Eleanor had lucked out. Being in the right place at the right time was, apparently, a great way to boost one’s career. She had been delivering a set of prints to an editor at Witch Weekly when she had a run-in with an older, much more established and recognizable photographer who had had the misfortune of catching some kind of bug. The witch had been a worrying shade of sea green as she asked, one arm cradled over her stomach, if Eleanor could fill in at the last minute. For a sports assignment.

Could Eleanor fill in?! For a sports assignment?

She had scrambled to get her equipment from Ian’s-- offering the biggest of smiles and thanks to the older photographer, and stopping just short of hugging her (lest she catch the bug and have to hand off the opportunity to someone else). She was so ready to be ready, that she nearly forgot to wait for the essential details (location, time, reporter.) Now, arms loaded down with bags of cameras and lenses, and a collapsed tripod, she navigated through a tunnel-ish corridor and onto the home pitch of the Tutshill Tornadoes.

She paused, looking around the empty stadium with a sense of mild disbelief and a particularly Gryffindor-ish pride. She had no idea who the subject was (subjects were?) or when the person would arrive, nor did she know what the stylist had in mind. She just knew that she had been given a sports assignment. (By Witch Weekly, but still!) She headed for the middle of the pitch, where a group of people were huddled and bustling. “Hi, I’m--”

“The photographer. Finally. They said they’d be sending someone else.”

“They didn’t say how young...”

Ellie tried to keep her expression polite, but she may or may not have stared a little hard at the wizard’s back as turned around to talk to someone else.

“So where do I set up?”

Someone pointed and then scurried off before Eleanor could ask any more questions. She raised her brows with a sigh. “Thanks,” she murmured, and plopped down her stuff. She set up a tripod, fastened a favorite camera to it, and prepared to adjust the lens, pausing only briefly to watch a stylist run by frantically, an assistant balance too many binders, and someone furiously transcribe the notes of bossy editor. She tried, without success, to ask who she’d be shooting, and then squinted into the viewfinder to play with the lens while she waited for their subject to arrive.

"Bristol, it's Witch Weekly, I really can't have you parading around bollock naked."

The Tornadoes' resident exhibitionist removed two thumbs from the waistband of his painfully (and deliciously) tight boxer shorts, grinning at Muriel - the put-upon publicist. Most women would blush a brighter shade than the flame of a Horntail at such a sight, but not Muriel. She was used to it. Every shoot, every signing, every press release: she was there to make sure Bristol didn't do anything stupid. It was his liberal chaperon through the minefield of celebrity faux pas and scandal; Muriel, was in short, invaluable.

Hands now politely rested on his waist, the danger of Bristol removing his final garment was sufficiently minimised. Bristol scratched his particularly cruel body; appealing as it was, the map of scars and bruises from hammering it on the pitch added a certain brutality to his physique. The player wasn't naturally built, and muscles only accentuated angular bones and a steel-like trimness. The anti-hair hex that was a mandatory pre-photoshoot procedure had also left a few red marks and itchy skin - but Bristol had heard it was nothing compared to the Muggle routine. Waxing, or something. Eeesh.

"Right, we better get moving," he chuckled, scratching his belly. "I'll have fine stamped all over me if I keep exposing myself in public, eh Muriel?" She rolled her eyes at his ridiculously egotistical remark, trying to ignore the baiting of laughter and that stupid grin he wore. Trotting out from the enchanted screen curtains at the side of the pitch, Bristol followed his plump, pink-suited publicist out into the cold open. He immediately shivered. Being pretty much naked was a lot more gruelling than entering the pitch in full-kit.

Approaching the crowd, Bristol ran a loose hand through his hair, a flamboyant female hair stylist adjusting tiny strands and painting a white stripe underneath each eye. 'Sporting Barbarian' or something - Bristol never really understood the need for shoot concepts on features for young witches, they were all the same. Shirt off, oil on, suggestive questions, a heavy gaze and finally, that classic grin. Bristol had nailed this over and over again without little distraction.

