As the evening wore on, Poppy could feel her shoes begin to cause a bit of a problem. They’d been uncomfortable to begin with, and by this point in the evening - too many dances in - they were unbearable. Oh how she wished she could drink to forget! Or better yet, run upstairs and change them! Mama would never forgive her though if she abandoned her own debut, even if it was just for a moment. Poppy considered the unthinkable - refusing the next dance - as she carefully peered at her card. Mr. Basil Foxwood. Ah, now here was someone she could con into relieving her. Though Poppy wanted to dance with her cousin, she knew he wouldn’t mind in the least to be sent on an errand instead. Perhaps Basil could find her a pair of shoes she could quickly switch into before a… Mr. Olixander Blackwood? came to claim the next dance.

Peering around the crowd for the elusive Basil, Poppy wondered if he and Tillie had found a place to hide out or if Atticus had forced him into mingling like a normal human. (Alright, maybe Basil wasn’t so terrible when it came to society, but he certainly made his discomfort obvious sometimes.) Poppy smiled to herself at the thought. Spotting him finally just across the way, the brunette pulled him aside and discreetly asked her favor. Basil’s face didn’t register displeasure when she elegantly gave him an out, but he didn’t seem thrilled to go poking about the estate. Poppy forced the biggest doe eyes she could possibly manage and finally, Basil resigned. He made no promises, but he supposed he could give it a look.

Pleased with her beguilement, Poppy found the first available seat and settled in with a fresh glass of champagne to wait out her cousin and his dance. How wonderful it was to have older brothers minions.

---

Well, that was that. Poppy Dashwood was a debutante now. Let loose on the world – and all those tiresome gentlemen she had confessed to being so worried about, once. Maybe she had changed her mind about her dreams of escapades to Paris and all the rest; maybe she was going to prove herself a perfect bore and marry the first man who complimented her dress, who knew?

At any rate, Kristoffer wouldn’t know, because he had been strategically avoiding her tonight. A barest greeting in the receiving line, and that was all. She was the one who had decided she wanted to be friends, after all, and being a dutiful friend in a circumstance like this meant staying out of the way and giving her room to impress all her other guests, not monopolise her time or try and lure her out to some deserted hallway in this house.

Not that he was imagining doing that, or anything. No, Kristoffer was being perfectly well behaved – putting his name on dance cards, drinking champagne, making small talk, all the rest. Miss Dashwood ought to be relieved.

(And if this was actually some selfish scheme to snub her, to hopefully make her notice his very deliberate absence – drive her wild with jealousy, maybe – he was hardly about to admit it to anyone else.)

The problem was that he was eating away at his own patience, too, and she hadn’t sought him out, either. She did remember he was here, didn’t she? It was getting later and later into the evening, so at last he scanned the room with a little too much purpose to pretend he wasn’t looking for her, and then – aha!

“Well hello, Miss Dashwood,” Kris said loftily, as if he had come over for another glass and only found himself next to her by chance. He couldn’t resist smirking at her, though, and raised his eyebrows as if impressed. “I see you haven’t tripped over yourself yet tonight.”

---

To say that Poppy hadn’t wondered about the whereabouts of one Mr. Kristoffer Lestrange that evening would be stretching the truth, by a long shot. She’d thought about him here and there throughout the evening, most pointedly when Atticus had asked her hours ago if there was any one particular gentleman with whom she wanted to dance. Of course, she hadn’t dared mention him by name. Since then however, with the influx of agreeable gentlemen vying for a place on her dance card, Poppy had found it hard to keep him at the forefront of her mind, especially as it seemed he had no interest whatsoever in keeping his spot. (The thought still made her frown, though she reminded herself it shouldn’t… It wasn’t like Mr. Lestrange had any interest in her deliberately, he was much too young mama would say, and he couldn’t offer Poppy what she needed most from a match anyhow. Not yet.) 

