serpentqueen13: Fixated In Blue (Draco/Morag, PG-13)
Title: Fixated In Blue
Author: serpentqueen13
Rating: PG-13
Prompt Set: 100.3
Prompt: #60~Blue
Word Count: 874
Summary: Before going into battle as a Death Eater, Morag indulges in a Celtic tradition that irks Draco.
Warnings: Obsession, violent thoughts/imaginings
Notes: POssibly there will be a continuation if the bunnies agree. Also for 50_darkfics prompt~Fixation.
Blue invaded Draco’s mind, drove his mind to distraction. It was all about power, all about knowing one’s place, all about conquering the unworthy. It was about Morag MacDougal. She frustrated him, and he was sure she knew it. She had become a Death Eater, passed her own test, but for some reason, she rubbed Draco the wrong way, and her damnable blue wouldn’t leave his mind even in sleep.
Maybe it was the way she had manoeuvred her way through the ranks of the younger generation of Death Eaters, or the way she caught the favour of Bellatrix Lestrange-his aunt. It could be the way that she seemed to be fearless, or the way she all but ignored him. Who was she? Some Ravenclaw, unworthy even to be a Slytherin, unworthy of the attention, she was no better than dust beneath his feet.
The first time he saw the blue, he thought he was seeing things in the heat of battle. It was just a flash of colour at the edge of his peripheral vision, incongruous on the battlefield where everything was black, grey and red, like how he imagined hell must look like, when the heat that rose from the spells and fallen bodies of the dead made the heat almost unbearable. Afterwards, he found out what it was-the Scottish Ravenclaw’s robes had ripped, exposing the paint on her skin.
After that, it became almost an indulgent joke among the Death Eaters, and it annoyed Draco even more. Morag painted her face and shoulders, arms, not that it mattered under the hard white mask and black robes, but afterwards, as they sat around awaiting dismissal from the ranks, or nursing wounds while discussing grandiose versions of battles fought, she would take the mask off, or remove her outer robes to stitch up a wound, and there would be the blue, bright against pale skin. Sometimes they would be intricate patterns of animals and knots, other times spirals and dots, or symbols he remembered vaguely from Ancient Runes. It annoyed him, made him angry, and he didn’t even know why, which only irritated him further, and once, when her mask was knocked from her face in the heat of battle all he wanted to do was knock her to the ground and smudge the paint from her face as if it was a mark of status she didn’t deserve, when really, he had no idea what it meant.
Then one day he had to visit the one-room flat she was sharing with Padma Patil, in order to get information from the Indian girl that she had gotten from her Order-affiliated sister. There was an attack planned for later that night and his father had assigned him to verify the positions of the enemy. Morag had appeared halfway through the discussion of positions, her arrival heralded by a crack of Apparition. She was wearing a tight pair of trousers and a tank top like a muggle, the blue obviously just freshly painted on, the blue wet on her skin. He scoffed and continued with the more important discussion, but he didn’t miss the imperious way the witch tilted her head and tossed her hair dismissively as if his opinion didn’t matter, and suddenly all he wanted to do was press her against the thin wall and show her where she belonged, how unworthy she was, cut each and every one of the blue marks into her skin until she was red with blood instead of blue with paint. Prove through violence, the one way he was sure she would understand, that he was better than her. One did not just dismiss Draco Malfoy like that! But he held back, because unlike her, he had control.
But still, the blue haunted him as he recalled how it had looked, fresh-painted and wet, curling down her face and neck, across her shoulders and down her arms, every inch of exposed skin decorated with arcane things he didn’t pretend to know or understand, and somewhere in his secret mind, he wondered how far the paint went, whether it covered her breasts, stomach, thighs, whether she left anything undecorated. Every time he caught sight of it he thought of further ways to destroy the ever-changing patterns across her skin, and show her just where she found herself. War was not a game of dress up and not a place for upstart Ravenclaw women, even if the blue shone bright in contrast to her red hair and she killed as well as any of them.
But, he did nothing…because he had control. Morag MacDougal and her paint didn’t matter, not even after he found out through listening to some vapid conversation between Padma and Millicent Bulstrode that it was made from crushed glass and woad, and his mind went to pressing her through a window to see if the glass would cut her skin. He did nothing, because he was better than she was. He was not fixated on some woman, even if he had seen her hands bloody and face flushed, and thought, for a mere moment, that she as beautiful.
