Draco waited nervously in the breezeway, waiting for Potter to arrive. He was dressed in what he hoped was an outfit muggles wouldn't think out of the ordinary, but to be frank he wasn't exactly in touch with the wider world of London. He wore a dark gray fitted muggle t-shirt, and the fact that t-shirts were an exclusively muggle garment led him to believe that it would fit right in. He also wore muggle jeans for the same reason. His shoes were standard black, nothing noteworthy unless one were particularly knowledgeable about the top leathersmith craftsmen of Italy. It cost a lot of money to be so tastefully subtle. His dark mark was exposed for the first time since he got it. But he figured he was on a mission to have the thing removed, it needed to be accessible. Besides, no one in muggle London would recognize and thus be fearful of the insignia.
Potter appeared at the end of the breezeway, thankfully alone. He wore a brown and blue plaid buttondown with blue jeans. It made sense, for some reason Draco associated plaid with muggles. Potter paused before him and eyed him appreciatively. Draco fought the urge to preen.
"Does this look okay? Will I fit in?" he asked somewhat nervously.
"You look great," Potter smiled, blushing and then stammering a correction, "Great for fitting in in London I mean."
There was that urge to preen again.
"Take my arm," Potter extended his elbow. The Hogwarts staff had agreed to lift the ban on Apparating, just for the eighth year students who had passed training. Draco gripped Potter's arm tightly, bracing himself for the uncomfortable vacuum sensation of instantaneous travel.
The air swirled around them and squeezed them out with a pop into a damp alley between buildings. Potter patted himself down and turned to check Draco. They nodded and set off, heading towards the bustling street ahead.
London was a cacophony of colors and sounds, and the street they'd landed on was packed with specialty shops and loud groups of chattering visitors. By accent it sounded like as many foreigners as locals were milling about, although Draco had difficulty placing many of the accents.
Potter led him confidently up the road, down a side street, then up another busy boulevard of shops. Draco marvelled as a red two-story bus covered in signs that shouted "tours!" rolled by. He'd heard of such a thing, but thanks to his father's loathsome regard for the muggle world, he'd never had a chance to see it for himself. In eighteen years, he'd never crossed over from wizarding London to the world beyond.
Finally Potter stopped, staring up at a sign over a shopfront. It read "Laser Tattoo Removal, Lasik, and More."
"Ready?" the Gryffindor boy smiled encouragingly. Draco nodded, not actually feeling ready at all.
They entered the shop, and immediately transitioned into a waiting room that was as quiet as the street outside had been loud. The waiting room was otherwise empty, with only a pleasantly plump strawberry blonde receptionist behind a curved wooden desk. She smiled and greeted them with a soft Irish lilt, an accent Draco was comfortable identifying. He let Potter speak for him, since he had no idea what to ask for.
"My friend would like to enquire about tattoo removal," he gestured to Draco's exposed arm.
The receptionist handed over a clipboard and a pen and asked them to fill out the information within. They retreated to a pair of seats near the door and inspected the form. It asked for things like address and phone number, which Draco couldn't possibly provide, not having a phone and not residing at an address recognized by the sovereign state of England. Harry reached over and gently took the clipboard, filling out the information quickly before handing it back.
"Twelve Grimmauld Place, Islington. Where is this?" Draco peered at the unfamiliar details.
"Sirius Black's house," Potter said softly. "The post would never find it, but it's close enough to a muggle address to suffice." He looked up at Draco and shrugged, "He left it to me when he died. So technically it's my house now, I guess."
Draco nodded thoughtfully. "And the phone number?"
"Payphone out front," Potter said ruefully. "Again, close enough."
Draco took the clipboard up to the desk and handed it over hesitantly. He half expected the receptionist to recognize the falsified information and send them away. Instead she asked him to take a seat until the doctor was ready to call him back.
The two boys sat for several minutes, not speaking much, waiting for their turn in an otherwise empty queue. Finally a small dark-skinned man in a white coat appeared in the doorway and called his name. They both jumped to their feet and followed him into a small examination room with a large rolling cart and a funny bit of equipment sitting on top. The doctor asked Draco to sit on a padded reclining chair and rolled a short stool over for himself. Potter sat in a wheeled chair near the door.
The doctor's accent was difficult for Draco to follow. It was something like what he'd overheard from Parvati and Padma Patil's parents at the train platform every year, rolling and curling on itself roundly. But he gathered enough.
