Disclaimer: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.
A/N: I realize that this fic may contain certain similarities to the "Tattooed Seeker" fics of Nan Williems. While I have read them, and think they're brilliant, they were not the inspiration for this piece—I only realized the likenesses after the fact. I was actually thinking of the book Kushiel's Dart by Jacqueline Carey when this bunny bit me (and if you've also read this excellent book or its sequel, you'll know what I mean).
Oh, and this is SLASH. Turn back now if that's not to your taste.
Memento
Snow fell on Hogsmeade, big crunchy flakes that piled up on kerbs and cobbles, clinging to the walls of the shops and turning to icy slush in the gutters and potholes. The last school weekend of the term was drawing to a close, and all over the village students in black robes hurried to finish their shopping before the curfew arrived. Lamps burst magically into flame, candles were put in windows, homes were made fast for the evening, and in the back alley of the Hog's Head ("Food, Folks, and Fun for Ages Seventeen and Over") two cloaked figures were huddled together and doing what students had done in seedy back alleys for generations.
Ron Weasley fished a wrinkled handkerchief out of his pocket with his free hand. "You okay now?" he asked the smaller boy leaning against him, rubbing his back through all the many layers of clothes.
"Hmmm. I'm going to die." Draco Malfoy took a deep breath, held it for a moment, then retched again. Thankfully, this time he brought up nothing more to add to the sizable puddle forming in the snow. He took the handkerchief Ron offered and wiped his mouth with it, thoroughly. "This is all your fault."
"Mine?"
"Yes." He shivered and pressed himself closer to his temporary nurse. "I haven't quite worked out how yet, but give me a minute and I'll have it."
Ron sighed and took the handkerchief back, carefully folding it before returning it to his pocket. "Fine. I'm the one who antagonized Harry and Hermione all morning, I'm the one who promised to 'make it up to me' at the Hog's Head, I'm the one who drank all those horrible girly cocktails, and that's why you've been sick."
"Sounds good." Draco took several deep breaths in a row, then spit to get the taste out of his mouth.
Ron shook his head. "Mental." They stayed where they were for the moment, half-squatting in the slush, trying to ignore the smell. In the pewter light of the hidden sunset, the lamps and candles became golden shadows half-obscured by falling snow, and the flakes spun into spirals by the chilly wind seemed blue-gray and ephemeral. Ron pulled aside one of his gloves to check his watch, and sighed. "We should be getting back soon. Are you okay?"
"Peachy." Draco spit again, then rose unsteadily to his feet, drawing his cloak more tightly about himself, then leaned into Ron's chest again. Ron automatically encircled him with his arms. "See, this is exactly why I date Gryffindors. Anyone else would've left me face-down in a puddle of my own vomit an hour ago and come back right before curfew to make sure I hadn't frozen to death or something else equally ghastly."
"It's what I should've done," Ron grumbled. "Did you intend to go to any of the shops, or was your whole plan for the day 'Get pissed and be sick on the pavement'?"
"I did all my Christmas shopping by owl-order. What about you?" For someone who'd been puking uncontrollably a few minutes earlier, Draco was suddenly sharp and critical. "Did you get me a birthday present?"
Ron sighed. Some days, Malfoy was worse than a girl. "Yes, I bought your present. Don't expect anything for Christmas, though."
"That's not fair. They're two separate occasions."
"One within three days of the other. Besides, I haven't got any more money." And he wasn't about to go asking one of his dorm mates to spot him a couple Galleons until after the holidays, because if he explained why he needed the loan any one of them would faint. Except for Harry...Harry would just scream at him.
Draco pouted for a few minutes, but suddenly looked up with an unhealthy twinkle in his eyes. "I know what you can get me for Christmas. I'll even pay for it."
Ron frowned. "If you pay, how it is me getting it for you?"
Draco tugged on Ron's scarf to pull his ear down to an appropriate level. "Let's get tattoos."
"What?!" Ron jumped back, nearly loosing his footing on a patch of ice. "You must be mental."
"I'm serious." Draco started pouting again. "I've always wanted a tattoo. I'll pay for them and everything. It won't even hurt. Well, not badly."
"And where do you propose we get these tattoos?" Ron asked, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "Somebody you know running a parlor in an empty dungeon, maybe?"
