Prompt: #4, Under your skin (hp_ficathon)
Pairings: Harry/Draco, Draco/Morag
Summary: An old chip on Morag's shoulder becomes a pain in Draco's arse and a crimp in his plans for the future. (Set during and after HBP, diverges just slightly from canon for the purposes of the plot.)
Warnings: het, slash, character death, torture (violent and sexual), non-con, voyeurism (sorta)
Disclaimer: I do not own anything you recognize, and the only profit I get is twisted pleasure from making JKR's characters suffer.
Author's note: For serpentqueen13, without whom my love for Blood/Fire (Draco/Morag) would not exist.
Morag MacDougal was a troublemaker. Her name didn't have the same stigma as, say, the Weasley Twins, but all the prefects knew who she was and kept a watchful eye out for her when they did their rounds.
Morag watched them, too. She knew when they were on duty, when they were paying attention and when they weren't, where they liked to stop to rest, and even the smallest details that others might have considered inane-- for example, the way Padma's hand was constantly fluttering around her eyes to check her makeup. A small object, such as a tiny explosive, could be thrown past her shoulder and she might not even notice until it combusted, if the timing was right. Hannah chewed on her pigtails, especially when Ernie was around, which would lower her response time when it came to casting spells. Unless, of course, she was proficient at wordless magic, but the idea of a Hufflepuff achieving that kind of power before a Ravenclaw like Morag was laughable.
There was only one prefect whose presence actually made her reconsider causing trouble. Draco Malfoy was constantly on the alert, wand held ready at his side even when he was relaxed, and he didn't seem to have any bad habits, not even the slightest tic, that Morag could exploit. He was also the only one that had ever actually caught her in the act, that one time when she was charming a suit of armour to move and flash the Ravenclaw colours, and it had ended up coming to detention with her instead of storming Gryffindor Tower like it was supposed to.
She steamed over her failure while she scrubbed, muttering curses in Gaelic that she knew he wouldn't understand, and his vigilant watch from Snape's desk didn't help her fury at all. Whether she was more upset about the fact that she hadn't gotten her revenge on the Gryffindors-- damn it all, nobody should be allowed to trounce Ravenclaw's Quidditch team like that-- or about the fact that he had caught her no longer mattered. She would get her revenge in the morning, and this time she wouldn't be caught. And then she would find a way to break him.
As she ground one of her knuckles into the bottom of the cauldron, purposefully scraping the skin so that the scab would remind her in the morning, she made a promise to herself. If it took her until this detention was a dim memory, she would find his weakness. If Morag herself wasn't perfect-- though she would be, if her dratted hair didn't choose the most inappropriate times to poof up or fall in her face-- then Draco, with his shiny blond hair and flawless pale skin, and those damned silver eyes that looked down his pointy pureblooded nose at everyone and saw everything, was definitely not allowed to be.
Draco's hair is matted with sweat, his hands are bound behind his back, and his feet are submerged in the pool of his own blood already cooling on the dungeon floor. But still, still he is perfect, all steely eyes and bloody defiance, and Morag hates him for it.
"Failure," Lucius is saying, "My son, a traitor to his own blood."
But even that doesn't phase him in the slightest. He bears the pain without making a sound, only closing his eyes when it gets harder to stand, and Morag still hates him, even while she grudgingly respects him for it.
"You are nothing to me," Lucius says, and he looks so tall and dangerous that Morag is very glad that she isn't in Draco's shoes. A father enraged, a son scorned, and all this is really very amusing, but even Lucius' righteous fury isn't going to break his prisoner.
It surprises Morag that she knows this, when Draco's own father doesn't. But Draco has been away at school, and his father has had other things to attend to, and Morag's knuckle is still sore from that detention all those years ago. Sometimes, like now, it burns worse than her Mark.
Morag, though, she knows how to break him, and this may be her last chance: it doesn't look as though Draco will survive the night. But if she interrupts Lucius too early, she'll be next on his list of victims, and she can't have that, either.
So she waits.
It's not until many hours later, when Draco's muscles are spasming uncontrollably from the amount of times that he's been put under the Cruciatus Curse, that Morag decides that it's time to make her move.
"Talk!" Lucius is screaming hysterically. "You owe me that, at least, for bringing you into this god-forsaken world! Tell me where he is!"
"Excuse me," Morag says politely, "But I think I can help you."
After Cormac tried for the third time to get Morag to go on a date with him, Morag decided that she was done with Gryffindors. Slytherins, like her current prey, were far more interesting, emotionally detached and underhanded as they were, and even some of the other Ravenclaws had caught her attention-- Padma, for example, had begun to lurk in the Restricted Section almost as much as Morag did, and she couldn't say that she minded the girl's company. But Gryffindors were stubbornly optimistic, stuck in the kind of bravery that allows for only black and white, with no shades of grey in between, and Morag rather liked grey.
