TWENTY-TWO
He wanted to laugh at how incredibly appropriate her question seemed for their maddeningly bizarre situation, and for a moment there, he thought he just might. Well, if he weren't so certain such a response would only make her angry.
Or perhaps angrier.
Instead he opted for honesty, fully aware that to her it would more likely sound like stupidity. "Your guess is as good as mine, моя кошеня."
The witch uttered a scoffing sound, an odd little scraping of her throat that couldn't be mistaken for anything other than derision. "Oh, after the last two nights you expect me to believe you're ... what? Some innocent victim in all this? Sorry, not even sure that's an angle I can claim at this point."
His head dropped back so he was not barking in her ear as he let out a hearty chuckle. "Oh, oh, God ... Innocent? Me?! Hardly."
Hermione arched a brow and nodded. "Well, I ... suppose now that at least I know for whatever else you are, you're not delusional. And why do you keep calling me that anyway?"
Antonin sighed—she wasn't complaining about being stuck in his lap, he realized, aware it was not exactly a part of the situation that had escaped her notice but reluctant to guess at what it might mean—and set his head level. "Last night it just sort of ... slipped out in the moment, I think is the best explanation. I hadn't intended to say it that first time. Tonight, well, I suppose I simply recognized that it seems to suit you."
Her face fell and she leaned to one side just enough so that she met his gaze when she turned her head. "Kitten? You think that suits me? How?"
She didn't mention the my he attached to the word, and he though perhaps it best he not be the one to point that out.
"Well ..." He cleared his throat. "You're tiny and you make quite the past time of hissing at me."
Her jaw still hanging open in shock, those chestnut eyes narrowed in something like vehemence.
