Chapter Text
Hermione Granger squinted at her phone screen, then looked up at the building.
Yes, this was the correct location. Small, unsuspecting, a bit run-down. The one business in the local strip mall that she always passed by on her way to campus, but never entered.
The photo on Google maps said “Dragon Tattoo Parlor,” which matched the sign of the business in front of which she was presently standing. According to the reviews, this was one of the best tattoo shops in their sleepy Midwestern town.
She bit her lip, not budging from her spot.
Perhaps if she waited a bit longer, the building would float up into the air and fly away, like that movie her Muggle roommates had shown her during their last graduate student movie night.
For all of the pep talks she’d been giving herself in the mirror this past week in an effort to quell her nerves, all her cowardice had floated right back to the surface.
She imagined the reactions of her friends if they knew she was here.
Ginny would clap her on the back in glee and chortle about her finally loosening up, Luna would offer unsolicited tattoo ideas pertaining to strange creatures, and Neville would start researching proper tattoo care routines out of fear of Hermione getting an infection.
Harry and Ron…she swallowed the lump in her throat, shoving away the thought of her two oldest friends.
Breathing out slowly, she dug deep to summon her courage—or whatever remained of it, since she had left the Wizarding World.
As she stood there, silently urging herself to just walk in, a man staggered over to her side. His breath reeked of alcohol.
“Need some help, sweetheart?” he purred.
One creep was apparently all the impetus she needed, as she whisked through the door of the tattoo parlor without any hesitation.
Unlike its humble exterior, the inside of the parlor was sleek and clean. Dark walls were covered from floor to ceiling with prints of tattoo designs. There were black couches, leafy plants, and a row of leather chairs that reminded her of the reclining seats in her parents’ old dental practice.
“How can I help you, ‘hon?” An employee who looked to be in their mid-thirties stepped up behind the counter with an easy smile. They had cropped blonde hair, and their arms were covered with various tattoos of flowers and leaves, too dense for Hermione to make out the exact plant species.
“Yes, hi,” Hermione swallowed, steeling herself. She would do this. “I’m looking to get a small tattoo. I brought my own design.”
She held up her phone to show the employee, who took one glance at it and nodded. “Very pretty.” They had a light southern accent with a pleasant twang.
Hermione exhaled, relieved. She knew next to nothing about tattoos, and was glad an expert seemed to approve. “Thank you. My mum drew it, actually.”
The employee smiled. “That’s really sweet. Yeah, we can definitely do that for you.”
They asked Hermione to send the design to the parlor’s email address so they could print the design. As the employee typed away, Hermione’s eyes shifted back to the walls of tattoos surrounding them.
A movement at the far end of the parlor caught her eye. It was the back of a man, wearing a black shirt. He was tall and broad-shouldered. Tattoos swirled all across his left arm and into his neck, with few on his right arm. Her type, her mind supplied helpfully for her, before she squashed the offending thought all the way to the back of her brain. He was presently sweeping the floor, and she couldn’t see his face.
“Alright, hon,” the employee’s voice snapped her back to reality. “I’m thinking we have D do your tattoo, yeah? He’s one of our newer artists, but I think he’ll nail the style of this piece.”
Hermione squared her shoulders as her stomach whooshed. Yes, she could do this. “That sounds great. Thank you.”
After Hermione had signed all the paperwork, the employee, who introduced themself as Steph, led her over to the first chair. Hermione clambered into the seat, her legs feeling like jello now that she was here.
“This your first tattoo?” Steph asked as Hermione took a seat.
“Yes, could you tell?” Hermione smoothed her hair with a self-conscious smile. Despite her best efforts to not dress like an overworked graduate student who lived on school cafeteria coffee and spent her days burrowed away in the library, she knew she looked out of place.
Steph laughed. “A bit. We’re honored you chose us. You want something to drink? Some water, or tea?”
“Tea, please.” They headed towards the back at the room, and returned shortly with a steaming mug, which Hemione accepted gratefully.
“You Brits and your tea,” Steph said teasingly. “D’s also a tea drinker.”
“Oh, is he British as well?” Hermione asked, curious.
They nodded. “Yep, and he’s…what do y’all call it? ‘Posh’?” Steph whispered, glancing from side to side as if to make sure no one could hear. “Did I use it right? ‘Posh?’”
