Hello hello lovelies!
I know I missed Monday and Wednesday this week, but this chapter is kind of a monster and it took forever to edit it. I'm really happy that everyone is liking this story as much as they are, and I always love to hear what you guys think. There's a question that a lot of people ask me that I'll be answering at the end of the chapter, as I didn't want to have too much in the beginning A/N.
Oh, there are mature themes in this chapter x
Please leave a review and let me know what you think ;)
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Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling, and only the story line and any OC's belong to me.
The rest of the school year passed by in a hazy smog of brutal exams and cold silence on Remus's part when it pertained to Sirius: the air surrounding the two wizards was dense and impossible to breathe in. The werewolf outright refused to even look at Sirius for two weeks straight, and it was as if Sirius was an apparition that he could neither see nor hear.
James tried to keep the peace as much as possible, whilst Hermione and Draco generally stayed out of it; the Potter 'twins' had decided to remain neutral in this case. They were both disappointed in Sirius, but they understood where he was coming from, additionally, Remus's stance on the whole thing was perfectly reasonable, and he had every right to be angry.
The tension eased a touch a few days ago when Sirius cracked a joke, and Remus inadvertently found himself chuckling all while shaking his head. The other Marauders waited with bated breath, and when no icy glares or acidic words were shared they all sighed in relief.
After their final exam—the theoretical Defense Against the Dark Arts exam (one that they all shared)—the Marauders all collapsed in the corridor just outside the third floor classroom. They were frazzled, drained, and mentally exhausted.
"I'm absolutely shattered," Sirius groaned, falling onto his side and laying his head on Draco's thigh, and somehow one of his legs ended up in James's lap. Draco absentmindedly dragged his fingers through Sirius's tresses, vacantly staring dead ahead of him.
"Am I the only one with little to no recollection of the last few days?" Hermione asked airily, wiggling her fingers through the air in front of her face.
"I don't even want to imagine what our exams are going to be like next year, if that was any indication of things to come," Remus deadpanned, blankly gazing at the ceiling with his hands thrust into his sandy blond locks.
"I might have failed all my exams," Peter said to no one in particular, his legs spread out wide, and his hands traced errant patterns on the stone floor in between his legs; every now and then his nail would graze against the ground, and the others would automatically twitch at the unpleasant sound.
The six wix looked up listlessly when a female's voice addressed them. "Why do you lot look so miserable?" Lily queried, half smiling as she buoyantly strolled out of the classroom they'd all previously occupied; she'd stayed behind to pester their Professor with questions, until they'd finally had enough and shooed the crimson haired witch.
"How are you not in the least bit fazed by that exam?" James asked, his head falling back against the wall. There was an expectant look on James's face, and Lily smiled tightly as she averted her eyes, instead choosing to examine her polished, black shoes.
"Oh no, I'm dying inside, but I simply can't be arsed anymore," Lily shrugged noncommittally. She adjusted her bag strap, and toed the ground with her same said polished shoes.
"Are we still heading into Hogsmeade tonight?" Hermione piped up after a few moments of comfortable silence, closing her hand in a fist before dropping it into her lap.
"I'm knackered, so count me out," Peter said, not once looking up as he continued to poke at the ground, his features partially obscured by his floppy bangs.
"Agreed...can we go tomorrow, after about twelve hours of sleep?" Sirius requested, rubbing his cheek against Draco's thigh; his index finger tapped against Draco's knee where one of his hands was resting.
"That sounds delightful. Tonight we sleep, tomorrow we drink The Three Broomsticks dry," Draco declared in an authoritative way, eyes closed, smiling faintly at the idea.
They may not have drank the Inn dry, but they certainly tried, and they even managed to convince Rosmerta to take a shot of Firewhisky with them. The sixth and seventh years drank, and made merry from the late afternoon all the way to the wee hours of the morning (the fifth years OWL exams wouldn't be done until the following week, and shortly thereafter, the summer holidays would begin).
Jovial singing, flushed cheeks, breath reeking of alcohol, and joyous spurts of dance; the elder students stumbled back to the castle.
McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line, and she voiced not one ounce of complaint as she received the students at the gate. Their lives (especially the seventh years) had been a living hell the past month or so; they weren't called Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests for no reason. She did scrunch her nose up in hefty disdain when one of Lysander Smith's mates lost the contents of his stomach in one violent heave right beside her shoes.
