𝑬𝑻𝑯𝑬𝑹𝑬𝑨𝑳 . . . 𝗂-ˈ𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗋-ē-ə𝗅
༢ ͎۪۫ ༊ ❛ 𝖿𝗂𝖿𝗍𝗁 𝗒𝖾𝖺𝗋 ﾉ 𝗉𝗋𝗂𝗌𝗈𝗇𝖾𝗋 𝗈𝖿 𝖺𝗓𝗄𝖺𝖻𝖺𝗇. ❜
▇ ¨. ༢ ͎۪۫ ༊*·˚ ╱ 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒑𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒊𝒙 ❜
. . . ➾ ˗ˏˋ detention, polishing, lingering looks ࿐ྂ
𝗗𝗔𝗪𝗡 𝗔𝗟𝗗𝗘𝗥𝗜𝗗𝗚𝗘

     𝑰'𝑫 𝑵𝑬𝑽𝑬𝑹 𝑩𝑬𝑬𝑵 𝑨 𝑴𝑶𝑹𝑵𝑰𝑵𝑮 𝑷𝑬𝑹𝑺𝑶𝑵, and today was no exception. The morning's chill hung in the air, biting at my fingers as I clutched my scarf tighter around my neck. The early hours of a Saturday should be reserved for sleep, not traipsing through the castle on McGonagall's orders.

     But no, thanks to a particularly unfortunate remark I'd made in class yesterday — something about her animagus form looking more like a drowned rat than a cat — I'd earned myself a bright and early detention. Lovely.

     I didn't even mind the punishment, not really. What I minded was him.

     Cedric bloody Diggory was striding down the corridor like he owned the castle, scarf perfectly in place and a book tucked under his arm like a swot. His Hufflepuff badge gleamed as if he polished it daily, and knowing him, he probably did. I'd been paired with him to assist in the Trophy Room this morning — a "collaborative effort to foster inter-house unity," McGonagall had said. Unity, my arse.

     When he spotted me slouched against the wall outside the Trophy Room, he smiled in that annoyingly pristine way of his, as if he wasn't awake at a time reserved for lunatics and owls.

     "Morning, Alderidge." His voice was smooth, overly pleasant, and with that infuriating lilt that made him sound like a character out of a Jane Austen novel.

     "Diggory," I replied, my voice flat as a dead fish.

     "You look cheerful."

     "And you look like you've stepped out of a bloody catalogue. Guess we're both full of surprises."

     His smile faltered ever so slightly, but he recovered quickly, pushing the door open and gesturing for me to go in first. "Ladies first."

     I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull. "How chivalrous."

     The Trophy Room was already filled with the warm, golden light of the morning sun, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. McGonagall had left a list of instructions on the table near the door, along with cleaning supplies and what looked like a box of broken plaques.

     I sighed dramatically, picking up a rag and a bottle of polish. "You take the right side. I'll take the left. The sooner we're done, the sooner I can get back to bloody bed."

     Diggory, of course, didn't argue. He was too polite for that. Instead, he started polishing a trophy as if it was some sacred artifact, his brow furrowed in concentration. We worked in silence for a while, which was perfectly fine by me. But then he had to ruin it.

     "Do you always talk like that?"

     I turned to him, mid-polish, one eyebrow raised. "Like what?"

     "Like a sailor," he said, glancing at me with a mixture of amusement and disapproval.

     I snorted. "What, swearing?"

     "Yes. It's not very... ladylike, is it?"

     I stared at him, incredulous. He wasn't serious, was he? But his expression told me he was. That faint look of superiority on his face made my blood boil. "Well, pardon me, Your Majesty," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Didn't realize I was meant to live up to your delicate sensibilities."

     His mouth twitched as if he wanted to smile but thought better of it. "I'm just saying, there's no need to be crude."

     "Crude? Oh, piss off, Diggory."

     His eyes widened, and for a second, I thought he might actually choke on his own propriety.

     "There, I said it again," I added with a smirk. "Shocking, I know. Go ahead, report me to the Ministry for Crimes Against Ladylike Behaviour."

