Grace was not afraid of parties—of that she was most adamant. She did not enjoy them, though, if only because her brain and her mouth were not always cooperating when it came time to converse with other partygoers, and so she always made sure to take time to simply be. It was more difficult to find that time on some occasions, but the garden party she was attending allowed the perfect, momentary escape: the little magical tunnel, which would allow her to stand there and pretend to be soaking in the scenery when she was simply taking a breath. Others passed through, but none stopped to speak to her.

Until a gentleman did. Grace talked to gentlemen. She knew how to talk to gentlemen. She talked plenty to Mr. Lestrange, and yet somehow the comparatively short quidditch player seemed much less a daunting figure than the one before her now. He was so... tall. And yet it was not a wholly unwelcome intrusion, because his opening words—Avoiding the dance floor?—seemed less an accusation and vocalization of a commonality between them when she noticed his cane. She gave a nervous smile in greeting.

"Maybe a little," she admitted, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks at the thought of what Verity would think to her having admitted such a thing. "It's—new to me."

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