But this time, it was different.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bristol saw a slight and beautiful figure setting up the camera. His brows furrowed, eyes narrowed in intrigue. "Muriel," he called out to his publicist, "I didn't know I was having another model on the shoot?" His voice wasn't at all offended, nor baffled, but seemed strangely optimistic. The only things better than hot witches were hot model witches; icy-cold, hard-to-please and always, always fiery. Bristol would know.

"She's the photographer..." Muriel murmured, not even raising her eyes from a clipboard full of contract statistics, clauses and conditions. She was always incredibly thorough, and unlike her client, wasn't easily distracted from the task in hand. "My photographer?" he whispered and took a deep breath. Marching over to her with a polite smile, Bristol instinctively held out one hand as well-versed (and well-practiced) lips planted a lingering kiss on her cheek.

"Great to work with you, I don't recognise you?" he asked, tilting his head to the side as he analysed the beauty's face up-close. His voice seemed pleasantly surprised, and quiet; he didn't want Muriel catching wind he was macking on the photographer when usually he'd be all poses blazing straight from the off. "Bristol Collins, it's... really good to meet you."

Being practically naked in front of such a vixen was undoubtedly a bonus. Bristol just hoped she felt the same.

Eleanor was so intent to make a good, professional impression, that she did not see her ‘model’ approaching. But then, a moving blur came into camera lens, which was currently pointed at the goal posts. Ellie’s focused photographer’s eye-- and not-so-hidden love for quidditch-- quickly figured out who it was as she twisted the lens and rotated little knobs and wheels. And, oh, what a model he was.

Pulling up, her mouth ajar like a child’s, she looked at Bristol Collins. Who was very scantily clad, as he was prone to be in magazines. But this was different. He was standing in front of her, in person, and she was about to put him in one of those magazines. Witch Weekly, to be specific-- the wholly grail for witches who wanted a little bit of sugar and spice with their breakfast and morning commute. Ellie promptly closed her mouth.

Get yourself together, she thought, calming her face further as she realized she still had control of it. Ellie had met plenty of quidditch players, but it never failed to excite her a little, even if she had become supremely used to Ian and his teammates, and knew a half dozen old schoolmates who had been drafted. It was somehow different when she was about to be make or break a centerfold editorial (and her career)... and when the subject of said editorial was a famous Keeper who was currently walking about in tiny shorts. She had not, admittedly, expected someone with such a reputation in the league and the tabloids. Surely they would have hired a more experienced photographer.

He was smiling and, before Eleanor could do anything but think about being a Professional Adult, he greeted her warmly with a kiss to the cheek that would make at least half of the readers of the interview he gave or would inevitably give blush. Ellie suppressed rosy cheeks, or thought she did, but if this was standard for photographers and their Million Galleon Mug subjects, she was not quite used to it. She hoped not to betray as much. Hadn’t George yapped on about knowing Bristol Collins? Ellie, of course, recalled him as a splendid seventh year from her house’s historical silver and green enemy, a boy whose skill on a broom had kept her attention during matches, even if she would never have sported a Slytherin-hued scarf to save her life. (Most of her cousins, of course, had been a sprawling group of snakes, and so Ellie was rather-- fortunately or unfortunately-- used to them. She might have even-- aka had certainly-- heard Charlotte rattle off Bristol’s name, too.)

She lifted her chin and let it down in a sort of nod of consent. His photographer. Right. Check. That was her. Then she looked up at him again, returning his smile. Seven years in Gryffindor had luckily reinforced her ability to smile confidently, whatever the situation. Ellie rarely lacked confidence-- or at least a certain assertiveness. (She was mightily skilled at frowning as well, which was perhaps a St. James gift.)

“I know who you are,” she let slip promptly. And then, still smiling-- perhaps with something a slightly apologetic, a little lopsided-- “It’s good to meet you as well.” By good, she meant brilliant. She’d just walked into a temping job and ended up on the shoot for one of the best-selling issues of the year. “I’m Eleanor St. James,” she said, looking down briefly, and back up swiftly, extending a hand. The tilt of his head seemed so expectant in a friendly way. A charming motion that could get people to do anything. A trap? Of course not. She didn’t want to disappoint, and suppressed the urge to quiz him both about his seasonal stats and his interesting taste in clothes. “Ellie,” she clarified. And then, lowering her voice to match his whisper. “I thought they were going to give me some wife of a retired coach or something.” Clearly not. (And she had only thought it as she was gauging her lens, when the initial thrill of a big sports shoot in an arena had shifted heavily toward jittery nerves.)

