- 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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𝕱rom inside a quirky little cottage on the Kerry Cliffs, a plethora of noisy swears echoed out of the walls and over the rocky waters,
"HOLY MARY, MOTHER OF GOD!"
Oonagh's hand flew to her chest in fright, feeling her heart race underneath it. She hadn't expected a scare like that, nor a visitor at this early hour of the morning. More specifically, one that's large, watchful and full of frosty coloured feathers. An owl. She wasn't expecting an owl to have broken into her home.
For a long moment, that's really a solid five minutes, she stares unmoving at the owl, and the owl stares back, a judgmental look across its face. There's only one person that she knows that could have a bloody judgy owl, that's proceeded to slowly eye her up and down then turn up its beak with a huffed hoot.
Draco Malfoy.
And by the velvety black envelope, crested with a rather grand M, resting in-front of it's sharp talons, she knows her suspicions are right. Fuelled by the foolish giddy flutter of her heart, she lunges forward, silently praying that the owl doesn't mistake her for a piece of delicious prey when she reaches out and snatches the letter to her chest.
Replacing the judgmental face, the Malfoy owl tweets again, ruffling his feathers expectantly for a fine treat. Oonagh doesn't have an Owl to buy any treats for, nor does she know what they like to eat besides worms, and going to pick one from the ground outside wasn't something she necessarily want to do:
Fortunately, when she jiggles the envelope, she hears a rattle of something, finding a handful of special owl treat along with the folded parchment. He chomps away happily, giving Oonagh a little peace and quiet as she unfolds the letter to read,
'Sunshine,
They are putting a taboo on His name. DO NOT say it.
Keep as you are, safe.
Grumpy'
Oonagh frowns, hating herself for the pang of disappointment inside her chest. She wasn't sure what she expected, not a lengthy love letter or a collection of poems about her, that wouldn't be fair to expect from him in these troubled time. But she couldn't deny she wished there was more, if he misses her terribly like she is, or if he's thinking about her all day everyday like she is. If he embarrassingly wraps an arm around himself at night and wishes to dream that it belongs to her. Like she does.
She shakes her head, mentally hitting herself. No. That wasn't fair. He was giving her warning, a safety at his own risk, that plenty of others won't have, that they'll have to find out on their own accord he's placing a taboo on his name. She should be grateful, thankful that he's spent the time to write to her, no matter what the contents is.
Still, she can't help but feel a little useless and purposeless, wasting away in her little cottage until she hears that one way or another, it's over. On that thought, she reaches for the dial of the radio, welcoming the tinny crackles for a station.
