"Oh, you're too kind," Oliver said, batting his eyelashes in an exaggerated show of being flattered by the compliment. In truth, Oliver didn't put a lot of stock in his appearance. He knew he was attractive, and he didn't work at it. Part of the reason he WAS attractive to a lot of people was because he wasn't vain and he certainly never looked like he tried very hard (because, in fact, he did not). While, yes, he tried very hard when it came to working out, that had nothing to do with vanity and everything to do with his obsession with Quidditch, which was legendary. He loved Quidditch as much if not more than he loved his own parents. He tried not to think too hard about it, because his heart constricted every time he was reminded that he was in a place where his profession didn't exist. What a blow.
He was glad, though, that Dorcas was of-age, as he was pretty sure she was. She didn't look YOUNG, but she definitely looked like an age that could as easily been 16 as 21. He was a bad judge, and sometimes that got him into trouble. Not that he need worry about that. Or should think about that. He cleared his throat. "Well, if it's good enough for America, it's good enough for me. Do you want one?" he asked, walking over to the beers. He set them on the coffee table next to the pop corn, so they would be easily accessible. He caught her comment about being corrupted and laughed loud and long. "Well, goodness, I just walked in the door and already you want me to corrupt you. That has to be a record."
Oliver wanted to change the subject about Fred, and shrugged his shoulders, subtly trying to tell Dorcas not to dwell o that. "We've all lost a lot in both wars," he said, clearing his throat. "We don't have to talk about it tonight. Tonight is for blowy-upy movies."