Straightening up, she placed a hand on her tripod; the opposite held her wand out in a sort of general, sweeping way. Her voice was louder, more carrying now. Ellie didn’t need to tally nasty, suspicious, or judgmental glances from the crew of stylists, set staff, and agents (who, quite frankly, were often nasty, suspicious, and judgmental types, in Ellie’s very wise, informed opinion). “Right, so... it looks like you have your artistic angle figured out.” She shrugged a gesture in his direction, indicating... all of the parcel that was Bristol Collins. This would be easy. She could do it. No different than an impromptu shoot with Ian on his couch. Except she was used to seeing him without many clothes. Someone darted into the picture-- Bristol’s agent/PR representative/official-unofficial legal aide, who seemed quick not to let the valuable keeper be the model and the director, though it was pretty clear to Ellie that he was the sort to do as he pleased-- if his garb was any indication. The lady was flanked by makeup artists. They could tell him what he was allowed and not allowed, but the modeling would be up to Bristol-- and the direction, Ellie realized when her mind caught up to itself, would be hers. Even with the stringy girl in the alley, whom she’d told to act natural and who was by no means a professional model, Ellie had still given direction. That was part of a photographer’s job! (Bristol and Bristol’s people aside.) “Could you,” she asked, the second word a long drawl, casual and curious, hiding any Big-Job-with-a-Very-Big-Player nerves-- and giving her a little bit of time. She looked over the field, appearing to use her Photographer’s Sound (/Sightly) Judgement. “Stand right there, so that you’re centered with the goal post in the background? Try a few poses, whatever you’re feeling at the moment, and then we’ll go from there.” This would be the warm up.

"I’m Eleanor St. James."

Bristol's narrowed eyes of utter flirtation widened somewhat, his lips parting. That was one surname he was far too familiar with, and rare enough not to be a simple product of coincidence. This girl would be a relative - those superior genetics, those lips and those... well, Bristol could certainly see a common thread. Dolly and Charlotte were both fine specimens of the St. James clan, and so was this girl if Bristol's predictions rang true. Maybe she was just as catty as the others, maybe not. There was only one way to find out of course. "St. James? That's a surname I've heard before." Neither negative or positive, just a 'passing comment'. Images of Charlotte made the player's blood boil - and heart race.

As she spoke of her own expectations regarding the subject of her shoot, Bristol raised an eyebrow. "Well, I'm sorry to disappoint." His voice was sarcastic, but not egotistically so, and he had the fine talent of rarely crossing the border into arrogance when situations called for it. Other times however, he sprinted across that line quicker than a krup in Honeydukes. Taking direction in front of the goal hoops, Bristol kept most of his eyesight on Ellie as if looking for some approval or extra guidance. He didn't need it. These shoots were second nature to him, and as a result, he could focus all his attention on the very lovely photographer. Poses and pouts came easily, but securing dates with girls that looked a little more respectable than the average clubbing witch were difficult.

Instinctively, Bristol placed both hands behind his head and grinned boyishly at the camera. He tensed and although unintentional, it looked every inch the seasoned poster boy. The weather was to blame, but if it made a better shot, Bristol would quite literally grin and bear it. He had every reason to after all. The only worrying thing though was all this cold air - maybe blush-inducing boxer shirts were a bad idea, it might look a little unimpr... No, surely not. Muriel would've said something, she had no qualms about that. He had nothing to be worried about... Yeah, nothing to be worried about whatsoever.

Bristol had to shake such insecurities from his mind. If it was any old shoot with some old coot behind the camera that had seen a million scantily-clad quidditch players before, well, then things would be different. This time, Bristol had to impress not only the girls gazing down at the page but the woman responsible for the photograph itself. She was a diamond.

