One would think three years working for the Prophet might mean something, but Greta supposed when people had been on the paper for just shy of half a century, they felt it perfectly within their rights to boss around those with less than an infinite number of years under their belt.
Well, it still rankled, but perhaps they had a point.
Whatever it was, Greta was tired of the constant feature rotation amongst the newbies because she inevitably landed the worst department for the week. And despite pleading, begging, and perhaps offering inappropriate favors to trade for the Muggle-Liason feature, which Barnabas Cuffe had outrightly laughed at, she was assigned Sports. The last time she'd been in Sports, there had been a Gobstones tournament. A marathon tournament she'd had to cover live for a week whilst the Quidditch correspondents interviewed the traded players of the season.
She had never been quite so bitter in her life.
But then, to her utmost surprise, then Senior correspondent had called in with a mysterious case of food poisoning, and she was the only one readily available at the office, and who should be dispatched for a hotly anticipated press conference than Miss Greta D. L. Catchlove?
Quite proud of herself for the few but (she fancied) rather probing questions she'd posed, Greta strenuously avoided prolonged eye contact with Ludo Bagman for risk of blushing, giggling, otherwise seeming silly etc. She tried to remind herself that she'd been to school with this man (boy—man—boy--man—wizard!), but there was no hope for it. She was, absolutely and undoubtedly, very much silly. But he didn't need to know that, which she sternly reminded herself as she saw him approach.
"Do you know, I almost believe your outrageous flattery at times." She held her quill exaggeratedly poised atop her scroll and gave him her best Important Press Person look. "Come, Mister Bagman, a heartfelt quote—you've just been elected captain of the Wimbourne Wasps. Whatever shall you do next?"
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