Still, the sight of him on the dance floor not so long ago with a girl she couldn’t immediately place a name to hadn’t passed unnoticed. Poppy had mixed feelings about it, really. On the one hand, she was glad he’d come and she was genuinely interested in developing their friendship further; Kristoffer had every making of the type of person she’d enjoy spending time with in an unfussy, lets-go-on-an-adventure sort of way. On the other hand, the little green monster that seemed to pull at the pearls tucked into her updo wasn’t particularly forgiving either.

Turning away from the sight, she’d let out a deep breath and endeavored to forget all about it. Eventually, as Poppy had found herself a seat and a drink and sent her cousin on his errand, she’d been genuinely surprised to find herself addressing Mr. Lestrange at all. Surprised, but not displeased. Willing herself not to show too much - or, any, really - satisfaction at having garnered his attention however, she tossed a twinkly, embarrassed little laugh over her shoulder.

“Of course not,” she replied. “What a sad case I would be, tripping all over!” she teased, gently. “You don’t think me so hopeless, do you Mr. Lestrange?”  With a coy smile, Poppy raised her glass to her lips and took a sip. “I am surprised to see you still here however,” she continued. “I thought you’d gone home hours ago without so much as an adieu.” The response was blasé, if a little flippant, but Poppy’s heart was beating quickly in her chest. Here he was in all his magnificent splendor and all she could do was torture him for avoiding her? Perhaps that little green monster was stronger than she'd first anticipated.

---

Her laugh – whether embarrassed or entertained or delighted – was always such a pretty peal of sound that it was really very annoying to hear it, Kris decided, simultaneously making a mental note to make her laugh again.

“Then you’ve come a long way since last year,” Kristoffer remarked, blasé, about their first accidental mess of a collision at New Year’s. “Well done.” But of course, she was no longer hopeless: she was a debutante now, and committed to it. No more fun and games for her.

No, all they had now was damning small talk at a ball, all coyness and cordiality. Fine: Kristoffer could play the charming or callous gentleman, in turn. (Whichever might annoy her most.) “What, leave so early? After such a generous invitation from a dear friend on her special evening?” he drawled, as if half of him hadn’t wanted to, rather than lurking at the fringes of this ballroom being grumpy about how often he could spot Miss Dashwood dancing with eligible bachelors and laughing her stupid twinkly laugh.

“No, I couldn’t have,” he assured her, with the same flippant edge. He plucked up a new champagne glass from just behind her and took a belligerent sip of it. “Besides, there are still so many charming young ladies to dance with tonight.” With one notable exception, whom he refused to ask, simply because it sounded like she might want him to.

(Alright, maybe he could admit it: this was entirely to try and make her jealous.)

---

If he’d brought up their original tripped encounter to make her cross, he’d succeeded. Poppy felt the beginnings of a frown touch her facade but she held it at bay, like a chess player waiting to analyze their partner’s moves. If she really was of so little standing and consequence to him as all that, then perhaps her own growing affection ought to be redirected. Poppy ignored the comment for the time being, offering only a delicate tilt of her head in acknowledgement as a heated blush crossed her face. She remained dissatisfied and put out.

His latter discourse did nothing to encourage her either. Perhaps she had been silly to think so much upon a gentleman that evidently had his own affairs to manage; it had been her suggestion after all that they become friends. She ought to be pleased he was taking it to heart, if only his tone didn’t contradict him so poignantly. She really shouldn’t betray her own sense of disappointment by being churlish about it. “Well,” she replied, honestly. “I am pleased that you stayed, no matter the reason.”

Feeling awkward about commenting on the young ladies he had yet to dance with, and not nearly conceited enough to mention her own successful dance card this evening, Poppy struggled for something witty to say. She wanted to remain flippant and pretend that she didn’t give a lick with whom he danced, even going so far as to suggest some of her own very lovely friends, but Poppy found she couldn’t form the words. Instead, she swallowed the awkward moment with another sip of champagne and debating running after Basil. She could so easily make excuses to Mr. Lestrange that she had better things to entertain her attention than his nonchalance, but that felt awfully like giving in.