"You want to do it standing up?" Bristol asked, raising his eyebrow. It was a professional question - and Muriel's scowl from the corner of his gaze was noted but ignored. Kicking the moist, lush dirt beneath his feet only prompted more 'questions' from Ellie's subject. "Or you can come in real close and I can get a bit dirty?" This time he couldn't contain a smirk, and it seemed Muriel was a little more willing to voice her opinion this time round. "Miss St. James, he means laying down on the grass - apologies, my client is a little incoherent."

Bristol glanced at his publicist, gesturing his professed innocence with a shrug of the shoulders and a well-practiced look of confusion. Muriel was a stout little woman, a champion of frowns and forever clothed in a three-piece skirt combo. She'd seen Bristol at his very worst in womanizing and always provided an ear-bashing - but they loved each other nonetheless. Turning back to Ellie, he pushed a thumb to his lips and gazed off into the distance for another shot. "Yeah, sorry, I'm a bit incoherent." He smiled, a little less devilishly this time.

After a few more select, staple poses, he took a few steps forward. "So Ellie, how come I've never seen you doing this before?" he asked and continued to move for the camera. "Is this your first time?" Another innuendo but said in a tone that delightfully danced on the cusp of outrage; he couldn't directly be pulled up for such behaviour, but the intention was still very much there. "It takes a bit of practice, but I reckon we'll be great at it after a few sessions."

The look in his eyes was more than enough to know that Bristol Collins had an opinion on Ellie’s name. Specifically, her family’s name. She could see it in his eyes, the registration-- and again recalled the name Collins being tossed around at family gatherings. A Slytherin alumnus about the same age as certain other people in the St. James clan would hardly not be acquainted. So when the words came out, she just smiled. “Yeah, once or twice, I assume. The St. James like to be remembered.” At times, Eleanor probably followed the careers of people like Bristol more than she did her family’s goings on, even if she loved them. She had traipsed around the world after school, having a great time meeting quidditch players young and old, and still tracked some of their stats-- though photography had certainly taken the front seat.

Disappoint. Wasn’t he hilarious? Ellie’s grin became a knowing, close-lipped one of understanding. Except she was still impressed that her photography subject was Bristol Collins, and that he was willing to take one for the team with unseasonal styling.

Ellie decided to just go for it. Do what felt right. Her model was more than willing to fulfill his role-- she was both relieved and a little taken aback at how quickly he fell into the scene, became a part of it. She wasn’t bossy, per say (maybe), but she was used to giving direction, especially because she wasn’t far enough up the rung to routinely work with stars. Models, sure, but they seemed more chameleon-like than someone whose face came attached to a reputation. And yet, Bristol Collins was a good model.

She snapped several shots, re-angled the camera, flicked back hair, and snapped a few more. “You cold?” She asked, looking up, absolutely sincere.

“Let me know if you need a break, or a towel.” A robe. She looked over from Bristol to the stylists. “Uh... let them know.”

But if her cheekiness was meant to get to him, he had plenty of his own. Luckily, she was in her element now (if in a much bigger world than yesterday.)

Hand on the camera, she raised her brows, which disappeared into dirty blonde fringe. It wasn’t just tabloids or tall tails or misquotes, Bristol Collins had a mouth on him. “Standing up’s good. Maybe lean nonchalantly against the goal post,” she suggested, catching herself. “If you’re into that sort of thing.” Whoops. Ellie peaked another glance at the team, hoping they weren’t staring daggers at her. Instead his assistant was kind to translate explain. “The dirt-- grass-- is a good idea,” she added, “But let’s get these shots first.” It was a seamless cover up, she thought.

Incoherent. Incoherent as a Gryffindor after curfew. Ellie moved quickly back to her lens view, capturing that dangerous smile, which was sure to sell many a magazines. She was pleased with herself-- and certainly not displeased that she had nabbed Bristol Collins as her first big celebrity. He offered a very artistic touch.

