Day 1 - Terms and Conditions (May Include Heartbreak)

The Gryffindor common room buzzed with that very specific kind of chaos only teenagers, sugar, and poorly supervised magic could create. Laughter ricocheted off the stone walls, enchanted confetti floated lazily in the air from someone's failed celebration charm, and two fourth-years were levitating a cupcake between them like it was the finals of a Quidditch match.

Ches Wyenn sat cross-legged in the corner, hunched over her Herbology notes like she was about to declare war on soil itself. A quill trembled in her hand, the word decomposition aggressively underlined. Twice. Possibly three times. She couldn't remember. Her jaw ached from clenching.

Across the room, an unfortunately familiar voice slithered into the air, velvet-smooth and soaked in ego.

"I could get any girl in this room to fall for me in thirty days."

Ches's quill snapped clean in half.

The noise in the room didn't die immediately — but it shifted. Like the air itself had turned to static. As if every pair of ears had suddenly become very interested in the conversation unfolding in the Slytherin-claimed corner of the room.

She didn't look up.

Not yet.

She knew that voice too well. Knew the smug rhythm of it. The lazy confidence. The way it could make people laugh, fluster, or fume — often all at once.

Draco Malfoy.

Of course.

"You mean like, even—" Blaise's voice chimed in, laced with gleeful mischief, "Ches Wyenn?"

And just like that, the final thread of her sanity snapped.

Her fingers flexed over the broken quill like it was a wand and she was considering her options.

Murder?Arson?Public humiliation?Emotional annihilation?

All viable.

Slowly — deliberately — Ches turned in her chair, the weight of the room following her like an invisible spotlight. Her eyes locked on the source of the chaos. There he was.

Draco Malfoy.

The bane of her academic existence.Her former best friend.

The boy who used to hold her books and now held court like a smug little aristocrat with a haircare contract.

He was lounging on the plush couch like he owned the place, one arm slung lazily over the backrest, his hair a perfectly tousled mess that no doubt had taken zero effort and far too much charm. His tie was undone in that deliberate way — not sloppy, just rebellious enough to make people look twice.

A walking shampoo commercial. A menace in trousers.

Oh, it's on.

"What about me?" Ches asked sweetly, voice dipped in something deadly.

The kind of sweet that curdled milk.

Draco didn't flinch.

He didn't look away.

In fact, he smiled wider — like he'd been hoping she'd take the bait.

"I was just saying," he said, smooth as ever, "I could win you over in thirty days."

The silence that followed was thick. Charged. Someone gasped. A portrait on the wall actually leaned out of its frame.

Across the room, someone muttered, "oh no."

Ches rose to her feet, spine straight, hands at her sides like she was about to deliver a duel challenge instead of a comeback.

"Right," she said dryly. "And I could grow wings and start delivering post for owls."

Blaise chuckled under his breath. "So that's a no?"

She didn't take her eyes off Draco. "You really think you could charm me in a month?"

"I know I could," Draco said casually — like it was weather. Like it was math. Like it was already done.

Ches scoffed, stepping closer. "Please. I could make you run for the hills in three days flat."

That got a reaction.

Draco's mouth curled into a grin — all teeth and trouble. The kind that made people nervous. The kind that used to make her nervous, once upon a time.

"Bet?" he asked, cocking his head.

One word. But it landed like a spell. The room actually held its breath.

There it was.

The challenge.

The unholy social contract.

Say no, her common sense whispered.But it was too late. Her chin lifted.

"Thirty days," she said firmly. "You try to win me over."

He leaned forward, elbows on his knees now, watching her like a game already in motion. "And if I do?"

"You won't."

Draco stood.

And just like that, he was closing the space between them — each step measured, his gaze sharp, predatory, amused. They were toe-to-toe now. Her heart was beating a little too loudly in her ears, and she hated that he probably knew.

"But if I do," he said, voice softer now — velvet laced with challenge — "you admit I'm irresistible."

Ches didn't blink. "And when I make you beg for escape?"

His mouth curved. "Then I'll be the one to admit defeat."

She held out her hand like she was sealing a contract with a demon — because honestly, what was the difference?

"Deal."

He took her hand.

His grip was warm. Steady. Smug.

Run, her instincts whispered.

Instead, she yanked her hand back and turned on her heel, storming toward the girls' dormitory like she hadn't just made a deal with the devil in perfect hair and smug grins.

Behind her, whispers filled the air like wildfire. She didn't look back.

But her heart was pounding in her chest like it knew something she didn't.

Like it already knew she'd just made a mistake.

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

"You WHAT?!"

Talia's voice cracked so violently it made the dormitory mirror rattle.

She nearly fell off her bed, blanket tangled around her ankles, eyes wide like Ches had just announced she'd joined a cult or eaten raw dragon eggs.

Ches groaned louder, burying her face deeper into her pillow. "I panicked. He was being all... Draco-y."

Talia narrowed her eyes. "Define Draco-y."

"You know," Ches said, voice muffled against the cotton. "All smug and shiny and full of that stupid voice that makes people forget he's emotionally unavailable and the human embodiment of a hair flip."

"You made a bet with the world's most punchable flirt," Talia said flatly, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it at her.

It landed with a soft thunk against the back of Ches's head.

"I didn't mean to," Ches mumbled. "He smiled at me on purpose. My survival instincts short-circuited."

Talia pointed an accusatory finger. "He is going to flirt so hard your brain turns to soup."

"I have a plan."

"Oh no."

"It's not violence," Ches added quickly.

Talia raised a brow. "That's not comforting."

Ches sat up with a sigh, hair a mess, eyes glowing with the unmistakable light of a girl about to unleash maximum unhinged energy on the unsuspecting world.

"It's strategic sabotage," she said calmly, grabbing her notebook like it was a grimoire of war. "I'm going to become every emotionally terrifying stereotype known to wizardkind."

She flipped to a blank page, uncapped her quill like she was unsheathing a sword, and began to write in all-caps at the top of the page:

OPERATION: LOSE THE SNAKE.

Then she underlined it. Three times. With flourish.

Talia leaned over her shoulder. "Step one: fake bad breath?"

Ches scoffed. "Amateur move."

She scribbled the first entry with wicked satisfaction.

1. Pet name overload. Immediate public embarrassment. 'Drakey-poo' begins tomorrow.

Talia stared at the page like it had personally insulted her. "This is going to be so stupid."

Ches grinned, a little too wide. "Exactly."

She slammed the notebook shut like it was a cursed artifact and flopped back onto her bed, arms spread, smiling like the maniac she absolutely was.

Meanwhile, somewhere across the castle — in a far cooler, darker dorm room filled with smug ambition and cologne that cost too much — Draco Malfoy was probably doing the exact same thing.

Plotting.

Smirking.

Sharpening his charm like a weapon.

And if Ches Wyenn had anything to say about it...He'd regret ever opening that stupidly perfect mouth.