Off the Pitch

Chapter 19: Confessions

"Amelia? Oh dear..." 

I snapped awake and turned to face the door. 

"We were just sleeping!" I said quickly, pulling the duvet up to make sure I was fully covered. Oliver mumbled something sleepily, but his eyes widened as he saw who was standing in the door frame. 

"Professor McGonagall!" he breathed: "It's not what it looks like!" 

McGonagall stared at us with her hands crossed over her body. Her eyes shifted to the half-empty wine bottle on my nightstand. She shook her head: 

"I expected better from both of you. Especially you, Mr. Wood... she's a minor." 

"Oh come on, grandma", I defended: "You were once young, too." 

Her eyes remained serious, but I could have sworn she tried to hold back a smile. 

"I think it's best you two get up and head downstairs for some breakfast", she said strictly. 

She didn't move, so I gathered all my courage and cleared my throat: "If you could, maybe uh... leave?" 

McGonagall raised her brows, turned on her heel and walked out of the room, closing the door behind her sharply. I crashed back onto my pillow. Oliver laughed, wrapping his arms around me. 

"Why are you laughing?" I whined: "That was so embarrassing!" 

"You couldn't have been more obvious..." he grinned. 

"What?" 

He nodded towards our bare bodies and I snorted, covering my face with my hands: 

"She's going to kill me." 

"I think your grandmother is still mad at me", Oliver caught up to me in the corridor one day. Christmas holiday was over and everyone was back at school, already buried in schoolwork. 

"No she's not", I rolled my eyes and leaned into him. 

"Oh yeah?" he looked at me: "Tell that to her. She practically drilled her eyes into me when she transformed a rat into a knife today." 

I laughed: "She'll come around. Are you alright? You sound a bit ill." 

"Eh, it's nothing", he swung his arm: "Just a small flu." 

It turned out to be more than a small flu. We had our first Quidditch practise after Christmas the next day. Oliver had a hard time holding back his sneezes, and his voice didn't carry out too well. I had to force him into bed and prepared him a cup of ginger tea; a trick my grandma had taught me. 

"I'm fine", he mumbled: "Really, there's nothing wrong with m–

"ACHOO!" 

"Shut up and drink your tea", I smiled at him: "Or else I'll take you to Madam Pomfrey's." 

"No way", his face turned serious as he quickly took a sip of the warm beverage: "She'd keep me there forever." 

I snorted: "You're not that irresistible." 

"Based on the other night, I really am", he grinned and my face turned red. I hit him with a pillow: 

"You're an idiot." 

I caught him the following day heading through the common room with his broom on his shoulder. 

"Where are you going?" I placed my hands on my hips. 

"We have practise", he stated negligently.