Bury Me With It (sequel to Death's Paramour)
Title: Bury Me With It
Author: hecticity
Rating: R, for violence (maybe higher?)
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Morag MacDougal (past)
Summary: sequel to Death's Paramour by serpentqueen13: after Morag is killed by a reckless Auror, Draco gets his revenge.
Warnings: ANGST, DARKNESS, MURDER, SELF HARM, SUICIDE
Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, and I am not making any money from this. I just like being really mean to her characters. Title belongs to Modest Mouse.
Draco never knew that a facade could weigh so much until Morag was gone. It seemed like no-one knew him anymore, not even the people he'd thought always would: his mother, for one, or his childhood friends.
He'd only really known Morag MacDougal for two of his twenty-three years, and she'd ripped him apart.
"Draco," his mother would say, as one of the House Elves shoved something steaming and expensive in his face, "You look horribly pale. Haven't you been eating?"
Draco said yes, and then wondered how his mother didn't see through the lie. Morag would have.
But Morag was dead. Dead, and there were no stained dissecting knives on his bedside table, no Dark Mark glinting cheerily from a lampshade by his bed. Dead, and he was still alive.
Not the way it should have been.
The words tá mo chroí istigh ionat repeated over and over in his head until it didn't even matter what they really meant. To Draco, they meant suffering. Pain. Death. And most of all, revenge.
Her voice had been soft when she'd said it, quiet like a secret, but in his memory, it was always angry. Furious at the world for taking her so soon, at Draco for not acting faster to appease her spirit.
But it wasn't really his fault, and he was sure that had she really been watching him, from the sky instead of from his memory, she would have understood. Morag's killer didn't deserve a quick, painless, common death. No, he deserved pain, and lots of it. More even than what Draco himself was feeling.
It wasn't as if he had spent the last month-- had it really been only a month?-- moping around and feeling sorry for himself. Morag would never have tolerated it, and Draco sure as hell wasn't going to let himself go to waste like that. Not yet, anyway.
He'd found out which Auror it was-- no-one he knew, but he was going to enjoy killing them as much as he would have enjoyed killing Potter. And he'd been back to her castle, even though he'd said he wouldn't, to use her library. Niall had been very nice about letting him in, though Draco was fairly certain that if he'd known Draco would be using the Dark Arts extension, he might have been a little more hesitant. There were many hidden things in there, creations of her father's and his father's before him, but Draco wasn't stupid enough to touch those. Not only were they potentially dangerous, but Morag had trusted him with the secret of this room and Draco didn't want to betray that. It was bad enough that he'd had to take some of the books home, before Niall got suspicious and came to look for him.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he thought, so hard that she had to hear him, Apparating back to the Manor and setting them down on his bed. I'm sorry, I'll return them, I promise.
The first one that he tried to open began to wail like a banshee. Draco supposed the sound was intended to bother him, but he felt like singing along. While the spells in it were fascinating, they weren't particularly relevant, so he put it aside reluctantly, leaving it open to keep him company.
It took him hours to find the right spell, though he had only three books to go through. The physical pain of the book's protective curse slowed him down more than anything else, and his fingertips were nearly burned to the bone by the time he saw it, but it was perfect in its irony and beautiful in its twisted torture.
He couldn't understand the Gaelic, but the pictures were gorgeous-- the flesh of the victims melting, steaming blood pouring from their orifices, their faces contorted with pain. That, Draco thought triumphantly, staring in fascinated horror, that's what I want.
The third book he'd taken had been from the regular library: an old Gaelic reader charmed to speak aloud to help the student with pronunciation. Draco had too much experience with Dark Magic to risk saying the words wrong, and while he didn't particularly care if he ended up killed or maimed from a mistake, he couldn't let the Auror walk away untouched. Even the thought was too much to bear.
Dìogan, he thought, thumbing through the pages to find the D section, and smiled when he saw the translation. Revenge.
He almost passed by the definition of chride (heart) without doing much more than learning how to say it, but just as he went to turn the page something caught his eye. Chroí [mo], the possessive- my heart. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.
