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After two months of research and asking around, Hermione had finally settled on a tattoo parlor. She wanted something to mark the end of the war – a tangible mark on her skin that said I survived. But she wasn’t an artist and she was indecisive to a fault, so gathering the courage to actually visit the tattoo parlor took her another two weeks.
With a deep breath she pushes the door open. The store is in a dangerous part of London – dingy and unkempt – and if not for the glowing reviews scattered around on enthusiast websites, she wouldn’t believe the place was fit for a cockroach. But inside – a threadbare sofa and walls filled with black and white art – the place is clean. There’s a smell of disinfectant overpowering the faint smell of cigarette smoke, and as the bell jangles behind her a coarse voice yells out.
“With you in a minute, love.”
Hermione edges her way closer towards the counter. There’s a man – huge and hulking and covered in so many tattoos that she can’t see an inch of his skin – bent over someone on what reminds her of a doctor’s bed. The man laying down is turned away from her – his exposed side is red raw with a fresh tattoo – and Hermione can’t help leaning her elbows on the counter and trying to get a better look. The buzz of the tattoo machine fills the silence as she stares – a dragon, she thinks, one of those twisting and sinuous ones that runs from the man’s back and around onto his side.
Hermione laces her fingers together as she steps back and pretends to look at the art on the walls. She’s nervous, her stomach twisting into knots, and she doesn’t belong here, not with these pin-up women adorning the walls next to stylized animals – dragons and unicorns and everything in between. She doesn’t even have her ears pierced – she’s a fraud – and the man behind the counter is going to figure her out and toss her on her arse back through the front door-
“Can I help you?” A voice calls out, disrupting her thoughts.
“Oh – erm – that’s-“ Hermione spins around and clutches at her bag in front of her. The man is staring at her, leaning over the counter, and there’s a tattoo on his cheek and she feels so out of her depths that her voice trails off with a squeak. She takes a step towards the counter and then hesitates.
The man who’d been laying down is sitting up with his back to her – shirtless – drinking a bottle of water and tipping his head back. His hair spills over his shoulders in a tangle of white-blond that reminds her sharply of Malfoy – and Hermione takes a deep breath and clenches her hands into nail-digging fists.
“I want a tattoo,” she says in a very soft voice, unable to meet the man’s gaze as he watches her. “But I don’t know what.”
“Well, you’re in the right place.” The man leans over the counter and points behind her to the coffee table she hadn’t paid attention to. “There’s books on the table. Take a look while I finish up here.”
“Okay,” Hermione breathes, and then she escapes to the sofa.
Her fingers tremble as she picks up the first book – like a scrapbook or photobook, heavier than she’d expected – and she bows her head to flip through it as the sound of the tattoo machine whirs back into life. The buzz reminds her of her parents – the dentist’s chair – and Hermione’s vision swims as she stares down at the stark black lines on the white paper in front of her.
They were safer in Australia. She’d told herself that a thousand times a day but it never got any easier to believe. She was staying with Harry in Grimmauld Place because it hurt to stay in her childhood home – not just because of the mess of paperwork that gave her a headache but because it felt so empty without her parents.
With a deep breath Hermione blinks the tears away and focuses on the tattoos in front of her. Stock designs – nothing that catches her eye as she flips idly through. A lot of pin-up women that, while artfully drawn, don’t appeal to her at all. Geometric designs, silhouetted trees, more animals in monochrome.
None of them are right. Hermione finishes the first book and moves to the second. More of the same – Chinese characters that she doesn’t understand, butterflies and hearts. She flips another page and then pauses, struck. A double spread of stars in various designs that makes her think of constellations and the Astronomy Tower and Dumbledore and Draco and death.
An image comes to her mind – stars picked out in delicate lines – the silhouette of the constellation behind. Like photographs of far-off galaxies, pink and blue and all the colours in between mixing in a watercolour hue. Hermione traces her fingers over the page and closes her eyes. But what constellation? The one that springs to mind – because the man reminded her, that’s all – is Draco. Not the person, but the stars, twisting through the night sky in a long line. But it isn’t right.
She finishes flipping slowly through the book – more shapes and animals she isn’t interested in, scorpions and beetles and even a spider that makes her flip the page quickly to avoid looking at too closely. There’s a third book and Hermione opens it to see a riot of colour – flowers – and she flips through it slowly, glancing up to eye the tattoo artist suspiciously. The flowers almost seem too delicate for a man like him – gruff and hulking with a thick beard and more likely to be sat on a motorcycle than drawing delicate flower petals.
