- 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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𝕬s dinner's served, Oonagh briefly wonders whether putting up magical barrier is in all of their best interests.
Her and Draco take up their usual chairs right besides each other, scooted as close together as possible so there's little to nothing in between. Directly across the way, all showered and warmed up, Hermione and Harry sit, the only thing breaking up the very open and fightable distance between them being the delicious casserole, tasty side dishes and tea-light candles aflame.
She smiles briefly at Draco and the sweet kiss he plants to her warm cheek in thanks, chest sparking with hope that maybe this won't be a complete disaster after all—
"Let's say grace, shall we? I think it's only right since we're all here, sharing this meal, together"
Oonagh, Harry and Hermione's heads all snap towards the Slytherin boy in bewilderment, expecting him to pass it off as a snarky joke. He doesn't. He does quite the opposite. Oonagh blinks down to the ring adorned hand enveloping hers, blinks up at him flashing her a smile that's far too good to be true. Only an hour ago he was a grumpy, ill-tempered git, now he's smiling and proposing prayer. They never say grace.
Not wanting to cause a fuss or argue with him, she slowly reaches out across the table, lightly grasping Hermione's hand, just as Draco gladly extends his over to the chary Gryffindor. He wiggles his fingers at him, urging,
"Come on, Potter, we don't want the food to go cold now, do we?"
Begrudgingly, Harry places his hand in Draco's, half expecting his bones to be broken, shattered to pieces in a matter of milliseconds. What he gets isn't all that much better.
"That's it, good boy. Now, do you want to say something, my little lamb of God, or shall I do it?" He questions, his thumb stroking against the soft skin of the back of her hand affectionately.
Oonagh shakes her head, wouldn't even know what to say. Even as a child, with devoted and strict Roman Catholics for parents, they never said grace or prayed before eating. She has no idea how Draco even knows about it, where this has all come from. The nosy piece of her is just dying to know, what drives her to utter,
"The floor is yours, love"
"Splendid" He grins boyishly, head tilting back slightly, eyes fluttering closed to really feel that connection, really feel it deep within his bones.
The two Gryffindor's both fix Oonagh with odd and mildly disturbed looks she faintly smiles at — doesn't know what else to do besides copy Draco, hoping they'll follow suit and say her own silent prayer herself, hoping he's not gone clinically insane. She's heard all about the inbreeding in the Sacred Twenty Eight to keep the bloodlines pure, insanity does run in his family. Especially his Aunt Bellatrix.
