- 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 hates the Room of Requirements.
For something that's of magnificent design, a Come and Go room able to transform into whatever's needed by the occupant at that time — he hates it with every inch of his being. Especially the Room of Hidden Things. It reminds him of the Malfoy Manor, dark forbidden artefacts that threatened his life to go near, towering columns, objects, statues, mountains of piled up nonsense — it's too intimidating, too claustrophobic.
He'd burn it all to the ground if he could.
He stands in front of the Vanishing Cabinet, shiny green apple in hand, feeling incredibly small compared to the broken wardrobe. He's certain it's animated, even broken he can still hear its taunting laughter, loud and obnoxious, making his skin crawl. Maybe this will haunt him for the rest of his existence, not Dumbledore's face when he meets his end, the Vanishing Cabinet — because this has had him, seizing hold and sucking the soul out of him for months, Dumbledore's death will only be short. Quick and fast.
Silver eyes closing, and heart pumping, he lays a hand on the sculpted wood, chanting in a whisper,
The chirpy little bird, he'd found with three others outside of the room in a cage, flutters in his hand once he reaches for it, opening up the cabinet door and locking it inside. Still chirping and singing as they do. Again, he repeats his chant, his charm, his plead for the broken to be unbroken, lowering his forehead down against the wood as he no longer hears bird songs. It's been transported to Borgin and Burkes. It has to have been.
Draco waits for a minute, and then for two or three, waiting to hear the little bird arrive back, safe and sound. It never arrives, not in the way he wants. Opening up the door, his chest contracts, shrivels up and makes it difficult to breathe. He hisses at the burn in his eyes, scolding himself. Crying is weak, crying is foolish, he is a Malfoy, Draco Malfoy, and he does not cry over a silly, little dead bird.
Maybe that little, chirpy bird will join the Vanishing Cabinets cackles in his next night terror.
If it feels this way now, killing the bird, how is he going to cope with his conscience, killing a person, killing one of the greatest sorcerers of all time?
"Fuck" He curses, aggressively, violently, angrily, striking his fist harshly into the cabinet in a fit of rage. Pain shoots through his hand, right to his heart like a jolt, followed by a despairing throbbing, already starting to swell. And Draco's undoubtedly left with a broken hand.
He has to get out of here, has to go before he loses all of his progress on the cabinet in result of his blinding anger.
He needs Oonagh.
Needs her desperately.
The Castle is eerily silent, hallways and corridors empty with no signs of life whatsoever, besides the other birds in the cage, asking him when they're loved one will be back. He charges past them quickly, charges right through the castle, remembering as he nears the door that there's a Quidditch match commencing, Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, and Oonagh's most probably up in the stands, covered in yellow.
