- 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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𝕬live but bleeding.
Draco realises with a violent shudder, prickling gaze zeroing on the fierce slash across the side that's closest to him. It's long and deep and has cut through the light blue snuggly sweater Rosaleen had gifted for her seventeenth birthday. The increasing pressure against his thumb brings his focus back to her face, her exhausted, grubby face, her eyes of dazzling blue reminding him that there's a decision to make.
A decision for him to make, himself alone, no influences or controls. She's the only one who's ever given him a choice, the freedom to make his own choices. This wasn't one of those times. There was no decision for Draco to make, not in his eyes. Oonagh O'Connor is his path, his way of life, his destiny. By her side, he will stay, through the burn of the world and the destruction of the universe, whatever they're to face next, they'll do together. For him, there's no other option.
And as it appears, when he finally flaunts where he stands, where his true priorities lay, it's not as unexpected as one would think. His mother never finished her sentence, never called him over for the moment that she spotted Oonagh lowly making her way through the gathered crowd to him, she knew. Knew that was where he was supposed to be, knew that was where he truly belonged.
When she steps back, someone else steps forward, eyebrows drawn together and eyes narrowed with inquisitiveness. An inquisitiveness that Draco refuses to allow her to dive into. In one swift movement, he's pulling Oonagh behind him, becoming a protective shield that Bellatrix will have to go through first before she even has the chance to analyse Oonagh. Draco doesn't waver, not even when the fierce face of betrayal is screaming furiously at him.
Before she could aim her wand at him, prune away the disease that's infected him too, something else captures her attention. Captures everyone's attention. Limping forwards out into the fearful open, frayed Sorting Hat in hand, Neville Longbottom, embodying that Gryffindor confidence and boldness he's slowly, but surely grown into over the years. He's not joining the other side, he's persisting to stand against them.
The bald muscle of Voldemort's eyebrow rose, wondering in a soft snake hiss, "And who is this? Who has volunteered to demonstrate what happens to those who continue to fight when the battle is lost?"
Bellatrix laughed in delight, hopping back up onto the pile of rocks she'd stepped off in order to gain a better view of Draco and Oonagh.
"It is Neville Longbottom, my Lord! The boy who has been giving the Carrows so much trouble! The son of the Aurors, remember?"
Voldemort hums, looking back to Neville, standing in the no-man's land, unarmed and unprotected, hands curled into fists, "Ah, yes, I remember. But you are a pureblood, aren't you, my brave boy?"
"So what if I am?" Neville yelled, loudly.
"You show spirit and bravery, and you come from noble stock. You will make a very valuable Death—" Voldemort began, but was soon cut off before he could finish his sentence.