There are watercolours too, soft designs that Hermione runs her fingers over in awe. There’s one she comes back to after she’s finished flipping through the book – it’s only a third filled – one of a night sky in dark blues bleeding into the softer colours of twilight, a glittering of white stars scattered in the sky. The piece doesn’t have a definite end – it just trails off halfway down the page.
Like life, Hermione thinks, running her fingertips over the paper.
The man – the tattooist – is still busy. Hermione takes her time flipping through all three books again – just in case – before settling back on the starry sky that caught her eye. She can’t help but see the Draco constellation picked out instead, and she shakes her head with a soft sigh.
Sometimes she felt as though she was haunted by him. She’d be on the train and glance up and see a handsome blond and think it was him, back from the dead, but it never was. Of course it never was.
Draco Malfoy – for all intents and purposes – died during the battle of Hogwarts. Just like so many others – so many of her friends and classmates. Hermione traces her fingers between the stars and wonders – the way she can’t help wondering, sometimes – where he is. If he’s somewhere looking up at the night sky the way she does on those long nights when she can’t sleep because the grief is pressing down so heavily on her chest that she can’t draw in a proper breath.
It was strange to miss someone she didn’t like, especially when she was filled with so much longing for the people she had loved and lost. But there was this curiously Draco-shaped hole in her life after Hogwarts. No arrogant smirk to wipe off a smug face with better grades. No looking over her shoulder in the hallways and preparing a hex for him when he shoved past her. No long afternoons in the library under the enforced truce of required study. She’d never even gotten the closure of giving him a goodbye. Maybe that’s why she kept looking for him everywhere – because after so many years spent around him and watching him grow up along with her – she’d never gotten to wish him farewell.
The buzz of the tattoo machine stops. Hermione looks up, idly curious, watching as the tattooist wipes at the other man’s side multiple times – murmurs in a soft conversation she can’t quite catch. Something about “typical stuff,” and “you know,” that she doesn’t quite comprehend. She watches as he wraps cling-wrap, of all things, around the man’s torso and tapes it down with a practised ease.
She glances away when the blond tugs his shirt on. It feels awkward to watch a stranger get dressed when she’d just been staring at their bare skin. Hermione fusses with the books in front of her, aligning them with the edge of the coffee table. She wriggles her toes in her shoes and stretches her legs, preparing to stand up and talk to the artist.
“Yeah, a couple of weeks,” a voice murmurs, loud in the silence of the room, and Hermione’s head jerks upright.
The blond is leaning over the counter – on the other side to the tattooist – pulling out a thin black wallet and doling out notes. She can see tattoos covering his bare forearms – down to his black-painted fingernails – skirting around the sleeves of his black t-shirt. As though the walls of the shop have sunk into his skin and marked him.
Hermione gets to her feet and tries not to sway back down onto the couch. In the middle of the tattoos – almost lost between the swirl of them – is a red snake curled around a skull. The man puts his wallet in his back pocket – turns slightly – and Hermione covers her mouth with her hands.
“Hermione?” Draco’s voice is disbelieving. Unmistakable. Even if he looks so different – covered in piercings and tattoos and like he’d rolled out of the wizarding world and into a punk band – it’s still him. There’s metal glinting in his nose – his lips – his eyebrows. But his eyes are the same unmistakable grey, his hair is still the same gleaming white.
Hermione takes a step forward and shakes her head. “What – how-“ She swallows and shakes her head again. “You’re supposed to be dead.”
The tattoo artist glances between them both and then pointedly heads to the back of the store. If she wasn’t so flummoxed, Hermione would appreciate his tact.
“To the world I left behind, I am.” Draco takes a cautious step towards her and tilts his head slightly. “Why are you here?”
“I wanted a tattoo,” Hermione murmurs, distracted by the colours spread across Draco’s skin. She’s not even sure what some of them are – she can see a raven gripping at the skull of the Dark Mark – and she looks up at Draco’s face, self-conscious of her stare. “You have a cobweb on your hand.”
Draco looks down and then chuckles softly, lifting his hand to run it through his hair. It’s long – as though he’s growing it out – and the fringe he sweeps back falls straight into his eyes again. “Yeah. I just wanted to cover – you know – and then I couldn’t help myself.” He holds his arms out in front of him, towards her, turning them wrist up and then wrist down. “What do you think?”
