Before becoming captain, Oliver had received maybe half of the attention he was getting now. He'd done more interviews in the past week than he remembered giving the entire first half of the season, undoubtedly due to a combination of Alicia's death and having played so well in Greece. Regardless, Oliver was obligingly doing as much as he could to focus that attention on his team; fans were, after all, the only reason he could do what he did.

When Oliver was approached with an endorsement opportunity, however, he was a bit hesitant, to say the least. He didn't know the first thing about cologne, much less the brands that he himself wore. Besides, he'd seen enough cheesy magazine advertisements to know he probably wouldn't come out looking too great, but after much finagling and flattery he'd agreed to do it, so long as he got a final say in what was printed.

He now stood ankle-deep in a pool of water, a bewitched screen of a rolling ocean behind him, steady spray of water coming from above. Dressed in a now-soaked blue dress shirt and slacks, Oliver was taking what he'd been told would be the last of the pictures of the shoot. Every so often he stepped out of the pool to look at a proof, but he otherwise just kept making faces at the camera in front of him. He had no idea what he was doing, but apparently it was working, because he, the photographer, and the company reps were happy with everything they'd seen thus far. Intent on getting this over with, as he had been rather wet for a rather long time, Oliver focused his eyes and bore into the camera, a slight smirk on his face, putting as much concentration as his waterlogged brain could muster into keeping his face for that frame.

"Perfect!" the photographer shouted, motioning Oliver out of the pool.

Glad for the opportunity to get out of the water, Oliver took a few soggy steps forward to take a look at the picture he was being called over to see.

A slight smirk lit Mandy's face as she heard Oliver noisily make his way over to the photographer. She'd been instructed that, if she insisted on sitting in on the photoshoot, she'd have to stay out of the way, and had found a perch between a giant hippogriff prop and some rather tacky snakeskin costumes. A notepad was balanced on her knee as she continued drafting possible tag lines for the over-priced cologne she'd been contracted to write an advertisement for.

After a short chat with the photographer and representative present, it was decided that they would "use what they had, especially the last few," and end the shoot. Oliver shook hands with everyone involved, making sure to politely thank each and every person that was there. Somewhere on the way he'd been handed a towel, though he needed a jumper more than anything. Slinging the towel around his neck, Oliver continued down the line, a smirk finding its way onto his lips as he happed upon Mandy.

"Cologne enthusias', Brocklehurst?" he asked playfully, standing far away enough from Mandy to keep from dripping on her -- and dripping he was.

"You didn't know over-priced man scents were a special hobby of mine, Wood?" Mandy chuckled, resisting the temptation to crane her neck, all the better to see his handsome, if somewhat damp, face.

"Actually, I'm here for work. I've been contracted to write the advertising campaign for your fragrant little venture."

Oliver laughed softly, running a hand through his hair, towel in tow, sending a gentle mist of water in Mandy's direction. "Is tha' so? A' least it's different, I'll give y' tha'. An' you're writin' it?" He leaned in, playful grin on his face. "Be sure t' mention how utterly magnetic it makes a man," he stated, eyes flashing before turning to a teasing wink. With that Oliver leaned back once again, shirt not-so-elegantly bunching around his muscles, though he was only vaguely aware of the fact.

You're a woman, Mandy, you can multitask. You can stare at his biceps and form something vaguely resembling dialogue. Chop, chop. "Magnetic? Should we have done the shoot with you covered in iron filings, then?" her eyebrows rose in question. Her eyes darted down to the notepad in her hands, charmed to be waterproof, thank Circe, flipping back to the lines she'd liked best. "I'll see if it'll fit in with the 'refreshing' theme Jean-Baptiste Grenouille wants. You look rather refreshed yourself, after all that hard work posing." She tucked the notepad under her arm, allowing her smirk to form into a small smile. There we go, normal conversation. Well done. Now remember, being on the shoot for a cologne ad is no reason to start sniffing at the attractive man in front of you. We're working on the dignity thing, okay?

"Tha' sounds...attractive," he replied in a mock-skeptical tone of voice. "Refreshed?" he asked, taking a look down at his soaked attire before flicking his eyes back up to Mandy, eyebrow raised. "I'd say I look like I jus' survived th' grea' flood of two-thousand three." Leaning in again, Oliver began in a mischievous whisper, "Le's keep this a secret between you an' me, bu' I have no idea what I'm doin' in fron' of a camera. None."

