Day 17: "Hand-Holding, Adrenaline, and One Menacing Bunny

Ches Wyenn was not thrilled about this errand.

Her boots sank into damp leaves with every sullen step. "Why can't Hagrid fetch his own screaming puffroot?" she muttered, tugging her scarf tighter like it could shield her from this nonsense.

Twilight had settled across the forest like a sleepy curse, all bruised skies and creeping shadows. The distant hoot of something-too-large echoed somewhere to their left.

Draco, walking beside her with all the casual confidence of someone definitely not threatened by howling trees, tilted his head. "Because," he replied in Hagrid's distinct growl, "'you two are young, spry, and in need of bonding exercises.'" He even did the wild hand gestures.

Ches groaned like her soul was trying to escape. "I will hex 'spry' into next Tuesday."

Draco didn't flinch. He just smirked, shoving his hands in his pockets like he had nothing better to do than stroll through a definitely-haunted forest with the girl who once hit him with a teacup in third year.

That might've been what annoyed her most. Not the cold. Not the weird squelch underfoot. Not even the high chance of death-by-forest-mystery-creature.

But him.

Looking relaxed. Looking like he was enjoying this.

He glanced over and caught her staring. "You're glaring again," he said, mock-thoughtful. "At this rate, your eyes might get stuck that way."

"I'm manifesting your doom."

Twigs snapped underfoot as they walked deeper, the path narrowing between twisted roots and thorny brush. Mist clung to the trees like gossip, curling around trunks and whispering underfoot.

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

Ches side-eyed the dark path ahead, the mist swallowing the trail in patches. "You don't think there's, like, a murder squirrel out here, right?"

"Do you mean a literal squirrel with a dagger, or just an aggressively territorial one?"

"I'm serious," she hissed. "I read once that puffroot attracts magical beasts. The screaming kind."

Draco shrugged like someone who'd absolutely read the same thing but refused to admit he was mildly concerned. "If anything attacks, I'll protect you."

She blinked. "From a squirrel?"

"From anything," he said smoothly. "Don't look so surprised. I'm very gallant."

She snorted. "Gallant is not the word I'd use."

"What would you use?"

"Smug. Overdressed. Snake with hair privileges."

Draco gasped—actually gasped. "You take that back. This hair is a public service."

They walked a few more steps in silence, the trail curving gently through the trees. Somewhere above, leaves rustled like they were eavesdropping.

Ches glanced sideways again.

He was smiling.

Not that smirk he used as a weapon. A real smile. Soft. Private.

She looked away fast enough to get whiplash.

She opened her mouth to insult him—again—when a loud crack shattered the silence from the thicket nearby.

Ches jumped. "What was that?!"

Draco stepped in front of her so fast it was instinct. No hesitation. No smirk.

Just reflex.

He stood between her and the shadows like he meant it—shoulders squared, one hand subtly reaching for his wand.

Shielding her.

Like a freaking storybook idiot prince.

Ches blinked, too startled to move. Her heart thudded against her ribs like it wanted to run without her.

The forest went quiet again.

Too quiet.

Even the breeze seemed to freeze mid-drift, curling around them and waiting.

Her hand brushed against his.

Accidental. Barely a whisper of contact.

He didn't move.

Neither did she.

Her fingers hovered there. Trembling. Confused.

And then—deliberate. Hesitant.

She slipped her hand into his.

Warm.

Steady.

Draco stiffened, like he wasn't sure whether to flinch or hold tighter.

Their eyes met.

It wasn't a long look. It wasn't a dramatic, soul-baring gaze.

It was worse.

It was honest.

Like the moment had peeled off all the games and left them raw.

The contact pulsed between them—electric and warm, intimate in a way that felt more dangerous than any duel.

Ches opened her mouth to say something—anything—

Another twig snapped.

They both jumped.

Ches squeezed his hand tight. "I swear, if we die because of a boggart wearing bunny ears—"

The rustling intensified—

—and out of the thicket, a fat, thoroughly unimpressed rabbit emerged. It blinked slowly at them, twitched its nose like this was its forest now, and bounded off into the underbrush like it had places to be and zero patience for teenage dramatics.

Silence.

Dead. Unforgiving. Soul-crushing silence.

Then—

Ches yanked her hand away like it had caught fire. Her whole body stiffened like she'd just been hit with a mild jinx.

"That wasn't—! I mean, I wasn't—!"

Draco hadn't moved. He was still staring after the rabbit, one brow raised in regal amusement.

"Charming," he said at last, voice maddeningly calm. "You see a woodland creature and immediately reach for me like I'm a security blanket."

"I was assessing the threat!"

"Mhm."

"You don't know what rabbits are capable of."

"Oh, I do now. Instant hand-holding. Devastating."

Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

"I was not panic-snuggling."

"You were absolutely panic-snuggling."

"You know what?" she growled. "I hope that rabbit comes back with friends. Evil, carnivorous friends."

Draco gave her a look of faux concern. "Do you think they'll judge us for holding hands before dinner?"

"I will bury you in magical compost."

"Still counts as a date."

"I hate you."

He laughed—loud, genuine, and smug enough to echo through the trees.

Ches turned and stomped ahead, muttering murder under her breath.

Behind her, he followed easily, hands in his pockets, the smirk still tugging at his mouth.

She didn't look back.

She didn't have to.

Her face was burning.

Her heart was ridiculous.

And behind her back—where no one could see—Ches Wyenn was definitely not smiling.

Nope.

Not even a little.

Maybe just... a twitch.

For balance.

▕⃝⃤ 9¾

The fire crackled. The armchairs were half-full. And Ches Wyenn was dying.

Not literally. That would've been easier.

But figuratively? Socially? Spiritually?

Dead.

Talia didn't even look up from her game of Exploding Snap. "So. You and Malfoy went into the woods and came back... glowing."

"I am not glowing," Ches hissed, flinging herself into the armchair like a scandalized ghost.

"You're positively sparkling," said Ginny from the sofa.

"I'm sweating. From trauma."

"Was it bunny-induced trauma?" Talia added sweetly. "Because rumor has it—"

"There is no rumor," Ches snapped.

"Sure," Talia said. "Then explain why Malfoy walked into the Slytherin common room smirking like he'd just won a Quidditch match and winked at someone."

Ches let out a high-pitched noise that may or may not have been her soul leaving her body.

"I tripped," she said finally.

"In the forest."

"Yes."

"Into his hand?"

Ches groaned and shoved a cushion over her face. "He's impossible. He called it panic-snuggling. Like he's some kind of smug woodland guardian."

"You did come back holding his scarf."

Ches peeked out from under the pillow. "That was involuntary fabric transfer."

Talia cackled. "You're in deep."

"I am not—" Ches straightened up, firelight casting dramatic shadows behind her. "I'm in control. I've got this. He's the one who'll crack first. I'm playing the long game."

A beat.

Then—

"Did he smile when I threatened him, though? Be honest."

Talia snorted. "He looked like he wanted to frame the moment."

Ches flopped back dramatically and muttered, "I need stronger biscuits."