Draco rolled his eyes. "Don't be stupid. There's a place right here in the village. Carl Warrington was going to have the whole Quidditch team get matching ones if we won the Cup last year, but Professor Snape found out and wouldn't let us because I was underage."
"You're still underage. Come to think of it, so am I."
"We'll think of something." He slid his arms around Ron's waist and looked up with his biggest pout yet. "Please?"
Ron knew, of course, that his mother would spread his body parts across three counties if she were to discover a tattoo, and also that he'd have a job keeping it from his various dorm mates and brothers, and a bigger job explaining it if he didn't. He also knew that if he denied Draco this, he'd never hear the end of it. Besides, he'd always kind of wanted a tattoo. "Hypothetically speaking, what would this be a tattoo of, and where?"
Draco smiled triumphantly. "I think I want to surprise you. But as for the place..." His hands roamed under Ron's cloak, into his robes and across his flanks, up under his jumper, and came to rest firmly on the small of his back, just below the waistband of his pants. "Here. Where only I'll know."
"You, and the rest of the Quidditch team, unless you can think of a reason why I should shower in my boxers." Ron wriggled in the tight embrace, unwilling to admit exactly how arousing that confident touch was. "But we'll have to wait until next month."
"Why?" Draco arched one fair eyebrow, an expression briefly rendered comical by the single snowflake stuck to it. "It won't take that long, and if we're too late, we can always use one of those hidden passages you're so fond of."
The logical was unfaultable, and anyway, he was pouting again. "Fine," Ron sighed. "I'll get a tattoo for you."
Draco beamed, and kissed him—closed-mouth, thankfully—then tore off into the snowy street. Ron, muttering under his breath, pulled his cloak tighter and gave chase.
-x-X-x-X-x-
Three wrong turns and a near-miss with McGonagall later, Draco dragged Ron into a dumpy little shop on the edge of the village. Inside it was terribly hot, but Ron's immediate attention was fixed on the walls, which were covered with large posters that depicted (presumably) the available tattoo designs. Most were simple line drawings of no more that one or two colors, but a few were more elaborate, and some of the larger ones moved like a photograph. He closely examined a detailed drawing of a griffin in flight, but blanched when he saw the price marked underneath it.
Draco, meanwhile, had gone straight to the counter and was now talking in a hushed voice with the witch behind it. She was much older than them, probably around twenty-five, with shocking orange hair and examples of her wares snaking up and down both arms. Ron watched as Draco smiled charmingly, and ground his teeth against an irrational surge of jealously. The witch pulled out a sketchpad and a little stub of a pencil, and started to draw something.
Ron stepped up behind Draco, putting one hand on his hip, and tried to peek over his shoulder. "Well? What's it going to be?"
Draco twisted around and covered Ron's eyes. "I told you, it's a surprise."
"And it's my back that it'll be permanently etched on."
"Don't you trust me?"
Which was exactly the thing to say to end that conversation. "Fine. But please, don't make it anything...bad," he pled.
Draco sighed and turned theatrically to the witch. "All right, all right...I'm afraid you'll have to take off the dancing ferrets and the bit that says 'Property of Draco Malfoy, Do Not Touch on Pain of Death.'" The witch laughed; Ron tried to figure out if he was being serious or not.
After a few minutes, the witch showed Draco a sketch, and he seemed positively delighted. They put their heads together and whispered some more, while Ron grew increasingly curious and frustrated. In the middle of erasing some errant line, the witch looked up and frowned at him. "If you're just going to stand there and fidget, go take your clothes off and lay down. I'll be with you in a minute." She pointed at one of three tables lined up against one wall, upholstered with patched green leather.
Draco smirked indecently. "Yeah, Weasley, go take your clothes off."
"Oh, shut up." He felt his ears burning as he crossed the room and took off his cloak and robes, hanging them on pegs by the fireplace. He shed his jumper, but merely hiked his T-shirt up to his armpits; he wiggled his trousers and boxers just low enough across his hips to expose the small of his back. He lay on his stomach with his head pointing at the counter, and watched as a second witch with long brown hair emerged to talk to the orange-haired artist. They poured over the sketches for a while, nodded to one another, and then disappeared back into the recesses of the shop. Draco came over to the second table and began to strip.
