As Long As You're Mine (Shades Of Grey Series, #1/5)
Title: As Long As You're Mine
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Morag MacDougal/Draco Malfoy
Rating: um...PG-13
Warnings: Het, cursing
Summary: Morag reads about Draco's death in the Daily Prophet, and someone unexpected makes her spill her tea.
Notes: For hp_100songs prompt #25~As Long As You're Mine~Wicked OBC; Story #1 of 5 in the Shades Of Grey series
Morag MacDougal was staring at the Daily Prophet eyes focused beyond the words and pictures on the paper, black and stormy and in contrast to the blank expression on her face, red hair a mass of ringlets behind her as she held a cup of tea forgotten in her one hand. The harsh, jagged letters of the headline pierced something inside her. Malfoy Scion Killed In Battle, Father Blamed
She didn’t know how long she sat there, staring at the headline and the grainy, bloody photo of Draco Malfoy, but it was long enough that her hands began to cramp and her tea was the same temperature as the air in the room, which seemed to freeze the hit-witch to the bone. She almost robotically took a sib of the cold tea, flipping past the article as if nothing was wrong, her demeanour even more icy and off-putting than usual, and the one denizen of the Knockturn Alley pub who was stupid enough to approach her found himself petrified as the request for her services left his mouth. Barely anyone looked up, and those that did quickly looked away again, Morag MacDougal was a notoriously impatient woman, and no-one wanted worse than a body-bind.
Well, mostly no-one. The brown haired man who entered the pub looking as if he had just walked in off of the more expensive areas of Diagon got quite a bit of attention for a few moments after he entered, but when he approached the redhead, there were a few chuckles, and people turned back to their respective beverages and conversations, listening for a tell-tale thud. “Excuse me,” He said when he reached the redhead, who although paler than usual, showed no signs of emotion. “I’m looking for my girl, have you seen her?”
Morag looked up, a blistering rant about how she couldn’t care less and a curse on her lips, ready to tell the man off, that she didn’t care where his girl was, didn’t know, there were far more important things to worry about, people were dead--her mind barely even recognising the hypocrisy in this thought since she killed people for a living, but she was grieving in her own odd way, while in denial of it at the same time. The problem was, just as she was about to deliver it with all her Ravenclaw eloquence, it died on her lips, her hand shaking as it knocked into her cup, sending tea across the paper and table.
“Eveleen,” She heard her voice saying hoarsely, her eyes black as they met brown ones. “She…she said you might come to look for her, Charlie then?”
The brunet’s smile widened and he nodded. “Yes, Charlie.” He said easily, extending his hand. “Charlie Malloy.”
“Morag MacDougal,” Morag said easily, though she had no idea how, a numb feeling of déjà vu traveling through her fingertips as the tea dripped to the floor and she stood and extended her hand.
Charlie smiled and took her hand, squeezing slightly and his smile widened even more at the way the woman shuddered at the tame handshake, imperceptible to anyone else. “Evey always does trust her fellow Scots.” He said with a smile. “So, can you take me to her?”
Morag’s breath hitched as she felt one of his fingers press into the indentation of where a ring sometimes laid. “Of course,” she managed, though she wasn’t sure how. “If you’ll just…” She stopped as his eyes closed, forced back a smile and Disapparated them both with a crack.
She had barely managed to will them through the wards and Apparate them into her plush penthouse flat, before her hand dropped the rough one in her grip, and she whirled on the man. “You fucking bastard” She growled almost desperately, clinging to what anger she had as she slipped her arms around his neck roughly, kissing him hard before he had time to do so much as protest. After a moment she pulled back and shoved him. “Take the damn glamour off, Malfoy.”
The greeting behind closed doors didn’t particularly surprise Draco, but he was when he hit the wall, and even more so when he heard his last name. His hands rose, taking hold of her wrists roughly, while he dropped the familiar glamour. “Only people I hate call me by my last name, Blood, don’t be one of them, I don’t want you to be one of them.”
Morag stilled slightly, calming at the well-known grip, her brown eyes fixed on steel grey, and comforted by the codename that Draco had used for her when the Death Eaters had hired her for a kill. “Fire,” she said in answer, voice shaking slightly. “I’m going mad, aren’t I? I saw the paper, you’re…” And oddly enough, the woman who had made killing her life’s work couldn’t manage to say the word dead like she had so many times before.
