- ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴄᴏ ᴍᴀʟғᴏʏ ғᴀɴғɪᴄᴛɪᴏɴ
Draco lifts his head up, 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, tuc...
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𝕯raco stares at the ceiling, chest rising and falling rapidly.
Sleep had been coming easier to him in Oonagh's snuggly Cottage, the noise of the wild waves outside had made an excellent lullably, unlike the silence in the castle or the occasional snoring of his dorm mates. There wasn't a Vanishing Cabinet in one of the rooms nagging at his mind to be fixed, just sleep. Until the night terrors start to kick in.
He's broken into a cold sweat, puddling around him in the sheets. Voldemort. It had been Voldemort, just like in his previous night terrors, brutally torturing his mother in front of his eyes, forcing him to hear her ear-piercing screams shaking the walls. And then, if that wasn't bad enough, his next victim was still to this second making his gut wrench. And it was all Draco's fault. He hadn't finished his task on time.
He exhales a wobbly breath, picking himself up to throw his drenched shirt over his head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. The branded mark was there, still visible in the hours of the night, slithering under his skin, taunting him with a hiss. In his stomach, a venomous gush of evil, for being who he is under the roof of the pure, innocent brightness.
There's a light knock on the door, and a shuffle on the floorboards outside, then the doorknob turning with a creak,
"Draco?"
Oonagh whispered into the darkness, vaguely able to make out the silhouette of the boy in bed, in her hands, a warm cup of milk. There was rustling of the covers before she hears his raspy voice speak,
"Yeah?"
She ignores the butterflies essentially swooning in her stomach from the ridiculously attractiveness of his sleepy voice, opening the door further and padding into the room. Even in the dull lighting, his silvery eyes gleam, watching her every move almost with caution, in case he needs to throw his defences up and send her away.
He's managed to hide his dark mark underneath the covers whilst still being able to rest against the headboard, clasping his right hand around the steaming mug she passed into his weak grip. Merlin, he hopes it's not that bloody hot chocolate.
Oonagh perches on the bed quietly, and by the droopiness of her eyes and the slight dazedness to her features, Draco realises he most have woken her up just as he did himself. The reason for the warm cup of milk — he now discovers — was because as he'd shot up, panting, sweating and gasping for breath, she must have heard it too.
"Are you going to speak or not?" He barks, too gruff, too rudely in the early hour of the morning, where the stars are still mapped across the sky, twinkling beside the crescent moon. Too gruff and too rude when he's the reason she's here in the first place.
Oonagh stares at him, her heart giving a little throb when she notes the sheer layer of panic glossing at his eyes. Night terrors. She's not one to have them frequently, only as often as any does in their existence, something tells her he has them more. Much more. And it fills her with need to do something, to help, to fight them off for him and catch the good dreams instead, the ones that have you still smiling dopily through the day when there's brief flashes of remembrance in your mind.
