“‘Oh’, what?” Kristoffer asked carelessly, looking over his shoulder as someone came around the corner after him – at some pace, if the footsteps he’d heard first had signified anything. He’d slowed down to wait for their appearance, since he had no intention of telling anybody anything about his plans for the rest of the evening (which mostly involved a discreet trip out to Borgin & Burke’s).
But it was only Tiberius’ wife, who had never factored much into his contemplation of the Lestrange family at large, because she wasn’t really a Lestrange, and no one ever seemed to have much praise for her, either. (Besides, Kristoffer was much used to being generally ignored by Tiberius and Cassius and his great-uncle and just about everyone else in the family, so it was only fair that he got to disdainfully ignore some people, too.)
But – going nowhere in her view – he leant back against the wall instead, and just eyed the blonde, considering. Maybe she was up to something, nosing about the house alone after dinner, and that was why she’d sounded so caught off guard. A corner of his lip curled up, a fraction sneering, at the idea. “Looking for something, were you?”
Her reaction was a little exaggerated in indignance, Kris thought, folding his arms defensively. He’d only used the same tone he used for all his sisters – snide and patronising, the sort of disparaging tone he could get away with for all ‘lesser’ family members and inferiors and women he wasn’t generally trying to flatter (although sometimes he did use the same tone for flattery, too).
“Are you sure about that?” he inquired, raising his eyebrows defiantly. She couldn’t be that much older than him, and Tiberius wasn’t here, so he wasn’t worried about provoking her. (She seemed friendly-ish with Cassius, which must mean she was generally useless at best and depressingly boring at worst.) “Because you were the one following me, so maybe I should be flattered,” he pointed out, entirely sardonic.
He had no idea what her usual demeanour was like, either, really... but his brow creased in sudden confusion. Something was weirdly familiar about her, though, wasn’t it? What was it? Her hair? He’d seen her often enough before, though, so that couldn’t be it. Her voice? That annoying cadence of her tone? Where had he heard that before?
Kristoffer opened his mouth to retort to her claim of his insignificance – a sore spot for him, in this family, not that she would know it – but the words never made it to his mouth. Instead, some other phrases had come winding their way uninvited into his brain, inebriated sea lion and something about wrenching spines through navels amongst them. It took a prolonged moment to sink in. He had been very drunk that night – but of course the encounter had been far too memorable to ever forget it.
He wanted to laugh at the absurdity, dismiss it as a passing thought, but – the more he surveyed her, the more sure he was. It had to be. The psycho whore from the Ministry ball who’d threatened to maim him was Tiberius’ wife? A fucking Lestrange? It didn’t make any sense, but it all made sense... And she was looking at him too: did she know? Had she known then? Or was he really so insignificant in manner and voice that she couldn’t tell, even now? (It was probably safer if she didn’t, but Kristoffer chewed the inside of his cheek with a burst of disappointment at the idea –)
He didn’t say anything to tip the conversation either way... although he also didn’t say anything, so his abrupt silence had perhaps made this interaction odd, all the same. All he did was push himself off the wall and take a deliberate pace towards her, watching her experimentally. He’d straightened up, was standing closer and facing her directly, challengingly, just as they’d been the last time when they’d danced and she’d called him a coward and he’d called her insane. He didn’t know what she would do to him if she remembered – so maybe this was akin to putting his hand in the fire – but: Kris raised one eyebrow as if to say guess what? I know something you don’t.
Was it bad if he still felt a frisson of something here?
She was married. (He had known that before.)
She had a screw loose, for sure. Two screws loose, probably. Or every single screw, a door completely off its hinges. (He had known that too.)
She was a Lestrange, and her husband seemed to be in Lucius’ eternal favour, which had to mean something about how dangerous he was. (He hadn’t known that until now – but he had never felt any real fear in the family, either. If he was primarily invisible to them, he was invulnerable, too.)
She had recognised him – just now, he was almost certain of it – and she had threatened to maim him, before. (But he was a Lestrange too: she wouldn’t dare now, would she?) The safest course of action now might be to laugh it off and get out of her way, but try as he might, Kristoffer felt stubbornly fixed to the spot. Besides, she’d called him a coward already – and she had more to apologise for. So. “I see he hasn’t sent you to the madhouse yet,” he commented, with a gently taunting shake of his head, in reference to the last he’d said to her at the masquerade.