     "You're impossible," he muttered, turning back to his trophy.

     "And you're insufferable," I shot back, though there wasn't as much venom in my voice as before. For all his goody-two-shoes nonsense, there was something oddly amusing about winding him up.

     The silence that followed wasn't as tense as before. In fact, it was almost... comfortable. We worked our way through the room, our occasional bickering punctuating the steady rhythm of polishing and sorting.

     At some point, I caught him watching me out of the corner of his eye, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

     "What?" I asked, narrowing my eyes.

     "Nothing," he said quickly, looking away. But his ears were tinged pink, which was interesting. For all his perfection, maybe Cedric Diggory wasn't as untouchable as he seemed. And for some reason, the thought made me smile. Just a little.

     Not that I'd ever let him know that, of course.

     I carried on polishing the next plaque, feeling his gaze linger on me. It wasn't the first time I'd caught him looking, but it was the first time it had made my stomach twist in a way I couldn't quite explain. Maybe it was the warmth of the room or the sheer absurdity of the situation, but I suddenly felt far too aware of Cedric Diggory.

     The perfect hair. The straight posture. The fact that even in silence, he radiated this maddening sense of superiority. He was the sort of boy who always had the right answer in class, who always did the right thing. And yet here he was, stuck in detention with me.

     "You're quiet," he said after a moment.

     "Don't get used to it," I replied, still focused on the engraving I was polishing.

     "You're smiling," he pointed out, his tone annoyingly knowing.

     "I am not," I said, although I absolutely was.

     "You are. It's a rare sight."

     "Maybe I'm just amused by how much of a ponce you are," I shot back, unable to resist.

     "Ponce?" he repeated, his brows lifting. "That's hardly fair."

     "Isn't it, though?" I said, setting the now-sparkling plaque down and picking up another. "You swan about the castle like you're Merlin's gift to Hogwarts, with your perfect grades and perfect smile and —"

     "You think I have a perfect smile?" he interrupted, sounding more amused than anything.

     I froze, the words catching up to me. Bloody hell. I looked over at him, and sure enough, that stupidly charming smirk was plastered across his face.

     "Don't flatter yourself," I muttered, my cheeks heating.

     "I'm not," he said, turning back to his work, though I could see the satisfaction in his expression. "I'm just... surprised, that's all."

     "Surprised by what?"

     "That you notice things like that," he said simply, as if it wasn't the most ridiculous thing I'd ever heard. I opened my mouth to retort, but no words came out.

     For once, Cedric Diggory had rendered me speechless.

     The silence stretched on, and I focused furiously on the plaque in front of me, determined not to let him see how flustered I was. But it was impossible to ignore the strange tension that had settled between us.

     "Dawn," he said suddenly, his voice softer than before.

     "What?" I said without looking up.

     "Why do you always do that?"

     "Do what?"

     "Push people away."

     The question caught me off guard, and I straightened, finally meeting his gaze. He was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite place — curiosity, maybe, or something deeper.

     "I don't push people away," I said defensively.

     "You do," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "You make it impossible for anyone to get close to you."

     "Maybe that's because most people aren't worth getting close to," I shot back.

     "And what about me?" he asked, his voice quiet but steady. "Am I not worth it?"

     For a moment, I didn't know what to say. The room felt too small, the air too thick. Cedric Diggory had a way of looking at you that made you feel like he could see right through you, and I hated it.

     "Why do you care?" I asked, my voice sharper than I intended.

     "I don't know," he admitted, and there was something honest in the way he said it that made my chest ache. "Maybe I shouldn't. But I do."

     His words hung in the air, heavy and unsettling. I didn't know what to do with them, with him. So, I did what I always did when I felt cornered — I lashed out.

     "Well, don't," I snapped, turning away from him. "You'll only end up disappointed."

     I half-expected him to argue, to say something that would tip me over the edge. But instead, he was silent. When I glanced back at him, his expression was unreadable, his jaw tight.

     "Maybe I won't," he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper. And with that, he went back to polishing, leaving me to stew in my own confusion.