- 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 wakes with a jolt, gasping and trembling.
He shoots up from his reclining position, squinting his eyes to spy the time reading of the clock on his nightstand. Twenty past midnight. Not even three hours of rest before the night terrors had crept up on him, seizing his heart.
The room was easily recognisable. Unlike any other that seems to grow smaller as one grows bigger, this one never has. If anything, has only gotten bigger. Loftier, darker, emptier. Even with all the chairs being occupied, and the body lingering overhead. He could remember it oh so clearly.
That what had been a reality of his past, a middle aged professor, dressed in floaty skirts and ugly sweater vests, had soon become younger, slimmer and brighter. Sandy blonde had been replaced with chocolate waves, radiating a pleasant aroma of bananas all around. One, that he now realises, had been so real and so rich, because it was lingering on the snuggly blue sweater clutched in his clammy fists.
Not because — not because that's what happened. That it hadn't been Oonagh in replacement of Charity Burgage, murdered and fed carelessly to a pet snake. No matter how many times Draco tries to separate dreams with reality, he still kept seeing her in the Muggle Studies teacher's place, and it made his heart thump dangerously hard and quick.
Nothing could compare to the fresh air that comes from the gentle breeze of the salty sea, or Oonagh's quirky little cottage. But anything is better than his bedroom that feels more suffocating by the minute. Throwing the sweater the colour of the sky over his head, he glides out of the sweat-damp silk sheets of his, and essentially dashes out of the door.
There's no destination on his mind, just wandering through the eerie corridors and steering clear of the dining room. That would for sure induce a panic attack or vomiting episode, and in a manor crawling of Death Eaters, that's not something he'd be overjoyed to bring attention to.
Out of the corner of his eye, an orange glow catches his attention and piques his interest. Candlelight. Followed by low, hushed whispers between a pair. Taking a leaf out of Oonagh's book, being a nosy fucker, he decides to tiptoe towards the ajar door, peeping through the gap.
First, he glimpses a familiar head of hair, greasy and dark, right across from a head even more familiar. Black, as well, but underneath, peeking through, a pearlescent blonde, striking and gorgeous,
"Do I ought to worry?" Asks his mother, fiddling with a sparkling ring on her finger that caused quite a ballyhoo back in the 70s. Malfoy engagements always do.
"No"
The answer was a short, earnest and assuring from Snape, that quite quickly ever so slightly eased the stiff tension in Narcissa's shoulders. What made them relax to the fullest and settle her worries, was the addition, that echoed in Draco's ears just as knowing beady black eyes latch onto him in the opened slither,