Hermione giggled and nodded. Of all the adjectives she could have used to describe a tattoo artist, she never would have imagined “posh.” She tried to imagine what D looked like. With monocles and suspenders? A thick handlebar mustache?
They patted Hermione lightly on the shoulder with a grin. “He’ll be glad to have you today, seeing as he’s stuck with us Americans all day. I’m sure y’all will get along great.”
Steph, who Hermione by now had surmised was the owner of the parlor, informed her that they needed to head out to run some errands, but would be back within the hour. “You need anything, just let D know.”
The door chimed with her exit, leaving Hermione alone with her thoughts. She alternated between frantically considering making a run for it before Steph came back, and imagining an Englishman with pants pulled all the way up to his pectorals and tweed cap working on her tattoo. She snickered.
“What’s so funny?” A smooth baritone voice with a slight lilt called out. British, just as Steph had said. Sexy. And familiar. Too familiar.
Hermione spun around in her chair to see that the source of the voice had emerged from the back of the room. It was the tall man from earlier. Worn gray jeans, a fitted black tee, inky-black tattoos trailing up his arms—and a pair of piercing gray eyes and silvery white hair that she could never forget.
Draco Malfoy stepped backwards, eyes wide. “Granger?”
Hermione’s mouth had dropped. Her eyes flickered down at his outfit, then back at his face, as if he would hopefully transfigure into someone who was not the man presently standing in front of her and about to do her first tattoo. “Malfoy?!”
“I…you…” she sputtered, unable to find the words.
Malfoy stared at her in silence. Then, he leaned against the wall and pinched his forehead with a groan.
“Don’t tell me…” he muttered, leveling a steely glare in her direction. “What, did the Ministry decide that five years of probation was not enough? They had to send the Golden Girl to check in on me herself?”
She gaped at him, unable to speak.
“It was Kingsley, wasn’t it?” he scoffed. "I knew he always thought our sentence was too light.”
“I don’t…I have no idea what you—”
He cut her off. “—always out to get me, just waiting for me to mess up.” He paced back and forth along the row of chairs, dragging his fingers through his silvery hair, tousling it from its neat coiffure. “Wait.” His head suddenly lurched up, eyes wide. Storming up to Hermione’s side, he jabbed an accusatory finger in her face.
“My mother put you up to this, didn’t she?” He nodded to himself, scowl contorting his features. “It makes perfect sense. Last time she said she’d find some way to convince me to move back home…never would have thought she’d stoop to bribing the Brightest Witch of Our Age to drag me back—”
“OY!” Hermione shouted, jolting Malfoy out of his manic rambling. “Would you listen for a moment?”
She glared at him, voice having miraculously returned to her. “I am not here because of the Ministry, Kingsley, or…or…your mother!” her voice went shrill at the end.
“Then why are you here?” he sneered.
“Why else?” she snapped back. “I want a tattoo.”
He blinked. “Oh.” He shrank in on himself, and Hermione was suddenly reminded of him as a ferret, dangling in front of the class.
They went silent for a few moments. Hermione stared at the walls of tattoos, then the ceiling, and then the floor—anywhere but the man in her periphery.
When she dared sneak a glance in his direction, he was facing away from her, towards the potted plant. Perhaps he was considering the likelihood of transfiguring himself into one. Did he still carry his wand with him?
Hermione cleared her throat, and he begrudgingly turned around. From this distance, she couldn’t help but notice how tall he’d become. She had never noticed at the sparse Ministry events he had attended over the years, but alone with him in the room, she couldn’t help but notice him. He looked as tall as Ron now, with broad shoulders like that of a quidditch player.
“Yes?” he quirked a brow at her, and she realized she had been staring at him in silence.
What was wrong with her? “Sorry,” she managed, forcing herself to meet his eyes. “I was just wondering…the tattoo?” her voice trailed off in a question.
“Ah.” Malfoy stuffed his hands into his pockets, looking away. “Yes. I completely understand if you would prefer to find another tattoo parlor. Or, you can come back another day and request a different artist to work on your piece,” his words came out in a rush, and he still didn’t look at her. “If you’ve already paid a deposit I can speak to Steph and ask them to refund it imm—”
“Draco.” He froze. Hermione blinked, realizing that she had called him by his first name.