“I haven’t earned my keep-- entirely.” She shrugged, looking up at him for a moment, clicking off a few photos without looking into the viewfinder. Purple smoke went up into the cool, crisp air, the mark of a magical camera. She thought she’d been doing brilliantly enough, all things considered. Getting shots of the Direwolf chaos into the Daily Prophet had certainly helped-- Witch Weekly had been a lot more supportive after that. But this was a whole new level, and each press of finger that captured another bit of time was a sort of thrill. She was glad to know it was coming as naturally as it normally did, but the rush of it was less subconscious, somehow. “I graduated a year and a half ago,” she added, perhaps testing him a little. “But it’s definitely not my first time.” She continued to grin, and looked back into the viewfinder. She squinted, concentrating one eye on her subject, on finding the perfect shot. This went on for a bit before she added, without looking up, “My boyfriend plays for the Magpies, I shoot him a lot.” Sometimes when he wasn’t looking, or was sleeping, or didn’t expect her to pull out the camera, though he usually played along. “He used to be a Tornado. But I’ve never shot here before--” Or a professional quidditch player who wasn’t Ian, or his friends in their off time. “Really?” She smiled, trying not to let him phase her. “How often do you work with the same photographers? I bet you say the same things to all of them.” Us. She was one of them now.

She responded with ease, without too many nerves. Bristol liked that. A comment about the cold made him a little uneasy, however, and it was the first moment when his bullish, confident grin turned into something a little more awkward. Such cold weather and comprimising underwear wasn't the best combination, and even if he was looking a little... well, little, then it was completely unrepresentative. He could think of other ways to give her an accurate reading. "Cold? I'm just getting warmed-up." It was a mostly convincing slapdash comment to avoid the deployment of dressing gown or jacket. He wasn't going to be put off by a little wind! 

"My boyfriend plays for the Magpies, I shoot him a lot." Great. Just great. All this time Bristol had underestimated this Ellie St. James; he just presumed she was a young, inexperienced photographer that wasn't used to famous faces and unabashed flirtatiousness. Not only was she already taken, she was taken by a Quidditch player. A Magpie. Bristol never did care much for Montrose - one of his least preferred teams, so imagine his surprise when the current object of his fleeting affection had her own desires for a Magpie.

Still, the smile never left Bristol's face as a hand fell behind his head mid-pose. "So I guess it'd be inappropriate if you joined me for a drink later this afternoon?" Muriel looked up from her clipboard, eyes widened; maybe it was a step too-far, but no matter what he did, they wouldn't pull his shoot from Witch Weekly. They'd already forked out enough to the club, to his PR, to hiring the stadium, paying the photographer, etc etc - and Bristol Collins didn't come cheap. "My treat, for your first Witch Weekly cover?" He raised an inviting eyebrow. It was always worth a shot.

Muriel's concerns, however, were of a more paparazzi-fuelled nature. It wasn't the first time Bristol had asked out a photographer, and more often than not they obliged - but this was a photographer dating another professional Quidditch player. She had no idea whom, but it would make front page news in an instant. It was that sort of publicity that Muriel was paid to keep out the Daily Prophet, and her client didn't make her job a particularly easy one.

If there was a slight change in his smile, most people wouldn’t notice it. Bristol was an expert at being in front of the camera-- but Ellie knew what she was doing behind it, and her eyes picked up in the small shift. Her own expression became easier yet. Was that nervousness? Discomfort on Bristol Collins’ face? (Was he overcompensating?) A trick of the light? He could surely talk it off as such... The PR lady hovering nearby was very obviously around to make sure Bristol didn’t do or say anything too questionable (though Eleanor had signed a nondisclosure mid-setup), and that the essentials of her very-healthy-looking client remained steadfastly clad in place.

"Cold? I'm just getting warmed-up."

“I’ll take your word for it.” Ellie quite enjoyed her weather-appropriate clothing. “But if you do get too chilly...” She gave her head a small toss in the direction of the stylists. Only a million ladies would weep at the centerfold if he chose a robe.

"So I guess it'd be inappropriate if you joined me for a drink later this afternoon?"

“I guess it would be,” she echoed, matter-of-factly. The I guess was not especially indecisive. She offered a small shrug of a smile and took another three shots. She was proud that she’d managed to write off his invitation as easily as he’d glossed past the bit where she said she had a boyfriend. And she was still getting her job done.