"Well? Did they meet your approval, Master?" Ron asked, watching him.
Draco smirked. "Of course. Call me that again."
"What, 'Master'?"
"Mmm..." He stopped unbuttoning his shirt long enough to run his fingertips across Ron's exposed back, tracing loose circles over the spot to be marked. Ron shivered. "Careful, Weasley, I may get used to hearing that."
"In your dreams, Malfoy."
The two witches came back out, with their brushes and dyes. Ron had heard Hermione describe Muggle tattooing methods before, and they honestly sounded barbaric, with all the needles and things. Wizard tattoos were painted on, and burned into the skin by magic, cleanly and (as far as Ron knew) relatively painlessly. The orange-haired witch drew up a tall stool and perched next to him, at just the right angle to prevent him from seeing what she was doing. The first touch of the brush was startlingly cold, and tickled like mad; he squirmed involuntarily, and the witch swatted him between the shoulder blades. After a few minutes, he became accustomed to the feeling, and was able to relax. The heat of the fire made him drowsy, even though the padding on the table was lumpy and hard, and the shop was silent but for the popping of the logs and the clinking, tapping noises of the brushes and bottles. He turned his head, and saw that Draco had shut his eyes and lay with his head pillowed on his arms, a few stray strands of white-gold hair falling into his face. Ron smiled in sleepy affection and shut his eyes as well.
By his watch, it took over an hour for the orange-haired witch to finish painting on the mysterious design. She wiped the ink off her hands with a towel, then drew out a short wand made of light-colored wood. "Hold absolutely still," she warned him, "this is going to sting a little." Ron didn't hear what charm she muttered under her breath, but he definitely felt the effects: it was as though someone was pouring hot wax on his back. He went rigid, but dug his fingernails into the patched green leather and waited it out. "There. All done."
Ron sat up and gingerly touched his back; the skin was irritated and hot in a region about the area of his hand, centered unerringly on the point Draco had picked out. Too curious to wait, he jumped down and crossed to the large, elaborate mirror set on the same wall as the counter. He twisted around, looked over his shoulder, and gasped.
"A dragon?"
Draco hopped off his table and came to join him, grinning despite having his boxers slung precariously low on his hips. "Don't you like it?" he asked, batting his eyelashes innocently. Ron couldn't say he didn't, either; it was gracefully stylized, not clearly recognizable as any particular breed, and picked out in shades of crimson and shimmering gold. His freckles seemed to be crowding together to make way for it.
"I like it fine, Draco, but...Merlin, how d'you expect me to explain this if somebody sees it? Harry, for example?"
"Tell them it looked cool on parchment." Draco turned around and lifted his shirt out of the way, and Ron got his second surprise of the night: limned on his boyfriend's snow-white skin was a lion rampant, in silver and pale green. It almost seemed to glow under the soft candlelight in the shop. "What do you think, is it too busy?"
"Good grief, Draco..." He reached out and traced the tattoo with the tip of his finger, eliciting a small, startled gasp. "Make sure nobody sees that," he blurted, images of enraged and disgusted Slytherins racing through his mind.
Draco snorted. "Really, do you think? Don't worry, Ron." He dropped his shirt and turned around to embrace him. "I don't know what you do in your free time, but I don't generally parade around pantsless through the dormitories, or in front of my parents."
"You know what I mean."
"I know. I'll be careful."
They stood that way for a few moments, until one of the witches coughed loudly and looked away. Ron flushed and hastily pulled his pants all the way up; then, because Draco was showing no signs of moving on his own accord, he pulled his up as well. The waistband of his boxers further irritated the new tattoo, but the only thing he had to possibly cushion it with was a vomit-stained handkerchief. As much as he hated to do it, he pushed Draco away and brushed back those loose hairs for him. "We need to get dressed and get back to school."
"Mmmm. Let's not. Let's run away and go live in Pantagonia."
"I don't even know where that is, Draco."
Draco laughed. "I never thought I'd ever say this, but put your clothes on, Ron." He pulled away and started dressing again himself. Ron got one last glimpse of the pale lion peeking over Draco's boxers before he dropped his shirt and wiggled into a jumper.