She took a deep breath. “I’m okay with having you do my tattoo,” she said firmly. “If you are too.”
When he said nothing, she held her hands up in a placating gesture. “Unless I make you uncomfortable. If that’s the case, I’m happy to—”
“No,” he cut in, eyes holding hers, pinning her in place. Her breath caught at the intensity. “No, you don’t make me uncomfortable.”
Malfoy’s gaze was imploring, as if he meant something more. She swallowed, mouth suddenly dry. It felt as if there was electricity crackling between them.
He looked away, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can do your tattoo.” He turned back to her with a curt nod, face neutral again.
Hermione exhaled, then nodded resolutely. “Let’s do it then.” He nodded again, before he spun on his heel stiffly and left the room, presumably to get supplies and perhaps to collect himself.
She breathed the way her therapist had taught her. In through her nose for three counts, out through her mouth for another three. Leaning back in the chair, she closed her eyes and remembered.
After the war, the Malfoy family got off relatively light, in no small part thanks to testimony from Harry, Ron (who had begrudgingly testified, but did so nonetheless), and herself. They had not been subjected to Azkaban, but a lengthy probationary period that involved intense supervision from the Ministry, volunteer service and classes, and extensive written apologies to every individual and family they had wronged.
During their probation, they had launched what Hermione and her coworkers had referred to as the unofficial Malfoy Redemption Tour. Over the course of the near decade since the war had ended, the Malfoys made several donations to multiple charitable causes and departments, including the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures. They appeared at Ministry-sponsored charity events and even spoke to the Daily Prophet about the various causes they supported.
The Ministry had initially been on the fence about the Malfoys’ appearances at their events, but eventually appreciated how the act signalled to other Pureblood families that times were changing. That, and the galleons.
Hermione recalled seeing Malfoy’s inked signature on the paperwork approving the family’s donations. He had even appeared at a few of her department’s events through the years—though admittedly, he had appeared less and less as time went on. If she recalled correctly, she hadn’t seen him at all in her last year at the Department, before she resigned.
She hadn’t spoken to him at all these past years. Even at his trial, they hadn’t had the chance to speak; she’d only seen him through the glass, frail and slumped in his chair, as if he were seconds away from disintegrating.
At the Ministry gatherings that he did end up attending, he’d lock eyes with her from across the room of whatever ballroom they were in, then silently turn away and return to skulking in the corner.
Come to think of it, within the previous decade, they had only exchanged words via letter. Specifically, the apology letter she had received from him during her 8th year at Hogwarts. It had been lovely, vulnerable and honest in a way she never could have expected from the Draco Malfoy of her years at Hogwarts, the one who tormented her and her friends with no mercy, and whose childhood too had been ripped from him by the toils of war. In the letter, he told her that he could never deserve her forgiveness for what he did.
She wrote back that she would give it to him anyways, and that with time, he could become someone who deserved it.
That was that, and she hadn’t thought much about him since them. Draco Malfoy had faded into the background of her life. A distant memory, like the letter sitting at the bottom of her drawer.
Never would she have expected to run into him in the Muggle World—in America, no less.
Suddenly, she imagined him waiting in the drive-through at Burger King, or fighting through crowded aisles at Costco to get a free sample. She suppressed a snort of disbelief.
Draco Malfoy, willingly, in Muggle America. Stranger things had happened before, she supposed. Or had they?
He returned, looking calmer and with neat hair again, and wheeled a cart over to Hermione’s side. To her surprise, he set down a fresh mug of tea in front of her.
“Thank you.” He grunted in assent.
As he arranged supplies on the cart, Hermione used the opportunity to take another look at him, specifically his face.
He was different now from the boy he used to be. Where he had looked bony and sickly before, his features had filled out. His jaw wasn’t gaunt like it was in his sixth year, but defined. Still pale, but far less so than before. He looked…healthy.
She suppressed her train of thought before her brain could offer any other adjectives for how Draco Malfoy looked now.
Her gaze flitted over his tattoos. His right arm was more sparsely tattooed, with dragons and clouds swirling about his elbow and shoulder areas. His left side, however, was a full sleeve. Tendrils of leaves began at his neck and spiraled down into his bicep, forming a symphony of flowers, geometric lines, and other delicate drawings she couldn’t make out.
Unable to help herself, her eyes darted downward, to his forearm.