"My treat, for your first Witch Weekly cover?"

“You mean as friends?” She knew he did not mean as friends. She asked anyway. She continued to take photos, moving the camera carefully on the tripod, not looking up as she voiced the question. Bristol Collins was asking her out in the middle of their very first photoshoot. The tabloids weren’t always inaccurate.

Pulling back from the lens after several more shots, she looked at him with new regard (not that she had got over the excitement of the initial regard-- she was shooting Bristol Collins.). The cover. Ellie hadn’t even processed that part yet-- the fact that she had the main spread, and it was a Quidditch spread with the aforementioned sports star, well... that was worth celebrating. And really, honest to Merlin, who didn’t want to have a drink with Bristol Collins?! He was a star on the field and off, someone to bombard with questions of famous field tactics, and apparently quite the 6’4” package of fun, if the tabloids were accurate (coin toss). The tabloids or Charlotte, whom to believe? Ha. “We could invite Ian.” She held her camera like a vase, mid-shine. A new smile came to her lips. She didn’t add Cuddyer, or any other clue that he might know her boyfriend. She would let Bristol figure that out.

“Could you grab your broom? Put it behind your shoulders.” She wanted him to pose as if he were coming off of the field after a long workout. “You can walk around with it a bit, I’ll get you in motion.”

"I'm sure you can keep me warm, right?" Bristol asked, raising an eyebrow mid-pose, head tilted questioningly. "You're a professional photographer, you need practice handling hard clients." Muriel looked up from her clipboard, seconds away from exploding at her wayward charge. The Quidditch player simply grinned at her. There was no way she could pull him up, but he was on a very fine line, a very fine line indeed. The other photoshoot and wardrobe assistants merely mulled over equipment and previous shots. They were used to Bristol Collins and his questionable behaviour; what mattered to them was a positive and a fantastic photo, and like usual, he was bringing them to the table in bulk.

Eleanor confirmed his suspicions - she was far too highly strung. And it was very appealing. The models and hangers-on that frequented the usual Quidditch haunts were easy prey, and Bristol found no sport pursuing such beauties that were dead-set on a rich boyfriend and an easy life. Instead, girls like this St. James piqued his interest through sheer enigma and unavailability. He was quick to steer her interest back into safer territory - all in good time, Bristol, all in good time. "Of course as friends." Another pose. "You're quite presumptuous for such an unassuming lady?"

A gust of wind blew and Bristol shuddered; he was quite glad of an excuse to tense his muscles once more. This one was going to be hard work, but truth betold, it was clearly quite worth it: Eleanor St. James. It was name he'd remember for quite a while, and not just through her relation to some questionable witches. Dolly was beautiful - that was undeniable - but she was always somewhat unattainable; through their Hogwarts career she'd been an endless tease but her preoccupations were always elsewhere. Bristol suspected he was far too boyish and immature for a real lady like that; she'd be right in judging him accordingly. And as for Charlotte? Well, she was clearly aligned with the ex-wife, a symbol of unfathomable hatred. There had been sides and Charlotte had taken hers, which was just as well: the mutual disdain between the two hadn't fuelled a friendship.

"I don't do well with guys who aren't my mates," Bristol replied honestly. It was true enough. Other men seemed to take a dislike to the Quidditch player; besides those who knew him, they found him irresponsible, cocky and quite the homewrecker. Bristol would never dream of touching a witch that was involved with Darian or Azize or the other lads. Outside of that circle however, it was all fair game. "Best we leave him at home, but you? Nothing wrong with being friends, right?"

Swinging his broomstick over his shoulders, Bristol smirked and walked towards the camera, shoulders swaggering and face in the correct expression; smoldering but playful. Muriel had said it was her 'favourite' - which meant it earned her plenty of galleons. "Whatever you say, boss," he laughed, granting the photographer a wink.

Ellie gave him a look. “Are you a hard client?” Glaring innuendo aside-- and ignoring the easily verified interpretation-- Ellie wondered whether he was also admitting to be difficult to work with; but so far, he seemed nice, relaxed, if bold on the verbal front. No one had fled the set in tears, and Ellie had heard rumors in the Witch Weekly office about less jovial celebrities. She had meant to tell him that the stylists were at his call. Actually... “I think you can keep yourself warm,” she surmised, paying attention once again the viewfinder. It didn’t come out too sarcastic, it was simply an educated guess.

