Day 14: The Avoidance Phase

Ches Wyenn was a master of evasion.

A tactical genius.

A stealth wizard of emotional sabotage.

She ducked behind a tapestry like it owed her money, clutching her bag to her chest and breathing like she'd just escaped a dragon. The fabric swayed gently behind her, shielding her from view like the world's saddest invisibility cloak.

On the other side of the corridor, the sound of his voice rang out—low, smug, and entirely too pleased with itself.

Draco Malfoy was laughing.

Of course he was. Probably recounting yesterday's team duel like it was some grand romantic victory. Never mind that Ches had accidentally (read: 100% on purpose) hexed his shoelaces together at the very end, sending him into a brief but glorious stumble just as the match was being called in their favor.

She could still hear the thud.

Still see the stunned pause.

Still picture his face twisting into a grin as he looked up at her like she'd offered him a bouquet of roses instead of magical embarrassment.

And then—the wink.

Like her betrayal had just made his day.

"Nope," Ches muttered to herself, pressing flat against the wall. "Absolutely not. Not doing this today."

She peeked around the edge of the tapestry, her eyes narrowed to paranoid slits.

Coast clear.

"Casually deranged," Talia whispered beside her, unfazed and chewing on a piece of toffee. She looked far too comfortable crouching like a gremlin in solidarity. "Just talk to him already."

Ches scowled. "I am avoiding catastrophic emotional consequences. It's a coping mechanism."

"You're hiding behind a curtain like you're in a budget murder mystery."

"I said coping."

Talia shrugged. "You know he probably enjoyed the hex, right? He limped off like it was foreplay."

Ches groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "Don't say the word foreplay while I'm mid-trauma."

"You know he winked at you again this morning?"

"I will hex his hair off."

"Please don't. He'd somehow still be hot. It would ruin me."

They both paused as Draco's voice echoed again—closer this time. Something about broomstick maintenance and winning strategies. Blaise laughed.

Ches took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and turned to Talia with the intensity of someone about to jump off a cliff.

"If I get assigned to partner with him again," she whispered, "I will hex the earth."

Talia just grinned, popped the rest of her toffee in her mouth, and said, "You're so in trouble."

Ches didn't disagree.

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

Avoidance, it turned out, had a shelf life. A short one. Like milk left out in the sun.

Ches had been doing so well. Ducking hallways. Timing her exits. Hiding behind tapestries. Pure tactical brilliance.

But now?

Now she was doomed.

"Wyenn, Malfoy," Professor Sprout called cheerfully from the front of the class, wiping her hands on dirt-streaked gloves. "The Hex-Cursed Screechroot needs a fresh bed of soil. You two can fetch the spare bags from Greenhouse Four."

Ches turned her head slowly. Painfully. Like the heroine in a tragic, windblown opera who was moments away from death by heartbreak or poorly-timed lightning strike.

"Sorry," she said, voice too calm to be trustworthy. "With who?"

"Malfoy," Professor Sprout said, already distracted by a student who'd just dropped a puffing gourd.

Ches opened her mouth to protest, but the universe had clearly voted no.

Across the room, Draco was already waiting near the greenhouse door, arms crossed, smirk fully deployed like it came with a user manual and a criminal record.

He raised an eyebrow the moment she looked at him. "Miss me?"

"You're like a cold sore," Ches muttered, marching past the bubbling cauldron of root salve. "You pop up at the worst times and ruin perfectly good moods."

He fell into step beside her with infuriating ease. "I'm flattered. Cold sores are very memorable."

"Also contagious."

He chuckled—chuckled—as they pushed open the side door and stepped into the connecting corridor between the greenhouses. Warm light filtered through glass panes, casting distorted shadows across the stone path. It should've felt peaceful.

It didn't.

"You're still thinking about the duel," he said casually, like he wasn't the reason she'd nearly combusted in the common room last night.

She didn't look at him. "I try to block traumatic events."

"I can autograph your wand if it'll help you process."

Her eye twitched. "I will bury you in this soil."

"Romantic."

The door to Greenhouse Four creaked open on rusted hinges. Inside, the air was damp and heavy with the scent of mulch and barely-contained magical rot. The Hex-Cursed Screechroot screeched in its pot from across the room like a banshee with performance anxiety.

Ches groaned. "Why do they always scream when I walk in?"

"They recognize chaos," Draco said, heading for the stacked soil sacks in the corner. "Like calls to like."

She made a rude noise and grabbed a sack herself—only to find it enchanted and heavier than the plot of her life.

Draco didn't offer to help. Just stood there, watching her struggle with the kind of serene amusement usually reserved for people watching ducks slip on ice.

"You look like you're about to explode."

"That's because I am," Ches hissed, dragging the sack an inch toward the wheelbarrow. "I am a living, breathing, glitter-wearing cautionary tale."

"Careful," he said, stepping around her to grab his own sack with insulting ease. "You keep throwing tantrums like that, I'll think you still care."

She dropped her sack directly on his boot.

"Oops."

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

It was warmer in this greenhouse.

Mist clung to the panes, casting blurred halos around the creeping vines and whispering ferns that lined the walls like they were eavesdropping. The box of enchanted soil glimmered faintly at the far end of the room, motes of magic flickering like fireflies with a vendetta.

Ches dragged the wheelbarrow closer, the one she definitely did not need help with. Draco, annoyingly, rolled up his sleeves like he was about to paint a masterpiece or break a heart. Possibly both.

"I'll lift. You scoop," he said, already crouching beside the box.

"Oh," she muttered, grabbing the nearest trowel. "So now we're civil?"

"I'm always civil," he said, with a grin that made her want to plant the spade in his smug little foot.

They worked in silence.

Kind of.

He kept glancing over.

She kept pretending not to notice.