At first, it appeared that Draco agreed with her. His hatred for the Boy Who Lived was all but legendary, and he went out of his way to get Harry and his friends in trouble whenever he could.
The first hint that everything was not as it seemed came the day, in their sixth year, when Morag discovered that she was not the only one following Draco around. She might not even have noticed if Draco hadn't been acting so strangely-- he had begun to spend an uncharacteristic amount of time on the seventh floor, for one thing, in a room that Morag couldn't enter, despite her best efforts.
It wasn't a ward that was keeping her out. Morag was good at breaking wards, she would never have survived winter at home if she wasn't-- not with her father trying to teach her a lesson by changing them on her all the time. Sleeping on the roof worked in the warmer seasons, but waking up with frostbite wasn't particularly appealing, nor was dying of hypothermia in her sleep, and so she learned. Whether it was the lesson her father wanted her to learn was another story entirely.
But this room wasn't protected by wards. It was the room itself that refused to let her in, not a human construct, and that annoyed Morag beyond belief. Anything that well hidden had to be useful, or at least interesting, but try as she might, she couldn't figure out what it was.
And then Harry showed up. Harry, that damn Gryffindor hero, who had to try to save someone far more interesting than himself, because it was his nature. It was only by luck that Morag saw him before he saw her, but she avoided him easily, fixated as he was on his own personal hunt.
The day that Draco began calling him 'Harry' instead of 'Potter', even if it was only when they thought no-one was listening, Morag decided that Harry had to be destroyed too.
Lucius' face is shining with perspiration, and his eyes are bright with an almost feverish, angry madness, but when he's standing this close Morag can smell his fear. He will give her what she wants, if she treads carefully enough.
"I know how to break him, sir," Morag says calmly, although it would be rather nice for her nerves if Lucius backed up just the slightest bit, so that he's not hovering over her like that. "If you were willing to give me some time alone with the prisoner, I could get you the information you want."
Bellatrix, who has thus far been standing against the wall and devouring her nephew's suffering with her eyes, starts to laugh.
"A girl like you, get something out of him that Lucius can't?" she asks, and her voice is dripping with scorn. Morag wants to see her blood painting the walls.
"Yes, a girl like me," Morag says through gritted teeth, her hands itching for a knife, any knife. There are many within reach, concealed all over her body, but there are even more Death Eaters, and Morag knows she isn't fast enough to kill them all before one of them gets her. "I know what I'm doing."
To everyone's surprise, it is Narcissa that tips the balance in Morag's favour, Narcissa with her hopeful eyes, who wants her son to survive. She hasn't stopped Lucius, never once asked him to give Draco a second chance, but she seems to think that what Morag has in mind will be less painful than what Lucius has done.
If only she knew.
When Morag's finally alone with her prisoner, she takes a moment to savour the taste of victory.
"You have no idea how long I've waited to do this," she tells Draco, though at this point she's not entirely sure that he understands her. "Do you remember the suit of armour?"
"Fuck you, Potter," Draco bit out, and turned away, probably intending to stalk down the corridor. But Harry surprised them both-- Draco, caught in the middle of a graceful exit, and Morag, hiding in one of the many rooms nearby-- by blushing and grabbing Draco's arm.
"No," he said, and Morag was disgusted to hear him plead like that. "Don't leave."
Draco was weakening already; Morag could tell from the haughty, uneven line of his shoulders, one of them already tilted back towards Harry.
"Why?" he asked harshly, refusing to look at his old rival. Old rival, Morag thought, because she didn't know what to call him anymore. Certainly not boyfriend, though lover might very well be accurate, when she considered Harry's blush. "You have nothing to offer me."
"But I do," Harry begged, and in the space of Morag's blink Draco went from standing a few feet away to being pressed against Harry's chest. He didn't look particularly happy about it.
"You don't," Draco told him, but Morag could hear the uncertainty in his voice. "Give me one good reason why I should choose you over my family."
Harry's face filled with that pure, honest, all-knowing look that Morag has come to associate with Gryffindors when they're about to do or say something utterly stupid.
"Because you love me," he said softly, and covered Draco's mouth with his own before he even had a chance to reply.
Morag hated Draco even more for not fighting back.
The first thing that Morag does is heal all of Draco's wounds, one by one. His broken nose and elbow creak and fall back into place, the bruises and cuts disappear. The only thing she can't get rid of is the trembling, the damn aftereffect of Lucius' favourite Unforgivable, which is all but incurable. She can't help but find it funny that one of the only men still alive with the talent to brew a potion for it will probably die of it before he ever gets a chance to see another cauldron.
"First of all," Morag says briskly, "I think we should do away with that chair, don't you? The angle is all wrong."
