- 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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𝕿he months were bleeding into one another, Oonagh could barely keep up.
It felt as though every time she marked off the first day on the calendar stuck to the fridge, a blink of an eye later, they were on the last day. Months. Months of hibernating inside the cottage with the brief outings to town and in Draco's case, showing his face to what's left of the fiendish, inhumane monster only growing angrier by the day. His Dark Mark was proof. Darker then ever. More painful than ever. Writhing viciously underneath his angelic skin, almost in warning.
The end was coming.
The months were passing by, and the end was coming.
Oonagh was recovering, healing, managing six times out of seven to sleep through the whole night without the startling interruptions of violent thrashes, raw-throat screams and pounding heads. Draco was there every time, snuggling her into a the soundest of sleeps, wand handy at his bedside to re-cast the cooling charm on her head once it began to wear off. Across her throat, the only marks remaining were those of remembrance, the purplish-blue bruising line having faded completely. Sometimes, the phantom feeling came back to haunt her, relentless to stop until she peeled off her sweater.
And peeling off her sweater was getting easier. Intimacy was getting easier. They hadn't gone the whole way, not yet, but Oonagh found enough confidence to slip on a rather sexy set that she'd found in the back of her drawer one night, and Draco playfully wolf-whistled, clapped and pretended to faint after catching back his breath she enchantingly stole away. She'd giggled and posed and kissed the uncontrollable drool that gathered at the corner of his mouth. Easier. Things were getting easier. Because of Draco. Her only navigation through the months passing by.
The end was coming.
"Fancy a walk somewhere?"
Oonagh's head lifts at the question, gaze lifting a beat after from her freshly painted nails to the questioner. Blue. The closest shade of blue to her eyes that she could find. Not orange to compliment them, or support the wonderful Weasley population. Blue. Because her eyes are unreasonably pretty by themselves. There hadn't initially been a plan to paint them, Draco accidentally chipped off the ruby red she'd had before. It was too noticeable to be left be, he'd informed after apologising, going on to suggest that she may as well try a whole different colour then. He'd picked out the blue.
Draco smiles slightly as Oonagh leans forwards to glimpse out of the window, pointing out, "It's raining"
"Rain? At this time of year? That's absurd" He retorts, unable to help himself. The opportunity was simply irresistible. Much like the doe eyed Irish witch as she asks,
"Does 'this time of year' apply to all times of year in your book?"
Draco shrugs, stating fairly, "We're in Ireland, it rains more here than Scotland"
