Cat's Eye

Ch. 2 In Which Oliver Bruises his Ego, and Ailura gets some Fresh Air

Oliver collapsed onto his bed with a groan. "Why'd you have to take the Featherweight Charm off the trunk before I set it down?" he growled at Percy Weasley, who looked slightly sheepish.

"Sorry, Oliver, I really thought you'd got it on the ground. Will your foot be all right?"

Oliver prodded his right foot gingerly. "I think so... but my back got a nasty wrench when I so suddenly found myself carrying 100 pounds instead of 10."

"Oh," said Percy, who now sounded concerned. "Are you going to see Madam Pomfrey about it?"

"Nah, it's not that bad. I'll just give up on the trunk for now and lie flat... By morning it should be better." Oliver unlaced his shoes and pulled his robes over his head, wincing as he straightened up. Percy noticed, and said contritely, "Shall I help you with your unpacking, then? You could tell me where to put things, if you like."

Oliver considered that for a moment, then said, "Yeah, all right. You know where I put most of my stuff anyway, after six years rooming with me."

"The floor?" asked Percy innocently.

Oliver contemplated throwing a pillow at him, but decided that involved too much effort. He chuckled and laid back on his bed, trying not to shift his back too much, and watched Percy stowing his clothes in his dresser. One good thing about Percy, he was certainly neat. Oliver's belongings wouldn't end up on the floor until he put them there himself.

He was sure it wouldn't take long.

He gave some thought to taking off the shirt and pants he was still wearing. Unfortunately, doing that would mean sitting up again, which he very much did not want to do. He blinked slowly. Maybe if he laid still for a bit his back would quit aching, and then he could change into his pajamas. Satisfied, he settled back against his pillows.

It was lucky that Percy did indeed know where Oliver would want his things to be, since within a matter of minutes Oliver was sound asleep.

................"Wood?' called Professor Starscribe. "Oliver Wood?"

"Right here, Professor," he said suavely. She looked up from her class list, and their eyes met over the top of her parchment. Hers widened as he shot her his most heartbreakingly gorgeous smile. She maintained the eye contact for the longest time, as if he'd hexed her, then gave herself a little shake and rose from her seat.

There didn't seem to be anyone else but them in the classroom anymore. That was fine. "Why" was an unnecessarily complicated question.

She was coming toward him, balanced perfectly on toweringly high-heeled shoes. Her robes shimmered and became a low-cut scarlet evening gown. There was a ruby around her neck, its thin gold chain the same colour as the hair that fell ruler-straight to her waist, now freed from its overly academic knot at the nape of her neck. She leaned down- he could see down the front of her dress, and she knew it- "Oliver..." she breathed. "I love that name."

"You love more than just my name, don't you... Ailura?" he purred, rising from his seat and putting his arms around her.

"Oh, yes, Oliver... yes, you sexy creature, I do..." She was looking smokily at him, her eyes incredibly blue. Her arms twined about his shoulders. Suddenly she slipped her hand behind his head and pulled him into a kiss. The feeling was explosive. Even after their lips parted, he was dizzy with the force of it. Now it was his turn to be hypnotised with a gaze, his head spinning, falling into the sapphire depths of her eyes...............

THUD.

Oliver yowled with pain and surprise as he hit the floor. He sat up, too fast, and shook his head muzzily.

"Wha's happ'ning?" Percy mumbled sleepily. The curtains of his bed twitched aside and he peered out, hair mussed and eyes half-closed. He blinked myopically at the scene of chaos before him. "Oh. Fell out of bed, I see. That explains the battle cry."

Oliver disentangled himself from the sheet that had wrapped itself lovingly around his neck and torso, then massaged his back, which was now rather forcefully informing him that it was extremely unhappy with the way he had been treating it. "You know, I think I will go see Madam Pomfrey after all, Percy," he said, gritting his teeth as he hauled himself upright.

Percy nodded. "Right, good idea, will you be down to breakfast?"

"I hope so. It can't take too long to fix a back strain, can it?" With that, Oliver shoved his feet into his shoes, tied them with a flick of his wand, smoothed out his sleep-rumpled clothes with another small spell, and left.

Gazing at the floor, Oliver made his way to the Hospital Wing. His neck was complaining of abuse too, forcing him to keep his head down. In fact, there were any number of small places he was quickly discovering that didn't like the idea of him moving about, and kept dragging his attention to themselves with nagging little twinges. He was in the process of negotiating a ceasefire with the nerves in his knees when he reached a bend in the corridor, went around it without thinking, and ran into someone, knocking him breathless and them over. He staggered momentarily, regained his balance and his wind, and looked at them to apologise.