“I’m right here.” Draco said, comfortingly, his grip tightening around her wrists as he pulled her close against him, sure that there would be bruises on her wrists later, again, his mind reminded him, unhelpfully. “You’re mind’s as sharp as ever, I’m right here, can’t you tell?”
Morag nodded mutely, moving her hands gently, not pulling away from the hands on her wrists, to press her palms against his chest. “What was that, Fire?” She asked, when her voice returned to her. “Were you trying to hurt me?”
“No.” Draco said firmly, surprising himself with how much he meant it. “No, if I was…I wouldn’t have shown up today.” Damn it, she was making it damn hard for him to think, with the way her fingers were tracing the paths of his scars over the fabric of his shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of her at the same time. “You’re the only person who never asks anything of me.” He said finally. “Who never preaches or forces rhetoric and clichés down my throat.”
“Course not,” Morag said, not really understanding. “Why would I? What was it?”
Draco kissed her fiercely to give himself time to answer, because he didn’t pretend to understand the odd loyalty the Ravenclaw had for him, without asking anything in return. When his lungs were burning, he pulled away finally and listened, satisfied, to the familiar sound of her catching her breath. “My father tried to kill me; I turned to the goodie-goods-the photo was a glamour.”
Morag was watching his eyes as he spoke, more than listening to the words, and once he stopped, kissed him again. “So what is this?” She asked when she pulled back. “An I’m alive, but you’ll never see me again visit?” It was hard to keep the raw emotion out of her voice, but she wasn’t sure if it was relief or tension.
“It’s…” Draco trailed off and kissed her again, his hands dropping her wrists to encircle her waist and pull her closer, even though she was already close, crushing her hard against his body. “I don’t know.” The confession was soft, quiet, and he wasn’t even sure why he said it-he certainly hadn’t planned to, but he hid the embarrassment by kissing her hard again, and after that they fell into rough usage of each other, reassuring them both, holding on tight enough to leave marks, kisses hard enough to bruise, banishing numbness with pain intermingled with pleasure.
As the sun was setting and the soreness waned, Morag was curled up on her plush rose-covered sofa, nursing a cup of imported tea, and leaning against Draco’s chest as he sipped one of his own. “So now what?”
Draco paused, staring into his cup and wishing he had cared enough about Divination to drain his cup and try to read the dregs. “I don’t know. As far as anyone outside the Order knows, I’m dead.”
“Except me.” Morag finished, with an annoyed puff of breath.
“Except you.” Draco agreed wryly. “Maybe I’m brainless, but I needed you to know.”
“I needed to know.” Morag agreed, and then dryly-“You made me spill my tea.”
“Sorry.” Draco said with a laugh, surprised how easily the word came to his lips for her. “I don’t know…if I wanted to be selfish I’d ask you to come into the Order with me; I need someone to save me from the rose-tinted glasses, but I know you have that personal boundary about not choosing sides.”
Morag took a long drink of her tea and stayed silent, listening to the ticking of the clock for a few minutes. “Somehow, I’ve lost all resistance to the idea.” She said with a smile. “Borderlines are meant to be crossed, after all.” Still, even as she said it, she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him, staring into her tea instead.
“I wouldn’t as you to do anything you wouldn’t want to do-after all, you’re evil, you’ll have to fight to get them to give you an inch.” Draco said, playing with her hair, touched that she would even consider it, and for him. He suddenly felt oddly warm and sat the tea down on the coffee table.
“Well, aren’t you making me feel wicked.” Morag said, turning her head to kiss him. “Or did you not mean the offer? I don’t trust trustworthy people, you know that, you’ll need someone just as completely untrustworthy as yourself to watch your back.”
“You’d do that?” Draco asked, still shocked by the loyalty Morag held, the kind of loyalty that even his family hadn’t had towards him, and again, couldn’t understand why. “For me?”
“Aye.” Morag said after a moment. “Getting twice an Aurors salary in a single hit is getting a bit boring anyway.” She remarked sarcastically, and then looked up at him. “As long as you’re my Fire…and don’t make me spill my tea again, you know I’m an evil wench when I haven’t had my morning tea.”
“Wouldn’t have you any other way,” Draco remarked, kissing her fiercely. “Evil, gorgeous, and downright wicked.” He gloried in the small whimper that issued from her mouth, and neither of them noticed as her cup of tea fell to the deep blue carpet and pooled in a steaming puddle, but neither of them particularly cared.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairing: Morag MacDougal/Draco Malfoy
Rating: um...PG-13
Warnings: Het, cursing
Summary: Morag reads about Draco's death in the Daily Prophet, and someone unexpected makes her spill her tea.
