freyaflint:
“Well, lucky for you, you’ll always look dashing to me, Mr. Sportsman,” Freya replies earnestly, as she moves towards him, fingers curling around the base of his neck as her knuckles grazed the wetness of his hair and she pulled him into a chaste embrace. She could have stood there forever, arms wrapped around him, basking in the familiarity of the moment. She had never met someone like Kassius before, someone so kind, so hardworking, so easy to talk to. (She thinks he would have made a good Hufflepuff if not for the fact he was so terribly brilliant at his school work).
“…Though you could stand to learn a hair drying charm or two…” she teases as she makes move to heed his offer to sit beside him, “I’m sure my mother’s written a piece or two about them for The Prophet, if you’re looking for reference,” she adds with a chuckle, though she wishes she was less serious about the content of her mother’s articles.
She can’t help but self-consciously touch her hair as he makes notice of it’s length. She hadn’t cut it over the summer in order to appease her mother, but ended up not wanting to part with it’s length when it came time to return to school. “Um, thank you?” she replies, unsure of weather he liked the length or was merely commenting on it– either way it was lovely to be in his presence once again. “I know, I know– Professor Brown says that muggles have this device that lets people talk to one another over long distances, called a telephone. He tried to bring one to class but he says they don’t work around places of highly concentrated magic,” Freya says almost somewhat disappointingly.
But it was true, all she had to keep her tied over for the summer were the few letters that they had exchanged over the break. She would spend hours reading and rereading each letter he sent her, pouring over each and every page of perfect penmanship and eloquent words that he had sent her. She had always loved easily, her heart easily won by kind gestures and thoughtful words, but whatever was between them was so different– a much deeper longing than she could have anticipated. She knows not of what their future holds, but she can promise him that they’ll face it together.
“ -- ’s a good thing -- “
It comes out as more of a huffed jumble than a compliment, but he leaves it be, opting instead to lean upon the crutch of normal, easy conversation that came from the sheer relief of seeing her again. Talk that did not stem from a flirtatious place -- for it was unduly difficult for Kassius to muster flirtatious sentiment no matter the recipient, but especially Freya, who was the sole subject of his affections -- was far easier, for it lived in a place of fact, logic, truth. All that, and yet the thought of missing her so dearly, as it came to fruition on the tip of his tongue, felt as sore and sweet as an overdose on chocolate on a hot summer afternoon.
And she said that he was dashing. He’d remember that.
He wondered what she might do if he were to reach out and touch her hair, to run his weary fingers through its length. And it seemed he would be given his wish, for as she approached, his arms moved as if acting on a long-known instinct. Her hands rose to the nape of his neck, one of his own on her cheek and the other dancing with light fingertips from her arm, to her shoulder, to her back. He wished to kiss her right there in front of everyone, everyone who trickled sleepily into the Great Hall. The sheer hunger with which he had longed to do so would surely awaken them; it was rare that stoic Kassius Ollivander be lost in the throes of passion. And yet here he was -- lost.
Indulging himself, Kassius reached up, fingers first brushing her cheek, then running the length of her hair -- ever dark, ever falling in cascading waves. He had a single photograph of her, which he had kept close all summer. He would need another.
“A telephone?” he echoed, rolling the word over chunkily in his mouth, “How does that work? Must be an awfully long wire, if --” he paused, considering; she often spoke of such things, things that he knew so little of, but that he was interested in, simply because she was interested in them, too, “-- well, no wire too long, I suppose.” He’d yell from a long-away mountaintop if she’d hear. He could only hope she knew this.
“I kept all your letters --” he blurted, at once thinking of the bound folder he kept stashed at the bottom of his trunk, tucked away so prying eyes might not reach them, “-- sorted them, you know. A Ravenclaw thing.” His lips twitched upward, eyes alight. “I figure I can flout them for clout when you’re all successful and famous. Only a matter of time; I can only hope you’ll not leave me in the dust when you do.” His tone was teasing, and yet the reality was there; this was their last year in the comfort of school, after which he hardly knew where his work would take him. He knew that Freya would be destined for something great. In moments of sheer romanticism, he imagined the two of them together -- a little flat in London, a house plant, a sunny window casting light upon a mussed bed.
A wayward musing, of course. His imagination was wild, and it was his own.
But she had dreams -- and he had the abyss of his own mind. He would support her, bolster her, lift her up, and then surely and swiftly be consumed. But Kassius would hold her for as long as he could. And he would kiss her as much as he was able.
And he so wanted to.
“If I kissed you, would you be cross with me for dripping on your robes?” his lips twitched upward once more, thumb pausing its absent circle upon her cheek. It was a challenge, a question, a wish all in one. It had been too long since he had kissed her. And if he’d be allowed, he’d never stop.
