Day 9 - Past Tense, Present Tension

There was a particular kind of silence that existed in Hogwarts just before a rumor detonated — a charged hush that whispered of chaos.

Ches walked into the Great Hall and felt it immediately.

It wasn't the usual awkward stares or glares from upperclassmen who didn't appreciate her aggressively loud personality. No — this was different. Calculated. Too many eyes. Too many whispers.

She sat down beside Talia and muttered, "Why does it feel like everyone knows something I don't?"

Talia didn't look up from her toast. "Because they do."

Ches paused mid-reach for pumpkin juice. "...What?"

Talia finally looked up, grimacing. "Vincent."

"Of course it's Vincent."

"He's been telling people you and Draco are official."

Ches nearly choked on air. "WHAT."

"Apparently the Honeydukes badge, the not-date, and the shared dessert booth of doom were enough for her to craft an entire romantic narrative."

"Oh, for—" Ches rubbed her temples like she could physically press the chaos out of her skull. "I sabotaged him with sugar and sarcasm. How is that romantic?"

Talia shrugged. "Apparently Blaise said Draco looked 'almost happy.' That was all it took."

Ches looked up to see Vincent sitting two tables over, smiling sweetly at her like a cat who'd just knocked over a priceless vase.

"I'm going to set his hair on fire," Ches muttered.

"I'll help," Talia said loyally.

As if summoned by dark forces, Draco strolled in then — all tousled hair, smug energy, and butter-wouldn't-melt innocence. He caught Ches's eye, smirked, and winked.

Winked.

Across the table, Talia started wheezing.

"You've lost control of the narrative," she whispered gleefully.

"No," Ches said, slamming her juice down, "I'm taking it back."

She stood up with wild determination and stormed out of the hall — only to realize she had exactly zero steps of a plan beyond that.

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

Back in her dorm room, still fuming, Ches rummaged through her desk drawers, intent on finding... anything. A potion to erase memories? A spell to delete Pansy from reality? A battle strategy?

Instead, her hand closed around something small and old.

She pulled it out — a photograph. Slightly bent, a little dusty. Her and Draco, maybe third year. Sitting on the lawn near the Black Lake. He was pretending to look bored. She was laughing, mid-eye-roll, a grass crown on her head that he had absolutely made and insisted wasn't because he cared or anything.

They looked... happy.

Stupidly, youthfully happy.

Ches stared at it for a long moment.

It had happened fourth year. Right after Yule, when snow still dusted the windowsills and the castle halls hummed with post-holiday whispers.

Ches remembered the exact moment it cracked.

She'd been waiting in the library, tucked in their usual back-corner table, a stack of contraband joke shop catalogs hidden behind her Charms book. Waiting for Draco. Like always. He was late—again. But that wasn't new. He'd started being late a lot.

When he finally appeared, he wasn't alone.

Pansy was on his arm, all smiles and sugar-coated smugness, talking loudly about some party in the Slytherin common room Ches hadn't been invited to. Draco barely looked at her.

He didn't sit.

Didn't even acknowledge the empty chair beside her.

Just gave her the smallest shrug.

"Sorry, Wyenn," he said. "Didn't know we had plans."

He did. She'd written it on his hand in sparkly ink two days ago.

But Pansy leaned in and whispered something with too much glee, and Draco... laughed.

Ches had left the library so fast she didn't realize she'd left her notebook behind — the one filled with all their inside jokes, doodles, that half-written prank script they'd been planning for Filch.

It was gone the next day.

And two days after that, the rumor started.

That Ches Wyenn had tried to sabotage Draco's ranking in class.

That she'd told Professor Sinistra he was copying her Astronomy homework.

That she was jealous of Pansy and desperate for attention.

None of it was true.

But Draco didn't defend her.

He didn't speak to her again that term.

By spring, they were snapping at each other across classrooms, trading barbed insults like breathing. By fifth year, they were officially Enemies, capital E, the kind people took bets on during group projects.

She never found out if it was Pansy who started the rumor.

She didn't need to.

She stared at the photograph in her hand again. The grass crown. The laughter.

Back before.

Back when he used to draw stars in her margins and they made fun of everyone else's wand posture.

Back when she actually thought he'd defend her.

She should've tossed it. Burned it. Laughed it off.

Instead, she gently smoothed the crease and slid it into the back pocket of her notebook.

Talia, walking in behind her, saw the motion and froze.

"Was that...?"

"It's evidence," Ches said too quickly.

"Of what?"

"That he used to have worse hair. Obviously."

Talia said nothing.

Ches looked down at the picture again when she was alone. Her fingers brushed the corner, a soft ache pressing behind her ribs.

She didn't know why she kept it.

She just... couldn't throw it away.

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

Ches glared at the cauldron in front of her like it had personally ruined her life.

Which, in fairness, it might have.

Professor Slughorn's booming voice echoed down the corridor just moments earlier: "Accidental spill or not, young lady, when a Draught of Drowsiness explodes across an entire table, someone must stay behind to clean it."

Naturally, Draco was already in the dungeon when she arrived. Because of course he was.

He sat on a stool like it was a throne, casually spinning a beaker between his fingers. "Let me guess," he said, without looking up, "you threatened the cauldron again."

"It started it," Ches muttered.

Professor Slughorn bustled out with a cheerful "I'm sure you two can manage without supervision!" and locked the door behind him.

Perfect.

Now she was trapped. In a dungeon. Alone. With him.

And the ghost of a grass-crown photo currently burning a hole in her robe pocket.

"So," Draco said after a beat, "how exactly does one make an entire potion combust with that much foam? Is that... talent?"

"Wouldn't you like to know," Ches said sweetly, grabbing a rag and scrubbing aggressively at a scorch mark. "Maybe I was cursed. Maybe you cursed me."

He gave her a sidelong look. "Tempting. But no."

She tossed a soapy sponge his way. He caught it.

Barely.

"Teamwork," he said dryly. "Admit it—you missed me."

Ches didn't answer. Just turned back to scrubbing, hoping he couldn't hear the way her pulse picked up for absolutely no reason at all.

Silence stretched. Not awkward. Not quite.

More like... loud with everything unsaid.

Finally, Draco broke it. "Do you remember that time in second year you spelled my quill to squeak every time I lied?"

"You mean the one that exploded ink all over your robes when you said 'I don't like sweets'?" she said, glancing sideways.

He smiled — and not the usual smirk. It was quieter. Realer.

"Yeah. That one."

She looked away quickly.

Stupid memory.

Stupid softness.

Stupid stupid detention.

"Why are you even here?" she asked suddenly, half to herself.

"I'm charming and complicated," Draco said. "People mistake that for misbehavior."

Ches snorted. "You tripped Blaise into a puddle."

"He deserved it."

"Fair."

More silence. More too-loud feelings.

Ches picked up a clean bottle and set it back on the shelf a little too forcefully. "This is ridiculous. We can't even be in the same room without... this."

"This?" he echoed, stepping just a little closer.

"The tension, Malfoy," she snapped. "The history. The very real possibility I might shove you into a vat of eel slime."

"Would it be very slime, or just mildly slime?"

She stared at him.

He stared back.

And then — then — he reached for the last unwashed beaker on the table.

Their fingers brushed.

Too long.

Too warm.

Too something.

Neither of them moved for half a second.

Then Ches yanked her hand back like she'd been burned. "We're done here."

She stormed off to stack the rags.

Behind her, Draco muttered, "Not even close."