“You look so different,” Hermione murmurs, stepping closer and peering down at his forearms. “I almost didn’t think it was you.”
“Mother lost her mind the first time she saw them.” Draco leans forward – conspiratorially – and lowers his voice. “Threatened to send me to St Mungo’s. And when I got the first piercing,” and Draco touches his fingertips to the metal ring at the left corner of his mouth, “Father joined in with assuming I’d gone mad.”
“Have you?” Hermione asks, trying not to stare. He looks dangerous, almost, and if she didn’t know him – sort of know him – she would cross the road just to avoid passing him by. And yet all the metal and ink under his skin has made him somehow more beautiful – almost ethereal – the stark tattoos making his skin paler by comparison, the piercings sharpening his features and making him – Hermione swallows – absolutely breathtaking.
“Nah.” Draco grins and tucks his hands into his trouser pockets. Ripped black jeans, Hermione notices, like the goths she sometimes sees when she’s out and about. All he needs is some eyeliner to match his nails and he could pass for one of them. “I just wanted to reinvent myself.”
“The new and improved Draco Malfoy,” Hermione whispers, looking him over and wondering if there’s any trace of the boy she used to know underneath all of his new skin. “Unless you changed your name, too.”
“No.” He sucks one of his lip rings between his teeth and shakes his head slightly. “I wouldn’t know how to respond to anything else. Except maybe “hey, you pureblooded git,” or whatever it was you called me.” His eyes are sparkling as he smiles at her and Hermione’s cheeks warm with embarrassment.
“That was ages ago,” she mutters, even though it wasn’t, it’s only been a few months since the end of the war. A whole lifetime, the stark divide of before and after. “Is this all you do?” She gestures with a hand. “Get tattoos?”
Draco switches the lip ring he’s worrying at – snakebites, Hermione remembers, they’re called snakebites, and it’s so fitting for him that her chest feels tight, and gives her a shy sort of smile. “I’m studying at Oxford, actually.”
“Looking like that?” Hermione splutters.
He rolls his eyes and leans forward again, his lips almost brushing against her ear. “Glamours, Granger.” He leans back and winks – terribly – and Hermione can’t help the smile that cracks across her face. “I’m studying art.”
Ten minutes ago, she wouldn’t have believed Draco Malfoy would study art at Oxford. But looking at him now – the tentative smile he’s giving her – the faint flush of pink to his cheeks – the vitality of him – she can believe it. “You seem happy,” she whispers, and the words feel like an accusation.
His smile slips away. “Only sometimes. Look, I’ll get out of your hair and you can sort yourself out with Liam.” Draco takes a step back towards the counter and Hermione lifts her hand, instinctively, catching at his wrist.
“I-“ She licks her lips as Draco pauses and watches her. She drops her hand and looks away. “Stay?” She asks in a whisper, afraid to see his reaction and more afraid of missing it completely.
Draco blinks at her and sucks in his lip piercing, worrying at it with his teeth. “Okay.” He gives her a lopsided smile and gestures for her to step up to the counter. “You can stop hiding, Liam,” he calls out as Hermione sidles up next to him.
“Wasn’t hiding,” the man – Liam – grumbles as he makes his way through a door in the back of the shop. “Just don’t like to interrupt lover’s quarrels.”
“We’re not-“ Draco protests.
“That’s-“ Hermione starts.
“None of my business.” Liam holds his hands up. “Now, you said you wanted a tattoo?”
“Yes – I-“ Hermione swallows and rushes back to the book she’d left spread over the coffee table. “This one.” She puts it down on the counter and Draco’s arm brushes against hers as he leans over to peer at the pages. “But I wanted a different constellation,” she admits, determinedly not looking at him.
Liam looks down at the page and nods. “Where?”
She hadn’t really thought about where. She flounders and glances towards Draco, catches his grey-eyed stare as he looks her over. “Erm.”
“What about your forearm?” Draco nudges her with his elbow. “You can hide it under long sleeves and no one would know.”
Hermione holds her forearms out in front of her. “You think?”
“Yeah.” Draco lightly touches his fingertips to her right forearm, right under her elbow. “Right here.”