“It’s true,” she finally settled upon. “There are so many lovely ladies here tonight, and equally as many obliging gentlemen. We are a lucky pair to be afforded the opportunity to engage with them.” Her smile was more guarded than she’d meant, and certainly it did not reach Poppy’s usual height of honesty with Mr. Lestrange. Still, the more selfish part of her hoped it would touch a nerve. She would not give Mr. Lestrange the satisfaction of her frown, but she would also not be goaded into rudeness. They were only friends on equally disinterested footing after all.

---

Damn it! Why was she being so polite, so nice, when he was trying to provoke her? Kristoffer almost felt bad for it: and that was almost inconceivable, because why should he care how she felt? He was the one in torment this evening, a guest at her stupid debut wherein she settled for her conventional existence and everything she had whispered in his ear at that new year’s party had been fun and games and bullshit, and meanwhile he had to watch his chances of ever getting anything from her again slip out of his grasp! She was rubbing her life in his face and there was nothing he could do or say except bait her about it, and Poppy fucking Dashwood refused to even sink to his level!

There was a sharp-edged anger in his chest, because this was strained and awkward and terrible but he couldn’t give in now, he had to go on as he had started. “Very fortunate indeed,” he said shortly, with a sour pull at the corner of his mouth that he disguised by lifting his glass to his lips once more. “I would ask you to dance,” Kristoffer added, faux-nonchalantly, as if only out of social duty to the debutante of the evening, “but I expect your card is already overflowing.”

A compliment, maybe, but in the tone of an insult – and there was a degree of challenge and a surge of danger in it, because if she said it was full he wouldn’t get to have to dance with her, and if she mentioned having spaces still, he would be contractually obligated to mock her for it. And then dance with her. (The ball was in her court.)

---

Poppy found herself confused at the change in tone in her companion’s demeanor. He seemed… upset, by something, and she wasn’t exactly sure what she’d done to make him so. Fretting a touch, the brunette smoothed her dress and resisted the urge to stand. (She wanted so desperately to be eye level with him, on equal footing, but it wasn’t like her diminutive height allowed that on the best of days, so she was better off staying put.) Instead, Poppy assessed the blonde for whatever it could be that was making him curt, hoping that somewhere behind those expressive blue eyes there might be a hint of affection she might latch onto.

His response then made Poppy come up short however, abandoning her attempts to find any trace of gentility. That sounded awfully like a missed opportunity and there was nobody for Mr. Lestrange to blame but himself. He certainly couldn’t think to blame her, as his tone seemed to imply, for Poppy had been waiting around all evening for the cad to get off his lazy rump and ask her! A sharp little laugh bubbled up before Poppy could catch it, cruel in its forced peal. “That is a shame,” she echoed, tone light. “My card is rather full. I suppose that will teach one to act when one wants something rather than laze about, no?” The innocence with which her sweet face forced responsibility onto him was difficult to maintain, but Poppy held it as long as she could.

Sucking in a breath and deciding it was best to deescalate before she really got cross, the brunette smoothed her dress once more and stood. She had a rather…uncouth solution to their predicament, but she knew it would expose her more than she cared. “This dance has much yet to go and, as my cousin has been dispatched to fetch better shoes, he is unable to escort me onto the floor.” It was a statement of fact, not a suggestion. Before she continued, Poppy eyed Kristoffer Lestrange very seriously, wondering if he was even worth the trouble. He wasn’t, she supposed, but then— what was life without a little adventure?

“If you do wish to dance with me Mr. Lestrange,” she said quietly, averting her gaze as a violent blush bloomed across pale cheeks. “I hear the acoustics of the quartet are loveliest when admired from the adjacent balcony, just outside the ballroom.” It was an incredibly forward suggestion that showed Poppy’s hand entirely. The balcony in question had limited visibility into the ballroom, and few ventured onto it most evenings as there was no way of access other than through the hall. Still, it was a play for the gold. If he refused, then she had her answer that his interest was superficial at best and they should both refocus upon being friends. If he accepted… well. Then without any real risk to her reputation, she might still very well enjoy the one dance she’d been looking forward to all evening.

