✧ ᴏғ ғᴏᴏᴛsɪᴇs ᴀɴᴅ ᴍɪsᴇʀɪᴇs ✧

ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀ 3

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𝕱or someone who had been given a nighttime detention, Oonagh was rather happy.

Mcgonagall had vanished from the classroom moments earlier to have a private word with Professor Dumbledore in his hidden office, leaving just her and the other student alone. The same student who happened to be the one she's been observing afar since the beginning of Hogwarts.

She doodles lazily on her parchment, forgetting her train of thought of writing, instead curiously peering over towards Draco concentrating attentively down at a rather ancient and browning book, her nose crinkling at the sight.

She didn't like books or studying to begin with, that was of course what landed her in detention in the first place — by handing in one of her homework's with three spiritual jumbled lines of Gaelic rather than a precise and structured essay on the transfiguration of a teacup to a gerbil like Mcgonagall had set the whole class.

The book Draco seems fascinated on wouldn't even be a consideration of hers. If she had to, she'd choose one bright in colour and with a rather adventurous plot, not whatever dark, twisted scripture he was into, looking as though he'd stolen it straight from the Restricted section of the library under Madame Pince's pointy nose. It probably was, now she really thought about it.

Draco lifts his head up instinctively, shooting a glance towards his left to the witch staring shamelessly at him, his pale eyes settling on her, grunting irritably, "Do you ever mind your own business?"

Oonagh pondered silently, tucking loose strands of her chocolatey waves behind her ear, surprising the Slytherin when she answers honestly,

"Not often, no. Why? Would you like me to?"

He blinks rapidly, initially trying to understand the words spilled from her mouth, and secondly wondering why on earth she replied with such honesty and such openness when majority of people would speechlessly turn flustered and focus their attention elsewhere, embarrassed they got caught in the first place.

Yet, she seemed content — that was until there was a sudden pensive expression flashing across her face, asking slowly, "Do you need me to repeat myself?"

"No. I'm not mentally deficient"

His tongue is sharp and bitter, but from what Oonagh's observed from afar all of these years, that's not completely out of the blue. More often than that though, she knows the Slytherin likes to mock, taunt and tease Harry Potter and his Gryffindor friends, however, has been keeping himself to himself this year so far, not sparing them the time of day.

He had been spending time alone, like when she'd spotted him up on the Astronomy Tower when she was exploring the magical grounds with Luna.

Draco resumes his researching, clenching and unclenching his hands to subside the throbbing and burning of his left forearm, fighting desperately to keep his eyes open. Unfortunately, he feels himself slumping down, sinking into the blackened hole of immorality and depravity grabbling at him incessantly, only stopping and letting go when he hears her again,