor Sprout had demonstrated at the start of class. Extra credit work was posted, but Moire was restless in her chair. With a glance outside, she could see that most of the weekend's snow had melted, and some of the grass could be seen through the glistening patches of white.

After ten minutes of twiddling her thumbs, Moire slid out of her stool and strode over to Professor Sprout, who was helping a Hufflepuff girl untangle some of her gillyweed so that it could be properly sliced up. When Sprout was idle rather than occupied, Moire took her professor aside and asked if she could please leave early.

"To check on your friend?" Professor Sprout risked, and Moire responded with an eager nod. "Of course, dear. I was planning on letting the class leave today as soon as they finished, as it was. The weather is so lovely; I just hope it holds up! Some of my imported Caribbean plants will die if there's another cold draught. Such a shame, really, we won't be prepared to work on them for at least another month. They'd make a really good lesson, too. Oh, listen to me, talking on - go ahead, Moire. Thank you for asking and not just leaving straight off, though."

Evidence of immense relief touching all of her features, Moire strode over to her working space and cleaned it up, assuring that her prepared gillyweed was neatly stacked and packaged. Pleased with what she saw, glad that the job was completed, and fervent to confirm Roger's good health, Moire picked up her book bag, slung it over her shoulder, and strolled out of the greenhouse.