---

Oh, so she had seen through him entirely, Kristoffer realised with a hot burst of shame and resentment. That he could have asked her much earlier, if he had only tried; as if he were lazy and slow and too indecisive to take an opportunity when he wanted it.

Kristoffer bit down on his tongue in annoyance. When he wanted something, he didn’t just let it go... so maybe keeping his distance tonight had been the wrong strategy. But he didn’t particularly want to be just anyone to her, either, to fade into the evening like the rest of her guests. He didn’t want to share her, perhaps that was it. Better not to have her at all than have to live like that.

But before he could stare her down and scrub all thought of her from his brains in retaliation, she had... just changed the subject, oddly. Her cousin fetching shoes. An open dance, after all. A balcony beyond the ballroom. The resentment had dissolved from his face before he knew it; he let out a breath in utter surprise. Miss Dashwood had caught him off guard with that, and he was sure she knew it.

He ought to dismiss her suggestion out of hand – not for propriety’s sake, but to show her that she meant little to him, that he was ambivalent to the idea of dancing with her, that he wasn’t at her mercy in the slightest. But now that she had extended the olive branch, Kristoffer didn’t want to let it go. “Well, how can I say no to the best acoustics in the building?” he drawled – to agree to the proposal as carelessly as he could – but the smirk he shot her was far less smug and far more sincere than any look he’d given anyone tonight. Instead, there was real pleasure in it, a touch of co-conspiracy; a dangerous surge in the pace of his heartbeat. He would have taken her hand now, but they had to get to the balcony first, and he didn’t want to draw any attention to Poppy Dashwood leaving the ballroom at her own debut – so, for once in his life, he resisted the urge, and just said quietly, “Lead the way.”

Because he couldn’t resist lapsing into a little teasing as they went, though, he added, in a low tone: “And you can take off these shoes, if you like.” (If they were troubling her, and – he grinned –) “All the better for me when you step on my feet.”

---

Poppy was glad for the change in Mr. Lestrange’s countenance at her suggestion. They had been on perilous ground there, on the precipice of a quarrel, and she was not keen on the idea at all. She liked him too much to want to be cross, even given the circumstances. (Besides, it seemed like he might have gotten the idea for next time to act sooner and she was glad neither of them had a need to mention it again.) The look that did cross the blonde’s face however made her heart skip a small beat and Poppy felt it soar. She could see through this version of his blasé exterior and to the truth behind it, sitting just in the depths of those remarkably enchanting blue eyes. Her answering smile was absolutely, unabashedly delighted and Poppy couldn’t even be bothered to hide it.

She heard those three little words ringing in her mind and she knew in that moment that they would not be soon forgotten. Lead the way.

Turning to do just that, Poppy bowed her head demurely. She hoped to appear as disinterested in the end of this conversation as possible, in case anyone did happen to observe her slipping from the ballroom. She was going to change her shoes after all, nobody could begrudge the girl that, but as Mr. Lestrange made his little teasing comment, she couldn’t help but break into another telling smile. She turned to look over her shoulder and scrunch her nose at him, tongue peeking out just marginally as she huffed. He’d soon see. Poppy Dashwood did not step on gentleman’s toes!

Reaching the edge of the ballroom, Poppy caught her mother’s eye who - like a hawk - had spotted her attempting to leave. She made a pointed grimace and lifted her dress just enough to wiggle her foot out from under it as if to indicate, I’m changing. Georgiana Dashwood did not look impressed in the slightest, but Poppy ignored her answering look and slipped out into the hall. At least now she had someone to vouch if anyone where to ask where she might have gone. In the large hall adjacent, to which the balcony was attached, Poppy made quick work of crossing the distance and turning the latch. Once outside she let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding.

