Greer said nothing to her taunt, letting them into his flat - spare but lovely, dripping with success as any Quidditch Pro's home tended to be - before turning to the kitchen, taking his time, making her squirm. He made them each a cocktail - aged rye whiskey, just the smallest dash of bitters - and brought an expertly made Manhattan over to where she stood, still in the foyer.
"I hope you like bitter and sweet," he said, taking a sip of his own, his eyes not leaving hers. He couldn't help the coil of anger that bled into his stomach at her having called him interesting - people loved to see him as a token, an Englishman of high society who happened to look the way he did, a notch on their bedpost. One of the many reasons he didn't generally speak to women before he bedded them, preferring to keep such matters purely physical. His description of the drink was spot on for himself, as well, he knew. He was certainly bitter.
He turned and walked away from her, toward his bedroom without another word, confident she would follow.