"Oh, my God," Draco whispered aloud, staring at the page. "Blood..."
And then suddenly he was flipping desperately through the pages, the spell forgotten. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, my heart is within you.
For the first time since the accident, Draco finally allowed himself to cry.
It was late when Draco returned to the castle, and for once, the weather seemed to agree with his mood. Rain pounded against the ground, soaking through his robes and turning his blond hair dark and sticky. Draco could barely see where he was going, but somehow he ended up in the one place he had managed to keep himself away from, the one place he wanted to be most.
The headstone blended into the darkness, and Draco practically sprawled across it by accident, but he didn't bother to pull himself upright. Instead, he curled himself around it, this last tangible reminder of the time Morag had spent on Earth, now more like a sacrificial altar than a memorial.
"Blood," he whispered, and spat, unsure where the salt in his mouth had come from. Then his grief boiled over, and he buried his face in the hard stone, ignoring the sting of the rough surface against the sensitive skin of his nose and lips as he screamed her name to the skies.
Draco didn't know how long he lay there, clutching the gravestone as if he could bring her back by the sheer power of his arms alone. When he could no longer feel his body, he thought vaguely that maybe he should move, and somehow managed to force his stiff muscles to cooperate.
He might not even have noticed the knife if it hadn't been shining so brilliantly even in the darkness, its blade covered in nature's tears and pointing away from him. His foot connected with the handle, sending it spinning off into the night, and he stared after it for a moment before breaking into a run.
It stared at him from where it perched on his palm, surrounded by mud from the ground made even wetter by blood from the large gash on his palm, but Draco barely even realised that he hadn't picked it up by the handle. More even than the headstone, this was his Blood; he could almost imagine that he could feel the warmth from her body heat against his numb skin. He'd gotten used to watching this knife drop to the floor when she undressed, had often taken it from between her soft breasts with his own hands.
It was the knife her brother had given her. The one that was supposed to peel the skin from Draco's body, if her death hadn't done it first.
And he knew, somehow, that his finding it was no accident.
The Prophet reported it as a heart attack, The Quibbler as a Hemorrhagic Hurtleby, but Draco couldn't have cared less.
He knew what it was. Dìogan chride coimpire, revenge of the hearts equal. A curse designed to make the victim's blood boil with in their body, just the way he was sure his Blood was boiling with anger at the injustice of it all.
He knew she'd been watching when he'd cast it, had felt her presence just behind him as he watched the man scream, had been surprised when he'd turned around to see an empty room. It was a beautiful death, one that she would have appreciated, that she did appreciate.
Because with the knife in his pocket, he knew she was watching.
"This is for you, Blood," he'd whispered, quiet enough that the man would never hear him over the sound of his throat going raw.
And again, when he'd stood over her grave for the last time, flicked open the knife, and held it to his own arm. "For you."
The skin didn't peel away quite as nicely as he'd thought it would. It clung to the bone, ripping in directions it wasn't supposed to, and it hurt like hell, but Draco never even thought of stopping. The Mark came off in pieces, flecks of skin like the petals of a tree, black on one side and red on the other, and try as he might, he couldn't put the puzzle back together to make a coherent picture.
He was lightheaded by the time he'd even managed to collect all of them, the constant flow of blood from his arm making it even harder to find the ones that had fallen with the bloody side up. Tendrils of unconsciousness were threatening at the edges of his vision by the time he finally collapsed, head resting awkwardly against the headstone with the skin piled next to him. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he lifted the knife, staring through blurry eyes at the metal still shining pure and clear beneath the red stains.
"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat," he whispered. "For y--"
And he was gone, the hand holding the hilt clasped tight over his heart, for Niall to find in the morning when he came to replace the flowers that had surely disintegrated in the previous night's downpour. Blond hair plastered to his head, dotted with remnants of the tattoo that had once bound him.
A smile on his pale pink lips, because he knew who was waiting for him on the other side. And if anyone had asked him, he would have told them that he was following his heart: the one that had died with his Blood.
Tá mo chroí istigh ionat. My heart is within you.
