The Last Birthday Present
Title: The Last Birthday Present
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Morag MacDougal/Draco Malfoy
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: None
Notes: None
Summary: The last birthday present sent to Draco Malfoy from his "secret admirer".
Morag MacDougal was sitting comfortably in the library of Malfoy Manor, half-lounging on the wide rosewood desk that had obviously been in the family for ages. She was absently leafing through a book on Ancient Greek Dark Arts without paying much attention, looking out of the corner of her eye at Draco Malfoy, who was scribbling something out in deep green ink.
He finally looked up and sighed. "I hate wedding plans." he said with a sigh, and because he was running a hand through his hair and looking at the portrait of his father, missed the way Morag's fair skin had turned all but ashen and her hand had tightened on a page.
"Wedding plans?" she said, her voice deceptively easy. "Whose getting married?" Meanwhile, her mind was crying out 'Please, please, please, please, please, please no.'
"Me." Draco said in surprise. "Hadn't I told you? I'm sorry, Blood. I thought I had. Mother and I have signed a contract with the Greengrasses."
Morag's mouth dropped open in shock. "You're marrying Daphne?" The prospect rolled her stomach.
"Don't be ridiculous." Draco said dismissively. "Astoria, Daphne's engaged to Blaise."
Oh, and that made it so much better. Morag was ready to go out and kill someone. Preferably a young, petite, blonde someone. She made an appropriate noise and smiled slightly. "Well, I'm sure the women will do most of the work for you."
"Probably." Draco admitted with a grin. "You know, I wish you could be my best man." He said simply. "You've been more of my best mate than any of my Housemates."
Morag laughed, and he did with her, and while she ran her hands through her inky black locks, she wanted to just fall into a pit and die. "I don't think that would be quite proper." She said easily, putting her book aside. "I'm sure you'll find someone."
The visit continued on as normal, barbs and jokes traded after the topic left, but Morag could recall none of it. her stomach rolled worse than she could ever recall it having done before, and her skin ached and burned with pressure. She escaped back to her room, feeling as if the walls were closing in on her, as if her life was suddenly smaller, and nearly choked on air as she felt the panic rise.
On June fifth, Morag wrote a letter, disguising her handwriting, and using her father's quill.
Dear Draco,
Happy birthday. It ran, as they had ran every year since their fourth, but here it changed.
Enclosed is your gift, and unlike before, for reasons I dare not commit to paper, I beg of you to keep it.
Then she did something almost unthinkable. She put her wand in her boot, light sundress rustling like leaves of parchment, and then transformed herself into a cat--a transformation no one else knew of, and as it was spelled, the box shut itself up, and tied itself up, attaching to the owl's leg and flew off.
If she could not have him, at least, if only for a bit, she could be with him.
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Morag MacDougal/Draco Malfoy
Rating: G/PG
Warnings: None
Notes: None
Summary: The last birthday present sent to Draco Malfoy from his "secret admirer".
Morag MacDougal was sitting comfortably in the library of Malfoy Manor, half-lounging on the wide rosewood desk that had obviously been in the family for ages. She was absently leafing through a book on Ancient Greek Dark Arts without paying much attention, looking out of the corner of her eye at Draco Malfoy, who was scribbling something out in deep green ink.
He finally looked up and sighed. "I hate wedding plans." he said with a sigh, and because he was running a hand through his hair and looking at the portrait of his father, missed the way Morag's fair skin had turned all but ashen and her hand had tightened on a page.
"Wedding plans?" she said, her voice deceptively easy. "Whose getting married?" Meanwhile, her mind was crying out 'Please, please, please, please, please, please no.'
"Me." Draco said in surprise. "Hadn't I told you? I'm sorry, Blood. I thought I had. Mother and I have signed a contract with the Greengrasses."
Morag's mouth dropped open in shock. "You're marrying Daphne?" The prospect rolled her stomach.
"Don't be ridiculous." Draco said dismissively. "Astoria, Daphne's engaged to Blaise."
Oh, and that made it so much better. Morag was ready to go out and kill someone. Preferably a young, petite, blonde someone. She made an appropriate noise and smiled slightly. "Well, I'm sure the women will do most of the work for you."
"Probably." Draco admitted with a grin. "You know, I wish you could be my best man." He said simply. "You've been more of my best mate than any of my Housemates."
Morag laughed, and he did with her, and while she ran her hands through her inky black locks, she wanted to just fall into a pit and die. "I don't think that would be quite proper." She said easily, putting her book aside. "I'm sure you'll find someone."
The visit continued on as normal, barbs and jokes traded after the topic left, but Morag could recall none of it. her stomach rolled worse than she could ever recall it having done before, and her skin ached and burned with pressure. She escaped back to her room, feeling as if the walls were closing in on her, as if her life was suddenly smaller, and nearly choked on air as she felt the panic rise.
On June fifth, Morag wrote a letter, disguising her handwriting, and using her father's quill.
Dear Draco,
Happy birthday. It ran, as they had ran every year since their fourth, but here it changed.
Enclosed is your gift, and unlike before, for reasons I dare not commit to paper, I beg of you to keep it.
Then she did something almost unthinkable. She put her wand in her boot, light sundress rustling like leaves of parchment, and then transformed herself into a cat--a transformation no one else knew of, and as it was spelled, the box shut itself up, and tied itself up, attaching to the owl's leg and flew off.
If she could not have him, at least, if only for a bit, she could be with him.