With a repulsed twist of her lips, she flicked her wand and vanished the sick away.
A trail of nonsensical, mangled song trailed after the students as they headed back to their respective common rooms: Marlene and Mary rocked back and forth as they ambled down to the Dungeons, Dorcas and Emmeline twirled their way up to their tower, and the lions sprinted and vaulted through their castle.
It had certainly been an eventful year, and Hermione told Draco as much after she snuck into his bed later that night. Hermione giggled softly as she stripped, and Draco threw locking and silencing charms up around his curtains.
They both froze however as they heard a female squeal from outside the curtains, and a hushed whisper, "Frank!"
Hermione snorted in amusement, and smirked down at Draco in the darkness. The wizard's coy response was to latch his mouth onto one of her exposed nipples, and her head fell back as her fingers dug into his chest.
It wasn't long before Draco was stark naked as well, and Hermione sank herself down onto Draco's cock. It was a slow, sensual dance at first: Draco's hands gripping Hermione's hips, her head tipped to the sky whilst she rode her boyfriend, and her nails dragging down his front. It ended with Draco sloppily thrusting upwards fervently, and Hermione's fingers digging into his shoulders.
Breathlessly, Hermione claimed Draco's lips, and it wasn't long before they were going at it again; this time Hermione was on her back, and Draco was driving in and out of her. Neither of them got much sleep that night.
Tuesday, July 5th, 1977
London, England
Killian's Tattoo Parlour
The Parlour had one rule—no fighting once you'd passed through its doors. It was a rule that was generally abided by, but when dealing with wix, beings and beasts (more so the former two than the latter), things tended to get a bit out of hand.
Killian's parlour was located in the thick of Muggle London, and he even served Muggles from time to time, but he mainly dealt with their kind. The wizard's code of conduct was that he would serve everyone, no matter who they were, or where they were from, as long as they didn't violate his one rule. Killian was also the best in the business, with fine linework and a feather light touch.
The wizard had pale eyes, dark hair, light coppery skin with an almost golden tint, and he was a few inches shorter than James. Killian was a nimble, sprightly wizard (who couldn't sit still for two seconds) with an easy smile and a cavalier attitude—except when it came to his craft, then there was no muss or fuss, simply stringent concentration.
Hermione's eye was drawn to the tattoos that littered his body, and soon learned that he had some odd rule about placing any on his neck or above; the tattoos were an undulating wave of moving, painted pictures across his skin.
The Parlour was filled with lots of black, and monochromatic, muted colours, with splashes of bright blue here and there. The back rooms—where the actual tattooing happened—were well lit, but the front of the tattoo parlour was normally only lit by the natural light that poured in through the grand, glass windows out front. (Killian had painstakingly strengthened the glass with a multitude of charms and anti-burglary spells; he may be a laidback bloke, but he was also extremely paranoid.)
The warm, amber light from the streetlamps outside was currently illuminating the shop, and it cast long shadows out in front of the five Marauders (Peter had left the country the day after school finished, smiling as he told them that he and his parents were going to stay with his Aunt for the summer).
Killian's eye kept getting drawn to Sirius as he greeted the wix, and with his eyes narrowed he said, "you're a Black...but are you one of the decent ones, or the fucking mental ones."
Sirius smirked, "is there a difference?" Killian's smile was blinding, and with an amused shake of his head he shot back, "oi, you're funny, kid. I like you."
"Of course you do," Sirius responded confidently, lacing his fingers behind his head. Killian's eyes roved up and down the young wizard, and he seemed on the brink of saying something further, but his lips remained sealed.
Killian caught sight of Draco, and quirked a brow, "wait, you a Black as well?"
"A Potter," Draco replied, hands shoved in his navy blue trouser pockets. Draco evenly stared at Killian for what could be considered the polite amount of time, and then turned to Remus and whispered something to the werewolf. Remus grinned in reply, all pearly white teeth and a smattering of mischievous mirth.
"Ah, so you lot are all related then," Killian hummed, but then added, "except you, blondie." Remus smiled sheepishly, and waved a hand, "no, not related to any of them."
