He wished she hadn’t let go of him, but what else could he have expected? He tried to shove down the feeling as she described her New Year’s with family – tried to imagine that picturesque scene transplanted into a house with any of the Lestranges. Maybe his sisters – but even then, there was nary a day that didn’t descend into some kind of bickering or worse. And even when the Lestranges were having a good time, ostensibly, there was always something. Uncle Lucius’ shadow looming; Antigone lurking; something stilted and suffocating in the air. Kris couldn’t imagine any of the cousins being made to eat a New Year’s Pie – not in a loving way, anyway.
But he couldn’t be bitter only, because Poppy was so divinely at ease describing it all that he couldn’t help but feel the urge to smile at her. She was – infuriatingly lovely. Kris had thought by now he would have found something to despise about her, but nothing did change his opinion of her. She had rebuffed him; insulted him; danced with him; teased him relentlessly, and nothing she ever did made him like her any less. She was a halfblood. That was all he hated about her, and that was nothing she’d done herself.
Maybe Kris just hated how Poppy had decided to be his friend, and diligently kept that promise no matter what he did or said in turn: and it seemed entirely impossible to ruin that because she was just so obstinately determined. Who did that? Who on earth had the nerve?
Maybe Kris was suddenly, recklessly determined to ruin it.
“Absolutely asinine, all of them,” he agreed, and put his hand to her chin to turn her gaze back from the gardens, back to where it had lingered a moment ago. He didn’t ask; didn’t care how badly it went; didn’t really think about it at all – just surged forwards into her space and pressed his mouth, hard, to hers.
But he couldn’t be bitter only, because Poppy was so divinely at ease describing it all that he couldn’t help but feel the urge to smile at her. She was – infuriatingly lovely. Kris had thought by now he would have found something to despise about her, but nothing did change his opinion of her. She had rebuffed him; insulted him; danced with him; teased him relentlessly, and nothing she ever did made him like her any less. She was a halfblood. That was all he hated about her, and that was nothing she’d done herself.
Maybe Kris just hated how Poppy had decided to be his friend, and diligently kept that promise no matter what he did or said in turn: and it seemed entirely impossible to ruin that because she was just so obstinately determined. Who did that? Who on earth had the nerve?
Maybe Kris was suddenly, recklessly determined to ruin it.
“Absolutely asinine, all of them,” he agreed, and put his hand to her chin to turn her gaze back from the gardens, back to where it had lingered a moment ago. He didn’t ask; didn’t care how badly it went; didn’t really think about it at all – just surged forwards into her space and pressed his mouth, hard, to hers.
