- 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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𝕽eading has never appealed to Oonagh.
Too many words, too many pages, too many brainy phrases that she couldn't even begin to understand let alone analyse for greater depth meaning. Bloody Shakespeare and his own strange language. Oonagh has her own language too and it deserves just as much grand recognition as the famous historical play-writer.
She hates reading. And she was cooped up with two avid readers and one that will gladly research for anything that'll help end this godforsaken war.
She sneaks a glance over to her boyfriend, blue eyes narrowing in calculation as to whether he's too engrossed in the world of books to notice her. He appeared to be, forefinger and thumb rubbing the top corner of the page, ready to flip over to the next when he's finished. Oonagh counted, he hasn't lifted his gaze for a good five minutes, that surely qualifies for immersion.
As quiet as a mouse, her hand reaches out, dipping into the open cardboard box at her feet, keeping all eyes on Draco, just in case. A silent celebration comes from her at finally being undetected on her mission, hurriedly choosing a spot on the tall and proud Christmas tree to just slip it on—
A squawk of protest sounded from her, not for the first time that afternoon, when the crimson bauble came out of her hold, floated across the room, adding to the generous collection that's piling up right next to the intercepting Slytherin boy. Draco simply places his wand back down, flipping another page whilst he awaits for her next covert attempt that will undoubtedly fail.
Hermione and Harry drown in amusement, having clear fields of vision to the Hufflepuff trying so desperately to decorate the Christmas tree, unlike Draco at an awkward, backwards angle to her. However, that didn't matter at all, he soon proves, knowing her like the back of his hand by now. He lifts his head, pale eyes boring forwards just as blasé as his knowing comment.
"Swearing at me won't get you anywhere, Sunshine"
Oonagh drops her middle fingers, not because he already knows that's exactly what she was doing, because she's now diving deep and loud into the box of decorations, scooping up plentiful bundles of the red in defiance. This time, when Draco wordlessly flourishes his wand, it's not the baubles he's accioing.
It's her.
At full speed, despite her great effort to stay besides her currently lifeless looking tree, Oonagh flies across the room, falling clumsily onto Draco's ready lap, much to the Gryffindors' ever-growing entertainment. Stumbling across their cottage has to be the best thing that's happened to them in months. A sense of normality, to an extent.
Whether she liked to or not, Oonagh melts into the delicate massaging between her eyebrows, soothing the frown that she had previously been determined to keep up. Draco tips his head back slightly, increasing the expanse of his terribly pale and plain throat, very enthusiastic in his boyish encouragement,