It was rather brazen of her to attempt such a scheme on an evening like this where quite literally everyone in attendance was there on her behalf… If ever there was a night to be spotted sneaking about unchaperoned with a gentleman, this would be it, but Poppy was grateful for the moment to breath too. She’d been sparking and chittering all evening; a short respite was more than warranted. And, if she was accompanied, well that was her own business. The both of them knew better than to misbehave tonight. (Or at least she hoped.)

When Mr. Lestrange emerged from the hall adjacent to the balcony, Poppy turned a shy little smile on him, fully aware of her schemes and the consequences of them now. (In the ballroom everything had seemed so simple, so easy. Out here, the reality was stark.) She gestured vaguely to break the silence with a tease. “Now you may ask me to dance properly, and I shall consider your request.”

---

Had all the thunderclouds of tension in this flowery, perfumed ballroom spontaneously lifted when she smiled? Had he felt impossibly light when she glanced back at him with that scrunched nose, sticking out her tongue? Was there a jolt of anticipation ricocheting in his chest as he stepped out into the hall she’d disappeared into, and a deep breath inhaled as he followed her out on the balcony?

He had no idea, because the moment had passed like air. His imagination leapt ahead without limitation. She had all but possessed him with this – and some doubtful voice in him wondered if this setup was all vengeance for that New Year’s incident, a way to get him alone in a hallway and reproach him for it again... but then, if Miss Dashwood had seen through him, then at least Kristoffer was sure he had seen through her, just then. No, she really did want to dance with him.

And here she was, waiting for him, all innocence, as if she hadn’t brazenly suggested this at her own debut. He tilted his head to survey her better where she was standing, revelling in the fact that here he did not have to share her. (She had no idea, the effect she was having on him. Perhaps that was part of the appeal, how delightfully proper she was, in spite of it all.) To that end, Kristoffer grinned at her, surrendering to her wishes, and ducked into a bow. “Miss Dashwood,” he said – but if he didn’t press any other boundary with her tonight, he had to push at one. “Poppy.” He reached out a hand, waited patiently for her to take it rather than snatching hers up himself; that was the asking, that was as close to please as he ever came. “Dance with me.”

---

Hands laced patiently in front of her as the brunette appraised her companion, Poppy could feel the look on her face echoing his grin. (His sweet, interested little grin that was all for her out here.) Poppy didn’t know if she looked silly, or what he might be thinking of her right now, but Mr. Lestrange’s little bow made something tickle inside of her. The students at Hogwarts, or anyone else for that matter, could think what they liked:  Kristoffer Lestrange could be a complete and utter gentleman when he wanted to be.

At the sound of her name from his lips, something inside of Poppy lit up like a flame. It was so different sounding when he said it, so enticing. A warm blush stretched across her cheeks, visible in the light glittering in through the windows of the nearby ballroom. She liked how it sounded, and secretly hoped he might use it again. Lifting her small hand to place it delicately in his, Poppy accepted the proposal of a dance with a smile. She’d waited all evening to hear that sentiment from this particular gentleman. “I’d be delighted to,” she replied, quietly.

As the already half run song continued to fall over them in this peaceful little corner of Dashwood Hall, Poppy tightened her hold on Mr. Lestrange’s hand enough to keep her balance as she slipped off her shoes, one by one, under her skirts. She couldn’t help the little laugh that bubbled up as she kicked them out recklessly from underneath. Painful, wretched things. Then, turning all her attention back upon him, Poppy settled herself into Mr. Lestrange’s grip. She had no fear in this dance to be as featherlight and free of grasp as she had with the others. She was not thinking of the necessity to escape, should a gentleman try and push his boundary. Even though, of all of them, Mr. Lestrage was the only one who ever had ever gotten fresh with her, Poppy did not feel the need to keep herself so guarded. He was the only one, after all, who had come to her aid at the track. He was the only one in whose grasp she was delighted to stay as long as he let her.

"You can call me Poppy," she said then, more confidently than she felt. "If you like."

We are friends after all.