"Fortunately the tattoo is entirely composed of black ink," the doctor explained, holding Draco's pale arm in his hand. "Black ink is the easiest color to remove, and it fades much more quickly than other colors." He inspected the mark for another moment and added, "I would expect somewhere between five and seven sessions to remove, possibly closer to five."
"Five sessions?" Draco exclaimed. "All today?"
"No no," the doctor chuckled. "One today, then you will go home and care for it for four to six weeks. Then you will come back for another session. One session every month or so until it is gone."
"It's going to take five bloody months?" Draco looked over at Potter, who seemed just as surprised. He counted the months in his head. It was October now. "I won't be done until February. Maybe longer!"
"It's better than keeping it for the rest of your life," Potter offered helpfully, smiling as though pained.
"I guess so," Draco's shoulders fell, resigned. At the very least he should give one session a try. If the tattoo started to fade, then muggle magic would have wizard magic beat. Given the total lack of magical methods of removal, he'd be foolish not to even try it.
"How much?" he asked out of curiosity.
"£75 per session."
Draco made a quick conversion in his head to Galleons. "Okay," he agreed.
"Excellent," the doctor smiled brightly and rose. "Deborah will be in to collect your payment, and then Violet will apply some anesthetic. It will help dull the sensation of the laser." He exited and for the moment Draco and Potter were alone.
"The price is pretty dear, isn't it?" Potter looked concerned.
"Potter," Draco shook his head in mock disgust. He thought for a moment. "What did he mean by the sensation of the laser?"
"It burns the ink out of your skin," Potter said thoughtfully. "It probably hurts a bit."
"Hm," Draco raised his chin in false bravado. "I can take pain."
The door opened and the receptionist bustled in with paperwork and an invoice. Draco withdrew his muggle wallet and paid her the full amount for the day's session. He signed the paperwork and she departed. A moment later a svelte brunette appeared, who explained that she was applying a topical anesthetic which should help dull the sting of the laser. She explained in calm, even tones that the laser would be uncomfortable, although not as uncomfortable as getting the tattoo in the first place. She offered to hold Draco's free hand if it would help. Draco, being too proud to admit his fear of the unfamiliar procedure, turned down her offer.
The doctor reentered the room a bit later and passed pairs of heavy dark glasses around the room. He explained that the laser was too bright to be seen with unprotected eyes and warned them against removing the eyewear while the device was engaged. The nurse stood nearby for support as the doctor wheeled his stool over and readied the metal rod that Draco assumed contained the burning light. The doctor wiped the anesthetic cream away and entered a few settings into the bulky machine on the rolling cart. Potter sat rigidly by the door, fiddling with the fit of his goggles and clearly as nervous as Draco.
The machine fired up and the doctor began to trace the metal rod over the outline of the tattoo. Draco yelped and jumped in his seat, and the doctor immediately stopped. He seemed to have anticipated the boy's reaction.
"Would you like me to hold your hand?" the nurse offered again.
"No, of course not," Draco's eyes welled up with tears. It had felt like being slapped with a rubber band a dozen times in an instant. He couldn't imagine what it would feel like without the anesthetic.
Suddenly he felt someone grasp his right hand. He rolled his head over and Potter was sitting next to him, squeezing his fingers with reassuring pressure. His glasses were hanging from the collar of his shirt and the dark goggles made him look absolutely absurd. Of course, Draco probably looked equally absurd himself, but he preferred not to think about that. He squeezed Potter's hand back and turned to face the doctor. He nodded grimly, gritting his teeth in anticipation of the pain.
The treatment only lasted for a few minutes. The doctor slapped his rubber band light machine across every bit of the tattoo, from edge to edge and all of the filled in spaces between. Draco clutched at Potter's hand, and Potter returned the pressure in kind, murmuring encouragement as a sweat broke out on Draco's forehead.
Finally the treatment was done and the nurse stepped forward to apply ointment and a large bandage across the affected area. Draco released Potter, who flexed his hand gingerly like it had been crushed.
"Don't shower for the next day," she instructed. "It may feel like a sunburn at first, and you may see some scabbing. Don't pick the scabs," she said firmly. Draco wrinkled his nose in disgust. "Put this ointment on it and keep it bandaged until it starts to heal over. Treat it like a wound."
"It's going to look worse before it looks better," the doctor said brightly. "It may scab up and look bad, but over the next few weeks you'll start to see some fading. After your next session you'll really start to see changes."
