Day 21: Ghosts, Glares, and Other Unfortunate Side Effects

Ches Wyenn was fine.

Totally. Completely. Utterly fine.

Sure, she'd kissed Draco Malfoy. Sure, her brain had short-circuited and her soul might've temporarily left her body through the roof of her skull. But that was yesterday. Old news. Ancient history. Practically pre-Hogwarts.

She was now a cool, unbothered, emotionally stable witch with a well-adjusted heart and zero regrets.

Which was exactly why she was currently hunched behind her Charms textbook like it was a riot shield, eyes flicking to the classroom door every time it creaked like it might announce the ghost of her own poor decisions.

Her knee was bouncing like it had somewhere better to be. Her parchment had a doodle of a gravestone labeled "RIP Dignity," and she was chewing the end of her quill with the intensity of someone attempting to erase time through dental pressure.

Across the desk, Talia squinted at her. "Did you do the wand stance diagram?"

"What?" Ches blinked down. Her diagram consisted of three vague lines, a stick figure with smoke coming out of its ears, and a corner note that read: AVOID THE MALFOY GAZE OR PERISH.

"Yes," she said quickly. "Absolutely. That's not a crying turnip."

"You're weird today."

"I'm always weird."

"Yeah, but today it's tense weird. Like 'something exploded and no one told me' weird."

Ches was spared answering by the soft click of the classroom door swinging open.

And then—he walked in.

Draco Malfoy.

Cool as a blizzard in a bottle. Hair tousled just enough to look artfully windswept. Robes perfect. Tie slightly loosened like he was too casual to care but still somehow better dressed than anyone alive. He carried himself like he owned the room, or maybe just taxed it for standing near his cheekbones.

Ches dropped her quill.

It hit the desk with a thud loud enough to turn two heads.

Talia raised a brow. "Subtle."

Ches sat frozen as Draco crossed the room. He didn't glance her way. Not once. Not a twitch of recognition. No smirk. No quip. No teasing eyebrow raise. Just the perfect picture of Malfoy nonchalance as he took his seat directly in front of her like he wasn't the emotional equivalent of a cursed mirror.

Which was deeply suspicious.

Because normally he would've smirked. Or leaned back and whispered something like "Still dreaming about me, Wyenn?" with that insufferable glint in his eye. Or at least looked at her with the faint amusement of someone remembering exactly how her lips felt against his.

But now?

Nothing.

Zero acknowledgment. Like she was a background plant in a painting he barely noticed.

And it was driving her absolutely, utterly, spell-shatteringly insane.

Professor Timsley was mid-lecture on redirective charm matrices—something about wand angles and energy rebound effects—but to Ches, it may as well have been in Parseltongue. His monotone voice blended into the classroom's background like auditory wallpaper: dull, beige, and slowly crushing the soul.

Around her, students were scribbling dutiful notes, diagrams taking shape with elegant swishes of quills.

Ches?

Ches was illustrating Draco Malfoy's downfall.

Her margins were an escalating battlefield. One doodle showed a cartoon Draco with exaggerated cheekbones being struck by a lightning bolt labeled "Karma." Another had devil horns, a smug smirk, and a speech bubble that read "Actually, Wyenn, I AM the moment." Below that, she'd drawn a herd of sentient glitter bunnies stampeding him while he screamed something dramatic like "Not like this!"

She shaded one of the bunnies with extra glitter menace.

Meanwhile, the real Draco Malfoy was seated directly in front of her, lounging like this class was being taught in his personal parlor. He'd chosen the desk in front of her on purpose, she just knew it. As if she wasn't already teetering on the emotional edge of Mount Chaos.

Every time he shifted, her foot twitched like it wanted to hex him into next week.

Every time he leaned slightly back—just enough for his scent to drift toward her (citrus and smugness, obviously)—her breath caught like a complete and utter idiot.

And worst of all?

She kept remembering.

His hand, warm and steady, cupping her cheek.

His breath against her lips.

The slow, almost hesitant way he'd kissed her—like he hadn't expected it either. Like he was just as surprised by it as she was.

And how he didn't pull away right away.

How he lingered.

How it meant something.

Until apparently it didn't. Because now?

Now he was pulling this. The cold, smug, radio-silence act. Like the kiss had been some kind of joke she didn't get.

Fine.

Fine.

If he wanted cold?

She'd give him frostbite.

She punctuated that vow by jabbing her quill so hard into the parchment that it pierced straight through Malfoy's doodled head.

Talia leaned over just enough to glance at her paper.

"Is that... a death sketch?"

"Art therapy," Ches muttered.

"Right." Talia chewed on her quill thoughtfully. "He does deserve glitter bunny revenge, to be fair."

"I gave them fangs."