---

She seemed perfectly at ease here, alone with him, but this time Kristoffer felt – all too aware of it. The value of it, or the risk; the trust she must still have in him, however he had acted before. And she seemed, suddenly, more... more delicate than she thought herself. His hold was lighter than it often was in dances, as if he might crush her palm or her waist in his hand if he got too greedy here. Poppy Dashwood thought herself invincible, he fancied – her self-preservation (which she did have: he had witnessed it before, and suffered it too) always seemed to kick in a fraction too late, like she was chasing after something more important first.

But never mind: he could probably afford to relax a little, Kris decided, mouth pulling up in a broader smile when she took off her shoes after all. His hand curled more surely around hers, shifting a little closer to better lead her in the steps – if hardly noticing them, with his gaze affixed to hers.

He exhaled slightly when she spoke. No rebuff: he was always expecting some rebuff with her. Oddly, it felt better, a sincere relief, to have received that explicit permission – ridiculous, the petty powers she had, if she could grant him the use of her name as a gift and he would be glad of it. But if this was their truce for tonight – he had suddenly lost all stomach for the fight, the passive-aggression – the exchange of favours should go both ways. “Call me Kristoffer, then,” he said, smile fading into something smaller and more uncertain. “It’s only fair.” (Merlin, the things he was saying. She was really messing with his head. He had never made much of fairness before.)

---

As Mr. Lestrange stepped closer and held her fully in his grasp, Poppy felt something in her stomach rustle; it was like a cage of doxies had been opened and all of them decided to flutter about, brushing their delicate wings against her intestines. (She hadn’t felt anything so strong all evening and the very thought almost made her want to frown. She had to be careful not to grow too keen on a gentleman that had no intention to marry after all. Not… that she had confirmation of this fact in any way, but if one was to assume—)

Poppy searched deep blue eyes from a distance she’d not yet been privileged to maintain. Not properly, at least. She searched for answers to questions she wouldn’t even really let herself consider, knowing full well this moment of theirs was a shared bubble of confidence that would burst sooner or later. Still, she endeavored to enjoy it as much as she could while it lasted. A shy but tremendously pleased little smile stole across her features then as he, too, acquiesced to be called by his given name. Kristoffer. How marvelous.

For a moment, Poppy considered pushing a new boundary and turning their warm little moment into a lighthearted tease by asking if he’d ever been called ‘Kris’ or anything of the sort by family-members. She did like a god nickname after all. But that seemed both much too personal, and slightly presumptuous, so she held her tongue. Instead, the brunette nodded, dislodging one of her curls. “Kristoffer,” she repeated, quietly. The name sounded foreign on her tongue, but tasted of citrus and sweet.

---

As the quiet stretched out between them, feeling as fragile as she did, he was already aware that their time here was limited. Half a song, half a dance, and then – someone would come looking for the new debutante eventually, and the night would sink back into the unsatisfying routine in which it had begun. When would they see each other again? There was no telling that. He didn’t even know what they were doing here, like this. Were they friends, honestly? Kristoffer couldn’t even resolve to make the most of this moment, because he wasn’t sure, anymore, what that entailed. She had said his name. She had said his name: was that enough?

He had nothing to say back to it, at least: his wits had escaped him and he was scarcely sorry for it. She could win this conversation then – he would capitulate without complaint. Only...

A curl had come loose, and he watched it for a moment as it grazed the rosy skin of her cheek. Another step or two of the dance, and then he paused where he was lifted his hand from around her side to tuck it away. A blatant excuse to touch her, maybe – it would spring right back if they kept dancing, anyway – but if it was he didn’t use it. Once he’d set the lock of hair back behind her ear, he released his hand, holding it up in defence, as if to say don’t worry, I meant nothing by it, I wasn’t going to do anything else.

