The flat in Muggle London was more than Oliver could ask for from Puddlemere. When he stumbled into the locker room unshaven, drunk and rambling with a look in his eyes that no others had seen, they knew something was wrong. After sobering up he sat down with his captain and manager and he gave them an abridged version of what had happened. They understood the school thing, but after Dumbledore's death and a little illusion to why he had really been in and out of Hogwarts, he told them of his dilemma, leaving out most importantly, his tryst with a one Rachel Rivers. Being his teammates and friends, they knew he needed help, and as much as he refused they had gotten him a nice flat in the middle of bustling Muggle London with a nice old landlady where no one knew anything about the Wizarding World.

He hulled up most of his belongings at his captain's and gave himself a crash course in Muggle life, retaining some knowledge from his time in both Santa Barbara and New England. The Muggle life was unsurprisingly mundane to Oliver. He would rise two hours before he was expected at Metcall and would run because he wanted to be in the best shape for when Puddlemere came to check up on him. In the early hours before dawn he would pass Mr. Murphy who was retrieving his morning paper in his bath robe, Trisha Parker who would walk her Great Dane in heels, or rather Toby would drag her along as she replied to work emails on her mobile, and occasionally he would pass a leggy blonde, on the side walk, running opposite of him. She would usually smile coyly, and turn up the Indie Pop Rock on her mp3 device, he would nod curtly and continue on. When he returned to his flat he would shower and dress, sometimes in black slacks and a button down shirt, sometimes in khakis and polo shirts.

There were several others like him that worked there, mild mannered, well dressed, queasy after the gory emergency calls. They felt like they were helping people, truly there were helping themselves. They were skittish, too weak to become police officers, too proud to find a more suitable job. Most had a family member somewhere on the force and they didn't want to disappoint, no, so they answered emergency calls all day and cried themselves to sleep at night. Oliver wasn't one of them, but he was sure that he was categorized with them, most likely by the officers that worked there. They were damaged, injured on the job, in need of retirement but unwilling to take it. He liked the older ones; they had spunk, like Mackey, a sixty-four year old former homicide detective who was Oliver's favorite. Mackey sat on the opposite side of the room as Oliver, but he would usually shout out instructions to women screaming that they had been attacked, or to someone that had been shot, and Oliver heard some interesting things come out of this man's mouth. The most entertaining had been when Mackey had told an elderly woman who had called about her missing cat to look under her seat cushion.

After a few weeks, at the end of Oliver's shift he approached the man, "Mackey, right?" he said smiling at the older man.

The former Detective gave Oliver a stern once over, "who wants to know?"

"Oh, sorry, I'm Oliver Wood, I was wondering if you wanted to head over to the pub and get a few drinks, on me," Oliver offered.

Mackey glared, "I don't swing that way boy," he said beginning to walk away. "Aren't you a little young to be going after someone my age anyway?" he scoffed and continued walking.

Oliver gaped after him before quickening his pace to catch up, "I'm not a bugger, I'm actually," he paused, "recently unengaged, if that's even a term," he laughed slightly.

Mackey stopped and gave Oliver a strange look before continuing out of the call center. "Well, Oliver Wood, what happened?

"With Rac-my ex-fiancée?" he asked surprised and moved to keep up with the older man. "I fucked up, that's what."

"Ah, happens to the best of us," Mackey said walking down the block to the nearest pub. He opened the door and headed to the bar with Oliver obediently in tow. "It happened to me; I cheated on my first wife with a woman who eventually became my second wife, only to let it happen again. My second wife caught my ex-wife and me in bed."

Oliver grimaced at the fresh memory. "Yeah, situation sounds familiar," he trailed off as two beers in mugs appeared before them. He stared at the golden liquid and raised it before Mackey spoke out quickly.

"To loneliness! Because she is far better company than any woman I've ever been with," he said and followed by clinking his mug to Oliver's and taking a rather large swig, leaning back far enough that Oliver thought he would fall off his barstool.

"To loneliness," Oliver said less carefree than Mackey and took himself a gulp, nearly sputtering the liquid back out of his nose. He pinched it on the way down and Mackey laughed at his failure.

The bar door opened and the bell above tolled once again as a crowd of older gentlemen, much like Mackey, came loudly into the bar, "Oi! Mackey!" one called out and soon a chorus of his name was sung throughout the men as the swarmed the bar around the men and another round of drinks was ordered. No one asked who Oliver was, but as soon as Mackey had explained to them that he was a friend from Metcall who had just lost his woman, the men all resounded in boo's and requests for more drinks. Whiskey made its way around the circle and before Oliver knew what had happened he was stumbling out of the bar, Mackey and he joined at the arms as the group of men stumbled down the street to the next pub.

"So, how'd you loose your lass?" one asked.

Oliver grimaced then laughed, "She caught me in bed with one of my old school mates. Little blonde thing that was always hot on me."

They laughed, "Did she know her?"

"No, Rach was from the States."

"Ha! You were engaged to a Yank?!" Mackey laughed with glee.

"She was amazing!" Oliver declared. "Had a good head on her shoulders, knew well enough that I wasn't good enough for her!"

"Which one of us is good for any of our women?!"

They all laughed as the clambered through the door of another pub, where the bartender greeted them all with pints. As the drinks flowed on and on, Oliver became minutely aware of a blonde woman in the back of the pub who raised her drink to him and giggled to her friends when he looked her way and flashed his best smile. After a few more shots of whiskey with the guys he nearly fell off of his barstool and made his way over to her.

"Hello," she greeted with a wide smile.

"Hullo," he slurred. "You are the most beautiful woman I've laid eyes on all night," he smiled.

"Well that works to our advantage that we're the only women here," she grinned sideways at her friends.

"I'm Oliver," he stuck out his hand to her.

"Sarah," she replied.

"Hey, would you like to get out of here?" he asked, earning a chorus of "Ooos!" from the gents.

If possible, her smile widened and she hastily sat down her drink, "sure."

Oliver's alarm screamed next to his head and he jumped to a start with a pounding headache as he lurched out of bed. He was fairly certain that he was still intoxicated.

"You going to turn that off?" a soft voice floated from the bed.

He slowly raised his head to look across his bed and he saw the bare back and loose tendrils of the leggy blonde laying in his bed, tangled in his sheets. "Oh shit," was drowned out by the noise of his alarm and he unplugged it standing quickly. "I've got to, um, go running," he said staring at her back.

She didn't respond and he grabbed the jogging pants and zip up from the floor, stumbling out of his apartment with his shoes. He stopped short in his hallway and looked around cautiously. "Bullocks," he cursed and laced up, drowsily taking the stairs, his limbs still stiff with alcohol.