His touch is so gentle that if Hermione couldn’t see his hand against her skin, she wouldn’t believe he was touching her at all. She sucks in a breath and glances up at Liam. “Is that okay?”
“Love, it’s your skin.” Liam shakes his head slightly. “I just do the art.”
“Then yes.” Hermione nods and draws herself up as Draco moves his hand away. “On my forearm, please.”
“And the other constellation you wanted?” Liam’s leaning over and taking the book and Hermione shifts her weight. “I need to put it on the stencil.”
“I can draw it for you,” Hermione offers. “I have it memorised.”
Liam glances between her and Draco. “You sure you don’t want me to look it up? Memories can be mistaken, and it won’t be on me if you muck it up.”
“She’s got a good memory,” Draco mutters, nudging Hermione with an elbow. “But you should let him check on the computer.”
Hermione sucks in a deep breath. “Then – not a word, Malfoy – I want the Draco constellation.”
She can hear Liam’s fingertips clacking slowly at the keyboard on the counter. Feel Draco tense beside her as he leans on the counter and looks at her from under his long fringe.
Even without speaking she can feel him asking why. Hermione straightens her spine and lifts her chin in the air.
“It was the first one I memorised,” she mutters defensively. And it’s the one she always looks for when she stares up at the sky, when she sees a spot of blond hair on the train, when she’s shopping and hears a laugh that reminds her of him.
“And dragons are very cool,” Liam chimes in as he beckons her around to the other side of the counter. “This one?”
Hermione steps around Draco – who unfolds like a piece of paper and watches her, the metal in his lip caught between his teeth – to the other side of the counter. The picture Liam's pulled up is grainy – flickering on the old monitor. Hermione lifts her fingers and traces the stars, counting in her head. “That’s right.”
“Alright.” Liam runs his fingers over his beard and gives her forearm a considering look. “Take about two hours, if you want it done now.”
“Yes,” Hermione says, because if she doesn’t do it now, she’ll run away and never come back. “Please.”
“You eat today?” Liam asks, not looking at her as he stares at the computer screen.
“A little,” Hermione admits slowly. “Why?”
“Don’t want you fainting on me.” Liam leans out and glances at her. “There’s a takeout a couple doors down. Go eat something, come back in fifteen minutes. I’ll have the place set up for you.”
“Alright.” Hermione feels a flutter of nerves crawl through her stomach. She won’t be able to eat much – but she doesn’t want to faint either. She glances at Draco. “Do you-“
“Yeah.” Draco gives her an unsure smile. “Come on.” He pulls himself up from leaning on the counter and gestures her towards the door. “I know the place. Good chips.”
She’d never thought she’d hear Draco Malfoy talk about a takeout place having good chips, and the absurdity of it makes Hermione bite down a smile as she falls into step beside him.
“I’ll bring her back,” Draco calls over his shoulder, lifting a hand in a wave behind them.
For a second it seems as though his fingers ghost over her shoulder, but when Hermione turns to glance at him, Draco has his hands in his pockets.
“Alright,” Hermione mutters as she pushes the door open. “Say it.”
“Say what?” He raises an eyebrow at her and the sunlight glints off the metal piercing.
“Whatever it is you want to say,” Hermione huffs.
“I just think it’s an interesting constellation,” Draco mutters as he leads the way along the row of shops. “There’s so many to choose from and you picked mine.”
“You don’t own the stars, Draco.” Hermione rolls her eyes. She can see a passer-by – a mother with a pram – glance between her and Draco and then hasten her footsteps. She flicks her gaze back to Draco and notices him notice.
“Keeps people away,” Draco murmurs as he looks down at her. “All the people that see the ink and not a person.”
Understanding clicks in her mind so sharply that Hermione almost forgets to breathe. She inhales as she leans a little closer to him, as though she wants to prove a point. “Draco…”
“Anyway.” He gestures at a door. “We’re here.” Without waiting, he heads into the takeout shop – fish and chips and smelling of potato and salt – and Hermione has no choice but to follow.
“I’m not really hungry,” she protests weakly as Draco heads right up towards the counter.
“I am, though.” He gives her a wolfish grin and then gives the menu a cursory glance as the tired-looking server comes up to the cash register. “Could we get a large chips, please, with extra salt? And two bottles of water and some-“ Draco glances at her and frowns slightly. “Orange juice.”