Blue eyes met his. It was almost as much of a shock as the physical collision. Suddenly his face flamed red. "S-s-sorry, Professor Starscribe," he managed to say.

She smiled. "Well, at least you know who I am. Precious few people do around here... Apparently I failed to make any kind of impression on Hogwarts last night." Oliver was strongly tempted to disagree with that. He kept his mouth shut, however, having a good idea of the sort of impression he had just made on her.

She pushed a stray lock of hair out of her face. "But I believe you have the advantage here. You are...?"

"Uh, I'm, I'm Wood. Oliver Wood. Gryffindor," he stammered, wishing he were anywhere else. Desperately, he tried to put his dream of the night before out of his head.

She was still sitting on the floor. Feeling like a complete idiot, he held out his hand to help her up. She took it with a firm grip and got to her feet, then dusted off her robes. He winced again; now his shoulder hurt. With a grimace, he added it to the rapidly growing list of spots to mention to Madam Pomfrey. Starscribe looked sideways at him, and her brow furrowed slightly. "Did I hurt you?" she asked.

"No," he said shortly, "I fell out of bed this morning, after having an extremely full trunk dropped on my feet the night before."

"Oh." She looked like she was trying not to laugh. "So you're bruised."

He nodded wearily. "Rather."

"Stand still a moment, then- I'm feeling kind, and I think I can save you a visit to Madam Pomfrey." He did as he was told; in his experience, when a Hogwarts teacher told you to stand still, you did. One never knew exactly what was about to happen.

He supposed he expected her to pull out her wand. Instead, she placed both hands on his shoulders. He twitched slightly, out of nerves. She made as if to pull away, clearly thinking she'd hurt him, but he quickly shook his head. "It's all right, keep on."

Suddenly his whole body felt warm, then cold, then normal. What had she done? And without a wand anywhere in sight. Amazing, he thought.

She stepped back. "Go on, touch your toes; it shouldn't hurt anymore," she informed him. Warily, he stretched and brushed the ground with his fingertips. It didn't hurt. He bent deeper, placing the palms of his hands flat on the ground. That didn't hurt either. Impressive. He wondered if he could go any deeper, but elected not to risk straining his muscles again.

"My, you're limber..." She raised an eyebrow. "Do you play sports at all?"

"Quidditch," he said, straightening up, "I'm the Gryffindor Keeper. And the team captain." He couldn't keep a note of pride from stealing into his voice as he said it.

Recognition lighted her eyes. "Right, I've heard all about you from Professor McGonagall. And you're in my Wandless Magic class, aren't you?"

He thought about his timetable for a moment. "Yeah."

"Oh, lovely. I must be going, or they'll eat all the pastries without me, but I'll see you in class, Mr. Wood!" She smiled, and walked away down the corridor.

Oliver stood there, dazedly, for a minute or two. Then he remembered that since, to all appearances, he was completely healed, he had no reason to be going to the Hospital Wing anymore. He turned around and headed back to Gryffindor Tower, still wondering just what had happened.

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Ailura shook her head as she walked down the hall. It was nice that someone had figured out who she was, in a way. Over the previous few days, both Filch and Peeves had mistaken her for a seventh-year student. Of course, if she had to be knocked over to get recognition... but he seemed like a good kid. Over-prone to blushing, perhaps, but possessed of good manners. She was glad she'd healed him; it was an easy medi-spell, and it made her feel good. In fact, armed with that good feeling, she decided she could even face Snape.

On the strength of that decision, she headed for the Great Hall. Breakfast was a good opportunity to get to know some more students. Besides, there would be pastries. She loved pastries. The day always looked that much brighter on the strength of a cinnamon sugar rush.

It wouldn't be so bad, she thought, if there was at least a friendly face in her first class. She didn't teach Wood until the last class of the day, so that was something to look forward to. He'd responded well to the spell she'd done, and she thought he might be rather apt at Wandless Magic. Of course, she reminded herself, at this point she ought to stay away from predictions and stick to facts.

She found her place at the head table and snagged a Danish from a platter. Dumbledore was not there, but Tabitha Hooch was. Ailura had clicked instantly with the rather prickly Flying instructor, each having discovered in the other a great depth of knowledge about broomsticks and flying. Ailura had, in fact, been warned that she might expect to be asked to referee a match or two from time to time. This had amused her in a deep and secret way. Madam Hooch did not know why Ailura knew as much about flying as she did. Even so, she was interesting company.