He can smoulder like that without even thinking about it? I think "dangerously sexy" is too tame a term here. "Well, you'd never know," she replied, her green eyes locked on his blue orbs that had burned out of every frame. "I think you've given them exact the presence they're looking for." Unbidden, her eyes roamed over him, taking in every inch of the Quidditch-honed physique outlined by the gloriously clingy clothes he still wore.

Oliver shrugged and settled back on his heels, taking an end of the towel in each hand. "So they seem t' think. I actually quite like th' las' one we took," he said with another shrug. Catching the attention of a Puddlemere assistant walking by, Oliver asked for his coat and wand, if only to throw a drying charm on the shirt he was wearing, though he made no effort to go get them himself.

"I though' you were a journalis'? How'd y' end up writin' for 'overpriced man scents', or'ave y' quit th' journalism industry an' decided t' play straigh' t' your hobbies now?"

"Should I pretend to be offended that you missed my recent front page article? I still work for the Prophet, but freelance work like this allows me to justify the occasional purchase of unnecessary, but very pretty shoes." And expand my collection of fantasy novels, but you don't need to know that.

Oliver accepted his coat gratefully, attempting to hold still as the woman handing it to him cast a quick drying charm on his shirt. Ducking into the garment, Oliver set about drying his hair a little with the provided towel, pausing to smirk down at Mandy. "I don' pay attention t' things like tha'...names, I mean. You've already fallen victim to it once, remember?" He tossed the damp towel into an empty chair and slid his now free hands into his pockets. "Aye, I've been th' benefactor of a pair or two in my time," he replied, bending back slightly to take a look at her shoes. "An' a good pair o' heels is never unnecessary, Miss Brocklehurst, far as I'm concerned."

"If you can appreciate good footwear, Captain Wood, I might just find it in my heart to forgive you. Besides, it's hardly the worst of offences; I have it on good authority that the mother of one of our reporters uses the Prophet to line her Fwooper's cage." She broke into a full grin, remembering her slightly malicious joy at finding out that Ticky Boxman's mother had as high an opinion of his work as the majority of long suffering Prophet staff.

"I appreciate wha' good footwear does," he replied with a shrug and a lopsided grin. "I usually don' read th' paper until after practice, if even then. Much more t' worry abou', I s'pose," Oliver added with a vague gesture. He then raised an eyebrow and snorted. "A Fwooper? Can' say tha's a pet I'd get for myself. I'll stick wit' my bastard cat."

"Oh, her son would've driven her batty long before the poor bird had a look in," she stated with a roll of her eyes. "What kind of cat have you got? I hadn't really pegged you as one for pets." She nobly ignored the comment about the paper not being high on his list of priorities. She'd known he was focussed, almost scarily so, from the get-go. A well-composed article held a joy few understood, though she supposed the same rang true for whatever complicated Quidditch plans he spent his spare time devising.

"Camp's...I'm not quite sure, t' be hones'. A rogue, one-eared alleycat," Oliver stated. "An' a righ' bastard. Forced me t' take him in, I didn' have a choice. Though I appreciate th' company at breakfast."

"A charming rogue who'se missing body parts and forced his way, uninvited, onto your premises? He sounds less like a cat and more like an adorable, furry pirate. Does he pillage from your plate in the mornings too?" It was a terrible joke, but she couldn't resist. Blame it on her dad's woeful sense of humour, perhaps.

Oliver snorted. "Aye, more often than not, but he doesn' much like wha' I eat. Too healthy," he said, patting his abs to illustrate his point. Shrugging, he continued, "I always pictured havin' a dog t' run with, but I don' have the time for a dog. Alas, I run alone," he added with a playful, overly-laborious sigh. "Besides, it'd probably only slow me down."

"Whereas Camp isn't bothered about keeping up? I like his style." She glanced down, removing the notepad from under her arm and stuffing it into the bag hanging from her shoulder. She'd find a quiet cafe and sit down with a few of the proof photos to see where she could take the ideas Grenouille had been tossing around.