It was gone. There was no trace of the ghastly skull and snake, only the inky outlines of flames and a bird-like creature unfurling its wings.
She leaned in closer. Was it a phoenix?
Just at that moment, Malfoy looked up at her, leaving the two of their faces less than six inches apart.
Hermione flung herself back in her seat, heart pounding.
“Sorry!” she squeaked out.
Get yourself together, she scolded herself as she smoothed her dress down and avoided looking at the man next to her.
Clearing his throat, Malfoy scooted a few inches away. His ears looked pink.
“Ready?” His voice sounded gruff.
She nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”
Hermione gulped as he pulled on some black gloves. “Nervous?” He tilted his head as he looked at her, gray eyes assessing. Piercing through her.
She suppressed a shiver. “Yes,” she admitted, covering her midsection with her arms. It felt strange admitting to vulnerability around him.
“What scares you about it?” He crossed his arms. Hermione did her best to not look at how his biceps flexed as he did so. “The needles? The pain?”
She shook her head. “No, neither of those.” Years of watching her parents work had inoculated her against any squeamishness around blood and needles. As for pain, well…
One glance at Malfoy, whose face grew more stormy and withdrawn as they locked eyes, and he knew exactly why she no longer feared physical discomfort.
For both of their sakes, she changed the topic. “Believe it or not, it’s the idea of having something permanent on me that I can’t remove. At least not easily.”
Malfoy nodded. “You know,” he murmured, leaning in to wipe her arm with the alcohol pad. Hermione stilled as he did so. The sharp smell of alcohol was overpowered by something woody and smoky. His cologne, or aftershave? “There are spells now that you can use to remove tattoos.”
He moved away, allowing her mind to clear. “I know,” she said, chewing her lip, thoughtful. “But somehow it feels wrong to do so? Like it’s an affront to the art form?”
A slow smile spread across Malfoy’s face, adding warmth to his gray eyes. Hermione’s eyes widened. Come to think of it, she had never seen him genuinely smile before.
“You and I are both in agreement.” He leaned back, turning around to toss the wipe in the trash bin, as she caught her breath.
“Besides,” she added, fighting a flush as his gaze returned to her. “I’ve read that these tattoo removal spells have varying degrees of success.”
Malfoy was silent. “Yes, that’s right,” he managed after a beat. His eyes shifted down, and Hermione followed his gaze to his forearm. Oh.
Of course he had tried. Perhaps that was why…
Her chest squeezed painfully, a mix of resentment, grief, and a longing she didn’t recognize.
Malfoy cleared his throat, any fleeting emotion having passed from his eyes, and the two of them dissolved into an uncomfortable silence.
He picked up a square piece of paper and held it in front of her right arm. “You wanted the tattoo on your shoulder, yes?” When she nodded, he placed the paper on her shoulder, and pressed a damp cloth on top.
After he removed the paper, she looked at herself in the mirror. There it was, the drawing of her mum’s flowers, on her shoulder. Just as she had envisioned for so long.
She frowned.
“Doesn’t feel right?” He was standing by her chair. She could feel the warmth radiating off of him.
“No, not quite.” She peered at her reflection again, then up at Malfoy. “Where do you think the tattoo should go?”
He blinked, as if surprised she would even think to ask him, before schooling his features back into a neutral expression. “Let me take a look.”
He studied her, eyes starting at her face and tracing down her body. Hermione suppressed another shiver at how intense his gaze was.
“What about here?” He pressed his thumb gently against the side of her bicep, below her shoulder. She could feel the heat even through his gloves, and her breath stuttered. Quickly, he retracted his hand.
“Yes, let’s try it,” she managed. Hermione fidgeted with her hands as Malfoy used a new alcohol wipe to wipe the old stencil off, and then placed a fresh one on her.
“How does it look now?” Once again, she looked at her arm in the mirror.
The tattoo was lower than before, and placed right in the center of her upper arm. It felt and looked balanced, perfect for the dainty design.
“I love it.” She looked up at him with a genuine smile. “Thank you.”
He blinked in surprise, before nodding brusquely. “You’re welcome.” His ears looked pink again.
As he cleaned up the trash, he called over his shoulder. “It’s a nice tattoo design. I like it.”