He waited outside while Draco paid; the snow was falling more thickly, and ice crusted the slushy puddles in the street. But for the guttering phantoms of the streetlights and lanterns, and the firelight leaking through the door behind him, he might have thought the world had disappeared. Ron cast a warming spell on his cloak, which completely failed to achieve anything, and huddled in the doorway to avoid the wind. He checked the time, and reckoned they had probably missed dinner entirely at this point, and Harry and Hermione wouldn't have saved him anything. Well, Harry might've, but Hermione would just tell him off for staying late. And he wouldn't be able to defend himself without inciting a riot in Gryffindor...
Draco came out and paused, hands stuffed in his pockets, apparently untouched by the cold. He sighed through his teeth, sending a cloud of vapor to the heavens. "I suppose we have to walk home in this, don't we?"
"Congratulations, Professor Obvious," Ron muttered.
Draco sighed theatrically, but when he peeked at Ron from the corners of his eyes there was an unholy sparkle there. "Race you," he whispered, and then took off into the unplowed street, kicking up snow in his wake. Ron cursed and gave chase.
They made it onto the road that lead back to Hogwarts, but the snow was deeper there, and they floundered and stumbled to a companionable walk. They both lit their wands and walked carefully, side by side, not speaking as they cut two deep grooves in the fresh snow. Soft, ebon-gray shadows drew close around them, pressing down on the light and obscuring the shrouded trees to the left and right. Ron let his mind wander, to his incredibly unlikely state of affairs, and to the circumstances that had lead up to them; and then, to all the logical reasons why he shouldn't be trudging through the snow after dark with Malfoy, and the one, relatively insignificant reason why he was. He had the sudden urge to laugh out loud, and did so.
Draco looked at him with eyebrows raised. "Have I missed something?"
Ron shook his head. "Just thinking about...different things."
"Really."
Ron suspected that Draco had learned the art of saying that particular word from either McGonagall or Snape. "It's just...you, Mr. Up-With-Slytherin, and you just got the symbol of Gryffindor tattooed on your back. And you wouldn't have done that even six months ago, or maybe even four, but you did it now...and this sounded a lot better in my head than it's coming out, you know?"
Draco nodded, but looked away with a bowed head. Ron suspected he'd said something wrong, but didn't ask in case he just made things worse. After a few minutes of silence, Draco spoke. "I'm changing and I'm not sure I like it. I'm changing, and I don't always know who I am anymore, and that's kind of, kind of scary. ...I don't know if I'm any happier than I was, but I am, I guess, certainer—more certain—of...some things." He fell silent for a few paces, and the snow began to lighten. "I suppose I wanted proof that I'm different than before, that I have changed, and I'm not turning into the person I was afraid I would. And proof that, whatever else happens, we did this, you know? And I can't undo it, and I can't change back...and whatever else happens, I'll remember this. And you. And you'll remember me, and... this. Us. We were here."
Ron stopped, and tugged on the edge of Draco's cloak. He pulled the shorter boy into a tight embrace, burying his face in snow-damp cornsilk hair. Draco relaxed against him, arms twining about his waist to meet right over the dragon tattoo. Ron pulled back just a bit, and began to kiss him thoroughly—forehead, eyes, nose, cheeks, and only last on the lips. Draco leaned into every touch, as desperate as a dying man, and moved his hands up to grip fists full of red hair. They stood there, cleaving to one another, silver wraiths of steam escaping from noses and parted lips.
Draco pulled away and pressed his face into Ron's shoulder; Ron kissed him one more, on the crown of his head, and stroked his hair. He felt the urge to say something, anything, even if only to give voice to what was obvious and usually unspoken. "I love you," he whispered, pressing closer to the warm body in front of him.
Draco sniffled once; it was the only sign that any kind of emotional barrier had been breached. "I know," he murmured, and planted another kiss on Ron's chin. When he looked up, he appeared perfectly composed; if his eyes were a little brighter than normal, well, that was just a coincidence. He smiled at Ron, genuine and heartfelt, and no words were necessary. Then the smile morphed into a wicked grin, as the three-fourths moon emerged from the clouds to bath the path in white and gray and blue. "Race you."
-Fine-