Operation: Dateable

Chapter 1

The library smelled like parchment and wounded pride.

MC shifted in her seat for the third time in the last minute, the hem of her uniform skirt sticking to the back of her thighs. Across the table, Ominis Gaunt sat infuriatingly composed. Like some alabaster statue of pure disapproval. His wand hovered precisely over the parchment as his quill scratched along, every movement crisp and neat. Not a breath wasted. Not a hair out of place.

Meanwhile, she had ink all over her fingers, a parchment full of chaotic notes and doodles and reminders to study this properly later. And the only thing she'd learned in the last hour was how easily distracted she could be.

She hated schoolwork. But it wasn't her fault she preferred some fun and chaos over studying. Honestly, who didn't?

. . . Besides her perfectly unruffled best friend sitting across from her.

A loud giggle burst from the next table. Isadora Blishwick had draped herself over Crispin Dunstan's lap, whispering something scandalous into his ear. Judging by his expression, it was definitely not about Charms homework.

"Bloody hell, can't they get a room?" MC muttered, barely realizing she'd spoken aloud. Until Ominis tilted his head her way.

"'Tis the season," he said dryly. "New school year. Hormones. Looming mortality."

She blinked. "Looming mortality?"

"Graduation," he clarified, deadpan. "Apparently, nothing inspires romance and hasty engagements quite like the end of adolescence."

She looked around. He wasn't wrong. Seventh-years everywhere were pairing off like it was the last dance at a wedding. Even Imelda Reyes had been caught snogging one of her fellow teammates behind the Quidditch shed. Even Poppy Sweeting—Poppy! Her sweet friend had said yes to Hogsmeade date with a Hufflepuff boy she couldn't even name. The seventh-year class was devolving into a hand-holding, diary-writing, love-confessing mess.

MC leaned back with a sigh. "Have you ever considered it?"

"Considered what?"

"You know." She waved a hand lazily. "Dating. Romance. Butterbeer-fueled confessions under the stars."

Ominis looked vaguely horrified. "Merlin, no."

She laughed, until she realized he wasn't joking.

"I wouldn't even know how," he said, lowering his wand. "Flirting, dating, all that. It's not exactly my area of expertise. Nor do I want it to be. I loathe most people anyway."

"You make it sound like Potions."

"I hate Potions too, but at least there are instructions for that. A chance it won't explode."

A wicked grin curled at the corners of her mouth. "So you've never thought about it? Not even once?"

Ominis tilted his head toward her, expression unreadable. "What part of 'loathe most people' was unclear?"

"Tragic," she sighed, clutching her heart dramatically. "A face like yours, and no one's taught you how to use it?"

"Flattery doesn't suit you," he muttered, though he looked vaguely amused. And that was all the encouragement she needed. She prodded him further.

"You're a complete dating disaster, then?"

"I prefer the term reclusive enigma."

She tapped her quill against her lips, already plotting. "What you need is a crash course."

"In?"

"Being dateable."

A beat of stunned silence.

Then: "I beg your finest pardon?"

And then it hit her. She gasped. Then stood abruptly, her chair screeching behind her. "Operation: Dateable," she declared, hands framing the air like an invisible banner had just unfurled. "I'll teach you to flirt, to hold hands without looking like it causes you physical pain, how to properly woo someone. Well, if such a thing is even possible for you."

He huffed, but she continued, "I'll bring you from being undateable to being dateable!"

His eyebrows rose so high they disappeared into his hairline. "You've gone mad."

"Maybe," she said sweetly, "but answer me this: do you really want to leave Hogwarts without ever having been on a single date?"

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Frowned.

"That's what I thought," she said, triumphant. "You're my best friend. I refuse to let you graduate without knowing what it feels like to be properly fancied."

"And you think you're qualified to teach me?"

Bugger. Fair point.

She hesitated. "I've . . . flirted. Casually."

"With Sebastian."

"Harmless fun!"

"And snogged Garreth Weasley last year."

"Once! And I was drunk!" she huffed. "But that still makes me more qualified than you, Mister Brooding Virgin."

Ominis nearly choked, and his cheeks turned a rare shade of pink. But he leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "Well what, exactly, does this Operation entail?"

"Oh, you know. Lessons. Teaching you what to do on dates. Confidence coaching. We'll workshop your flirting, practice a little emotional vulnerability—"

"Absolutely not."

"Okayyyy, maybe we skip the emotions part then."

"Hmm," he hummed, slow and deliberate, like he was considering the symptoms of a deadly curse. "And at what point do I get turned into a frog?"

"Only if you're that desperate for a girl to kiss you."

He rolled his eyes, though the corner of his mouth twitched with the beginnings of a smile. She pounced.

"Was that a maybe?"

"That was a definitely not," he said, shoving his parchment aside.

"You're considering it."

"I am absolutely not—"

"You are!" she sang, practically bouncing in her seat. "Ominis Gaunt, allow me to be your romantic mentor."

He dropped his face into his hands. "This is going to be a disaster."

"Oh, without question," she chirped, already doodling a timeline of lesson plans into the margins of her Herbology notes. "But just imagine! By the end of this, you'll be a brooding, mysterious, emotionally available dreamboat."

"I already am a brooding and mysterious dreamboat."

"Emotionally available, Ominis. That's the tricky bit."

"Didn't we agree to skip that part?"

She shot him a look that she knew he couldn't see, but he groaned anyway.

"If I agree, will you please stop bringing this up in public?"

She grinned. "So that's a yes?"

"It's a reluctant acquiescence."

"I'll take it."

They packed up their things, MC practically vibrating with excitement while Ominis wore the expression of a man heading to the guillotine. Out in the corridor, students brushed past in giggling pairs. She looped her arm through his. He stiffened, but he didn't pull away.

"First lesson," she said, bumping his shoulder. "Pretend to enjoy yourself."

"I already hate this."

"You're doing great."

But she caught it, that tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. Barely there, but enough. And just like that, the air between them shifted. Subtle but electric, like the first crackle of static before a storm.

The impending chaos of Operation: Dateable had begun.