Author: hecticity
Rating: R, for violence (maybe higher?)
Pairing: Draco Malfoy/Morag MacDougal (past)
Summary: sequel to Death's Paramour by serpentqueen13: after Morag is killed by a reckless Auror, Draco gets his revenge.
Warnings: ANGST, DARKNESS, MURDER, SELF HARM, SUICIDE
Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling, and I am not making any money from this. I just like being really mean to her characters. Title belongs to Modest Mouse.
Draco never knew that a facade could weigh so much until Morag was gone. It seemed like no-one knew him anymore, not even the people he'd thought always would: his mother, for one, or his childhood friends.
He'd only really known Morag MacDougal for two of his twenty-three years, and she'd ripped him apart.
"Draco," his mother would say, as one of the House Elves shoved something steaming and expensive in his face, "You look horribly pale. Haven't you been eating?"
Draco said yes, and then wondered how his mother didn't see through the lie. Morag would have.
But Morag was dead. Dead, and there were no stained dissecting knives on his bedside table, no Dark Mark glinting cheerily from a lampshade by his bed. Dead, and he was still alive.
Not the way it should have been.
The words tá mo chroí istigh ionat repeated over and over in his head until it didn't even matter what they really meant. To Draco, they meant suffering. Pain. Death. And most of all, revenge.
Her voice had been soft when she'd said it, quiet like a secret, but in his memory, it was always angry. Furious at the world for taking her so soon, at Draco for not acting faster to appease her spirit.
But it wasn't really his fault, and he was sure that had she really been watching him, from the sky instead of from his memory, she would have understood. Morag's killer didn't deserve a quick, painless, common death. No, he deserved pain, and lots of it. More even than what Draco himself was feeling.
It wasn't as if he had spent the last month-- had it really been only a month?-- moping around and feeling sorry for himself. Morag would never have tolerated it, and Draco sure as hell wasn't going to let himself go to waste like that. Not yet, anyway.
He'd found out which Auror it was-- no-one he knew, but he was going to enjoy killing them as much as he would have enjoyed killing Potter. And he'd been back to her castle, even though he'd said he wouldn't, to use her library. Niall had been very nice about letting him in, though Draco was fairly certain that if he'd known Draco would be using the Dark Arts extension, he might have been a little more hesitant. There were many hidden things in there, creations of her father's and his father's before him, but Draco wasn't stupid enough to touch those. Not only were they potentially dangerous, but Morag had trusted him with the secret of this room and Draco didn't want to betray that. It was bad enough that he'd had to take some of the books home, before Niall got suspicious and came to look for him.
I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, he thought, so hard that she had to hear him, Apparating back to the Manor and setting them down on his bed. I'm sorry, I'll return them, I promise.
The first one that he tried to open began to wail like a banshee. Draco supposed the sound was intended to bother him, but he felt like singing along. While the spells in it were fascinating, they weren't particularly relevant, so he put it aside reluctantly, leaving it open to keep him company.
It took him hours to find the right spell, though he had only three books to go through. The physical pain of the book's protective curse slowed him down more than anything else, and his fingertips were nearly burned to the bone by the time he saw it, but it was perfect in its irony and beautiful in its twisted torture.
He couldn't understand the Gaelic, but the pictures were gorgeous-- the flesh of the victims melting, steaming blood pouring from their orifices, their faces contorted with pain. That, Draco thought triumphantly, staring in fascinated horror, that's what I want.
The third book he'd taken had been from the regular library: an old Gaelic reader charmed to speak aloud to help the student with pronunciation. Draco had too much experience with Dark Magic to risk saying the words wrong, and while he didn't particularly care if he ended up killed or maimed from a mistake, he couldn't let the Auror walk away untouched. Even the thought was too much to bear.
Dìogan, he thought, thumbing through the pages to find the D section, and smiled when he saw the translation. Revenge.
He almost passed by the definition of chride (heart) without doing much more than learning how to say it, but just as he went to turn the page something caught his eye. Chroí [mo], the possessive- my heart. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat.
"Oh, my God," Draco whispered aloud, staring at the page. "Blood..."
