All the tiny Ians looked up at her sheepishly, or over their shoulders as if they had only the vaguest idea they were being watched. The spread was hilarious (and, admittedly, more than a little adorable, though probably annoying and vaguely mortifying for its subject). The newest headline suggested young Mr. Cuddyer was hitting the gym-- not only for the usual Quidditch training, but because he would be hitting catwalks come the Spring 2010 season (showcasing in September).

“I like this one,” Ellie announced with a half-harpyish smirk she’d picked up from a cousin. Mostly, though, she still looked like Ellie-- and had her very own brand of harpy. In the photograph, Ian was stepping into a casual cafe that happened to be beside a salon. The caption claimed he was having a high-end shave and a man-icure. “What color were your nails that day?”

Her eyes darted sideways, mellow jaw inclining toward him. Resisting the urge to be a mother figure who might use a quick Snipping Charm on the photograph for future collaging, she turned the page with somewhat eager, amused, but nimble fingers.

They were seated at shady table in front of an out-of-the-way cafe (not the one plastered on the previous page), finishing chips and milkshakes to beat the balmy just-shy-of-noon August day.

On the very next page, the presumed Quite Taken Keeper-slash-male-model was proclaimed a bachelor (again). A sizable column (for such little genuine content) dramatically promulgated the story of Eleanor St. James-- always Eleanor St. James, in full; St. Cuddyer, for convenience sake-- losing the heartthrob during a dragged out summer of physical distance and distrust. A blurb about Dolly was also included, suggesting that the massively famous author had tried to soften the blow by introducing her cousin to various billionaires.

“Apparently I have very good taste in billionaires.” She asked, leaning back and plucking a chip from the basket. “Would you ever ditch me for one?” The St. James and Cuddyers both had sizable fortunes, of course.

Ian sipped his French style cafe au lait and continued to read the latest edition of Quidditch Illustrated. It was a secret past time of his, even as he despised the media and their neverending ways of getting the juiciest stories. But there was a practical reason he liked to read the magazine devoted to his beloved sport. He could keep an eye on all of his rivals. It was a scouting report all of its own.

He paused his reading of the new Falcons addition, Callum Knight, and peered over at what his companion was doing. He flushed when he saw all the pictures of himself. How she ever managed to get him to pose naturally for half of the pictures she took, he'd never know. Or, well, he had an inkling but it was never something he'd voice out loud. She simply had a power over him that few others did.

Ian smirked back at the picture she pointed to and rolled his eyes. "My nails were blue that day, duh! They had to match my eyes..."

With a lazy nod of his head, Ian reached over and swiped one of her chips off her plate and popped it into his mouth. Then, he set down the magazine and rand his fingers through his mop of hair. "Speaking of salons, do you think it's time for a hair cut? I mean...a serious one...to kinda give me a new look for the upcoming season..." His voice trailed off and he actually looked like he was brooding a bit as he swallowed the remaining bit of chip.

He was drawn out of his thoughts of haircuts when Ellie mentioned billionaires. With feigned seriousness, he murmured, "Oh...well...I dunno....I mean, there are a lot of good looking billionaire-esses out there...."

And, oh, what pretty eyes. Big Bad Wolf Ellie looked up at them, not minding the thieved chip, but rather intent on voicing her opinion about his beauty routine.

A smile crept onto her lips, witchy and mischievous. And yet, there was a leap of panic in heart-- which reflected itself in slightly parted lips as she considered the true implications of such a haircut. She quickly resumed her smile, leaning forward a little, and then back, as if studying him like some piece of furniture her cousin was about to scrutinize.

“I love your hair,” she admitted, unabashedly. Her hand came up and her fingers ghosted his, touching the shaggy, windswept locks just barely. If it was weird to touch someone else’s hair, Eleanor didn’t appear to consider this. Ian’s hair in particular seemed fair game. She retracted her hand, now reflecting his brooding expression with a meditative one of her own. “But a new you might be very appealing, too... like two Ians in one. I mean, really, if this one gets boring, all I have to do is find a pair of scissors...”

Still, though. “Keep it for a while longer.”

She reached for another chip and leaned over the side of her chair, closer to his. “Good-looking and as exciting as a pile of retired carpets.” Of the flying persuasion. Alright, perhaps those were somewhat interesting... in a vaguely illegal relic sort of way. But that summed up many a billionaire-esses, too. She pointed at herself with a chip, as if explaining a tactic.

Ian's eyes watched her hawkishly, with one brow arched in a devilish way. She was inspecting him with her photographer's eye like she often did. And when she admitted that she loved his hair, he nodded, as if he expected that response all along.

"You and all the ladies do," he quipped, as he allowed her to touch his hair at will. Then he mused, "Do you think I could get money for my gold-di-locks?"

He chuckled when at the last minute, she said that he should keep the hair for a little while longer. Change was a hard thing to wrap one's head around. "Maybe then, I'll cut it before the seasons starts. A whole new me for a whole new year. That means you have a few more days to admire me from afar."

Ian reached out and lightly patted her thigh. "Or not so far."

The quidditch player returned to sipping his drink and tried to hide his smile behind the cup. Her faux jealously over fake billionaire-esses was so adorable. "Carpets? I didn't know they made them so rich..."

Withdrawing her hand, she gave him the look. All those ladies, oh yes. The ones whom Ellie was supposed to be flaunting an imaginary romance before... and yet, it had turned into something entirely, with Ellie becoming jealous weary of the girls who mauled him whenever he emerged from the stadium after a game. Their resilience was impressive. They would wait hours in the rain. And if Ian decided to Floo, well... Ellie felt a little bad for them, even, all those delusional creatures who documented his hair on their bedroom walls. It didn’t mean she wasn’t still jealous. And that this hadn’t turned into something that was more than an imaginary romance for the tabloids. (Perhaps it had even been that from the beginning.) It had been months since their first real date, even, but sometimes the lines blurred, and it was hard to keep track of what was an act and what wasn’t, even if they were the calling the shots.

