@supertroupersheridan
It was exotic, this country. The air constantly smelled a little salty to the veela, and she liked it that way. With an ocean that reminded her of someone she used to love, the redhead had fallen for it. Greece, the Mediterranean, and the little islands here and there – everywhere was dreamy.
It had only been a while since she’d moved there. Managing the Greek National Team was not something she expected to be doing in her life, ever, but they needed the advice of a seasoned Quidditch professional, and F.J. jumped at the chance. With her kids in Ilvermorny and her house empty, it was nice to get away from the stinging memory of her husband’s infidelity and subsequent separation.
One thing she’d always been a fan of was dancing. Swing, ballroom, and square dancing were her particular favorites. The mainland had dance classes for ballroom, and F.J. had joined almost the same week she’d arrived in Greece. Something extra to do in the evenings. To kill time. In fact, to kill every Wednesday night from six thirty to eight. It had seemed a little long at first, but when F.J. thought about it, it was better that way. She could mingle for an hour and a half with new people, most of whom were local, and attempt to wrap her mouth around the foreign (to her) language.
So, for the (now) fourth week in a row, F.J. showed up to the dance class in a relatively casual outfit of mostly black. As always, several men attempted to talk to her, making their female partners livid, and as always, she politely refused all men who wanted to dance with her, and instead circled for a woman who might be interested.
Upon finding a lone blond, she reached out to tap her shoulder lightly.
“Hi,” she said, “need a partner?”