Feeling the lull in conversation weighing down on him -- why on Earth they were talking about his cat was beyond him -- Oliver paused in an attempt to think of something to say. Luckily his trusty assistant appeared to inform him that he was free to go. He bade her goodbye with a smile and returned his attention to Mandy. Glancing at his watch, Oliver made a quick decision. "I've got abou' an hour 'fore I need t' be down at the pitch...you could join me for a bite t'eat, if y' like," he said. In truth, he'd appreciate the company; anything to keep him from another brooding spell. Besides, she'd given him a once-over back there and he was intrigued to see if there was any chemistry between them now.

Food? Great. Food with an attractive man and his dreamy accent? Even better. She smiled up at him. "Sounds good to me. I'll let you go and dry off first; can't have you catching a cold before training. I'll meet you out the front of the building in, what, five minutes?" Surely it can't take him too long to get ready. He doesn't seem like one to take forever on his hair.

"Probably less," Oliver replied, backpedaling towards the room he'd changed in earlier. He made his way there surprisingly without being intercepted, quickly hopping into the jeans and collared shirt he'd worn this morning. Making sure that he was all in order, Oliver used a drying charm on himself to siphon off any excess water lingering on his person before ducking back out and padding to the front, in the process of slipping a blazer on as he walked out the door.

Mandy had made her way to the front of the building, adjusting her bra and giving her hair a quick brush as she went, before stepping a few paces out into the sunlight to wait. Pushing her hair back from her face, she turned out the sound of the door to see Oliver headed towards her. "Well, that was quick. Where to, Wood?"

"Always," he said with a smirk, eyes very briefly flicking down the cleavage that magically appeared in his absence. Of course he noticed. He cleared his throat softly, a finger tugging at the collar of his shirt. "Well, concernin' mos' things," he amended, eyes sparkling somewhat at the very suggestion of anything sexual.

Looking around for a moment, Oliver placed a hand on the small of Mandy's back and gently guided her off to his left. He was sure he'd seen somewhere to eat on his walk in this morning. "This way."

Mandy valiantly fought the urge to sigh at the feeling of his large, warm hand coming to rest against her, grateful that his pace accommodated her significantly shorter stride. She turned her face to look up at him. "So, how was Greece? Did you get any time to enjoy the scenery, or did they keep you busy on your broom for the whole trip?"

Placing a hand on Mandy's elbow, if only to be a gentleman and make sure he didn't go trouncing off without her, Oliver met her gaze, though he kept an eye on the street as well, spotting the bistro he was certain he'd seen a few blocks up.

"It was grea'. We were all pretty swamped up until Thursday, an' by then I had a friend in t' visit, so aye, it was a busy trip. Kep' myself occupied, t' say th' leas'. Gorgeous countryside, though, from wha' little I did see. Worth a visit." Playfully pinching her arm, he added, "An' I barely even got a sunburn."

She laughed, glad it covered the squeak she'd nearly let out when he'd pinched her. "Good to know. I have to admit, I'm distinctly jealous. I've always wanted to go to Greece. Every time we spent the summer in Spain, I'd bug my parents to go just that little bit further, and every year they'd roll their eyes and get me a new book to distract me." She smiled, the glorious Iberian summers orange-tinted in her memories, reaching for the handle of the door to the bistro he'd guided them to.

"Spain?" Oliver asked, raising an eyebrow. "We never wen' anywhere interestin' like tha' when I was a lad. Then again, I spent mos' ev'ry summer listenin' t' Quidditch tournaments. I s'pose not much has changed," he began, cutting himself off to lean forward and get the door. Noting that Mandy was going for it as well -- and not being one to miss an opportunity to get a touch in -- Oliver timed his attempt to barely lose out to hers, his hand clasping over Mandy's on the door handle. He ran his thumb along the back of her hand as he muttered a good-natured apology and flashed her his most charming of grins.

"Here," he said after just the right amount of unnecessary lingering, loosening his hold over her hand and pulling the door open, free hand returning to the small of her back to urge her inside.

Amazingly, Mandy managed to keep her head amongst all the delightful, not-quite-accidental touches, allowing Oliver to steer her inside and over to a table by the window. She sat, setting her bag down on the floor and brushing her long, brown hair back over her shoulders before reaching for one of the menus held up between the salt and pepper shakers.

