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𝕺onagh murmurs a thanks when Brain instinctively plants an iced Bailey's down in front of her.
She'd opted for one of the single barstools, not exactly in the mood for friendly mingling or the plenitude of questions regarding the lack of Grumpy Englishman at her side. On his better judgment, Draco hadn't followed her, sensing that she needs some time to herself before they talk this out, much more level-headed. Like the adults they're growing to be.
She'd nearly turned back as soon as the door clicked closed, his reasonings swimming around in her mind like a goldfish in a bowl. Remorse. Remorse flooded her insides, thinking that maybe she took it too far, raised her voice too loud at him. Him who had only been keeping her best interests at heart, all that he was doing, he was doing it for her. She'd nearly turned back, until she realised she had taken his wallet and that would be too mortifying to hand back right away.
One drink wouldn't hurt anyone.
Or his nicely loaded wallet.
Rosaleen had been over, gaining an extra line or two on her weathering face in worry at the loneliness of the girl. It had been a brief check up, full of Oonagh's reassurance that she's grand and no, she definitely did not have to go and sock Draco one. Relief had blossomed across the elder lady's face, glad that Draco didn't have to be demoted from the soft spot he'd managed to worm himself into in her generous heart.
Oonagh was grand, just in need of a moment to herself. Everyone had respected her wishes, or well, nearly everyone,
"Hello, beautiful"
It comes from her close right, in what Oonagh knows to be a Southern England accent. She wasn't a fountain of knowledge when it came down to British accents, more of an expert on those of Ireland, but if she had to take a guess, she'd have gone for Cockney. Not as sophisticated and eloquent as Draco's, something more informal and slangy. Perhaps a traveller or explorer wanting to get away from tall cities, crowded streets and a busy life. The Irish Countryside offers the opposite.
Not thinking too much of it, without even raising her head, Oonagh rejects kind, but firm, "Thanks, but i'm not interested"
The Cockney doesn't seems slightly disheartened by the straight up rejection, as
any normal human being would, but he doesn't go away either. He does quite the opposite, taking it upon himself to claim to barstool right besides Oonagh's and scoot up until they're practically pressing against one another. It's not that, that makes Oonagh's head snap up, though, it's what he says next, and the way he says it,
"That's tough. Because i'm really interested"
Draco had said a similar thing earlier, said tough to her verbal reluctance. Draco's had been of a caring nature, this wasn't of the caring nature at all. It was something else entirely. Something that made Oonagh falter slightly and make the hasty decision to assess him.
He was dishevelled, the sort of man Oonagh could tell didn't care much for his appearance, no twenty step skin care routine or high standard hair care. It was too tangled, too matted and the random, out-of-place red streak on one side was dwindling by the second. The same could be said for the stubble on his jaw and upper lip, scruffy against his pallid skin. Rough and ready. He was rough and ready and definitely a man that Oonagh doesn't want to rub up the wrong way being a girl on her own.
His smile grows the longer she stares, showing more of his yellow and crooked teeth. She blinks and quickly looks away, hoping he doesn't detect the minor shake of her hand when she reaches for her drink. Fortunately — unfortunately, Oonagh's not sure which is better at this time, he doesn't appear to have noticed, too busy leering at her face. Too busy rudely inviting himself to touch her hair, twisting a wide strand around his finger as he asks,
"What's your name, lovely?"
Beautiful, lovely, playing with her hair. Oonagh feels her stomach flip — and not in the good way that happens when Draco does it, in a way that makes her want to bend over and throw up all of her dinner on his mucky boots. She swallows down the horrible bile that sloshes against the back of her throat, answering what she hopes to be convincingly,
"Megan"
"No surname as of yet?" He wonders, tugging not-so-gently at her hair so that she's forced to lean into him. She stamps out the urge to jab her elbow harshly into his ribs and make a run for it, affirming, "Jones"
Choosing her school-friend's name wasn't necessarily what Oonagh wanted to do, but there's a persistent voice in her mind that's dubious and sceptical towards this man's true intentions. And it's aligning consistently with the strong feeling of her gut. Megan's safe, Megan's a halfblood and from a family that's not as well known as Susan's where lies can easily be spotted, opening up more doors to trouble. Trouble that she one hundred percent wants to steer clear of.
He must be satisfied with that, because he unravels himself from her hair and permits her to sit back up straight. Oonagh doesn't hesitate to wrap a hand around her drink again, forcing a smile that feels tight at the corners when she questions,
"What about you? What's your name?"
"Is that my proper name you're wanting to know, or a fake name like you just gave me?"