He pays before Hermione can even find her wallet and she huffs out a sigh as the server brings them their drinks. “Still flaunting your wealth, as always,” she mutters as she collects one of the waters and the bottle of orange juice, cool against her fingertips.
“Figures you’d quibble over a few quid.” He runs his fingers through his hair and tosses it out of his eyes. “Save the juice for later.”
“Alright.” Hermione wraps the condensation-cold bottle in a napkin and tucks it into a pocket in her purse. She notices Draco’s curious gaze and she glances towards the server. “It’s bigger than it looks,” she murmurs.
“Ah.” He grins at her as the server hands over the package of chips. “Figures.”
She rolls her eyes at him as Draco leads them back outside and sits at one of the plastic tables. The weather’s nice – for once – and she shifts her chair out of the direct sun as she sits opposite him.
For a few minutes they sit in a companionable silence – he opens the package of chips and they both pick at them with lingering glances across the table. She wasn’t hungry – not really – but eating with Draco was easier than it would have been eating alone. And he’s right – the chips are good. Not soggy and under-salted but crisp and just right. Hermione feels rejuvenated as she makes her way through her side of the pile, stopping now and then to lick salt off her fingers.
“So,” Draco murmurs, leaning on his hand with his elbow against the table. “It’s good to see you.”
“It’s good to see you too,” Hermione admits. She gives him a tentative smile and leans forward. “I thought I never would again.”
Draco looks away and runs his thumb over his bottom lip. “Not a lot of places for someone like me in your world.” His voice is faint. Distant.
Hermione shakes her head and reaches across the table to touch his other hand – resting against the base of his water bottle, her fingertips brushing against his. “It’s your world, Draco, not mine. I’m practically an interloper.”
“You’re the hero of the – you know – world.” He shakes his head at her even as his fingers shift and curl around hers. “What are you doing on my side of London?”
“Getting a tattoo,” Hermione says softly. “To remind myself that I’m still here.”
He looks at her – his eyes gleaming in the sunlight, the metal sparkling against his skin. There’s a swirl of colour against his neck, a flower opening in bloom, and she wants to trace her fingertips over the edge of the petals that dip beneath the collar of his black t-shirt. “I could’ve missed you,” he murmurs, as though he’s talking to himself. “We could’ve passed like ships in the night and never even realised.”
“But we didn’t,” Hermione says softly. “We found each other.”
Draco blows out a deep breath and looks at her, his expression soft. “There’s this girl in my art class that reminds me of you – big curly hair and brown eyes – and even though I know she isn’t, sometimes I forget when I catch her out of the corner of my eye, and it’s like-“ He shakes his head slightly. “It’s like I’m back there.”
Hermione licks her lips and tastes salt on the corner of her tongue. “I keep looking for you,” she admits. “Every time I see someone with blond hair I wonder if it’s you.”
“Well,” Draco murmurs, and his cheeks are pink and his expression is shy as he ducks his head. “You found me.” His fingers move against hers and then just like that – under the summer sun – with salt-greased fingers and scattered chips still to be eaten between them – they’re holding hands like they’ll never let go.
“You never said goodbye,” Hermione whispers, swallowing the lump in her throat and blinking away the sudden prick of tears. “You weren’t with the dead or the wounded and you were just gone.”
“I didn’t know Potter would pardon my family,” Draco murmurs, squeezing her fingers between his own. “I thought they’d hunt me down and throw me in Azkaban.”
For a moment it rushes back through her – the smell of blood in the halls – the screams – the still white faces of her friends. Hermione closes her eyes and takes a steadying breath. They’d been children – all of them – young and afraid and unprepared for the consequences of their own actions. She opens her eyes to see Draco smiling sadly at her, as though he’d followed her down the same mental road.
“Besides,” Draco says, and his smile shifts into a proper grin. “Sometimes I think I’m better off dead. I'm having way more fun.”
“Draco,” Hermione whispers, aghast, but she can’t help smiling – and Draco laughs – and she laughs despite herself – and her chest is bubbling over with warmth from the sun and his hand around hers and the fact that they’re here together, holding hands across the distance between them.
“Come on.” He tugs her gently up. “Liam’ll be waiting.”
She helps him fold the newspaper over the uneaten chips and they untangle their fingers to dab water onto napkins and wipe the grease and salt away, and when their rubbish is all in the bin and her half-empty water bottle is in her bag, his hand finds hers again as they walk back to the tattoo parlour.