Watching Mandy rather analytically as they walked, Oliver waited for her to sit before taking a seat himself. He poured over the menu thoughtfully, remembering back on breakfast and thinking ahead to today's training, figuring what would be best for him to eat. He ordered his sandwiches and water and looked across to Mandy, waiting for her to do the same.

Having placed her order, chicken caesar salad & iced coffee, with the sullen looking waitress, Mandy turned back to Oliver, and very nearly giggled. Even when sitting down, he still had nearly a foot on her, the slight advantage from her high heels now lost. "So, did your dad get you into Quidditch, or were you just born with this innate love for the game?" She might not appreciate a lot of the finer strategic points of the game, but the way his face had lit up at his previous recollection brought a smile to her face. There was something magical when committed people spoke of their passions.

"My dad? No," he began, "my dad doesn' play. He's a big fan, bu' he never quite had it in him. He's a transfigurations consultant, how borin' is tha'?" He laughed softly, running a hand through his hair. "I started off listenin' an' watchin', an' it jus' kinda...taught myself from there. Used t' play in th' garden for hours. I had this pitch lined out near the herbs...Merlin, I think I spen' 'bout half my life on tha' thing. Th' momen' dad bought me a broom, it was over," Oliver explained, a contented, nostalgic smile on his lips, eyes sparkling as he spoke. "I think th' only reason mum let me is because it wore me down. I was a wee scamp," he added with a smirk.

"And how many times did you take a spill on your broom and end up in the middle of her herb garden?" she smiled, breaking eye contact to look at the painting hanging beside him on the wall. "Still, your dad's job sounds loads more interesting than mine. He's an accountant, and my mum was his receptionist. I'm a product of the world's worst cliche." Her eyes flicked back to his, slightly mirroring his smirk. "So, how exactly do you teach yourself Quidditch? Research, or painful trial and error?" For a brief moment she imagined a mother's horror as her little boy threw himself about on an airborne broomstick in ever more dangerous moves.

"More than once, I can tell y'tha'." His eyes narrowed slightly, focusing on the side of her face as she looked at whatever was on the wall beside them. "Aye," he said with a shrug, "tha's what everyone tells me. Personally, I never really found it tha' interestin', bu' I have a rather...particular sense of intrigue." Shrugging again, Oliver's fingers snaked forward to the base of his water class, slowly turning it against the table as he spoke. "I don' really know. A combination of both, I s'pose. I jus'...love it, an' tha' inspires me t' get out there an' try my damnedes' t' win." With that he pulled his hand back and sat up, eyebrow raised. "Wha' abou' you? How'd you wind up writin'?"

Mandy blinked in surprise. She'd been perfectly willing to settle into a conversation about the boy's love for all things broomstick related, and hadn't expected the question. "I'm not really sure that I wound up doing it, it's always been a part of me. I can't remember a time when I wasn't making up stories, terrible as they may've been at some stages. My dad would read with me a lot when I was small, and then sometimes I'd write what I thought was a better ending. They've got this embarrassing book filled with god-awful stories I wrote about a family of bunny rabbits." A self-deprecating chuckle escaped her lips. "I realised that journalism was the best way to earn a living out of doing what I love, and I got an intership with the Prophet straight out of Hogwarts. Of course, that means I have to slowly climb my way up out of the damned society pages and into my own office. I could care less about what spoilt little society girls wear to their never-ending round of parties, but apparently, it's vital that we report it," she finished, with a roll of her eyes. The movement allowed her to spy the waitress making her way to their table. "Oh. Food's here."

"I, on the other hand, had t' be downright wrangled into readin' anythin' but Quidditch Through the Ages as a lad. Even at Hogwarts, I was never interested much in learnin'. An' I wouldn' think the Prophet would have much interest in tha'. Goes t' show why I don' pay much mind t' th' media," he said, gratefully accepting his food. "I've been t' lots o' those parties, an' I can' say I've had much fun at any of 'em." With that Oliver took a big bite of sammich, chewing thoughtfully for a moment before adding, "Everyone has t' play secon' fiddle, though. Merlin knows I did."

Mandy tucked into her salad eagerly. "Definitely. It's great in terms of getting to know how the paper works and hone your skills, but I don't want to be languishing there forever. I'm hoping the bigger articles I've had recently will show my editor that I'm capable of more." How many front page articles does it take to get me my own office? She deftly stabbed at a crouton with her fork. "I have a bit of a confession to make though." She glanced up at him. "I was a horrible flyer. I didn't learn properly until third year. I got one of the Ravenclaw Chasers to teach me in exchange for transfiguration notes."