"Of course as friends. You're quite presumptuous for such an unassuming lady?"

One had to be presumptuous if they were going to get anywhere in a field like this. But perhaps it was best not to presume (ha) that the set full of swankily-suited witches and wizards would be alright with Ellie saying so allowed. She was an unabashed Gryffindor alumnus, but she wasn’t stupid-- mouthing off had to be done at the right times. (Alright, maybe Ellie didn’t always pay attention to whether it was the right time). Bristol Collins seemed like a good person to be sassy toward, for example, even if his manager and handlers did not. “I’m not sure why that is...” She had removed the camera from the tripod, was holding it in one hand pressed toward her abdomen, the other cupping its top. “That I come off as unassuming,” she clarified, grinning. It worked for her. She was, perhaps, more casual in some ways than Charlotte or Dolly, was not a society fixture. But it didn’t meant she believed Bristol Collins when he said as friends.

She lifted the camera to her eye, captured the pose before he moved on to another. She did not miss his reaction to the wind, but captured that, too, several shots in a succession; printed, they would look like a muggle film. (They would, anyway, of course, as the photos were of the wizarding persuasion; Bristol Collins in all his smoldering glory would take up the centerfold with wind sweeping his hair and, if the readers were particularly lucky, tiny goosebumps on his quidditch-warrior’s skin.)

"I don't do well with guys who aren't my mates. Best we leave him at home, but you? Nothing wrong with being friends, right?"

“Oh, come on... there’s no way Bristol Collins is afraid to make new friends.” Afraid might not have been accurate, but Ellie had chosen it with careful spontaneity.

She looked at him, the broom he was slinging over his shoulder, the particularly fetching expression that sold so many magazines. Maybe Bristol Collins had a formula success that was not entirely unlike the fabled schemes of past. What Ellie knew was that the title boss didn’t sound so bad. “I say... three’s company.”

"Are you a hard client?"

Bristol could've almost collapsed - she was walking into these remarks. The wicked cogs of his mind began to crank and grind, was she welcoming this? Was she even enjoying this? Sad sap boyfriend Ewan was obviously incomparable (or was it Ian?), and Bristol was happy to carry on the game.

"Depends how hard you can get me."

"Bristol." Muriel piped up, tapping her quill furiously against the clipboard. She was on her last tether, and the fluttering of the mint green feather was indicative of this. "Bristol, just do your job please." The sport-star in question grinned at his publicist before granting Ellie the same coy little smile. Placing both hands behind his head, Bristol was still eternally cocky in the face. It was his trademark, his reminder to the world that hedonistic arrogance still existed behind the rigors of fatherhood and divorce.

"We're going to have to wrap this up." Muriel barked once more, collecting her handbag from a nearby table and directing the shooting staff as if they were her own employees. Her client nodded, squeezing in a few more poses as Ellie continued to teasingly mock him from behind the lense. "We've got a meeting at four and we can't miss it. Thank you for your time, dear, it's been lovely." Although Muriel insisted that it had been lovely, her words were somewhat hollow, simple pleasantries she had to bestow upon photographers, journalists, stylists and all of the others. After all, her client wasn't known for demure elegance and etiquette. She turned away once more, trotting over to collect more belongings.

Bristol however, paced towards Ellie with intimidating confidence. Shoulders were low, his head tilted slightly down. He didn't slow down until the last second, standing merely inches from the petite, pixie-like figure that had slowly become the object of his lust affections. Her perfume filled his nostrils, and he quickly forgot the cold.

"I say..." he quietly murmured, the smirk now a little more serious. "You forget your boyfriend, you come to my house, and you see what a real wand can do." Planting a short-lived kiss on her cheek, Bristol trailed off after Muriel, not wanting to look back at Ellie. As much as he wanted to, it'd be far too uncool. Then why, did he glance over his shoulder that one last time?

Damn.