“After,” Hermione asks, and a thrill runs through her at the idea of an after, “will you show me your tattoos properly?”
“Alright.” Draco’s fingers squeeze around hers and he smiles. “I have a flat – a little studio – I can show you what I’ve been working on for school, too.”
“I’d like that,” Hermione says as she squeezes back.
His smile widens – sweet and genuine – and for a moment Hermione doesn’t even notice the tattoos at all. Just his beauty – startling in its honesty – like the sun peeking out behind grey clouds. She wants to drink him in the way Crookshanks lies in sunbeams, to soak in his warmth until she’s warm and sleepy and satiated.
But they’re back at the tattoo shop and he’s pushing the door open and holding it for her while Hermione smiles and steps through.
Liam looks up from the computer and glances between them both with a soft hmm.
“Still want that tattoo?” He asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes.” Hermione’s fingers untangle – reluctantly – from Draco’s as she steps up to the counter. “Please.”
Draco lingers out of the way as Liam beckons her to the back of the shop – behind the counter – to the cling-wrapped covered bed that she sits gingerly on, her bag beside her. There’s an armrest and Liam wipes her forearm down with rubbing alcohol before giving her a stern look.
“Don’t even breathe,” he says, holding the stencil up in his gloved hands.
Hermione holds her breath as he places it gently against her arm and then rubs at her skin. He peels it away and grunts softly, rubbing his thumb against her elbow. “What do you think?”
It’s just an outline – a few dots of stars and the faint edges of the lines of the tattoo – but there’s a permeance to it that makes Hermione glance up to find Draco’s stare. He’s leaning against the partition and smiling at her – giving her a thumbs up.
“It looks good,” Hermione whispers. “I think? I’m not an expert.”
“Not yet,” Draco points out. “But in a couple of hours you will be.”
She sticks her tongue out at him as Liam busies himself with inks and the tattoo machine and his own little rolling tray of supplies. The nerves are fluttering in her stomach and she reaches out her hand towards Draco, who slinks closer and twines his fingers between hers.
“It’ll hurt,” he tells her softly as he squeezes her hand. “But only for a bit.”
“Forearm’s one of the best spots for a beginner, anyway,” Liam says as he leans over her arm and slides some paper towel underneath. “Just yell if you need a break.”
“Right.” Hermione takes a deep breath. “I will.”
“Ready?” Liam gives her a searching look.
Hermione nods and squeezes Draco’s fingers. “Yeah.”
She can’t help watching as the tattoo machine buzzes towards her skin. There’s a sharp sting of pain – and for a moment she’s reminded of Bellatrix – all the things she doesn’t want to remember – and then Draco is squeezing her fingers and rubbing his hand up her other forearm and she’s not there, she’s here. Liam lifts his hand and meets her eyes.
“I’m good,” Hermione says, and he nods.
She can’t help watching – even though she’s fairly certain it makes the sting of the needle worse – as Liam works colour under her reddening skin – dyeing it in shades of blue and purples and pinks. Draco’s fingers intermittently squeeze hers as she watches, captivated, the pain ebbing and fading as the minutes pass.
“White might fade,” Liam tells her as he changes needles in the machine. “Depends on how your skin takes to the colours.”
Hermione nods and then winces as he dots the stars into her skin – the pain pinching at her nerves – and Draco squeezes her fingers and leans closer towards her.
“Just wait until you get a nice thick black outline,” he tells her softly. “Felt like I was being Cru- crucified.” He covers his slip-up with a faint smile.
“And yet he was back a week later for another,” Liam mutters under his breath. “Kids these days are all masochists.”
“Can’t help myself.” Draco shrugs and leans back. “Not when your art’s so good.”
Liam rolls his eyes and ignores him. Hermione bites down a smile at their obvious rapport. She almost feels embarrassed for being half-afraid of Liam when she’d stepped into the store. Shy and meek – like her first day at Hogwarts – when the only thing she knew was that she didn’t know anything at all.
Slowly, as the minutes turn to hours, the watercolour-style tattoo forms on her reddened and swollen skin. There are faint traces of blood on the paper towels mingling with the dark inks, and Hermione’s stomach shifts at the sight. But Liam’s hands are gentle as he works – as the ink unfurls over her skin – and Hermione feels paradoxically more like herself the more she’s transformed.
