- 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 strides towards the Great Hall with success sparking in his chest.
The rumours had spread like wildfire around Hogwarts the previous night, reaching the Slytherin Common Room in a matter of seconds since it happened. Not only had Ron and Lavender broken up, but Dean and Ginny too, right in the middle of April. Draco had predicted April, Oonagh had already lost in March.
Needless to say, Oonagh was right in some respect. It's their making of silly little bets between them that's the best part, not the handing over the money afterwards. For all he cares, she can keep her five galleons and buy herself something pretty. He's more awaiting to hear what freaky Irish curse she sends down upon him for winning.
Arriving at the great oak doors of the hall, his step falters, stomach flipping. There's whispers between the students, but not about the breakups of the Gryffindor couples. The whispers are about the pair stood opposite in the middle aisle. In front of untamed ebony hair and emerald eyes, facing his direction, dark hair and amber eyes.
She's back. Standing there, talking to nosy, meddling Harry Potter, Katie Bell.
Waves of doubt and panic crash violently from his toes to his head, submerging the alarm bells ringing in his ears. He tries to rationalises, release a deep breath with the reminder that there's no possible way that Katie could know that it was him, he wasn't even in Hogsmeade. Madame Rosmerta, she did it, she handed her the package, in her mind, this has nothing to do with Draco.
But being rational isn't happening. Because as if she's mastered the power of legilimency, Katie lifts her head, over Harry's shoulder, and Draco starts to feel more than a little claustrophobic. More than a lot. As soon as she locks eyes with him, her mouth seals shut.
He can't do this, Merlin, he can't do this. He's there, and somehow she knows, and she's going to tell Harry, tell the Daily Prophet, tell the world, and Draco will fail his mission. That's him finished. No more wagers with his Sunshine, no more Sunshine at all. His eyes burn, may as well be up in flames, the same with his throat, lungs and heart. Everywhere. He's got — he's got to get out of here.
Harry turns, peers over his shoulder, Draco's already on his way out, practically gasping for breath. He shoves past the students conspiring theories and ignores their bristles and irked protests, tugging at his shirt collar desperately.
He makes the next right into one of the empty, grimy bathroom stalls, storming right up to the sinks and throwing his sleeveless grey sweater over his his head. Blue eyes and chocolate hair flashes across his mind, dulcet tones reassuring for the cloudiness behind his eyes.
Purebloods don't cry, crying if for the weak and incompetent, he'd said, Oonagh had stated quite the opposite. That it's the healthiest way, definitely not for the weak and incompetent. For people that are in touch with their emotions, instinctive and innate. His shoulders quake first, a muffled sob leaving his lips next, the salty tears rushing down his pale face mixing with the cold water he's splashing at his face,