The only sounds were the distant squelch of shifting compost, the creak of vines above, and the faint, judgmental gurgle of the Screechroot outside.

Finally—

"You used to flinch during duels," Draco said casually, breaking the stillness like it was nothing.

She stiffened mid-scoop. "You used to call me Chestnut and let me braid your hair, but we don't talk about that either."

A pause. Just long enough to breathe in the past.

"That braid was flawless," Draco murmured, unusually solemn.

That cracked something in her. She huffed a laugh. Quiet. Real.

She stood, brushing soil off her hands and onto her already-doomed boots.

The smile slipped before she could stop it.

"Why'd you stop talking to me?" she asked, voice low. It came out too fast, like her heart had grabbed the reins before her head could intervene.

He didn't answer right away.

Didn't smirk.

Didn't joke.

When his gaze met hers, it was stripped bare of performance.

"Why'd you let me?" he said softly.

Ches blinked.

"That's not—" she started, but her throat tightened mid-thought.

He stepped forward—not dramatically, just enough to close the space into something intimate.

"Do you miss it?" he asked.

Her heart kicked against her ribs.

She tilted her chin, forced a shrug. "Not really."

He tilted his head, studying her like she was a page in a book he used to know by heart.

"Liar," he said gently.

She opened her mouth. Closed it again.

Because he was right.

Because for once, she had no comeback, no plan, no glitter badge or chaos defense.

Only the soft rustle of vines above them and the terrible truth swimming just behind her silence.

The moment stretched.

Until finally—

"Let's finish this," Ches muttered, scooping one last mound of cursed soil into the wheelbarrow and refusing to look at him again.

Draco didn't push. Just nodded. Just helped.

But as they left the greenhouse, side by side, the vines overhead shifted.

Like the world itself was listening.

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

The greenhouse door creaked open, letting in a gust of cool air that felt much too sharp after the heavy warmth of Greenhouse Four.

Ches stepped out first, gripping the edge of the wheelbarrow with unnecessary force. Her fingers were still dusted with cursed soil, and maybe a little shame.

Draco followed at a lazy pace, hands in his pockets, like nothing monumental had just happened among the whispering ferns and tragic nostalgia.

They walked in silence.

Not companionable.

Not hostile.

Just... charged. Like the corridor had suddenly become thinner, more echoey. Like even the walls were wondering if they were going to say something.

Ches cleared her throat. "You don't have to walk me back."

"I know," Draco said.

He didn't leave.

They passed two second-years loitering by the windows. One whispered. The other elbowed her and giggled.

Ches stared straight ahead.

"Do you think people are talking?" she asked.

Draco glanced at her sideways. "About what?"

She gave him a look.

"Oh," he said. Then, like it was nothing, "Probably."

"Cool," she muttered. "Love that for us."

Another few steps. A tapestry rustled ominously.

Draco stopped walking. Just—stopped.

Ches took two more steps before realizing, then turned, arms folding automatically.

"What?" she snapped.

He didn't answer right away. His eyes scanned her face like he was memorizing something. Or maybe checking.

"You really don't miss it?" he asked again, quieter this time.

Ches hesitated. The hallway stretched long and golden behind him, like a memory.

She swallowed. "I miss when it was easier," she said finally.

Draco nodded, as if he understood too well. "Yeah."

Another pause. Almost something. Then—

"You've got soil in your hair," he said.

She reached up to swat it out, cheeks going warm. "Shut up."

He didn't smile.

Not really.

"See you in class," he murmured, turning to go.

And Ches stood there for a long second, staring at the spot where he'd just been.

Her fingers still brushed her hair when Talia rounded the corner.

"You look like someone just asked you to relive your entire childhood via awkward eye contact," Talia said.

Ches blinked. "I hate greenhouses."

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

Ches Wyenn slammed her diary open like it had personally offended her.

She clicked her quill furiously, muttering under her breath as she wrote:

REPEL TACTICS: Phase 4 — Emotional Sabotage Prevention Protocol

Avoid all greenhouses. Forever.Do not engage in slow, lingering eye contact.Especially not in golden hallway lighting.Never ask vague emotional questions.Never answer them.Soil in the hair = metaphor for emotional dirt. Wash immediately.She paused.

Talia, who had been lying upside down on the bed like a chaotic bat, peeked over with a crinkling candy wrapper in hand. "So... how emotionally doomed are we on a scale of one to accidentally braided his hair again?"

Ches groaned and faceplanted into her pillow. "He asked if I missed it."

"Oh no," Talia whispered, dramatically rolling off the bed like the situation physically pained her. "He what?"

Ches's voice was muffled. "I panicked. I said no."

Talia gasped. "You lied?"

"I panic-lied! His face did that soft thing! You know, the thing with the—ugh!"

Talia flopped onto the floor beside the bed, staring up at the canopy. "You're gonna end up kissing him in a broom closet and I'm going to have to pretend I'm surprised."

"I am strong," Ches said to the mattress. "I am impenetrable. I am a fortress of sarcasm and poor life choices."

"You're a soggy biscuit away from emotionally compromised."

Ches flailed for a pillow and hurled it halfheartedly. It bounced off Talia's head like a fluffy accusation.

"Fine," Ches muttered, rolling back to her diary. She scribbled:

NO MORE CLOSE-PROXIMITY TASKSAsk Professor Sprout to switch partners.Burn Professor Sprout's greenhouse.Optional: apologize for arson.

Then, underlined four times:

STAY. VIGILANT.

Talia poked her leg. "But like. You do miss him, don't you?"

Ches didn't answer.

She just clicked her quill once.

Then wrote, at the very bottom of the page in the tiniest handwriting possible:

yes.

And slammed the book shut like that would keep the feelings from leaking out.