"Nobody's fault but my own," Morag insisted, dropping her cheese into the pile of clothing beneath them. She'd have to save this for later unless the interrogation took a sudden change for the better. She somehow doubted it would. This purist bitch wasn't about to gush out the details of her crime, unless Morag could convince her that she might save herself a kiss from a dementor -- but that had a whole host of problems all of its own. First and foremost, she'd refused legal counsel; that meant she didn't give a fuck about legal consequences. Secondly, was there really anyone who would prefer years in Azkaban at the tender mercies of the dementors to a kiss. People like Blaise Zabini might think so, but she knew that the torture of that place had to be worse than losing your mind and soul. You were almost guaranteed to lose your mind anyway. Her mother had died in only a few months. Now was not the time for emotions, but Morag didn't push them away, letting the sadness of that death wash over her. She was disconnected from her feelings at the best of times, and the acute pain of losing a parent, even a parent who annoyed her, was liberating in its way. Her head hung down as he warmed her neck, and her sigh was a choked one. Nobody would choose Azkaban. Of this she was irrevocably, even if wrongly, certain. And it wasn't as if she could promise anything. They'd give her the kiss. Even if it was a murder of passion, she was a branded offender. Those people didn't get mercy.
They didn't deserve mercy. She tried to remind herself of this. The woman in that room was precisely the sort of person who ought to have been branded. She wasn't like Padma or Daphne. She'd committed actual crimes. Hate crimes. She was a criminal. A criminal who'd now murdered.
But Morag didn't have the sort of disposition to wish this kind of punishment on anyone. She had a thirst for vengeance, how could she not, but it didn't extend to capital punishment. That's what the kiss was, no matter what people said. No soul, no mind. Definition of dead, even if the body continued on in its eternal struggle to survive. Even if she thought it would work, she couldn't go in there and barter for that woman's life. Not when it wasn't hers to give. Her shoulders slumped a bit.
"Maybe that's it," she said wearily. Ordinarily, she might have laughed at his attempts to explain. A purist lesbian; if that wasn't outlandish, she didn't know what was. But right now, any explanation was welcome. She wanted to have something to tell her superiors in the morning. They were coming in on a Saturday to hear her results, and she had none to give. Fuck it all and damn. "But if she doesn't fucking spell it out to me, there's nothing for the papers in the morning. We have to get her to say something. I have to." There was no we. Not tonight. Not unless someone magically showed up.
Pushing her neck into his hands, desperate to glean any and all affection and relief from him, she sighed. "It's late, yeah? You don't have to stay." She wanted him to, but that ranked pretty high on the list of things that Morag had no interest in admitting.