“Oh!” Now she was the one blushing. “Thank you. My mum drew it, actually.” She hesitated for a moment, then forged on. “After the war ended, I went to Australia to fetch my parents. Mum drew this on a napkin at a diner the same day they got their memories back.”
Hermione vividly recalled how dazed her parents had looked sitting in the booth at the diner, latent memories slowly waking up. The Ministry health official had warned her that it would take months, perhaps even years, for them to feel like themselves again. Like her parents.
But not even Obliviate could make her forget how her mum looked at from across the table, a fond smile on her lips. “I may not remember everything,” she said, looking at her the same way as when Hermione had been a small child, “but I remember how much I love you.”
Though her parents had since regained all their memories, Hermione still held on to the napkin all these years later.
She blinked back tears at the memory. Glancing to the side, she saw that Malfoy was staring at her. Guilt, and something else she couldn’t pinpoint, mingled in his eyes.
She wasn’t sure why she told him this. It just felt right.
“It’s a very meaningful piece, then,” he finally said, in a low voice, eyes not wavering from hers. She swallowed, nodding in agreement.
As he picked up a tattoo machine, the nerves came hurtling back into her stomach, and she gulped.
“Could you...” At her wavering voice, he looked up, one brow raised. “Could you tell me what it feels like to get a tattoo?”
It wasn’t the pain that frightened her, but rather, the anticipation of the pain. The not knowing.
He nodded, scooting in closer, something like understanding in his eyes.
“Some people describe the feeling as a cat scratching you.” Something she was familiar with thanks to Crookshanks, whose ornery personality had not mellowed out with old age. “Like a hot, stinging sensation in one concentrated area. The pain varies from person to person, but I’ve found that our female clients tend to be a bit tougher,” he said wryly.
She snorted. “Makes sense.” His lips quirked.
“The outer arm tends to be less painful than other areas of the body. It’s a good place to get your first tattoo.” His voice was low and soothing as he spoke. “I think you’ll experience a mild level of discomfort, but nothing unmanageable.”
He met her gaze, eyes looking like pools of silver. “If you’re uncomfortable at any point, let me know and I can stop.”
Hermione closed her eyes. She could always change her mind. No one was forcing her to do this.
There it was. That Gryffindor rush of courage, surging through her.
Amidst the fluttering of her heartbeat, Hermione blew out a slow breath. She opened her eyes and met Malfoy’s gaze, fixed steadily on her.
“Thank you. I’m ready.” Her voice came out strong.
The corners of his mouth curved up in a small smile. His arm twitched, but he kept it at his side.
As Hermione returned to staring up at the ceiling again, she heard the buzz of the tattoo gun powered on.
She felt Malfoy’s gloved hand gently rest on her arm. “Breathe,” he murmured quietly, upon which she realized that was holding her breath. Slowly, she inhaled.
Hot cat scratches had been an accurate description. It was painful but manageable, as Malfoy had said. After the first few minutes had passed and Hermione’s breathing slowed to normal, her shoulders began to relax.
“How long will it take?” she asked. Though needles didn’t terrify her, she wasn’t particularly keen on seeing the machine work on her skin. Instead, she watched Malfoy. Something about the intensity in his gaze, brow furrowed, made her unable to look away.
“Around 15 to 30 minutes, I presume,” he replied quietly. “Depending on how fast I work,” he added with a smirk.
Was he teasing her? She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t suppress the grin tugging at her lips. “Slow and steady wins the race, Malfoy,” she chided him, as his smirk grew.
She wondered if he knew the story of the tortoise and hare. How much did he know about the Muggle World? How long had he been here? And why had he left Britain? All these questions and more swirled in her head as she watched him work, the gentle buzz of the machine in the background.
“Can we talk while you work?” At her query, his arm stilled. After a beat, he nodded.
“Yes. That’s fine,” he replied, voice terse.
“What do you like about doing tattoos?” He looked up at her, mouth parted slightly.
Not the question he had been expecting, surely.
After realizing that Hermione was still waiting for a response, he cleared his throat.
“I got my first tattoo several years ago. Didn’t show it to anyone at first,” he spoke slowly. “It was a spur-of-the-moment thing, really. I just walked into a random tattoo parlor in London and asked for one of the flash tattoos.” He paused, and the buzz of the machine resumed as he continued working.
“I wasn’t expecting to enjoy it so much,” he murmured. “Getting inked made me feel like I had ownership over my life for the first time.”
