Greta often felt she walked a fine line, being a reporter for
The Daily Prophet and attending social events without her press pin. As she was an investigative reporter, and not one who covered society or gossip (at least, not since she had been assigned a feature some years ago), people ought to have felt more comforted when they learned a reporter was in their midst.
Unfortunately, particularly amongst crowds with Quidditch players and other rag-attractors, anyone who wrote about anyone else for a living was generally iced out, despite the fact that, meaning no offence, Greta would find a handful (and that was generously speaking) of people here relevant and interesting enough to garner headlines in her particular line of work.
But, strangely enough, telling people that offended them even more!
Having a date to attend functions with generally eased the awkwardness, but Greta had flown solo since the last New Year's Eve gala, come to think of it. She had accompanied Miranda and Ralph, but they were so excited about their newest member of the family (and who could blame them), that Greta quietly excused herself so they could celebrate in peace.
It was close to midnight, and she flitted aimlessly amongst gaggles of people, some she knew from work, from school, or some lingering acquaintanceships formed from when she dated Ludo Bagman. Greta felt lonely, thoughtful, and quite a bit tipsy, playing with the edges of her mask and not quite knowing what to do with herself.
When hands wrapped themselves around her, she felt fervor, rather than fear. When lips touched hers with boldness and ownership, she felt satisfaction rather than outrage. In fact, her hands wove themselves around him, and she pressed as close as was physically possible, still unhappy with the distance. How had he known just what she wanted, just when she most needed it?
She drew back with a wide, knowing smile. "I know those lips," she said tapping her masked man's cheek.
