- 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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𝕺onagh groans quietly, rolling over in the hopes of snuggling into a firm chest.
She huffs when she doesn't. Rolls again, and again, and again on to his side of the bed until she reaches the edge, nearly falling off. Empty and cold. The only traces of her Grumpy being the lingering traces of fresh pine, spearmint and of course apples on the pillows. She inhales and breathes it in, liking the way it flutters her heart.
She remembers way back when, the first time she'd had a real taste. The way that even then, the combination of being pinned to the stone wall by him and his cloaking aroma teasing her senses, had butterflies taking refuge in her stomach. Impossibly dark, impossibly masculine. Impossibly attractive. He's always been so attractive to her.
And that wasn't only the day she'd gotten a taste, for it had been the first time she had a true glimpse of him. Understood that Draco Malfoy was largely misunderstood. That he was like a boat at sea, lost and begging to stay above the drowning waves. Oonagh didn't care if he was using her in the beginning, she'd already decided that she was going to do anything to help him stay afloat, above the water, or if he was going down, she would be by his side through it all. And Helga, if she isn't glad that was her decision.
She peels an eye open, then the next, adjusting to the morning light peeking through the windows. After a stretch like a groggy cat, hands like claws out in front of her and back arching upwards, she shuffles out of the sheets, smiling softly at the folded clothes waiting at the foot of the bed. They're not hers, but she knows she's to wear them. Forest green and navy plaid are the pants, loosely clinging to her hips and bunching at her feet, too long. Atleast she doesn't need any socks. She doesn't think twice in throwing the familiar jersey over her head, feeling rather Slytherin-ified as she pads out the bedroom.
On the last step of the stairs, quiet voices from down the hall sail into her ears, from the direction of her little kitchen. Her eyebrows raise and a light noise of intrigue sounds from her throat, gladly going to have a nosy. She isn't after-all, tilted the nosy fucker for no reason.
Rosaleen sits restfully on one of the chairs at the four seated dinner table, facing the direction of Oonagh spying through the door. Across from her, facing the way of the panelled windows to the sea, Draco, listening intently to what the elder lady is saying. It's not what they're talking about that catches Oonagh's attention. It's more their position, what they're doing.
Her heart crawls into her mouth, suddenly feelings close to tears. Draco's not shirtless, he has on one of the snuggly sweaters they brought from town. But one of his sleeves rolled up to his elbow, displaying his left forearm to the world. Displaying the red, blotchy, scratched Dark Mark that's been evilly inked on to his skin. He's shown Rosaleen. The sister of the muggleborn witch who's life had been brutally taken by another with that same brand on their arm.