A swish of her wand, and it disappears, leaving Draco flat on his back against the cold stone floor, arms still tied uncomfortably behind his back.
"Much better," Morag coos, and she kneels by his head, forcing his eyes open with her fingertips. Draco's eyes are still cold, silver, and hard as diamonds, but that's not what Morag is looking for. She wants attention, she wants to know that he understands the words she's saying. "Don't you think it's better?"
And there it is, the frustrated glint of a man that has jumped out of the frying pan only to find himself in the fire, and the cook is teasing him about it while he burns.
"Much better," Morag repeats, and her smile is big enough to split her face. "Now. The problem, Draco, is that you don't seem to remember who it is that we're talking about."
While she's talking, Morag is undoing his trousers, watching with delight as his eyes squeeze shut against the humiliation.
"Harry Potter," she purrs, pulling the cloth down over his unbound feet. "You don't remember him?"
Spreading his legs, Morag pries the cheeks of his arse wide open and leans over him again as she impales him on one of her long, nail-tipped fingers.
"Do you remember him now?"
Morag didn't bother to plug her ears with her fingers, even though the moans that were drifting from the two boys on the other side of the closet door were making her sick to her stomach. Not because she knew what was happening-- hell, if Draco liked having a cock up his arse that much, more power to him-- but because of what it meant.
Draco had given in. To Harry, who had the audacity to break him first, and had only succeeded because he was male.
Morag would be damned if she let her gender get in the way of her revenge.
"Fuck, Harry," Draco groaned, hoarse voice mingling with the sound of the bedsprings creaking. Sloppy kissing noises reached Morag's ears, and she peered through the crack of light between the door and the jamb to see Draco's body arched into a bow, his fingers clenching in the sheets as Harry's mouth traveled down his back.
"Say it," Harry intoned, his voice surprisingly strong, if a bit muffled against Draco's skin.
Draco gasped, shaking his head even as his face went pinched and desperate.
"I can't, Harry," Draco pleaded, burying his face in the nearest pillow to muffle a scream of frustration.
Gently, ever so gently, Harry reached up and turned Draco's head towards his, stroking his jaw with the pad of his thumb. The movement of his hips became slow, languid, and teasing, and Draco's moans were louder than ever, begging wordlessly for more, but Harry refused to give it to him.
Draco swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing under the skin, and clenched his hands in the sheets as he went absolutely still.
Draco is squirming against the cold floor, and Morag is loving every single minute of this.
"You remember, I can tell," she says happily, scraping her nail lightly against the hot, sensitive flesh. "But you know what?"
She pauses, as if to give Draco room to answer, but his mouth is in a thin line, as if he's about to scold a disobedient child.
"Say it," Morag commands, echoing Harry's words. "Tell me where he is."
Draco, she imagines, is wishing he never came back to the Manor. He's wishing that he'd stayed with Harry, wherever that bloody pesk is right now. He's wishing that he hadn't thought twice, hadn't let his ties to his family bring him up short, like a dog on a leash.
He's wishing that he was dead.
"This can all end right now," Morag promises, but it rings hollow even to her ears. "Just tell me where he is. I know it's on the tip of your tongue, don't bite it back."
"I hate you," Draco whispers, the first sound he's made all night, and his hips tilt upwards, asking for more.
"Believe me, the feeling is mutual," Morag smirks, sliding a second finger inside him alongside the first. Draco bites down on his lip to stifle his moan, but it comes out anyway, echoing against the dungeon walls.
Morag imagines what he must be feeling is a sort of burn, hovering just on the edge of pleasure, but of course she's not him and she's never been in his position, so she really has no idea.
"Tell me," she repeats, "Say it."
And Draco, he presses even harder against her fingers, and his voice goes all breathy as if he's a ghost. "Will you," he asks, "Will you kill me if I tell you?"
"Yes," Morag tells him, because at this point she's willing to promise him anything. "Yes, I'll kill you. Just say it."
"Harry," Draco says, and he's crying now, Morag can see the tears like dewdrops on his pale cheek. "God, Harry, I'm so sorry."
Draco's thrusting his hips up against her fingers, and Morag doesn't even have to work anymore, he's torturing himself.
"Harry," Draco repeats brokenly, "Harry's at Godric's Hollow, please, he's there, just kill me now..."
Morag pulls both fingers out, stands up, and takes out her favourite knife-- the one she keeps tucked between her breasts. She flicks it open once, twice, a few more times in rhythm with his desperate breathing, and she wonders if this is his worst nightmare.
"No," she crows victoriously, "No, I think I'll let you live with that for the rest of your life!"
And just when his eyes open in horror, just at the part where if this was a nightmare he'd be waking up, she leans over and cuts his throat.