“Money and lots of creeps,” she confided loudly. She crossed her arms over her chest, pouting a little. And then quickly broke into a smile. “Too bad it’s only the Dark wizards who are into cloning.”

She kept casual, but made a mental note about this potential haircut. Admire from afar, indeed. If afar included running her hands through it, mussing it up while they huddled on a couch between his press rounds, drawing the ire of the beauty team (though even they had to admire the attractiveness of his hair, messy or otherwise.)

They seemed to have the same train of thought. His hand on her thigh made her warm (further), as if his touch could sooth and defrost as well as any potion. Turning Eleanor St. James to dough was no small feat, though she would argue he hadn’t done that yet. Uh huh... It was the August heat.

“Or very, very close.” She leaned toward him, lips near his cheek, but pulled back suddenly before she could kiss him. Instead she busied herself with a milkshake, eyes finding his, going wide while she pursed her lips around her straw. He, too, seemed to be using his drink to keep a poker face, but she could see the edges of his smile. “Mmm, carpets have a fortune.” She pulled her cup away, setting it down. “The flying ones, anyway.”

She gave another wistful look to his hair.

... And just behind his head, standing under the shade of a corner shop across the little cobbled street, were three school-aged girls who looked to be shivering, despite the heat. Clearly Ian Cuddyer inspired all sorts of temperature changes. “Don’t look now,” she said, by way of encouraging him to look. “Ian’s Army has sent in its scouts. I think they mean to rescue you.”

Ian caught the look and his brows arched up questioning. He was still adjusting to the nuances of being so intricately connected with her and thus being able to read her near inperceptible shifts in emotion. And then disciphering what they meant. Was she having second thoughts about their little charade? Perhaps there was someone else she was interested in and would rather they weren't constantly being linked together.

It was hard to tell. And he always wanted her to feel like she could end this whenever she wanted. Afterall, it was she who was doing him a favor, right? She had made the past year more bearable for him as he had struggled to adjust to being in the British and Irish League.

Smirking at her declaration about dark wizards, he returned her smile but did not attempt to add any fuel to her ranting fire. Instead, he gave her thigh another affectionate  squeeze before he looked at her with surprise when she leaned quite close.

She almost kissed him. And he caught a look in her eyes as she pulled back. Perhaps she caught his look in return that said he wished she hadn't pulled away.

With a regretful sigh, Ian reminded himself that they probably had an unspoken rule to never mention that sort of wishful thinking.

Luckily, Ellie expertly steered the conversation to Ian's throngs of fans, some of which were intently watching their every move from afar.

The quidditch star propped his elbow up on the table and cupped his chin in the palm of his hand. Then he turned towards the swooning school girls and gave a casual wave. His superstar smile accompanied it, but through gritted teeth, he joked, "Rescue me? From the love of my life? What a coup d'etait..."

The lingering repeat touch to her leg made harder and harder to remain cool (and Ellie had already established the particular warmth Ian’s hands inspired). She was having trouble deciding (or not deciding) whether to grin like an idiot (hard to hold back), grab him (another near-impossible thing from which to abstain!), or slap him (she would never, Ian was not anything like the overgrown boys who deserved a slap... and who minded physical affection from someone that sweet, with that face?). While her brain mulled the possibilities with not-so-organized parenthetical reference, Ellie happened to miss any inner misgivings Ian was having about their non-relationship.

She was covering her rise in temperature nicely, she thought, offering flirty almost-kisses. Unfortunately, they served to further confuse her, which was never Eleanor’s forte. What if she wanted to really kiss him? No shocker there, she thought. She was accustomed to having more assurance of the outcome in her of-the-minute plans and adventures. This... whatever they had... was a whole new level of winging it.

But that look in his eye... Maybe she hadn't missed everything. Ellie was suspicious now. Curious. No one could blame her. One look at Ian (even when he didn't look vaguely need of a hug) was enough to garner sympathy from most girls and a sizable number of guys, too (or teenage creepers standing on the corner). She stared back at him, eyes not narrow for long, but rather searching. She’d been on the verge of it, of coming out with it, an explicit ‘What?’. Well, a single syllable with a question mark attached, anyway. Friendly, honest, concerned. Uh huh.

But those lurking school children were a nice distraction from persuading Ian to tell her what she, coincidentally, wanted to tell him. Wishful thinking? Did her unconscious know more than she? Also important: was she turning into a timid thing? She was not afraid to let him know that she wanted it to be a little more real, less soap-operatic.

She watched him woo (or pacify) his devotees. She couldn’t help smiling, her eyes leaving the girls and lingering on his profile, studying it for signs of magic that didn’t involve a wand. It was some weird, crafty voodoo (and very nice genes) which made other girls’ hearts jump and Ellie question her own intentions. Speaking of jumping hearts, his words inspired a little spark, even if they were in good humor. She leaned over him, this time less vixen-y, her chin resting gently on Ian’s shoulder. Her opposite hand draped casually over his other shoulder. It Ellie’s turn to sigh. She looked like a puppy who had been told it was too wet and muddy outside to go have fun. Her gaze returned to the girls. “If they knew the only thing I’m guilty of is making you buy me chips and let me take a million incriminating photos...” She trailed off. Her eyes once again shifted to him; she had to tilt her face a little to see him properly. “Say more things in French,” she demanded. “Coup d’etait sounds so good coming from a guy called Cuddyer.”