The first tattoo that he had received of his own volition. Hermione surveyed him, a strange ache in her heart as her eyes.
“What was the tattoo?” she asked softly.
He shot her a glance. “This bundle of baby’s breath, on my shoulder.” Pausing, he twisted his left arm slightly to show a slightly faded bouquet next to a barrage of various other tattoos.
She blinked. “That’s so…pretty.” And not at all what she would have expected for his first tattoo.
The corners of his mouth twitched. “I know. Might have been silly, but I wanted something pretty.” His gaze flickered to her face again, and her breath stilled.
How strange, that both she and Malfoy had each chosen flowers as their first tattoos. And yet, the fact didn’t bother Hermione at all. Quite the opposite.
“I kept getting more tattoos. Small ones, at first, so I could hide them.” From his parents, Hermione surmised, filling in the blanks. “I had a lot of fun going into town and visiting all the different tattoo shops.”
She choked down a snort at the thought of Malfoy, puttering around Muggle London and strolling into a seedy tattoo parlor, with his dragonhide shoes and black robes.
She glanced at his torn jeans and slightly scuffed shoes. When did he start dressing like a Muggle?
He paused, gaze shifting downwards for a moment. “No one recognized me. It was nice.”
“It was actually after I starting coming here to get my sleeve worked on that Steph offered me a tattoo apprenticeship. I was surprised by how much I enjoyed it.” His lips curled into a small smile. “I liked seeing clients’ reactions to their fresh ink, especially when it was my own design.”
“And,” he looked up, gray eyes clear in a way Hermione had never seen at Hogwarts. “I got to meet people I wouldn’t have had the chance to meet otherwise.” He didn’t look away from her face as he spoke.
Hermione heard the meaning in his words, drank in the openness in his gaze as he looked at her. She no longer felt the buzz of the tattoo gun on her arm. All she could do was stare back at Malfoy, gray eyes rooting her in place.
She sucked in a breath. “That’s incredible,” she murmured. When he raised an eyebrow, she nodded. “I mean it.”
“Yeah?” His voice was deeper, sending chills down her spine. His gaze flickered across her face for a moment.
“What about you?” he asked. “What made you decide to come here?”
Hermione paused. Here as in the tattoo shop? America? The Muggle World? She met his gaze again, and saw no malice or judgment. Only curiosity.
For most of her teenage and young adult life, Hermione had devoted herself to helping people and creatures in need. She had never boasted a particularly healthy work ethic, and it had only worsened after the war. After her long overdue break-up with Ron and the subsequent strain it had placed on the Golden Trio’s friendship, she dove headfirst into her job at the Department. Work was a distraction from the memories of the war that plagued her day in and day out. From the loneliness she felt at home.
Over the years, she found herself waking up at her desk at work far too many times, but brushed off any concerns from her coworkers. One day, she woke up and found herself in the hospital, surrounded by the tearful faces of Ginny, Luna, Neville, and her parents.
How ironic. Hermione had spent most of her youth desperately trying to stay alive, only to nearly work herself to death as an adult.
She knew, in that moment, that something had to change.
“I guess I wanted to do something for myself, for once,” she admitted. In the quiet of the tattoo parlor, she exhaled.
Malfoy dipped his head, letting a low note of assent. When she looked up, there was understanding in his eyes.
A sharp twinge of pain in her arm made her wince. He immediately stopped. “Need a break?”
She shook her head, determined to power through. His eyes flickered to her face. There it was, that assessing look again, as if he were sizing her up.
“I’m going over some of the lines again, so this will be a bit more painful. We’re almost done,” he said, voice low and reassuring.
Hermione bit back a wry smile as her arm ached. Who would have guessed that Draco Malfoy would be comforting her?
The same genius who would have guessed that Hermione Granger would be in a tattoo parlor on a Wednesday evening in the Midwest, she supposed.
The tattoo was indeed becoming more painful, as he had stated. In an effort to distract herself from how her arm literally felt like it was on fire, Hermione’s gaze latched onto Malfoy’s arms. She was looking at his tattoos, she told herself. But her eyes kept tracing the contours of his biceps, noticing how his forearms flexed as he gripped the tattoo machine more tightly.
Fine, so she found (yet-to-be-confirmed) redeemed Draco Malfoy handsome. Sue her.