"That you know of," Killian shrugged, and all of the younger wix froze. Upon noticing their stiff posture, Killian elaborated, "it was a joke...mainly. All of the Pureblood families are connected in one way or another—at some point in time all of the family lines have crossed here and there."
Killian sensed that he'd made them all a smidge uncomfortable, so he clapped his hands together and said, "so I know that 'Hermione Potter' booked your appointment—" he faced Hermione then, and she nodded to indicate he was talking to the right person and that she was listening, "—but you never said how many people were getting tattooed. Am I right to assume that you all are?"
I thought I did mention it...huh, Hermione thought, but swiped it away and focused on replying to Killian.
"We all are," Hermione answered primly, hand moving through the air towards the others in an absent gesture.
"Good thing Georgie and Orchid are in today, otherwise I would be here all night," Killian said, folding his arms over his chest and displaying his sinewy arms.
"Orchid?" James asked, curiousity skipped across his features, and his left index finger began to tap out an errant rhythm on his outer thigh.
"You called, sugar?" A high, sweet sounding voice asked, and a female head poked out of one of the back rooms.
The witch giddily bounded out of the room, and saddled up beside Killian with potent glee. Her hair was bubblegum pink, her jade eyes appeared to be pupil-less, her jaw was strong, she had a butt chin, a hooked nose, a puckered scar that dug a deep groove into her left cheek and a mole on the side of her neck. She was a tiny thing, whose head just came up to Killian's elbows. It was certainly a sight seeing the two of them together.
Orchid grinned toothily and deviously said, "I'll take him." She pointed directly at James, and she rocked back and forth on her heels, which caused her fuschia pink skirt made of multiple sheer layers to shift about; it made a crinkly noise as she did so.
"Orchid doesn't bite, I swear. She may seem feisty, but she's all gooey and soft inside," Killian reassured James as Orchid eagerly gripped his much larger hand and guided him away towards the back. The wizard only had time to glance over his shoulder once in mild concern before Orchid ushered him into one of the back rooms with a small smile.
Killian's hands fell to his sides, and languidly he informed them that Georgie was probably sleep in one of the other rooms, so he would have to go rouse him from his beauty sleep.
Killian gestured for them to all follow him, and he whistled a few perky notes as he guided them forth to the back of the shop. Killian paused by a mahogany door, with a painted mural of three round, fluffy bluebirds on a tree branch. The inquisitorial birds hopped from side to side, heads twisting to the side as they shook out their feathers.
The largest bird sang a single, sweet note and seemingly lifted off of the door as it pecked the air.
Killian regarded the birds softly, and gently said, "yea I know he's sleeping. We have customers."
The bird nestled down into the branch, its dark beady eyes staring unblinkingly forward, it puffed out its chest as its beak burrowed into the muted orange and white on it.
The door clicked open, and Killian murmured his thanks to the birds as he used the forefinger on his left hand to push the door inwards.
Hermione's eyes shifted, and she saw a passed out figure in the corner of the small room, wrapped in a blanket, and hugging a thin pillow to their front.
Killian snapped his fingers, and the room flooded with light. A low rumbling sound came from the figure, and Killian snorted. Not for the first time Hermione found herself entranced by the fluidity of Killian's every motion.
The wizard crept forward, like a panther gearing up to pounce on his prey, and upon reaching the figure, he knelt down on one knee. "Georgie. Wake up, we have customers."
The man rolled onto his back, and swatted Killian away, "fuck off."
"Can't, mate. Customers. I can't tattoo them all myself," Killian replied serenely, sliding the pillow out of the wizard's arms whilst he had a chance.
Georgie snarled at that, and pulled his massive, sky blue blanket with swallows—detailed swallows made of black, thick brushstrokes and fine lines—over his head.
He clearly likes birds, Hermione thought to herself, bemused by this whole situation. This reminded her of James when he refused to get up, tightly securing himself in his blankets and shoving his head under pillows; all to prolong his precious sleep for even just a few more moments.
"Thought I was done for the day, you just got some witch coming in," Georgie whinged. The man's words jumbled together in his sleepy stupor.
"She brought company," Killian said.