Oliver raised an eyebrow, awaiting this 'confession', a smirk forming on his lips in response to it. "Tha's alrigh', I had t' force my cousin Jules t' learn how t' fly when she was nineteen. We're all differen'," he replied with a smile, "though I couldn' imagine my life withou' a broom. I love flyin', I'd fly everywhere if I could. Besides, tha's my date of choice. A little obvious, but it always does th' trick," he finished with a playful wink, taking another hulking bite of food.

"I grew up in the muggle world, and the idea of flying like that is so foreign, it took me a long while to get over it." She took a sip of her drink, basking in the beloved, glorious caffeine. "As for a date of choice? I don't think I really have one. As long as there are no long walks on the beach, and the risk of death is minimal, I don't think I mind."

"I grew up completely in the wizardin' world. I 'ave a Muggle-born on th' team, bu' it still doesn' help. I still haven' even seen a film." Leaning back in his seat to stretch and muss his hair, Oliver smirked widely. "Minimal risk of death? Now where's th' fun in tha'?"

Mandy rolled her eyes, grinning. "There's plenty of fun to be had without worrying that I won't live long enough to remember it. You definitely need to see a movie, though. You've been culturally deprived." She cocked her head to the side, seemingly assessing him. "I think Lock, Stock and Two Smoking Barrels would be your kind of thing. That, or some Monty Python." She laughed to herself, amused by recollections of revolting peasants and very naughty boys.

Oliver smirked and shrugged a shoulder. "To each his own. I, for one, prefer the thrill of imminent death," he declared in a teasing tone. His eyebrow arched as she spoke, his own head cocking slightly in the opposite direction. "I'ave no idea wha' either of those are."

She shook her head in mock pity, sighing. "I daresay your life has been incomplete. We'll have to remedy that." She curled her hair behind her ear, nervous now that she'd mentioned wanting to see him again, as indirect as it had been.

"Incomplete? We can' have tha' now, can we?" He leaned across the table, plastering his most flirtatious grin on his face as he peered down at Mandy. "Now would be th' time t' invite me to a film again," he said in a low voice.

A lip was bitten as she tried to contain her grin. "What are you doing Friday night?" That's enough time to clean the flat, right? Oh, I'd better wash that cute green top.

"Friday?" He pretended to think for a moment, even though he knew his schedule was clear on Friday night: he'd scheduled a night of blissful nothing for himself. "Consider me there. D'y'have a wine preference?"

That heart-stopping grin of his was absolutely infectious. "Something sweet? I'm not a huge wine drinker, I must admit. I love my tequila, no matter how often I get told it's the devil in a drink."

Grin widening slightly, Oliver reached up to tuck a stray strand of Mandy's hair in place. "I'm a scotch man myself, but now tha' I'm trainin' again I 'ave t'be careful 'bout wha' I drink. Hence, wine. An' I'll fin' somethin' y'like, promise."

She almost snorted. "A Scotsman who's a scotch man?" Mandy laughed, trying not to blush as his long fingers brushed against her hair. "Please forgive my terrible sense of humour. It's all my dad's fault, I swear; the man's turned bad puns into an art form."

Oliver laughed softly, tapping her earlobe with his thumb as he withdrew his hand. "Sounds like your dad an' my dad'd get along jus' fine. I sometimes wonder how fathered me, of all people. He's of a differen' sor', tha's for sure."

Get ahold of yourself, Brocklehurst. No dreamy sighing until he's out of hearing range. "My dad's singularly committed to proving that accountants aren't all boring, only he uses bad jokes as his medium of choice. Mum's at the point where she just rolls her eyes and then keeps talking like nothing happened. I know what you mean, though; dad told me once that it was impossible for me to be his daughter and hate maths as much as I do."

"Aye, sometimes dad an' I are th' same way. He's brilliant, an' I'm...well, le's jus' say I didn' get an 'O' on my transfigurations O.W.L.. An' aye, I know th' bad jokes, too. The other day he laid one on me abou' hippogriffs. It was terrible. I'm more like my mum. Good Gryffindor stock," he mused amusedly, shaking his head at the memory of quite possibly the worst joke he'd heard to date.