And then suddenly he was flipping desperately through the pages, the spell forgotten. Tá mo chroí istigh ionat, my heart is within you.
For the first time since the accident, Draco finally allowed himself to cry.
It was late when Draco returned to the castle, and for once, the weather seemed to agree with his mood. Rain pounded against the ground, soaking through his robes and turning his blond hair dark and sticky. Draco could barely see where he was going, but somehow he ended up in the one place he had managed to keep himself away from, the one place he wanted to be most.
The headstone blended into the darkness, and Draco practically sprawled across it by accident, but he didn't bother to pull himself upright. Instead, he curled himself around it, this last tangible reminder of the time Morag had spent on Earth, now more like a sacrificial altar than a memorial.
"Blood," he whispered, and spat, unsure where the salt in his mouth had come from. Then his grief boiled over, and he buried his face in the hard stone, ignoring the sting of the rough surface against the sensitive skin of his nose and lips as he screamed her name to the skies.
Draco didn't know how long he lay there, clutching the gravestone as if he could bring her back by the sheer power of his arms alone. When he could no longer feel his body, he thought vaguely that maybe he should move, and somehow managed to force his stiff muscles to cooperate.
He might not even have noticed the knife if it hadn't been shining so brilliantly even in the darkness, its blade covered in nature's tears and pointing away from him. His foot connected with the handle, sending it spinning off into the night, and he stared after it for a moment before breaking into a run.
It stared at him from where it perched on his palm, surrounded by mud from the ground made even wetter by blood from the large gash on his palm, but Draco barely even realised that he hadn't picked it up by the handle. More even than the headstone, this was his Blood; he could almost imagine that he could feel the warmth from her body heat against his numb skin. He'd gotten used to watching this knife drop to the floor when she undressed, had often taken it from between her soft breasts with his own hands.
It was the knife her brother had given her. The one that was supposed to peel the skin from Draco's body, if her death hadn't done it first.
And he knew, somehow, that his finding it was no accident.
The Prophet reported it as a heart attack, The Quibbler as a Hemorrhagic Hurtleby, but Draco couldn't have cared less.
He knew what it was. Dìogan chride coimpire, revenge of the hearts equal. A curse designed to make the victim's blood boil with in their body, just the way he was sure his Blood was boiling with anger at the injustice of it all.
He knew she'd been watching when he'd cast it, had felt her presence just behind him as he watched the man scream, had been surprised when he'd turned around to see an empty room. It was a beautiful death, one that she would have appreciated, that she did appreciate.
Because with the knife in his pocket, he knew she was watching.
"This is for you, Blood," he'd whispered, quiet enough that the man would never hear him over the sound of his throat going raw.
And again, when he'd stood over her grave for the last time, flicked open the knife, and held it to his own arm. "For you."
The skin didn't peel away quite as nicely as he'd thought it would. It clung to the bone, ripping in directions it wasn't supposed to, and it hurt like hell, but Draco never even thought of stopping. The Mark came off in pieces, flecks of skin like the petals of a tree, black on one side and red on the other, and try as he might, he couldn't put the puzzle back together to make a coherent picture.
He was lightheaded by the time he'd even managed to collect all of them, the constant flow of blood from his arm making it even harder to find the ones that had fallen with the bloody side up. Tendrils of unconsciousness were threatening at the edges of his vision by the time he finally collapsed, head resting awkwardly against the headstone with the skin piled next to him. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he lifted the knife, staring through blurry eyes at the metal still shining pure and clear beneath the red stains.
"Tá mo chroí istigh ionat," he whispered. "For y--"
And he was gone, the hand holding the hilt clasped tight over his heart, for Niall to find in the morning when he came to replace the flowers that had surely disintegrated in the previous night's downpour. Blond hair plastered to his head, dotted with remnants of the tattoo that had once bound him.
A smile on his pale pink lips, because he knew who was waiting for him on the other side. And if anyone had asked him, he would have told them that he was following his heart: the one that had died with his Blood.
Tá mo chroí istigh ionat. My heart is within you.