Poppy wakes with her face against Regulus' chest.
It's April, the night air is cold; she wishes she could say she's cuddling up to Regulus for warmth, but it's more the other way around. His blue-bloodedness is freezing, an issue she wouldn't be surprised to find out is a genetic fault. He's useless when it comes to keeping a girl warm in the winter. Thank god they're rolling towards summer now.
Running a finger up the centre of his chest, Poppy stops at the hollow of his collarbones, fingertip rubbing back and forth upon the hard edge that descends into soft muscle.
Brushing down the hem of her dress, Lily Evans peers up at the schoolwork on the wall, recalling a time when she had been doing this exact exercise just last year. It's easy, picking out Poppy's piece that is. The writing's neater, the bulk of the text chunkier; she's done a lot more writing than any of the other kids in her class.
Chewing thoughtfully on her lip, Lily's eyes flicked down the corridor where her two sisters stand. Petunia is telling Poppy something, gesturing to a board and their younger sister nods along. Now, Lily isn't blind, she still pays attention.
There's something not quite right with Poppy.
She doesn't react like any other child does, doesn't react anything like the other kids in their class. Her smiles are small, even on birthdays and Christmas. Even Petunia gets more excited by Christmas than Poppy and Petunia's suppose to be the oldest of them.
It doesn't change the fact Poppy is her little sister.
But that doesn't mean she isn't curious.
It's why she's here by the door to Class 7 instead of over there, spending time with her sisters. Lily had pushed the leg of the chair (chairs set up outside for children to wait on) into the doorframe, stopping the door from shutting fully. Just enough that she can overhear what Mrs Rossinton is telling Mum and Dad.
I'm just about to publish 'The Sunflower', so here's two extracts I never managed to fit in here.