But then, Voldemort sent him on a reconnaissance mission-with her-for four days, alone.
Author: serpentqueen13
Rating: PG-13
Prompt Set: 100.3
Prompt: #60~Blue
Word Count: 874
Summary: Before going into battle as a Death Eater, Morag indulges in a Celtic tradition that irks Draco.
Warnings: Obsession, violent thoughts/imaginings
Notes: POssibly there will be a continuation if the bunnies agree. Also for 50_darkfics prompt~Fixation.
Blue invaded Draco’s mind, drove his mind to distraction. It was all about power, all about knowing one’s place, all about conquering the unworthy. It was about Morag MacDougal. She frustrated him, and he was sure she knew it. She had become a Death Eater, passed her own test, but for some reason, she rubbed Draco the wrong way, and her damnable blue wouldn’t leave his mind even in sleep.
Maybe it was the way she had manoeuvred her way through the ranks of the younger generation of Death Eaters, or the way she caught the favour of Bellatrix Lestrange-his aunt. It could be the way that she seemed to be fearless, or the way she all but ignored him. Who was she? Some Ravenclaw, unworthy even to be a Slytherin, unworthy of the attention, she was no better than dust beneath his feet.
The first time he saw the blue, he thought he was seeing things in the heat of battle. It was just a flash of colour at the edge of his peripheral vision, incongruous on the battlefield where everything was black, grey and red, like how he imagined hell must look like, when the heat that rose from the spells and fallen bodies of the dead made the heat almost unbearable. Afterwards, he found out what it was-the Scottish Ravenclaw’s robes had ripped, exposing the paint on her skin.
After that, it became almost an indulgent joke among the Death Eaters, and it annoyed Draco even more. Morag painted her face and shoulders, arms, not that it mattered under the hard white mask and black robes, but afterwards, as they sat around awaiting dismissal from the ranks, or nursing wounds while discussing grandiose versions of battles fought, she would take the mask off, or remove her outer robes to stitch up a wound, and there would be the blue, bright against pale skin. Sometimes they would be intricate patterns of animals and knots, other times spirals and dots, or symbols he remembered vaguely from Ancient Runes. It annoyed him, made him angry, and he didn’t even know why, which only irritated him further, and once, when her mask was knocked from her face in the heat of battle all he wanted to do was knock her to the ground and smudge the paint from her face as if it was a mark of status she didn’t deserve, when really, he had no idea what it meant.
Then one day he had to visit the one-room flat she was sharing with Padma Patil, in order to get information from the Indian girl that she had gotten from her Order-affiliated sister. There was an attack planned for later that night and his father had assigned him to verify the positions of the enemy. Morag had appeared halfway through the discussion of positions, her arrival heralded by a crack of Apparition. She was wearing a tight pair of trousers and a tank top like a muggle, the blue obviously just freshly painted on, the blue wet on her skin. He scoffed and continued with the more important discussion, but he didn’t miss the imperious way the witch tilted her head and tossed her hair dismissively as if his opinion didn’t matter, and suddenly all he wanted to do was press her against the thin wall and show her where she belonged, how unworthy she was, cut each and every one of the blue marks into her skin until she was red with blood instead of blue with paint. Prove through violence, the one way he was sure she would understand, that he was better than her. One did not just dismiss Draco Malfoy like that! But he held back, because unlike her, he had control.
But still, the blue haunted him as he recalled how it had looked, fresh-painted and wet, curling down her face and neck, across her shoulders and down her arms, every inch of exposed skin decorated with arcane things he didn’t pretend to know or understand, and somewhere in his secret mind, he wondered how far the paint went, whether it covered her breasts, stomach, thighs, whether she left anything undecorated. Every time he caught sight of it he thought of further ways to destroy the ever-changing patterns across her skin, and show her just where she found herself. War was not a game of dress up and not a place for upstart Ravenclaw women, even if the blue shone bright in contrast to her red hair and she killed as well as any of them.
But, he did nothing…because he had control. Morag MacDougal and her paint didn’t matter, not even after he found out through listening to some vapid conversation between Padma and Millicent Bulstrode that it was made from crushed glass and woad, and his mind went to pressing her through a window to see if the glass would cut her skin. He did nothing, because he was better than she was. He was not fixated on some woman, even if he had seen her hands bloody and face flushed, and thought, for a mere moment, that she as beautiful.
But then, Voldemort sent him on a reconnaissance mission-with her-for four days, alone.