Because, however much he wanted there to be, there was simply no strategy to this: Kris had no idea where they were going, didn’t know what she wanted from him, didn’t even know what he wanted from her. He didn’t want to talk at all, fearing it might ruin the soothing atmosphere of the moment after all their baiting in the ballroom before. But doing nothing wasn’t enough, so talking was his only choice. “So, you’re a debutante now,” he said, no bite in his tone this time; a little soft congratulation. Really, what he meant by it now was: are you enjoying your night? Are you happy with it all? What will you do now?

---

The sweet little melody soaring out into the evening around them kept Poppy in tune as she moved gracefully in Kristoffer’s arms. His name was still bouncing around in her mind, elegant and personal and so wholly hers now in a way that the brunette had never quite been privy to before. She’d mentioned him by given name in the past, surely to June and the girls when they’d commented upon his shenanigans at Hogwarts (what felt now like eons past)… but this sensation was entirely different. She had no claim to him at all, neither he to her, and yet something shared was now ...theirs.

Gazing up into blue hues, Poppy could ruminate for hours on his name alone. It was silly, in a way, to be so hopelessly keen, and the brunette knew she had to be careful. If she kept this up, nobody else from the evening would even stand a chance against Kristoffer to stand out in her memory. But Poppy could admit, quietly and to herself alone in this moment, that she was she keen enough that his touch made her want to stay here all evening and disregard the rest. Even the lovely Mr. Dempsey with all his charm paled in contrast.

The blonde paused to tuck a stray curl behind her ear then and Poppy’s lashes fluttered quickly at the movement. Her cheek felt white hot where his knuckles gently grazed it unintentionally and the diminutive debutant blushed despite herself. The look on his face after the fact and his little mock-surrender made her laugh, the twinkly sound erupting between them, and Poppy realized she hadn’t even thought to doubt him in the first place.

At the gentleman’s statement, honest and soft as it was, she found herself swelling a little bit with pride. She was a fully fledged debutant now, for everything that entailed. All her practice, and studies, and curtseys and tea pots had finally brought to fruition the very evening every proper young lady dreamed of. Poppy didn’t know what came next really, but she was glad at least that she had reached this milestone without (too much) fault.

“I am,” the girl echoed, a little floatily in response. (His presence seemed to have that effect on her.) “It’s… a little nerve-racking, frankly,” Poppy continued, her voice taking on a slightly sheepish quality. “Every lady prepares for this day her whole life and then… nobody really tells you what comes next.” She averted her gaze from his deep blue hues to better concentrate on what she was saying. “I should like to travel, but am expected to marry.” He knew this already and she gave a helpless little shrug as if to indicate there wasn’t much more to say. Poppy Dashwood would do what was expected of her; she owed that much to her family and to herself. She would not risk the hellion within taking from her a rightful place, a dutiful place, in society. Love match or otherwise.

---

For a moment, she seemed happy with herself; the next she seemed almost subdued, with that little shrug.

“I said it before, I think,” Kris began, as though their little encounter that New Year’s Eve where she’d spilled her hopes and dreams into his confidence wasn’t permanently emblazoned on his brain, “but you mustn’t waste yourself on tiresome gentlemen.” The sentiment was repeated, same as before – but this time there was something a little altered in it, a flicker of truer sympathy, some sense of pleading with her.

Because he was hardly going to marry her – he couldn’t even think of it; she was a halfblood – but nevertheless: she was better than that. No one else would rightly deserve her, not at her best like this, with that peculiarly bright laugh and this secret dance and even the way she looked at him, like she could see someone no one else had ever seen.

(The crux of the problem, as he was abruptly realising: Kris couldn’t consider marrying her, but at the same time he couldn’t contemplate anyone else marrying her, either. What was one to do with a dilemma like that?)

Nobody really tells you what comes next. At least they could both empathise with that. Kristoffer had been at a loose end for as long as he remembered, cut off from the moment his parents had died; the moment he’d left school; about the time people, he guessed, had simply stopped caring he existed.

“And my offer of a portkey escape still stands,” he added lightly. And this time he genuinely meant it. There might come a day when she needed to get away. He couldn’t marry her, but at least temporarily rescuing her from an existence of boredom was well within his ability.

---