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The Boy's Gone

Title: The Boy's Gone
Fandom: Harry Potter
Pairings: Morag MacDougal/Draco Malfoy, mention of Morag/?
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Angst, suicide
Notes: Sequel to willfully's fic Absolutely Zero. I do not own the song The Boy's Gone.



Morag was surprised, more surprised than she should have been when someone from her past walked back into her life. Draco Malfoy's request took her off guard--who had ever heard of suicide by hit-witch? She was incredibly tempted to turn it down, she didn't want to hurt him...but she knew better than anyone what he was talking about, and by letting him live when he didn't wish too, to make him live through old age--that would only cause him more pain.

She forced herself to go to the funeral, despite the fact that she rarely left her land when she wasn't working. There were whispers, of course, that she had some sort of nefarious plan to hurt Astoria or Scorpius when they were down, but Morag would never go back on her word. His last words had been for his son, his family--Don't tell Scorpius, and she wouldn't.

No one came near her during the funeral, not even Astoria, despite polite society's rules. She was left on her own to mourn, which was how she preferred it. She was not here to gloat, or to make an appearance, or even to say goodbye, no, she had done that already. She had said her confessions, she was only here for one reason.

To make it real. It should have been like all the other kills, made real when the light faded from his eyes, or the blood flowed over her fingers. It hadn't been, not that she was particularly surprised. She had killed herself in that same moment, as if his life had sustained hers and she was now living on borrowed time.

No one would understand, no one could. It was too odd, to unbelievable, like a twisted fairy tale with no happily ever after, and it was when she was lone in the gardens with the corpse that she told the body what she never could in life. I'll never let you be alone.

There were things to be handled at home of course, things that had to be done. Most of it she had done before the funeral, paperwork and the like, a note to her cousin and her husband, a talk with her uncle about how things were to be handled. Durgvail MacDougal had cried, something Morag hadn't seen since her father's death, and she patted his back. It all repeats she whispered in his ear in explanation, and that had stilled him.

The one thing she hadn't done was say goodbye to her daughter. This, she felt a little guilty about, but Drusilla was a smart girl, like her, and would understand. She knew it would be hard on her, but she was strong, stronger than Morag ever was. Drusilla had only ever known Morag, her father had been killed shortly after her birth. Morag couldn't let her husband weaken her family like her mother's influence had done to her brother after all.

Still, she left a small, incomprehensible note, , which ended up a bit bloody from her arms which she had slit with her usual precision, the bone handle familiar, safe, comfortable. Her long fingers played along the wound as she lay down as if going to sleep, knowing someone would find her after her time had finally ran out, borrowed or not; her note on the table.

Well I tried to live my life and lived it so well
But when it's all over is it heaven or is it hell
The boy's gone home.

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