- 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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𝕮old.
That was the very first thing that Oonagh notices as she begins to come to. The cold. It was cold, she was cold.
And weak too, limbs heavy and chest sore. Eminently sore all the way up to her neck. Merlin, her neck. That was the worst of it, Oonagh realises in a near groan, on both the inside and out. If she could move, she might've lifted a hand up, ghosted a fingertip or two across the broad line she knows to be the reason behind the outside soreness. The broad line that's undoubtedly a purplish blue by now. It certainly feels bruised, considerably more so with the persistent attacks from the gushes of chilly air.
The cold's never bothered her much before, having acclimatised since birth. She's Irish, she lives by the sea, she went to school in the Scotland highlands, and most importantly, her warm heart had never let her feel the cold. Not like this. Not when it almost feels like she's well and truly dead to the world, fated to being six feet under for the rest of time. No more sunshine.
Oonagh manages to gain some feeling back in her fingertips, wiggles them until they can move properly again and she's able to draw her hand to her chest, hoping that if she presses down with what little strength she can muster up, the stinging sensation of her next breath won't be too harsh. It doesn't, and she's left wheezing, so loud she nearly misses the unfamiliar voice that pipes up,
"She needs a glass of water"
"What she needs is to keep it down" Comes another voice from further away, this one a sharp contrast to the first. Surly, ignorant, curt. Cold, it's so, so cold.
Calming down and taking back control of her breathing, Oonagh peels an eye open, trying to gage her surroundings from what's above. It's just as shady and sunless as she would've expected from the temperature, making it near to impossible to see the ceiling. Stone bricks. She's surrounded by stone bricks, faded, cobwebbed and shabby. They're underneath her too, she discovers, trailing a finger down the dirty crack to her left, adjacent to her hip.
"Hey, Pumpkin. Can you hear me?"
The first voice speaks again, a man's voice, that had that general deepness to it yet a genuine caring undertone that makes Oonagh opening both eyes slightly easier. Nobody else answers, the question was directed towards Oonagh, from wherever the caring questioner may be. Faintly, her lips part, teeth shattering badly before and after she rasps,
"Yeah"
There's some shuffling, some shifting to her left side that she presumes to be the man the voice belongs to. It's moderately quiet for a minute, safe for the chattering of teeth and hoarse whistling of breath, then,
"Do you think you can sit up for me?"
Oonagh stares up, up at the ceiling she's starting to notice an odd cylindrical curve shape to. No. The answer's already known plain and simple to her, she doubts she could even manage a toddler roll off her back onto her belly. Too weak, too sore, too cold. That must have been just as clear to him too, because then, without her having to reply, he's asking softly,