Yes, Tiberius. He was her husband, wasn’t he? Or was their marriage as wide open as she had made it sound that once, and she actually had all manner of men in her life? Kris almost snorted at the thought. Presumably she wasn’t stupid enough to be as loud about something like that now that her identity wasn’t in the least concealed.
It made him wonder if her husband knew about that little interaction, though, and the way she obviously conducted herself in public. (Never mind that Kristoffer had been comporting himself in much the same manner – no one cared about his public conduct, anyway.) Surely Tiberius didn’t condone her rudeness and insinuations and tirades? He kept her close, did he? Kristoffer narrowed his eyes, unconvinced. He hadn’t been dancing with her then.
(The problem was that he had never paid a whit of attention to Tiberius and Antigone and their relationship before. Maybe he would have to now, just out of morbid curiosity?)
“Why?” Kris replied, with a slow smirk and a glimmer of challenge in his tone. If he let the jibe about not having a backbone slide, it was only because he thought not bristling at it would annoy her more. “What are you going to threaten me with this time, if I have?” It was a good question. Was he going to try anything? They were in private this time – although, quite possibly, being right under the family’s nose was not better, but worse.
She wasn’t at all abashed by her earlier behaviour, was she? He scanned her face again, painstakingly, searching for some sign of repentance and finding none. She hadn’t even denied the threats of last time; if anything, she was making it sound as though, even now that there was no anonymity to hide behind, she would be worse.
He was bristling a little now, in spite of himself and his intention not to: he knew he wasn’t at the top of the food chain amongst the Lestranges, but he galled him to think that she seemed to think herself above him. She had shown no remorse at all. Hm.
But she was right about something: at least for the moment, they were alone. And Kristoffer simply couldn’t bring himself to be intimidated by her; she could talk the talk, but what were her threats in practice? Last time they’d fallen back on her approaching husband. But there was no sign of Tiberius in this hallway now.
“How could I possibly provoke you?” Kristoffer said with a humourless grin, taking another step closer to her to purposely diminish the space between them, as if he couldn’t think of plenty of ways to try it. If she wanted to step backwards, she’d have to move back up against the wall, or else flee down the hall. Either way, he’d count it a win; for the moment he just insinuated himself into her space, not quite touching her. He gazed at her, all faux-innocence. “We’re not even dancing this time.”
Kristoffer had to guffaw, because as awful and terrible and savage as he was sure the Lestrange family could be, he didn’t expect a familial murder to be on the table tonight. If they were in public again, maybe the consequences later would be more dire – but the only one humiliated at the end of this would be her.
It would have to be, because she was almost too full of herself to bear. He didn’t know why anyone in the Lestrange family had chosen to marry such a prickly, loud-mouthed piece in the first place: surely Lucius’ favourite could have found a wife with half an ounce of dignity, not this yapping, snarling, belligerent bitch? Who did she think she was?
If he hadn’t been aggravated by her confidence, he might have been scared of it – empty bravado was too familiar a tune to mistake, but if he had probed a little further he might have found a bone of conviction beneath it, and begun to think of how best to melt away from his encounter with life, limb and ego intact.
But Kris was a little aggravated now, fuelled by the challenge and her impossible consequences. “I’d think about who you’re calling a little runt, if I were you,” he said, lip curling as he held himself large – so he might be younger than them all, thought a joke or some petty afterthought, but he still wasn’t anyone to be messed with, and he was certainly stronger than her. (And if anyone was the runt in the family, in manner or size – wasn’t it obviously Cassius? Come on.)
All patience gone at her drastic underestimation of him, Kris pressed himself still further into her space and reached a hand up to catch her, none too gently, by the cheek.
Her furious look was scorching in a way that didn’t dissuade him at all. Like the terrible temptation to flit a hand through a flame and come out the other side intact – if there was any danger in it, he didn’t care.
He was going to kiss her, and he was sure she wouldn’t stop him. Kristoffer was so sure of this that his eyes had already begun to close when something knocked him about the face.
Her knuckles. Her fist had come barrelling towards him, and had connected, hard. “OW,” Kris declared, more in shock than anything. He was too surprised to retaliate, and just stumbled back over his own feet, lifting a hand to clutch at his nose. It hurt when he touched it; the bone at the bridge of it was so uncomfortably tender that it was all he could think about. His hand came away – bloodied – and for a moment Kristoffer could only stare at it, dumbfounded. Was it broken? “You bitch,” he accused her. (This was obviously all her fault.)
