- 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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Warning: Slight Mature Chapter.
𝕯raco loves Sundays.
Loves the traditions that occur every week like clockwork. Not the type of traditions that he'd participated in as a boy, all proper, fancy and unnecessarily extravagant. The type where, bright and early, they grocery hunt for what they'd scribbled down on the list the night before, avoiding any disaster that couldn't be fixed because of the early closing of shops. The type where they dance around the kitchen to take breaks between the never ending peeling of vegetables. The type where they devour their delicious roast dinners until they're practically comatose and bursting out of their pants.
The quiet, fun type of Sundays.
Draco loves those types of Sundays.
Mainly because for those types of Sundays, to be those types of Sunday's, Oonagh's with him. And Draco loves Oonagh.
This one was no exception, the Hufflepuff having insisted, no matter how hard Draco tried to urge her to stay home, fairly confident in his abilities to finish everything on their to-do list himself. Oonagh had wanted to take the step, venture back into hometown, she wouldn't let him, wouldn't let fear snatch that away from her too. Draco was secretly glad in the end, certain that if he'd gone alone, the luminous orange house of the rainbow block would be how far he got before sprinting back home, too afraid of her being out of sight. Too afraid of the unknown.
He pretended not to notice how her grip on his hand tightened and her legs wobbled like dessert jelly as they past the lively pub generations of O'Connor's have made merry in. He pretended not to notice that whilst they stood in the queue to pay, her beautifully mesmerising eyes darted all around, high on alert for a red streak in matted hair, rough and ready. Draco simply initiated a short game of footsie, thrilled when the anxious nibbling of lips turned into an easy smile, free of worry.
The smile lasted all the way home, growing bigger and bigger with each grumble made about all things worth a Draco grumble about. It didn't matter he had to search for things to grumble about on the journey, not when it calmed her, even elicited giggles that made his heart leap and flip like a giddy goldfish in a bowl. Draco will never understand how she finds his grouchy side that many would immediately, at great length, steer clear of, endearing. He doesn't think he ever wants to. Somethings regarding Oonagh are better off left as a mystery. Like the way she's currently peeling a carrot.
"You changed your hair in third year"
Draco hums as he carefully chops the next potato, unsurprised by Oonagh's affinity to spout the most random things at the most random times, "I did"
"Why?" Oonagh wonders curiously. Not because she misses the whole slicked back, bucket of gel era from eleven to twelve. Because she was so bloody nosy and she's wanted to ask for years.
