- 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 scratches his jaw, grumbling when he spreads the ink on his hands.
There was talk around the Death Eaters that now that He's gained control over the Ministry, there's to be a Muggleborn Registration Commission coming to the light of day soon, lead, worst of all by Dolores Umbridge. An invitation will be sent out to every so-called Muggleborn to present themselves for an interview. If they're unable to prove that they have magical ancestry somewhere in their family roots, then it's said they've obtained magic by theft or force from Purebloods.
Undoubtedly, the entirety of it all would be prejudiced and Draco's certain that all those Muggle-born's fates will already be decided before they even set foot in the interview room in front of the judging panel. Whether they've found history of Wizardry in their family tree or not. The ones that pose the biggest threats to power will be shipped off innocently to Azkaban or perhaps a signed death certificate. The lucky ones may have their wands snapped, jobs lost and forced to poverty so they have nothing anyway.
So, Draco had taken to thieving some of the highly private and confidential Hogwarts past student enrolment records from Snape's office, and was detailedly sifting through the O'Connor family tree, and all the other families connected.
Oonagh must have a relative that possessed some magic ability, it's impossible to steal magic and frankly, she'd be the least likely to. She dislikes anything to do with it after what it supposedly did to her family, it's a stupid theory. Draco realises it now, how stupid and desperate it sounds, just to maintain that Purebloods are superior to Muggleborns and Halfbloods.
"Take my wand for a moment will you, Maman?" He mutters in precaution, silver eyes fixed darkly on one of the names just above Oonagh's.
Cillian O'Connor.
The one who had called his own daughter a hellish curse sent from God.
The one who had blamed his own daughter for the tragic deaths of his wife and newborn son.
The one who had packed up and left her without a single word or goodbye and never looked back.
The one Draco's finding increasingly difficult not to abandon this, take off and track him down. That no, Oonagh wasn't a hellish curse sent from God, he is, and if he wants to see what that truly means and entails, he's more than welcome to oblige.
"Go mbrise an diabhal cnámh do dhroma" He spits furiously, startling Narcissa with his bizzare words.
He'd been taught French growing up, like all of the Blacks in her family. That wasn't French. Not even close. That was something else entirely. She turns to him, asking curiously,
"What was that?"
Draco huffs, glaring so hard at the man's name that the letters are jumbling up and wobbling, "It's a curse. Oonagh taught it to me"
