- 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 more Draco returns, the more hate floods his chest in surges of freezing ice water.
He hadn't realised the grave absence of colour, spirit and life, until he'd set foot in Oonagh's — their — home. Hadn't realised there are enough dark artefacts displayed in each room to stock up Borgin and Burke's shop down Knockturn Alley. Dark artefacts that could make death an easy way out if touched by the wrong person. If touched by Oonagh. Draco hadn't realised when the change occurred that the manor he'd once been proud, boastful of, made him sick to his stomach. He didn't know exactly, but he could take a relatively good guess.
Malfoy Manor.
A pathetic excuse for a family home.
A perfect excuse for Death Eater Headquarters.
However, today's visit wasn't about Death Eater's, War and finally killing Harry Potter. There hadn't been a summoning from the angry snake on his left forearm. A choice. There had been a choice to make, that Draco had thought long and hard on, helped by some of his Sunshine's sweet counsel. She made it clear the choice was his own, and whatever he decided, she would be supportive of. Draco thinks he made the right one, thinking back to the extra long kiss and whispered promises of later tonight he luckily received before slipping through the short blue door.
Oonagh supported his decision.
He hoped someone else would too.
Drawing his burning gaze away from the framed painting of one his snobbish, hostile ancestors, he reaches for the delicate teacup set out in front of him, full on his mother's insistence. She'd been making one anyway, she informed. Draco clears his throat, questioning,
"Where's father?"
Narcissa notes the quiet, hushed edge to his tone, one that she's heard many times over the years when the fear of being a disappointment swarms her son's mind. He wasn't asking if his father was near in hopes he'd join, he was asking as precaution. Because whatever they are about to discuss, whatever has brought Draco here, wasn't something that he wished Lucius to have a voice in.
She stirs her own cup, gracefully placing down the teaspoon as she answers, "The drawing room, I believe"
Draco nods, relief settling into his stomach. There was some things he didn't mind his father knowing, there was some things he did mind him knowing. This was one of them. This was for his mother's ears and his mother's ears only. To make that a guarantee, he casts a silencing charm over the room, ignoring the raised eyebrow look she was giving him.
Despite the growing pit of nerves in his stomach, shaking his hands slightly, he's firm, unwaveringly firm when he tells,
"Just note, this is not me asking for your opinion. This is me telling you, because I want to tell you"