Hermione winced at that, she really should have said how many of them were going to be tattooed today. She swore she did, but she was also terribly distracted by Draco as she was penning her owl. Frankly, she was surprised Killian hadn't turned them away, especially at this hour.
"The fuck she do that for?" Georgie grumbled, thrusting the blanket from his face in a huffy fashion. Killian stood up. Georgie threw his blanket off of him, accepted Killian's hand up, and blearily peered at all of them. "They're still wet behind the ears. You sure they're all of age?"
"No, I didn't check to make sure that they were of age, why in Salazar's name would I fucking do that?" Killian asked, words drenched in sarcasm as he lightly patted Georgie's arm.
Georgie was a ginger, with a full, wild and bristly beard, shocking blue eyes, a long and thin nose, and he was only wearing a pair of black, leather trousers. He was also abnormally tall, almost a good six inches taller than Remus, and he was a muscular, stocky man. Much like Killian there were tattoos covering his body, but there were also large scars that rose up across his skin—scars that looked very much like claw and bite marks.
Remus's eyes were fixed on the man's tarnished skin, and inadvertently he pulled the sleeves of his emerald jumper down. Georgie's brow drew together, and he jabbed a thick finger in Remus's direction, "I'll tattoo him...and the girl."
Georgie might be disgruntled after having been woken prematurely from his slumber, but for some reason Hermione liked him. She sensed that he could take a joke, so she risked uttering the following words, "who says I want you to tattoo me?" She raised a brow with a cheeky smirk.
Georgie guffawed loudly, and the room shook. With a twinkle in his eye he said, "she's a fiery one."
Killian shrugged, "that leaves you two with me," he said, jerking his chin in Draco and Sirius's direction.
The trio filtered out of the room, and Draco's hand brushed against the back of hers on his way out. They left the door open.
Georgie neatly folded his blanket and threw it over the back of the chair in the opposite corner to where he had been sleeping. Hermione hadn't noticed him do it, but Killian had dropped the slender, black pillow into the white, plush armchair.
Around the room were a few tables that had an assortment of equipment, jars, tubes, and phials—that Hermione did not recognise—organised in orderly lines. In the centre of the room there was a black leather chair in a reclined position, with two wide armrests that was reminiscent of a dentist's' chair in her mind (and a small pang stabbed at her heart as she recalled her biological parents).
Georgie wheeled a small cart over to the chair, and sat down on the stout stool beside it. He slapped his hands on his thighs, and joyfully asked, "who wants to go first?"
Hermione knew if she went first that Remus would overthink things, which would lead to him inevitably opting out of getting a tattoo today; and she couldn't let that happen as he'd been excited about this for weeks.
Remus had been tugged at his sleeves for the past few minutes, as if overtly aware of his scars. The only people he was truly comfortable showing them to were the Marauders, Lily (she'd never asked him questions about them, which was fine by Remus), his parents, and Dorea and Charlus.
"He will," Hermione said firmly, and Georgie pursed his lips and asked, "what? Not as brazen and bold ad before?"
"No. Just trust me when I say it's probably better that Moony gets his done first," Hermione said, stepping up to Remus and placing an encouraging hand on his shoulder.
"The lad doesn't have to get one if he doesn't wish to," Georgie started, crossing his arms over his chest—his enormous muscles bulging. He appeared to roll something around in his mind for a moment and then said, "if you tell me what's worrying you, I might be able to nip it in the bud so to speak."
Remus's shoe unintentionally scraped across the ground as he took a miniscule step backwards, as if instinctively putting some physical distance between him and Georgie as to not answer his question. Hermione noted this, and chose to instead stride toward the armchair in the corner of the room and planted her arse on said chair. It was rather comfy. She sassily crossed one leg over the other and laid back in the chair.
Remus narrowed his eyes at the show, and clearly understood what she was non-verbally attempting to communicate. She wouldn't be putting this much pressure on him if she sensed for even a moment that he didn't want a tattoo, but he'd been doodled the phrase in a million different ways and he'd been banging on about this for weeks; he'd circled today on his calendar for Morgana's sake.
"I have scars," Remus admitted reluctantly.
Georgie slapped a hand on his thigh, threw his head back and laughed a deep, throaty laugh that rumbled in his belly before it was spat back out again. "Boy, I'm littered with scars. I am the last person who will judge you."
