- 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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𝕺onagh shimmies happily, tugging on the pinky wrapped around hers,
"Come on"
"Oons. I'm walking at the exact same pace as you" Draco mutters, the next intake of the chilly air stinging his lungs.
He had thought Hufflepuffs were epitome of patience, but apparently that gets shoved aside when you're the sunshine girl, excited and avid. Who was Draco to deny her when she came to him, all lively and glowing and beautiful, stating she had her next somewhere to take him to.
So here they were, braving the great outdoors, bundled up warm and snuggly, heading towards her destination. It had stopped raining now, the invisible umbrellas not needed for the time being, though Draco has his wand just in case they get stuck in a downpour.
He had just replaced — with hard difficulty— one of Slughorn's bottles of mead due to be gifted to Dumbledore, with one laced with poison, hoping that it would be over sooner rather than later. The last thing he wants is Death Eaters in the castle, and to be the one firing the killing curse off his own tongue. Not when Oonagh's in the castle and she could well and easily be a target if she's in the wrong place at the wrong time.
To say he's rather ill-tempered now would be an understatement. On one hand, it probably wasn't a good idea to be near her for the rest of the day in this state of mind, jabbing at her brightness. On the other, he's craving it, craving the unparalleled warmth her closeness billows inside. And Oonagh never seemed to mind, in fact, the times when he is tetchiest is most often when she seeks him out. As if she knows.
The direction they're heading in is awfully familiar; bulky, towering trees, thorn undergrowth, foggy mists, and he couldn't fight back the gruff protests clambering through his throat,
"We're not going into the fucking Forbidden Forest"
Oonagh peers over her shoulder to him, reassuring, "Witherwings is at Hagrid's hut, not in the forest"
Apparently that was the wrong thing to say, because Draco comes to a sharp halt, glowering sourly at the reminder of the latest Hippogriff. The big oaf should never have been able to keep another, after what the first one did to him, clawing at his arm like some prey. Clearly Hagrid can't handle one. He snatches his pinky from hers, insisting,
"I'm not scared of that chicken"
"They're more eagle and horse than chicken—"
"Does it fucking matter?!" He snaps, feeling an intense pang in his chest when at once, her gaze lowered to the ground, shoulders deflating. His throat bobs, raw and sore, the bitter resentment he holds against the world, turning on him.
Warm breath puffed against her cheek, then throat, a large contrast to the February air. She worried her lip, slowly leaning into him, their heads resting side by side. Protective arms loosely band around her waist, pressing her chest into his, their beating hearts falling into sync. He sighs, voice softening up for her as he says,