Draco thanked him, then thanked the nurse. He wasn't used to thanking the help, but his father had always told him to be kind to healers, because you never know when you'll need one on your side. He rose and relinquished his dark goggles, hoping he didn't have unsightly rings around his eyes. Potter rose and reseated his glasses across the bridge of his nose. Draco scheduled another appointment for the second week of November and they departed.
They emerged onto the noisy street, the bright hustle and bustle something of a shock after the quiet solitude of the doctor's office.
"Are you hungry?" Potter asked suddenly.
"A bit," Draco felt like a bite to eat would settle his jumbled nerves.
"There's a curry place down here that's supposed to be smashing," Harry stepped off of the office stoop and headed down the road. Draco followed, questions on his lips that couldn't pass, thanks to the noise of the unending traffic.
After a few blocks Potter finally led Draco into a small, crowded restaurant and they procured a seat at a tiny table near the back. The diner was run by more dark-skinned people who reminded Draco of the Patils. Maybe they ran all of the businesses in this part of London. He asked Potter as much. Potter had the nerve to look amused by Draco's ignorance.
"They're from India, most likely," Potter explained. "This is an Indian restaurant. It's a coincidence that the doctor was Indian, too."
"Oh," Draco sat back in his chair and tried to make sense of the menu. "I thought maybe they owned this part of town."
"Shh," Potter leaned forward and tried to hush him. "Don't say something like that."
"Is it rude?" Draco's eyebrows rose, fighting back the reflexive urge to ask Potter who he thought he was to hush him in that way.
"Yes," Potter looked around to make sure no one had overheard. "Just be nice."
"That would be tremendously unlike me," Draco drawled in reply, but he smiled to take the edge off of his words. Potter adjusted his glasses nervously and smiled back. He ducked behind his menu and studied it carefully.
Draco couldn't make heads nor tails of the menu so he studied Potter instead. His black hair was as messy as ever, although he'd at least trimmed it back to a length where it looked intentionally disheveled rather than neglected. His wire rimmed glasses were round as always, as much a part of him as his emerald green eyes. He chewed his lower lip absentmindedly as he concentrated on the card in front of him, endearingly boyish in his disarmed posture.
He suddenly looked up and caught Draco looking at him. He smiled broadly, openly and sincerely. Draco felt his blood rush to his cheeks.
"Do you know what you want?" Potter didn't seem to notice the blush.
"No," Draco glanced down at the card. "I don't know what any of this is."
"Have you never had curry?" Potter sounded amazed.
"Never heard of it," Draco leaned back casually, trying to put on an air of someone who thought curry was the least important thing in the world. He was a bit annoyed by the situation. He was worldly. He had travelled all over with his family, stayed in dozens of luxury wizard resorts in countries across the map. So he hadn't ventured out to the muggle world before, so what? He didn't appreciate feeling like a bumpkin in a world he didn't understand.
Potter seemed to pick up on his annoyance. "Don't worry about it, I'll order something. You'll love it."
And as much as Draco hated to admit it, he was right. The food was brilliant, and he couldn't get enough of the complementary naan bread. Even the tea was excellent. At the end of the meal Potter laid out a few pound notes for the waitress before Draco could reach for his wallet. He marveled at the gesture, having never had anyone pick up the check for him before.
They stayed a bit longer, full stomachs digesting as they enjoyed a last cup of tea before heading back to Hogwarts. The restaurant stayed busy the whole time, obviously enjoying a good reputation amongst the locals. Draco admitted to himself that between the tattoo removal machine and the Indian food, he'd discovered two reasons not to hate the muggle world. It was a start.
"So I guess I'll just have to see how this goes over the next few weeks," Draco looked down at his arm and the bandage covering his Dark Mark. "It's at least worth doing a second session. If it's not improved by December I'll stop trying."
"It will improve," Potter said confidently.
"You're so sure?" Draco raised a dubious eyebrow.
"Yeah," Potter nodded.
"We'll see if you're right," Draco said softly, flexing his hand and looking down at the bandage again. "Thank you for bringing me here," he said belatedly, the expression of gratitude unfamiliar and strange on his tongue. He wasn't sure why he said it, just that suddenly he wanted to. "Thanks for all of it," he struggled to say what he really wanted to say. "Thank you for holding my hand."
Potter was silent for a moment, watching Draco's face. Finally he leaned across the table and laid his hand over Draco's. He smiled, "Anytime."