"Your emotional stability is inspiring."

Professor Timsley glanced up from his notes and clapped his hands with the energy of someone who had never once experienced drama.

"Let's have a quick demonstration. Defensive counter-charms. Volunteer?"

Ches's hand shot up so fast it nearly took flight.

"I volunteer," she said, voice syrupy sweet. "And I pick Malfoy."

There was a ripple of oooohs from the class.

Draco turned slowly in his seat, one brow already raised, his expression schooled into perfect, aristocratic indifference. Except—there it was. A faint twitch at the corner of his mouth. Not quite a smile. More like a quiet dare.

"How brave," he said, and stood.

Their eyes met across the classroom. Something taut and crackling stretched between them. Electricity. History. Something else she didn't want to name.

They stepped into the center circle, marked out in ancient chalk runes and half-worn spell wards. Their footsteps echoed in the sudden hush.

"Standard duel formation," Professor Timsley said, stepping aside. "Keep it clean. No actual harm, please."

They bowed stiffly. Wands up.

Draco didn't speak. Didn't move.

He just watched her.

His gaze steady, unreadable, like he was already three moves ahead in a game she didn't even remember joining. The same eyes that had looked at her like she mattered under the stars. Now polished. Distant. Ice.

Ches's grip tightened on her wand.

Fine.

If he wanted to play civil, she'd be the storm.

Under her breath, she murmured a charm—a barely legal ghost-hex, one of the experimental ones they'd learned in week one and never practiced again. It wouldn't leave a mark, wouldn't raise alarms. It was a phantom jolt, a split-second spell that tricked the nerves into believing something had gone terribly wrong.

It hit him like a whisper.

A flicker of static in the air.

Draco's shoulders tensed. His fingers twitched.

His eyes narrowed—almost imperceptibly.

And then... nothing.

No snide comment. No smirk. No recoil.

Just a slow, measured breath and the soft, polished murmur of, "Expelliarmus."

Ches barely had time to register the word before her wand was sailing through the air in a lazy arc and clattering to the ground behind her.

A few students stifled snickers.

Professor Timsley clapped once. "Lovely. Efficient. Dismissed."

Ches didn't move at first.

Her heart was thudding too hard. Her ears were hot. She was waiting—expecting—something. A comment. A smug look. Some sarcastic remark about how she clearly couldn't resist him, even in battle.

But Draco?

He just turned.

And walked away.

No gloating.

No look back.

Not even a glance.

He passed her wand on his way back to his desk, stepping around it like it didn't exist.

And for the first time in the entire catastrophic history of her life—

Ches Wyenn felt like she might've actually lost.

Charms ended with a shuffle of parchment, chairs scraping, and the sound of her own heartbeat mocking her.

Ches didn't move.

Her wand was still across the floor, abandoned like her dignity, but she couldn't seem to make her legs work. Around her, students filed out in the usual messy blur of conversation, some throwing curious glances her way, most too distracted to care.

But she cared.

She cared so much it made her teeth hurt.

She risked a glance—just one.

Draco was gathering his things with surgical precision, his expression unreadable, his movements calm. Not hurried. Not angry. Just... distant. Detached in a way that hurt more than if he'd actually cursed her into glittery oblivion.

He didn't look at her. Not once.

Not when he stood.

Not when he passed her row.

Not even when their shoulders nearly brushed as he moved down the aisle like she was a smudge on a windowpane—annoying, irrelevant, already fading.

Ches's chest squeezed.

Her fingers dug into her notes, crumpling the parchment at the corners. Her diagram now looked like a crime scene for emotionally compromised stick figures.

She stared at the back of his head as he left the room.

She could still feel the kiss.

Still feel the way his thumb had brushed her cheek, how warm his breath had been when he leaned in. The way it hadn't felt like a joke. Not even close.

And now—

Nothing.

Not a smirk. Not a quip. Not even an accidental eye twitch of acknowledgment.

And that's when she realized it.

What she was feeling wasn't just rage. Or embarrassment. Or the usual hormonal nonsense of being seventeen and romantically hexed.

It was—

Sadness.

That ridiculous ache behind her ribs. That stupid burn in her throat. That slow, sinking realization that maybe she'd pushed too far. Maybe he wasn't just playing anymore. Maybe... maybe she broke something.

She blinked hard, willing the emotion to dissolve.

No tears.

No spiraling.

Absolutely no feelings allowed.

Her wand still hadn't come back.

She stood, snatched it off the floor, and muttered, "Stupid emotionally unavailable ferret boy," under her breath.

But her heart wasn't in it.

It was somewhere else entirely.

Still sitting in the dueling circle.Still remembering his lips on hers.

Still wondering if maybe—just maybe—she didn't actually want to win this bet anymore.