Remus had stiffened at the sudden noise, and Georgie probably realised he was being a touch insensitive, so in a kinder tone he added, "when you're as covered with bites and claw marks as I am, you tend to not get fazed by any blemishes or scars anyone else has."
"How'd you get 'em?" Hermione asked curiously, and the vast man turned his head just enough to catch a glimpse of her as he responded, "I'm a werewolf, sugarplum. It comes with the territory."
Hermione was not surprised. More accurately, she wasn't surprised that he was a werewolf, but she was surprised that he made such a bold admission to two complete strangers. Hermione subtlety sniffed the air, and it was there; the distinct magical signature that came with being a werewolf.
"I beg your pardon?" Remus stumbled over the words, and unwittingly took a few steps forward. Georgie faced him once more, and his shoulders rose and fell in a casual shrug.
Perhaps that's why Remus was so uncomfortable. He could sense it, even if he didn't quite realise what it, or rather who, it was, Hermione thought, resting her chin in her hands as she watched the two wizards size the other up.
"You're a werewolf?" Remus asked.
"From the day I was born," Georgie replied.
Now that is interesting, Hermione's brow drew together.
There were 'royal' and 'pure' werewolf bloodlines where you were born and not bitten, but up until now Hermione thought all the ones in England had either died or fled the United Kingdom all together; at least that's what she'd read years ago. She supposed that the ravings of a man who would rather dissect werewolves and study them—as opposed to trying to genuinely understand them—may not be the most accurate source of information.
"Nosce te ipsum," Remus said, slowly and slightly unsure as he cautiously crossed the room and carefully sat down in the awaiting tattoo chair.
"Know thyself," Georgie translated, nodding his head approvingly. "I like it."
Remus wanted a reminder that he was more than his condition, and that he was not a monster.
"Next question, are there any particular fonts, or any magical enhancements you want to add to the tat?" Georgie drawled, leaning over to his cart and readying his tattoo gun. It was fascinating watching him work. Georgie pulled on a pair of black, disposable gloves that he'd just removed from a box on his cart.
"No magical enhancements...just a regular tattoo, except maybe make it so it doesn't fade as easily over time?" Remus asked, wholly unconfident in his request; Hermione was new to the magical tattoo world, and clearly so was Remus, but Georgie nodded his head whilst lining up some blank ink, and a glittery substance in tiny containers.
"Can do. Now, fonts? Colours?" Georgie asked.
Remus blinked blankly, as if he hadn't even considered either. Hermione knew it was exactly to the contrary; Remus couldn't choose a font or colour that he really liked; he'd been torn between several options.
Remus's head snapped sharply in her direction, and Georgie stiffened at the sudden movement. "Hermione, can you write it out?" Remus pivoted his head back at Georgie, "that's allowed right?"
Georgie grinned, "of course, lad."
"You want to have my god awful scrawl on you, forever?" Hermione gaped, wide eyed and subtlety shaking her head. No, negatory, not going to happen, she firmly told herself.
Remus's eyes crinkled in happiness as he smiled at her, showing all his bright teeth, and simply nodded.
Hermione's eye twitched, and Remus only grew more hopeful—he was radiating happiness, and she just couldn't say no to that.
A few minutes later, she'd finished writing the latin phrase out on a spare piece of paper Georgie gave her, and the outline of it was already on the inside of Remus's pale, right forearm.
"Are you sure?" Hermione asked.
"Positive. Thank you, love," Remus beamed. It was like looking directly into the mouth of a floodlight.
"The things you rope me into, Remus Lupin," Hermione groaned.
The wattage on his impossibly bright grin somehow went up, "you love me."
"That I do," Hermione relented with a sigh, and she grabbed hold of his free hand.
"Ready?" Georgie asked, one gloved hand delicately holding Remus's exposed forearm in place on the armrest, the other clutching his tattoo gun.
"More than you know," Remus replied, and the tattoo gun made a whirring sound as it turned on.
Georgie smirked knowingly, "it might sting a little."
"I have a high pain threshold, I'll be okay...I think," Remus said, his smile faltering slightly.
"I have no doubt about it," Georgie responded, and then quietly set about his task.