“It looks good,” Draco murmurs, peering over her arm when Liam leans back to take a swig of water. “Suits you.”
“Another thirty minutes, I reckon.” Liam says, giving Hermione a look. “You got water?”
“Oh.” Hermione’s voice comes out in faint croak. “In my bag-“
“I’ll get it.” Draco untangles his fingers from hers and she winces at the ache – her fingers are stiff – and digs around in her purse. “Here.” He passes it over – the cap already removed – and Hermione drains the entire thing before passing it back with a sigh.
“Thanks,” she murmurs, wiping at the back of her mouth with her free hand. She hadn’t realised how thirsty she was.
Draco smiles at her and takes her hand in his again – his black fingernails stark against her skin – and Hermione traces her thumb over the spiderweb by his thumb. Is this how he’d felt, she wonders as the tattoo machine buzzes once more to life and her attention is drawn back to her own forearm, like a caterpillar in chrysalis, bleeding ink and transforming into a butterfly? Or was the pain just sinking into her bones and making her wax poetic?
She closes her eyes and lets herself drift – Draco’s fingers warm against hers – the pain a constant ache in her arm – feeling oddly like she could go to sleep if it wasn’t for the pain radiating through her. She wonders about piercings and tattoos and cobwebs and Draco’s hands in hers, her thoughts swirling like bloody water down a drain, mixing into nothing until the water and her mind goes clear.
“All done.” Liam says as he wipes at her arm. “Take a look.”
Hermione opens her eyes and blinks down at her arm. It’s blue – it’s red – it’s swollen and hardly feels like hers. She takes a deep breath and focuses. It’s an almost-perfect rendition of the picture from the book – dripping blue fading into her own skin towards her wrist – darker blue, almost black, against her elbow – white stars dotted out in a line as familiar to her as the line of her own name. A snapshot of a starry sky, captured forever on her arm, still and unmoving and hers.
“I love it,” she whispers, looking up and feeling tears pricking at her eyes. “Thank you.”
Liam just nods and wipes her arm again. “Don’t take the film off for twenty-four hours,” he tells her as he binds her up with cling-film and makes Hermione feel a little like a piece of ham going back in the fridge. “Then you’ll want to wash it – gently – with soap.” He nods to Draco beside her. “He knows all the rules, but I’ll get you a pamphlet too.”
“Thank you,” Hermione murmurs as she touches her fingertips to the edge of the cling-film on her wrist.
“Here.” Draco hands her the orange juice – still cool – already opened – and cups it in her hands while she takes a tentative sip. “You got it?”
She nods and he draws his hands slowly away.
It feels a little like waking up, Hermione thinks as she carefully sips at the juice. Her arm is throbbing – aching – feeling hot under the plastic and faintly itchy – and she can hear Liam and Draco murmuring by the counter but isn’t interested in the words. She carefully slides off the bed and tests her weight before getting to her feet – leaning her thigh against the bed for balance while she sips at the juice.
“Careful,” Draco murmurs, suddenly there in a swirl of black. “Don’t push yourself.”
“I’m not.” Hermione leans against him a little anyway, because he smells nice – like pine aftershave and smoke – and lets him lead her to the counter. His arm is around her shoulder and it makes her feel warm and protected.
“Here.” Liam passes her a paper pamphlet full of instructions. “If you have any trouble just swing by.” He taps away at the computer and gives her a faint smile. “You’re good to go.”
“Wait, but-“ Hermione blinks as she sets the juice bottle down on the counter. “Don’t I have to pay?”
“Not when I’m around.” Draco’s hand squeezes her closer. “I got you.”
“Prat,” Hermione grumbles as she picks up her orange juice and takes the final sip. The sugars in it are making her feel a little more energised – a little less floaty. “I have money.”
“I have more, though,” Draco points out as he gently spins her around and takes the empty bottle from between her fingers. “See you next week, Liam!” He calls over his shoulder.
“Crazy damn kids,” Liam mutters behind them.
“I feel so floaty,” Hermione tells him as Draco helps her through the door. “Did you get my bag?”
“Right here.” He holds it up on his other arm and shakes it slightly. “Come on, Hermione. I’ll take you to mine before you float off.”
“I missed you,” Hermione tells him as they set off walking – her head nestled against him and his arm still around her shoulder. “When you vanished. Isn’t that so strange? I thought I hated you until you were gone and then I missed you instead.”
