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14th April, 1889 — Quidditch Changing Room
@Kristoffer Lestrange
The match had been boring. Pretty-Boy Bones had excelled at his only talent in Trixie’s estimation - though he was far from the best-looking on the pitch - and she had nearly jumped out of her seat with excitement when a bludger had nearly smacked straight into the Hufflepuff seekers face, but alas he swerved. No blood had been spilled, no fights had broken out. Frankly she felt rather vindicated for not bothering with matches for the last five years.

The worst of it was that in a tussle between green and yellow it was the badgers that had triumphed and...well, it wasn’t exactly a small margin. Even Trixie knew that they had been soundly trounced and such a loss during his last match was not likely to have put the Slytherin captain in a particularly good mood. Every ounce of sense she possessed told her this was not the time to sneak into the changing rooms, having waited till his despondent teammates slumped off, but the thought of him sullen and angry stirred something inside her she couldn’t ignore.

She didn't knock. He was still wearing his uniform and Trixie wasn't entirely sure how she felt about that.

"Bad luck," she said drily, wrinkling her nose as it was assaulted by the combined scent of despair and boy.
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fabulously moody set by Bee <3
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He may as well never leave these changing rooms again, and just hang himself here already.

Of course, if he did that, his teammates would walk free and he'd be damned if he didn't get to string up Abney and all three of his chasers for this disgrace. And after that he was going to have to find the Hufflepuff captain and forcibly pop his eyes out of his sockets, and say something clever and calm about it like, good luck catching the snitch next time, motherfucker. And then probably slit his throat for good measure.

All too preoccupied with visions of beating the next person he saw to death with his beater's bat (still tight in his grip, emotional crutch that it was), Kristoffer didn't notice that anyone else had come in until someone spoke.

"What do you want?" Kris snarled, starting to round on her almost before he realised who it was - because although it was not someone who was at fault for the match, it was not just anyone, either. That said, better to sound angry than taken aback: the last thing he needed was Beatrix Borgin to bear witness to yet another ritual humiliation. Losing out on Head Boy had been bad enough, and now this? If she had come to gloat and be all clever with him - well, that'd be it for her, wouldn't it? He'd have to pay her back in kind.

And he actually liked her, damn it.
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Had she been born to a better, more genteel life Trixie might had taken umbrage at his tone, might have run away with her tail between her legs and declared him beastly to all the other stupid little chits that would listen. Instead she raised her eyebrow with intrigue. She didn’t flinch - just let his angry reaction wash over her and she found it delicious.

It was oddly thrilling to think that he was so furious. Doubly so to see the almost imperceptible hint of regret flash in his eye when he caught sight of her. Oh, but she wanted him to feel...she wasn’t quite sure what...regretful wasn’t right, she wanted him to be whole and full of his temper and she wanted him to be in a temper when he was with her, though not necessarily unleash said temper on her.

“Calm down, I only came to make you feel better,” she replied honestly, having formed a fair idea in the course of her short life of precisely how she might achieve this end. He was so very, very handsome; and somehow the angrier he was the more he appealed. “Thought you might need cheering up after your team shafted you like that.”


[Image: peVXwN.png]
fabulously moody set by Bee <3
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She was being clever. Calm down, she'd just said, as though she could tell him what to do. She seemed almost impervious to his mood and to the tense frustration settled thick in the air, had just stalked in as if she owned the place, as if she had every right to.

It was... impressive, coming from a girl like her.

And whatever she was doing, she wasn't gloating. She was on his side.

He stared at her awhile. The anger was still knotted in him, simmering just underneath the surface of his skin, but with a flex of his fingers, he let go of the bat, sent it thudding onto the bench beside him. (He'd save the prescribed beating-to-death for the next person he saw. They wouldn't be so pretty.)

"And how do you think you're going to do that?" Kristoffer drawled, as if he didn't believe she could, daring her to try. He pretended to concentrate on removing his wrist guards, ripping them off with a satisfying ferocity, but found himself instead afflicted with a new kind of agony, one that increased for every moment he refused to look at her.

But Beatrix Borgin was a resourceful girl, he'd worked out that much about her. Surely she'd come up with something.
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