Today's line: "I really think that I should have gotten those shoes. On sale! And in my size! I'll have to go back tomorrow."
The volume of hate mail decreases over the week, until Oliver decides that it's probably safe to clean the floor of the spare bedroom of owl droppings and feathers and migrate back into the office to answer his mail.
Isabel giggles as she watches him with the pile of parchment – the overwhelmingly kind letters which he's decided he wants to keep, the people thanking him for giving them the courage to come out to their parents or their workmates or approach their crushes. She teases him about it, but Oliver's discovered yet more this past week that he likes helping people.
"Maybe when you have to give up professional Quidditch you can teach flying instead," she says. He laughs at her, mostly because giving up professional Quidditch is years in the future and he really doesn't want to think about it, but he's not at all averse to the idea.
They sit in silence for a bit; Isabel is scribbling a letter to someone in her office about something that should have been done several days ago – she didn't mention what precisely it was in her ranting – and Oliver is trying to cram the remaining letters into a drawer in his desk.
When the knock on the door announces that Aidan has arrived he abandons it and goes to get the door; the lithe Seeker beams at him, holding out a bag containing takeaway kebabs from the little place by the Muggle post office.
Isabel's first sentence when they walk into the room is, "I really think that I should have gotten those shoes."
Oliver, who's been listening to the do I, don't I speech all morning, rolls his eyes. Aidan doesn't yet know he shouldn't look interested, so Isabel picks out his expression of concern and jumps at the opportunity. "On sale!" she continues. "And in my size! I'll have to go back tomorrow."
Aidan chuckles and hands her a chicken kebab. "Sounds like you will," he commiserates. "Shoe sales are not to be missed out on."
"Don't encourage her," Oliver tells him, accepting the proferred kebab. "You should see how many shoes she already has."
The Seeker cracks open a Butterbeer and tilts it towards him in a sort of salute. "One can never have enough shoes," he says.
Isabel laughs. "You see, Oliver? A man after my own heart."
Slightly possessively, Oliver winds an arm around Aidan's waist and accepts a Butterbeer from him. "You know what they say about all the good ones being gay or taken? It follows that the best ones happen to be both."
"Thanks, dear," Aidan says, turning his head to press a quick kiss on Oliver's lips before tossing Isabel the last Butterbeer and sinking onto the sofa. Oliver delicately folds himself into the inviting gap between his lover's splayed legs and arranges them into a position where they can both eat, but his ownership of the blond is clear.
Isabel giggles deligthedly. "This is lovely," she says, rolling up the parchment and moving it away from the bits of lettuce and mayonnaise falling out of her kebab. "I'm so glad you've found someone nice, Oliver."
Oliver lets Aidan have his little giggle and not-so-little toady up to his controlling, slightly-psychotic flatmate, because he completely agrees with her.