As payback for the years of relentless bullying and complicity in war crimes, it was only fair that she found some level of enjoyment in appreciating his appearance.
He was fit. Objectively speaking. Anyone with eyes could see it.
If his good looks were what got her through her first tattoo, so be it.
She breathed in and out, letting her eyes flicker over the jungle of tattoos on his body and her mind dance with questions, as she waited.
Finally, she heard a “click,” and the buzz of the tattoo machine stopped. “All done,” he murmured.
Holding her breath, Hermione walked up to the mirror. Slowly, she turned her arm to the side.
In the center was a delicate smattering of flowers, drawn in her mum’s familiar loopy penmanship. She peered closer at the center flower, noting the tiny ink blotch and slight wobbles in outline—an exact replica of the original drawing. Malfoy had captured every detail.
Glancing up, she caught him watching her in the reflection, fidgeting with his gloves.
“It looks amazing,” she said sincerely, meeting his eyes in the mirror.
His lips curled into a smile, and Hermione was taken aback again by how it lent warmth to his entire face.
But it was gone after only a moment, replaced with a stoic expression. “I’m glad to hear that.”
Hermione stared at the tattoo. Her first tattoo. As her eyes traced the freshly inked lines, surrounded by the slight pink of her skin, she couldn’t hold back her grin.
It had been cathartic, truly. Not just getting the tattoo, but everything the day had entailed. Her gaze slid back to Malfoy, who was still standing against the wall, watching her.
Turning around, she beamed at him. “Thank you so much, Draco.” She purposely used his first name again, an olive branch of sorts after their disastrous first meeting.
His eyes widened. “It’s no problem at all,” he managed, rubbing the back of his neck.
He coughed, pushing away from the wall with noticeably pinker cheeks. Reaching into the cart, he picked up a roll of cling film.
“I’m going to wrap your tattoo. You’ll want to keep it on for a couple hours.” He bent down slightly in front of her (Merlin, he really was tall now), and carefully placed the thin piece of plastic on her tattoo.
She winced, as he pressed down gently on the plastic, on the fresh wound. “Sorry,” he murmured.
Walking over to the counter, he pulled out what appeared to be a small notecard and handed it to Hermione.
“Tattoo care,” he explained, as Hermione looked at the small illustrations and text. Wash the tattoo daily, apply moisturizer, and avoid scratching. Simple enough. “I’d explain it to you, but you probably read faster.” There was a knowing smirk on his face, and Hermione flushed.
Now standing behind the counter, Malfoy peeled his gloves off and ran his free hands through his hair. He glanced up with a raised brow, as if he knew she were watching him, and she froze.
“Did you want to pay with cash or card?” She blinked.
“Um, card please.” Yes, that was right. She was a customer, one who was supposed to pay for a service after said service was successfully rendered. Not ogle former-childhood-bullies-turned-ridiculously-handsome while warring with herself about the ethics of finding said man attractive.
But as he squinted at the screen in front of him and punched in some numbers, like any other Muggle cashier, Hermione couldn’t deny the warm feeling in her chest.
After tapping her card on the screen, she selected the largest tip option. It was only right, after all.
“Thanks.” She looked up to see a small smile tugging at his lips.
As Hermione put her wallet back into her purse, she frowned. Now that Malfoy was in the Muggle world, did he have access to his family’s money? Surely his parents did not approve of his present profession or place of residence, if his earlier assumption about his mother “bribing her to drag him home” was any indicator. And given the high cost of living in this part of town, a tattoo artist’s income alone likely did not suffice for living expenses.
Suddenly, she imagined Malfoy in a tiny flat, eating instant ramen under fluorescent lighting. He didn’t seem to be malnourished (based on the sheer size of his biceps), but who knew what his living conditions were.
She should have laughed, but instead, she felt a pang of sympathy. Should she have tipped him more?
Just then, Hermione realized that the two of them were standing there in silence, staring at one another.
“I, uh, should go now.” He straightened up.
“Right.” He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked away. “Well, um, thanks…Granger.”
“Bye then.”
“Goodbye.”
They stared at each other awkwardly for a few more seconds. Then with a jerky wave from Hermione, and a stiff nod from Malfoy, she turned and hurried out the door.
She could still feel his eyes on her as the door swung shut behind her.