- 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 from the Room of Requirement, each step wobblier than the last.
He'd been given the cue, the two words that he had been dreading receiving in the form of a letter since the very day he was marked and given his task. Each day building up to it, the dreads been growing and growing, now in the form of a solid rock, hard and heavy, in the pit of his stomach. It's time. It's time. It's time.
He's half in his mind to take it's time into his own hands and do a three-sixty, rushing down towards the basement. It's time to grab Oonagh O'Connor, and run away, to County Kerry, the rocky cliffs and seas, the rainbow houses and Brian's noisy bar until it's all over. That would be a fairytale, Oonagh's fairytale ending, the happy pages that had gotten stuck together with that of his horror story, all at the hands of a sticky, sugary Rosy Apple.
His hands fly to his hair, tugging and pulling frustratedly when he stops, and turns, then turns again, feeling like a puppet on strings being pulled in two different directions. If he doesn't do this, doesn't go and kill Dumbledore, that's the end. He'll eventually be killed, his mother and father along with it, maybe even Oonagh if they cotton on to the love he has for her. He'll never forgive himself for letting that happen.
He's got to do this. Needs to.
The Dark Mark's casted in the sky, glaring green amidst the grim clouds and hissing wickedly at all below. The same with the one hidden up his sleeve, writhing gleefully under his pale skin for the killer to be. All the times it's felt his reluctance, resentment, misery, disloyalty this year, finally having the upperhand, finally winning one for it's side.
Arriving near the top of the stairs of the Astronomy Tower, he hears whispers, hushed, hurried words being passed between one another, too quiet and too quick to be pinpointed to a person. And honestly Draco doesn't care, as long as Dumbledore's there, he just wants to get this over and done with.
"Expelliamus!" He fires, as soon as he bursts the door open, effectively disarming Albus Dumbledore.
He too, as Draco imagines himself to appear, was a shade or two too white to be normal, sickly and peaky looking. Frail too, as he props himself up, best as he can between the tower wall and railing, right next to the two broomsticks discarded on the wooden floors,
"Who else is here?"
Dumbledore's eyes flickered downward for a lightening flash of a second, under the floorboards, before settling back on Draco, as calm as ever, returning,
"A question I might ask you. Or are you acting alone?"
Behind him, the dark mark, His mark, seemed to brighten, become greener, become crueller if it was at all possible. Swallowing roughly, Draco shakes his head, seeing no reason to lie to a man on his death bed,