Oonagh's entirety freezes, feeling as though she's been thrown head-first into a drowning sea of shockingly frigid ice water. Fake name. If he knows that what she just gave him is a fake name, Oonagh doubts it would be a wild guess to imagine he already knows who she is, and had known before he even stepped foot inside the Irish pub. Her smile fades, fear having her voice unsteady and her limbs even more as she moves to stand, excusing,
"If you'll excuse me I have to—"
The words die in her throat, thinking better of finishing her sentence when she feels something sharp, something pointy press against the lower curve of her spine. A wand. A wand that she doubts the man — wizard — won't be afraid to use if she doesn't abide by his wishes. He comes closer, practically slotting her hip between his legs, beginning to rub himself there whilst his nose corresponds, up the crook of her neck to her ear,
"Oh, but we're having such a wonderful time, Oonagh. Don't spoil it by inviting them" He purrs, opening the Hufflepuff's eyes.
Opening them up to notice that he's not the only one here. There's backup, multiple wizarding men just like him, iniquitous and vile, scattered around various segments of the pub, sticking out between the close community of friendly people who raised her. They're all staring, eyes dark and fixed, awaiting signal from their leader. It all comes to Oonagh, then, in another wave of sickness. Who she's dealing with here.
Snatchers.
Someone's tipped off the Snatchers on her.
"Scabior" She murmurs, in realisation, having remembered the name that's been mentioned once or twice at Potterwatch meetings.
There's another name she remembers, one that has her rigorously searching through the crowds, silently praying that his hideous face doesn't show. It doesn't, but neither does Rosaleen's, her regular spot vacant and Guinness glass empty. Oonagh hopes that she took her leave way before Scabior approached, she'd hate for her to be forced to watch this, more than she would Draco.
Her thoughts fizzle away, distracted by the nipping at her earlobe. A feeble whimper escapes her, going unheard because he's already speaking again,
"That's the name, love, well done. Tell you what, you finish your drink. It'd be a shame to hand over someone as pretty as you so soon"
His tone left no room for refusal or opposition, and Oonagh has an inkling if she tries, things will end up far worse for her in the end. Far worse in that she might not even make it to the handing over. Reluctantly, she perches back down on the bar stool, pretending that his pale eyes aren't sliding up and down her body. If she pretends it's not happening, then it's less likely she'll naturally act out.
"So, is there a boyfriend in the picture?" Scabior quizzes, hungry gaze lingering on her chest. Oonagh clears her throat, feigning a bitterness towards the topic when she replies,
"No. We broke up"
It's a lie. A very big, fat lie that nearly splits her heart in half to merely think about. It's necessary, though, just as necessary as it was originally to lie about her name. And going off how badly that turned out, how she underestimated how much he already knew, it was better to confirm that, yes, there was a boyfriend, like Oonagh assumes her traitor informed of, but, no, he's no longer in the picture. A recent development.
A look of awfully fake sympathy flashes across his features and it takes a hell of a lot of Oonagh's will power, if not all of, to keep in the damning curse swirling around her mouth at his response,
"Sounds like you need some help getting over him. Someone to replace his touch..."
Where his voice trails off, his fingers take off, running up the inside of her thigh. Oonagh's hand clutches so tightly around her glass that she's surprised it doesn't shatter to pieces. It had to have been relatively close, yet saved just in time, because Oonagh's slapping that same hand down, protecting herself. Protecting her crotch that was seconds away from being non-consensually touched.
"Fuck off" She snaps, shooting him, perhaps the deathliest look she's ever given someone her entire life.
No good can come from it, not when she's terribly outnumbered by people that wouldn't give a second thought exchanging her, dead or alive, for a piece or two of gold. Oonagh has dignity, there's no fucking way she'll let him touch her there without a fight. Not in her home. Scabior must've sensed this, must've noticed it deep and adamant in her eyes, because the next thing she knows, she's being hauled to her feet and dragged out of the door by a firm clutching to the back of her jumper.
Oonagh's hands fly to her neckline, choking at how hard the wool's ramming against her throat, restricting her airway. The group of Snatchers following behind laugh loudly at her expanse, immensely entertained at the blue colour, the same shade to that of her glassy eyes, that's flooding her face very quickly. Scabior doesn't abate, not even when they're outside under the cold and dead of night. If anything he grips on tighter, revelling in the continuous desperate struggling he's eliciting from the Irish witch.
Oonagh's head grows dizzy, and coloured spots start to smother her vision, the more her eyelids start to droop. Their voices sound muffled in her ears, and Oonagh's strangely glad. She didn't want to hear their despicable discussion of despicable plans of what they were going to do with her. To her.
Her head rolls to the side, the faintest of smiles twitching at her lips.
Because the very last thing that she's seeing, before passing out, warming up the cold that's numbing her whole being, is an awfully familiar senior figure sprinting up the street.
And right besides her, a little ahead, sprinting impossibly faster, what Oonagh can only describe as an angel.
And then she's out like a light.
•1958 words•
Uh oh...
A little on the shorter side but the action makes it longgggg!!