His talk of Hogwarts houses brought a wry smile to her face. She'd been almost too terrified to sit down to be sorted, convinced the hat would send her back home. "If our dads ever meet, I'm not sure I want to witness it. That many bad jokes in one room has got to be bad for a person. Mum thinks dad spoils me, but is it my fault if he likes buying me presents?", she shrugged, her face all innocence.

Oliver snorted. "Tha's the las' thing my dad needs, a partner in crime. My mum spoiled me," he replied with a smile, "to th' poin' of turnin' me rotten. Now I get t' do th' same. It was dad who got me my firs' broom though. Mum didn' wan' me t' have one 'til Hogwarts. I can' imagine havin' had t' wait so long. Then again, I've always been an impatient one."

"Impatient? I'm pretty sure I chucked a fit, thinking they wouldn't get me The Annotated Hobbit. Then I found it under the Christmas tree not a week later. I was so embarrassed." She looked down at her plate, surprised to find herself telling him of one of her less-than-proud moments. Lifting her eyes to his distractingly handsome face, she began again, "I've never had my own broom though. My parents live in London, there wasn't really anywhere to fly undiscovered. Since I moved out" she didn't bother to mention that she'd moved out of home and in with her first husband, who didn't think she was a good enough flier to justify her own broom, "I've been more concerned with paying the rent on my flat and buying" don't say sexy underwear, don't say sexy underwear "nice shoes." Nice save. No need to mention a proclivity for corsets during a casual lunch.

"You've never owned a broom?" he asked in disbelief, eyebrow locked in a dramatic arch above a set of wide eyes. "How can y' have never owned a broom? An' you say I don' have culture," he joked. "Now tha' needs fixin'. Nice shoes or no, everyone needs a trusty broom."

The scandalised figure in front of her had Mandy laughing all over again. "I'll have to take your word for it. Mum was kind of horrified at the idea of her 'little girl throwing herself through the air on something better suited to sweeping'." She reached for the last of her iced coffee, smirking at his baffled look and the determined declaration that had followed it.

Oliver emitted a high-pitched squawk and clasped his heart and mock offense. "Sweepin'! How dare she say somethin' like tha'! I'd rip th' head off of anyone who dared sweep a floor with one o' my brooms, mum or no!"

Mandy hastened to pat the hand remaining on the table, soothing his terribly-faked distress. "'One of'? Dare I ask how many of the things you actually have?" Boys and their toys. Bless.

"'Things'? I 'ave ten brooms. Well, ten for Quidditch, an' then another six for personal use. So sixteen total," he replied with a grin, thumb playing with hers gently for a brief moment.

"Sixteen?" Her jaw dropped a little, barely conscious of her fingers brushing against his. "And I thought my collection of fantasy novels was excessive. How on earth can you use sixteen brooms?" She pulled up short, blushing. Oh. That sounded bad. Please don't take that out of context.

"Aye, an' tha's not even tha' many for a pro. I jus' get attached to 'em. The ten Quidditch ones I use dependin' on who I'm playin'. An' then I 'ave four racin' brooms, jus' for fun, an' two tha' I travel on. Easy," he explained with a shrug. His eyes danced in response to her blushing -- he'd always liked a blusher -- and he reached up to cup a cheek, thumb running along the pink tinge that had overtaken it. Returning his hand to the table, Oliver reluctantly pulled back into his own personal space to pay the bill as it was brought to them.

She was just about to sigh and lean into his hand when the suspiciously sullen waitress turned up with the bill. She glanced down at her watch as Oliver took care of paying, deciding that, since they'd be at her flat for the movie night, she wouldn't object to him getting lunch.

"I'm afraid it's time for me t' go," Oliver said after a quick glance at his watch. "You'll owl me with your address?"

Reaching down for her bag, Mandy looked up at him through her lashes. "Definitely. Have fun at training." She stood, sliding the strap of the bag onto her shoulder and pulling her hair from underneath it.

He waited for Mandy to stand before doing so himself, following her out of the little café and into the street. Gently grabbing her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles, Oliver bid his goodbye and Disapparated with a smile.

Summary: Lest old acquaintance be forgot, Mandy and Ollie bump into each other at work. Oliver gets wet, Mandy gets a mouthful, and plans are made.