Notes: For hp_100songs prompt #25~As Long As You're Mine~Wicked OBC; Story #1 of 5 in the Shades Of Grey series
Morag MacDougal was staring at the Daily Prophet eyes focused beyond the words and pictures on the paper, black and stormy and in contrast to the blank expression on her face, red hair a mass of ringlets behind her as she held a cup of tea forgotten in her one hand. The harsh, jagged letters of the headline pierced something inside her. Malfoy Scion Killed In Battle, Father Blamed
She didn’t know how long she sat there, staring at the headline and the grainy, bloody photo of Draco Malfoy, but it was long enough that her hands began to cramp and her tea was the same temperature as the air in the room, which seemed to freeze the hit-witch to the bone. She almost robotically took a sib of the cold tea, flipping past the article as if nothing was wrong, her demeanour even more icy and off-putting than usual, and the one denizen of the Knockturn Alley pub who was stupid enough to approach her found himself petrified as the request for her services left his mouth. Barely anyone looked up, and those that did quickly looked away again, Morag MacDougal was a notoriously impatient woman, and no-one wanted worse than a body-bind.
Well, mostly no-one. The brown haired man who entered the pub looking as if he had just walked in off of the more expensive areas of Diagon got quite a bit of attention for a few moments after he entered, but when he approached the redhead, there were a few chuckles, and people turned back to their respective beverages and conversations, listening for a tell-tale thud. “Excuse me,” He said when he reached the redhead, who although paler than usual, showed no signs of emotion. “I’m looking for my girl, have you seen her?”
Morag looked up, a blistering rant about how she couldn’t care less and a curse on her lips, ready to tell the man off, that she didn’t care where his girl was, didn’t know, there were far more important things to worry about, people were dead--her mind barely even recognising the hypocrisy in this thought since she killed people for a living, but she was grieving in her own odd way, while in denial of it at the same time. The problem was, just as she was about to deliver it with all her Ravenclaw eloquence, it died on her lips, her hand shaking as it knocked into her cup, sending tea across the paper and table.
“Eveleen,” She heard her voice saying hoarsely, her eyes black as they met brown ones. “She…she said you might come to look for her, Charlie then?”
The brunet’s smile widened and he nodded. “Yes, Charlie.” He said easily, extending his hand. “Charlie Malloy.”
“Morag MacDougal,” Morag said easily, though she had no idea how, a numb feeling of déjà vu traveling through her fingertips as the tea dripped to the floor and she stood and extended her hand.
Charlie smiled and took her hand, squeezing slightly and his smile widened even more at the way the woman shuddered at the tame handshake, imperceptible to anyone else. “Evey always does trust her fellow Scots.” He said with a smile. “So, can you take me to her?”
Morag’s breath hitched as she felt one of his fingers press into the indentation of where a ring sometimes laid. “Of course,” she managed, though she wasn’t sure how. “If you’ll just…” She stopped as his eyes closed, forced back a smile and Disapparated them both with a crack.
She had barely managed to will them through the wards and Apparate them into her plush penthouse flat, before her hand dropped the rough one in her grip, and she whirled on the man. “You fucking bastard” She growled almost desperately, clinging to what anger she had as she slipped her arms around his neck roughly, kissing him hard before he had time to do so much as protest. After a moment she pulled back and shoved him. “Take the damn glamour off, Malfoy.”
The greeting behind closed doors didn’t particularly surprise Draco, but he was when he hit the wall, and even more so when he heard his last name. His hands rose, taking hold of her wrists roughly, while he dropped the familiar glamour. “Only people I hate call me by my last name, Blood, don’t be one of them, I don’t want you to be one of them.”
Morag stilled slightly, calming at the well-known grip, her brown eyes fixed on steel grey, and comforted by the codename that Draco had used for her when the Death Eaters had hired her for a kill. “Fire,” she said in answer, voice shaking slightly. “I’m going mad, aren’t I? I saw the paper, you’re…” And oddly enough, the woman who had made killing her life’s work couldn’t manage to say the word dead like she had so many times before.
