Today's line: "Enjoy being older than me! It won't be for long!"

"Media attention is not what it's cracked up to be," Aidan complains as they shut the door on a storm of journalists camped outside his flat.

Oliver nods. "And it's not cracked up to be much," he agrees. This is the third time in as many days they've been ambushed by the press, after almost two weeks of nothing to lull them into a false sense of security. "I wonder why they're after us now?" he adds, falling into an armchair in the living room. "Why not when they first printed that story about us?"

"Well," Aidan says thoughtfully. "First of all, I think the people out there are from Witch Weekly and Quidditch Quarterly and those sorts of magazines rather than the Prophet. And it's been two weeks since the Prophet article, they're probably looking for something scandalous that they can report, something more interesting. You know. We're old news now, so they need something to make us new again."

Oliver sighs. "They could just leave us alone," he says dully.

Aidan raises an eyebrow doubtfully. "No fun or money in that," he replies. "I booked us a table at Leviosa for tomorrow night, but if we go out in this we'll get no privacy."

Leviosa, Hogsmeade's latest addition, has been back-booked for months; Oliver has been checking every other night since he and Aidan went public. He'd briefly toyed with the idea of checking before then as well, but decided that having just opened, there were bound to be press still poking around the place. He gapes at Aidan. "You got a table at Leviosa?"

"I know one of the chefs," the Seeker says unconcernedly. "I tried to get a table at Valentine's Day, but that would have been really miraculous. As it was they've had to set up an extra table to accommodate us."

Oliver tries to nod as though this is completely normal. "I… thank you," he says.

Aidan shrugs. "Not going to be much good if we're surrounded by cameras the whole time," he says dejectedly.

Oliver smirks. "Oh, I reckon we could slip past them."

Polyjuice Potion has been a Class C restricted substance since the War, but there are places one can go; strange as it is, staring into the mirror at someone else's face where your own ought to be, there's something hypnotic about watching Aidan – suddenly the younger, tall and pale – creep up behind him and press a kiss to the vulnerable spot underneath his earlobe. "Are you ready?" he asks, his lips rasping slightly against the skin.

The man whose face Oliver has stolen is in his forties, dark curls shot with violent stabs of grey tumbling over his forehead; Aidan's new body is tall, frighteningly slim, with startling blue eyes and a slightly hooked nose reminding Oliver of his old Potions master. He kisses him, feeling the familiar slide of a different tongue. "As I'll ever be," he replies, gently cupping a different slope of a pale cheek. "Wow, this is weird," he comments. "I feel… protective of you. Like I'm supposed to watch over you."

Aidan laughs, and his laugh is the same as ever. "Yeah, well, enjoy being older than me," he taunts. "It won't be for long!"

"We'll have to remember to drink more in an hour," Oliver points out. "Or, I'll have to remember, because you'll forget."

The tall stranger laughs again. "That's why I keep you around," he says lightly, bending frighteningly far to press a gentle kiss amongst the foreign curls. "Come on, or we'll be late. I know you don't like being late."