Draco’s fingers tighten around her. “I missed you too,” he whispers. “Like missing the sun when it rains all week.”
Hermione feels warmth spread through her as she twists her head to look up at him. “Really?”
“Really.” He glances down and tugs her a little closer against him, even though it makes walking slightly more difficult when she has to contend with his feet as well as her own. “Come on. I know a lovely dark alleyway we can Apparate from.”
Hermione snorts and then ducks her head, embarrassed. “You sure know how to treat a girl, Malfoy.”
“Only the best for you, Hermione.” His fingers are curling up under the sleeve of her shirt and Hermione feels a momentary dizziness at his touch. “You’ve got your wand somewhere in this bag, right?”
“Yeah.” She nods and then realisation strikes. “You don’t have yours?” She pauses – right there in the middle of the walkway – and Draco gently drags her out of the way of someone behind them.
“Not today,” Draco admits, rubbing at the back of his neck with his free hand. “Don’t give me that look – I’m supposed to be dead and gone, remember?”
There’s no danger lurking around every corner – not anymore – but the fear snakes through her veins all the same, ice cold and leaving goose-bumps in its wake. “But…” She trails off with an unhappy sigh. “What if-“
“No what ifs,” Draco says, holding his fingers up against her lips and making Hermione’s breath catch. “I’ll go mad.” She nods and his thumb brushes against her bottom lip before he draws his hand away completely. “Come on. You look like you’re about to fall down.”
Hermione stays quiet as he leads her to the promised dark alleyway – dingy and wet and smelling faintly of cat piss – and she leans against him as he opens her purse for her to dig through until she finds her wand and pulls it out.
“Here.” She passes it over – feels a moment of doubt and hesitation curl around her heart – and Draco looks at her from underneath his fringe as he takes it and twirls it between his fingers.
“Alright.” He wraps his arm around her and Hermione holds tightly to him – her bag squashed between them as she closes her eyes. “Don’t let go.”
“I won’t,” Hermione whispers as the world falls away from underneath her.
She opens her eyes a moment later to a paint-splattered mess. Draco steps away from her – passes her wand back – and rubs his hand through his hair.
“I wasn’t expecting guests,” he admits, sheepishly. “Forgive the mess.”
Hermione slides her wand into her bag and then drops it beside her on the floor. Draco’s lips part as he watches her lean closer towards him, and Hermione feels giddy and anxious as she leans up on her tiptoes, her hand against his chest for balance.
Draco sucks one of his lip rings between his teeth. “Hermione?” He whispers.
“Close your eyes, Draco,” she whispers back, because she’s losing her faint scraps of courage with the way his grey eyes are staring at her, full of hope.
His eyes flutter closed as he releases his piercing and sucks in a soft breath.
Hermione kisses him – the metal presses against her teeth, cool and unfamiliar, and she’s not even sure if she’s kissing him properly when he tilts her face with his fingers on her chin and his tongue darts into her mouth. There’s an unfamiliar bump – a tongue piercing – and Hermione feels herself sag against Draco’s chest as she kisses him back, dizzy and overwhelmed and aching and home.
“I can take them out,” Draco whispers as he pulls away, his breath hot between them. “If you-“
She kisses him again, harder this time, and she can feel his hands sliding around her waist and tugging her closer against him. “I like them,” she admits when she draws back to suck in a breath. “I like you.”
“I gathered as much,” Draco mutters dryly as he flushes slightly. “You wouldn’t kiss me if you didn’t.”
Hermione rolls her eyes and kisses him again – slowly and carefully – like she doesn’t want to let him go, like she wants to drown in the sensation of his lips against hers, the warmth of his breath in her mouth. His fingers slide under the back of her shirt – spread against her back – warm and gentle – and her hands slide around his shoulders – she winces as her arm brushes against his skin and the tattoo’s ache reminds her sharply of its existence – and she tugs his head down, her fingertips brushing against piercings in his ears.
“Who are you,” she murmurs as she pulls away, breathless and blinking as she stares into his stormy eyes.
“Yours,” Draco breathes, and he kisses the corner of her mouth while Hermione shivers at the thrill of a simple, single word. “If you want me.”
She nods and Draco’s hands slide out from under her shirt. His fingers lace between hers – like they’re two pieces of a puzzle finally fitting together – and he tugs her forward. “Come on, then. You can see all the rest of my tattoos.”