“I’m right here.” Draco said, comfortingly, his grip tightening around her wrists as he pulled her close against him, sure that there would be bruises on her wrists later, again, his mind reminded him, unhelpfully. “You’re mind’s as sharp as ever, I’m right here, can’t you tell?”
Morag nodded mutely, moving her hands gently, not pulling away from the hands on her wrists, to press her palms against his chest. “What was that, Fire?” She asked, when her voice returned to her. “Were you trying to hurt me?”
“No.” Draco said firmly, surprising himself with how much he meant it. “No, if I was…I wouldn’t have shown up today.” Damn it, she was making it damn hard for him to think, with the way her fingers were tracing the paths of his scars over the fabric of his shirt, but he couldn’t bring himself to let go of her at the same time. “You’re the only person who never asks anything of me.” He said finally. “Who never preaches or forces rhetoric and clichés down my throat.”
“Course not,” Morag said, not really understanding. “Why would I? What was it?”
Draco kissed her fiercely to give himself time to answer, because he didn’t pretend to understand the odd loyalty the Ravenclaw had for him, without asking anything in return. When his lungs were burning, he pulled away finally and listened, satisfied, to the familiar sound of her catching her breath. “My father tried to kill me; I turned to the goodie-goods-the photo was a glamour.”
Morag was watching his eyes as he spoke, more than listening to the words, and once he stopped, kissed him again. “So what is this?” She asked when she pulled back. “An I’m alive, but you’ll never see me again visit?” It was hard to keep the raw emotion out of her voice, but she wasn’t sure if it was relief or tension.
“It’s…” Draco trailed off and kissed her again, his hands dropping her wrists to encircle her waist and pull her closer, even though she was already close, crushing her hard against his body. “I don’t know.” The confession was soft, quiet, and he wasn’t even sure why he said it-he certainly hadn’t planned to, but he hid the embarrassment by kissing her hard again, and after that they fell into rough usage of each other, reassuring them both, holding on tight enough to leave marks, kisses hard enough to bruise, banishing numbness with pain intermingled with pleasure.
As the sun was setting and the soreness waned, Morag was curled up on her plush rose-covered sofa, nursing a cup of imported tea, and leaning against Draco’s chest as he sipped one of his own. “So now what?”
Draco paused, staring into his cup and wishing he had cared enough about Divination to drain his cup and try to read the dregs. “I don’t know. As far as anyone outside the Order knows, I’m dead.”
“Except me.” Morag finished, with an annoyed puff of breath.
“Except you.” Draco agreed wryly. “Maybe I’m brainless, but I needed you to know.”
“I needed to know.” Morag agreed, and then dryly-“You made me spill my tea.”
“Sorry.” Draco said with a laugh, surprised how easily the word came to his lips for her. “I don’t know…if I wanted to be selfish I’d ask you to come into the Order with me; I need someone to save me from the rose-tinted glasses, but I know you have that personal boundary about not choosing sides.”
Morag took a long drink of her tea and stayed silent, listening to the ticking of the clock for a few minutes. “Somehow, I’ve lost all resistance to the idea.” She said with a smile. “Borderlines are meant to be crossed, after all.” Still, even as she said it, she couldn’t quite bring herself to look at him, staring into her tea instead.
“I wouldn’t as you to do anything you wouldn’t want to do-after all, you’re evil, you’ll have to fight to get them to give you an inch.” Draco said, playing with her hair, touched that she would even consider it, and for him. He suddenly felt oddly warm and sat the tea down on the coffee table.
“Well, aren’t you making me feel wicked.” Morag said, turning her head to kiss him. “Or did you not mean the offer? I don’t trust trustworthy people, you know that, you’ll need someone just as completely untrustworthy as yourself to watch your back.”
“You’d do that?” Draco asked, still shocked by the loyalty Morag held, the kind of loyalty that even his family hadn’t had towards him, and again, couldn’t understand why. “For me?”
“Aye.” Morag said after a moment. “Getting twice an Aurors salary in a single hit is getting a bit boring anyway.” She remarked sarcastically, and then looked up at him. “As long as you’re my Fire…and don’t make me spill my tea again, you know I’m an evil wench when I haven’t had my morning tea.”
“Wouldn’t have you any other way,” Draco remarked, kissing her fiercely. “Evil, gorgeous, and downright wicked.” He gloried in the small whimper that issued from her mouth, and neither of them noticed as her cup of tea fell to the deep blue carpet and pooled in a steaming puddle, but neither of them particularly cared.