- 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...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
✧✧✧✧✧
𝕯raco inhales deeply, glancing up from the book balanced open on his lap, unable to hold back his grumble any longer,
"For Christ's sake, Oons. Give it a rest"
The knee bouncing excessively next to his comes to a sharp halt, freezing mid-motion. Draco nearly thanks Merlin, thanks whoever's listening that the annoying habit making him feel like a barge bobbing on water has come to an end. But there was more. More than the knee bouncing. There was the staring. The permanent fixation of those beautiful blue doe eyes, that any other time he'd revel in, drown in smugness that she can't take her eyes off him. Any other time.
Because this wasn't a can't take her eyes off him stare in the way he's so damn handsome it's impossible. It's a can't take her eyes off him stare in the way that's derived from worry, from concern, that if focus drifts elsewhere from just a second, something bad might happen. Draco would know, it's a stare that he'd friendlily shook the hands of after she'd been snatched by Snatchers and held captive in the Ministry.
It's been like this for days, since he returned back home from Malfoy Manor badly wounded. He sighs, willing himself to stick to a softer approach for her,
"I'm perfectly well, Sunshine. No need to worry your precious head"
Oonagh's lip, sore and chapped from relentless picking and nibbling, tucks between her teeth before she replies quietly,
"You can barely walk"
"That'll only be for a few more days. It's nothing i'm new to" Draco mutters, head tipping back to comfortably rest against the cushioned back of the couch.
Nothing he's new to. That didn't ease the unsettlement weighing heavy in Oonagh's stomach, knowing that it's not the first time tortured has been purposefully — cruelly inflicted upon him. And even worse, maybe not even the last. There was no way of knowing. Not whilst he's a Death Eater condemned to Voldemort's disposal. He couldn't stop, couldn't hand back over his dark mark, say that no, he's had enough of this now and he'd like his life back. No one stops being a Death Eater. Not without Death greeting them as an old friend. Oonagh didn't even want to think about that.
She looks at him, the slowly healing cuts on his chiselled cheeks, the fair locks only just free of the lingering red, feeling her heart pang. Dreamy grey beckons her, and she finds herself swallowing thickly, asking,
"Should I make some hot chocolate?"
If you really must, Draco resists grunting, instead offering a light smile. He's had hundreds of her crappy hot chocolates by now, managed to finish the whole cup without declaring how truly godawful they are. Managed to keep her without knowing how truly godawful they are. Potter and Granger nearly gave it all up. Draco doesn't mind spending the rest of his life threatening anyone against revealing the true review. Especially when it earns him this, that world-healing, evil-banishing smile of hers.
