- 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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𝕬 frown etches across Oonagh's face, staring outside of the window.
Flurries of white dance in her vision, laughing at her as they pass by in swirls, all glittery, delicate and cold. Snowflakes. Hundreds of thousands of them blanketing the land that she loves so dearly. And the sea, they're falling into the sea, freezing up the crashing waves she loves to hear.
Her head shakes, gaze drifting down to the shoe rack on her left, frown deepening. Because in the middle of their collection of shoes, including Hermione and Harry's sneakers and Draco's sophisticated dress shoes, there's a quite clear, obvious gap. A gap where her once used for school, black pair of Uggs used to be, right besides the tan pair now lonely.
She blinks, planting down her half-full mug on the counter to drop down on her hands and knees for a confusion and panic driven search. Nothing. No signs whatsoever. What the fuck.
"What are you doing?"
Harry lingers in the doorway of the kitchen, unsure as what to make of the sight of Oonagh O'Connor early in the morning, down on all fours, frantically rummaging through a pile of shoes, swearing swear words he didn't even know existed. Amusing. He soon decides, it's as amusing as it is perplexing, especially when she cries out, like it's the end of the world,
"Some fecker's stolen my Uggs! Bleedin' bollocks!"
Irresistibly, Harry snorts in laughter, quickly mustering up a look of pity and empathy when over her shoulder, she fixes him with a darkened mien. He swiftly adds this to the mental list of things that Oonagh O'Connor loves, which under any circumstances one should never come in between unless they have a death wish. Or a broken nose wish. Draco Malfoy and Ugg boots, that's what's there so far and Harry's certain the longer he's here, there'll be more that'll need to be jotted down.
A thoughtful scratch to his bed-head later, he suggests simply, "Have you tried accio?"
She shakes her head, taking a suspicious survey around the otherwise empty kitchen, then, as if she only had a matter of timed seconds, yanks the tan pair protectively close to her chest, dashes towards one of the kitchen cupboards and throws them in safely. Out of the thief's eye and reach. Harry smacks a hand to his mouth, muffling the chortles that shake his entire being at the Irish girl's antics, only being enhanced by her loud sigh of relief, swiping her fingers across her forehead.
"I'll ask Draco, he's not the biggest fan" She muses, the mention of the Slytherin grabbing Harry's interest.
His emerald eyes flicker downwards, to the very oversized, striking silver and dark green jumper that's drowning her figure, on it's front, a house emblem that's not a fluffy, friendly badger in the least. Malfoy's quidditch jersey, Malfoy's noble surname across her shoulder blades, Malfoy's lucky number seven printed just below it.