As she munched her Danish, she scanned the tables for interesting people. There were five redheads at the Gryffindor table, all obviously related. One of them was the Head Boy. She would have to meet them, she decided. Harry Potter ought to be there somewhere too, she thought, but she couldn't pick him out.

A silver-haired boy at the Slytherin table had caught her eye earlier, as well. Him she knew, at least by name. He was Lucius Malfoy's son. Malfoy had opposed her appointment to the Professorship, on the grounds that she was too inexperienced. It was a good thing, Ailura reflected, that Mr. Malfoy was almost as much in the dark about her as everyone else was, or he might have had far more grounds for his opposition.

It was also a good thing that she liked being a dark horse. Otherwise, it could get to be awfully lonely.

Summoning another Danish from the plate that was just out of her reach, she checked the clock at the end of the Great Hall. 45 minutes before she had to be in class, ready and waiting for the first wave of wizardlets. She glanced out the window. It was a beautiful morning, clear and sunny, not too cold. This, she remembered, was the sort of morning on which she'd always thought it a pity to be stuck in a classroom. At the time, it had never been her prerogative to pick the location in which she found herself, and her teachers had always been notoriously difficult to convince to take field trips even if the destination was only the field. Now, there was something she could do about that feeling, at least for 45 minutes.

She concentrated for a moment, visualised the third floor of her little tower, then thought a spell. With a snap of her fingers, she disappeared...

...and reappeared in her tower. She took a bite of the Danish she was still holding, and grinned with barely and incompletely suppressed mischief. It was impossible to Apparate anywhere on the Hogwarts grounds, but apparently one could Transit.

In Ailura's third year at Catalpa Wizarding Academy, her parents had sent her an old grimoire that had been passed down through the family for generations. In it was a spell much like Apparating, but different enough that wards against Apparating wouldn't stop it. You couldn't go as far when you Transited as when you Apparated, so it wasn't quite as practical for general use. Besides that, Transiting wasn't something just any wizard or witch would be able to do. She thought McGonagall might be able to learn it, but she was probably the only other one at Hogwarts who would be successful. Ailura, however, had immediately recognised the value of such a spell, and had learnt it. Now, she thought, it came in very handy. She imagined the look on Snape's face when she disappeared.

Chuckling evilly at the thought, she Summoned her broomstick from where it sat in the corner by her bed. She stepped onto the sill of the lovely tall bay window, unlatched it, then threw herself out of it.

Her horizontal momentum ran out and gravity took over, and she plunged downwards until she was mere metres from the ground. That was when she gunned her broom, and suddenly shot upwards at a steep angle, almost as fast as she had fallen, wrapping her legs tightly around the broomstick for stability. The sheer exhilaration of free fall took her over. Laughing out loud, she flipped her broom over in midair and hung from it by her knees, letting the wind play through her hair. There was absolutely nothing like flying.

Neatly and acrobatically, she pulled herself back upright. Stunt flying was such fun, she couldn't see why more people didn't do it. Then again, not too many people had the balance and the inner ears of steel that she did. Her family had always been good at riding on broomsticks. She punctuated that thought with a barrel roll, then spiralled upwards a few metres and headed for the Quidditch pitch.

Ailura had played a lot of Quidditch at school, and had been one of the best players her school had ever had by dint of incredible amounts of practice. She knew her broom's capabilities inside out by the end of second-year, and after that it had simply been a matter of long hours spent flying.

It was great to be back on a pitch again, and Hogwarts took their Quidditch seriously, so their pitch was very nice. Catalpa's had been good too, tucked away in among the hills near the school and camouflaged like a dream, but many of the places she had played were not much more than a field and stands, with wooden goalposts and no walls. Strictly bush-league Quidditch... but still, it was Quidditch and that made it all right.

Looping the posts experimentally, she blocked an imaginary Quaffle and dove for a nonexistent Snitch. Evading and then clubbing a phantom Bludger, she made the game-winning throw and raised her arms in victory. Then she decided she was probably being far too silly for a fully titled Hogwarts professor, and turned back towards the school.

She checked her pocket-watch; she had five minutes to be in class. Eyeing the wing in which her classroom was, she turned her broomstick that way.

She coasted up to her classroom window, unlatched it from the outside with a murmured word, then stepped into the room. Stowing her broomstick in the corner behind her desk, she straightened her hair and robes and sat down just in time for the first student to walk in and see a young lady who looked far more like a Professor than she had a moment ago.