Love and Understanding

Harry had told me all about Oliver when he first joined the Quidditch team. I never really had the opportunity to meet him for a long time. I saw him, of course - Parvati and Lavender spent a lot of breakfasts craning their necks to catch a glimpse of him further down the table. I admitted, privately, that he was sort of good-looking, but probably not worth bothering with.

I got rather angry when I discovered that he seemed to value winning a stupid trophy more than the safety of his team. I told him what I thought of him one day, after a disastrous Quidditch match, and discovered that I'd had the wrong end of the stick after all - he was a good person who really did care about his team. That was embarrassing. General rule of thumb: never try to have a serious conversation with someone who is stark naked, dripping wet and too attractive for their own good.

Things changed after that. I think we understood each other better. He'd say hi sometimes. We'd occasionally have brief conversations about Harry's welfare. It wasn't really a friendship; not in the conventional sense, anyway. But there was this one time, at the end of third year, when he sought me out to tell me about his Puddlemere contract. He was obviously happy, but I could tell there was something else. We ended up discussing it in quite a companionable manner.

Our level of contact just seemed to increase even more after that. I wasn't sure if that was good or bad. I mean, I liked Oliver, but did I really want Parvati and Lavender to go into full-blown interrogation mode every time I got an owl from him?

Anyway, I like to think that he felt he could talk to me. He certainly did talk, at any rate. I liked listening, too. He's got such a soft, lilting voice. It's very soothing. Oh, I'm not stupid - I recognised the signs. I knew I was attracted to him, and I was in danger of becoming infatuated. But when someone accosts you in Diagon Alley, and they clearly need to talk to you, you can't help but agree.

Poor man was obviously having problems with his new-found fame. I remembered Harry being somewhat the same, although there were obvious differences.

But I think it was the 'sweetheart' that did it. No-one, ever, apart from my parents, has called me sweetheart. Not Viktor. Not Rob (my one and only summer fling who was nothing more than a Neanderthal at best). Not even Harry and Ron, who I was closer to than anyone. So for Oliver to just call me 'sweetheart', out of the blue, was a bit surprising, to say the least. But it woke me up.

Intriguingly enough, I had the somewhat dubious privilege of hearing Fred and George talking to Ron and Harry about 'Oliver's mystery friend' back at the Burrow. They'd just got to the part about how Oliver had been reluctant to say whether the person was male or female, and seemed to be blushing, for God's sake, when they realised that Ron and Harry were staring pointedly at me. Well, I was damned if I was going to be the one to blow Oliver's cover. Not that it was a cover, per se... or was it?

Anyway, suffice it to say, I got up and left the room, huffing a little for good measure. I didn't doubt that Ron and Harry would be more than willing to tell the twins everything. I wasn't prepared, however, for the curious stares I received the next morning at breakfast. Very unnerving indeed.

Dear Oliver, I wrote later that day,

I had no idea that people would react so strangely to our friendship. Ever since Ron and Harry sang like birds about my meeting you in Diagon Alley, the twins look like they've been told I'm mentally unstable. It's not like they're avoiding me; far from it. They're treating me like a specimen in a zoo. I suspect they're one step away from prodding me with a stick and putting me in a cage.

How's things with you? Fame still getting you down? Might I recommend a glamour of some sort - preferably of the female variety? We could meet in Hogsmeade.

All the best,

Hermione

* * *

I don't think she expected me to take her seriously. I sent an owl a few weeks after she'd gone back to Hogwarts asking her to meet me in Hogsmeade. I did say that I would be in disguise, but I implied that it would be very subtle.

She definitely didn't expect Olivia, the tall brunette with a slightly wonky pair of boobs (I crapped up the glamour a bit) and a suspicious bulge under her skirt.

"I feel like a fool," I hissed as I slipped into a seat at the Three Broomsticks, but that wasn't true. I felt freer than I'd felt in a long time.

She giggled - a rare occurrence, I noted, and felt pleased with myself - and replied, "You need to act more girly."

"More girly?!"

"You know... glide instead of swagger-"

"I do not swagger!" I protested loudly.

"-and sip instead of swig. For God's sake, cover your legs!"

I hurriedly pulled my skirt down over my decidedly hairy legs. "It's a waist-up glamour," I explained. "Couldn't be bothered doing the bottom half."

"Oh, God."

After I'd lured her head out of her hands with a butterbeer, she moved onto other matters. "I hear you're possibly gay now."

I growled. "I swear, you do one meaningless thing and all of a sudden, they're blowing it out of proportion. I hugged the guy! It's not like I snogged him in the bushes or anything. God, they're bloody arseholes."

She patted my hand. I took a quick swig of butterbeer to hide my sudden, annoying blush. What's wrong with you, Wood? What happened to' remaining devoted to the game, and only the game'?

"Oliver... sorry, Olivia... what can I say? That it's going to get better? It's not. You're going to have to be really careful from now on. They will take everything you say and do in an entirely different way to how you meant it. If you ask me, you need a PR person."

I frowned. "A what?"

"Oh, come on, you must have heard of them - PR? Public Relations? He or she helps you work out what to do and say in a way that won't get you in trouble."

I shrugged. This was news to me. "You could do it, couldn't you?"

"Me?" she snorted. "Me, be your PR person? Sorry, Olivia, but apart from the sheer craziness of the idea, I just don't have the time. The NEWTS might be next year, but that doesn't mean I can relax."

"Hermione, do you ever relax?" I asked, suddenly curious. Did she? I couldn't remember a time when she had.

She scowled at me. "For your information, I consider reading to be a form of relaxation. Which means that I spend 90% of my day relaxing."

"I love your logic," I replied dryly, "but you're not getting out of it that easily. Come with me."

She looked alarmed as I led her towards the pub's fireplace. "Oliver, what are you doing? We can't leave the village! Well, I can't, anyway."

I ignored her and snatched some floo powder. "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes!" I yelled, grabbing her arm and pulling her into the green flames.

We emerged, soot-smudged and coughing, in front of a bemused pair of twins. "Hermione." Fred greeted her. "Who's you... ahem... lovely friend?"

"Oh, honestly," she said. "Take a closer look."

George peered at me and squinted. "You do look familiar."

"My name's Olivia," I supplied, and had to laugh at the horrified looks on their faces.

"Oliver?!"