Remus did have a high pain threshold, and his tattoo was finished in what seemed like no time. Hermione on the other hand, was fine for her first one and even began to sing 'Here Comes the Sun' under her breath. Hermione's second tattoo was a different story as it took up a large section of her back, and magic was simultaneously being woven into her skin; she may have said some colourful things. Remus's hand was sore when Georgie was finished, due to Hermione gripping it so tightly.
Hermione requested that Remus not tell any of the others about her second tattoo, she got it for Dorea and she wanted to tell her first before any of the others found out (she knew she wouldn't be able to hide it forever, but she wanted it to be her little secret for now). Remus frowned at the request, but relented and respected her wishes; he was also far too overjoyed about his own tattoo to deeply analyze the meaning behind her tattoo (except to marvel at it as it moved, and the gorgeous details and linework).
Whilst Hermione waited for Georgie to clean off her skin of all the excess ink and cast the healing spells across the right side of her back, she wondered what the other boys were getting. None of them wished to tell her, saying that it was supposed to be a surprise. (She'd begged Draco, and even tried to ply him with her womanly ways, but his lips were welded together in a solemn 'oath of silence'.)
In another room in the Parlour, the finishing touches on Draco's tattoo were being made. Draco was lying flat on his stomach, hands tucked under his chin, eyes closed and daydreaming about Hermione.
"Okay, just a few more minutes and then we'll be all done," Killian said, drawing Draco out of his dreamy daze.
"Okay," Draco said, indicating that he'd heard the other wizard.
The upper right side of his back had gone numb a while ago, so he no longer felt the needle moving in and out of his skin. Plus, this was a much more pleasant experience than the first time a magical tattoo had marked his skin; this time he wasn't writhing in agony, nor had he blacked out from the severity of the pain. At least he wasn't as bad as Goyle. Goyle soiled himself.
Sirius hadn't even blinked at the design that Killian aptly sketched out with the assistance of Draco's thorough description; the bust of a light grey wolf (white wouldn't show up properly considering how pale he was) with silver eyes flecked with midnight blue and a crown of aster crowns that was littered with baby's breath. Sirius hadn't asked about the flowers, or their importance to Draco, and for that he was more than grateful.
(Killian had mentioned that occasionally some of the petals would fall and disappear into seeming nothingness—or maybe even catch in the wolf's fur—but they would be replaced instantaneously with new ones, and that it would essentially be like there is a living, breathing creature on his back.)
Sirius spontaneously decided to get a moon on his wrist that would magically alter and change based on the current moon cycle. He was still filled with dread over what he'd put Remus through, and it was a constant reminder to himself to think before he acted, and it was also a nifty way to always keep track of the waxing and waning of the moon.
Sirius also got a trail of footprints—exactly like the ones on the Marauders Map—that started behind his left ear, travelled down his neck and ended on the top of his shoulder.
Sirius was pacing back and forth, admiring the artwork Killian had hung up all around the room. There was a lot of abstract art that drew you in, made you think, and demanded that you make an attempt to interpret what it was trying to say—it was bound to be a feeble, pallid interpretation at best, but that wouldn't stop Sirius from trying.
"Alright, all done," Killian said, wiping away the excess ink, and nodding in satisfaction at his handiwork.
Draco took great care when he shifted into a seated position, grimacing as he rolled his sore shoulders.
"You want to look at it?"
"Nah, I'll wait till I get home," Draco said, lightly tapping his knuckles on Killian's shoulder and sending him a tiny smile.
"Don't know if your mates are done yet or not, but both of you are," Killian smiled warmly. The wizard was busily organising his supplies, and there was a popping kind of slapping noise when he pulled off his gloves—he swiftly disposed of them in a bin by the door.
Draco pulled on his sleeveless shirt (it was a printed shirt of David Bowie) that he'd nicked it from Sirius about a year ago; Sirius wasn't upset since he had another one just like it. Draco shook out his hair, and hopped off of the chair.
Killian held the door open for the two of them, and when they headed back out to the front they found James waiting patiently in a oak chair with black upholstery. Orchid was humming, sitting behind the receptionist counter and doodling aimlessly in a small notebook with a neon pink quill.
There were a couple chairs on either side of James, and whilst Sirius joined James and they began shifting their clothing to show off their tattoos, Draco strolled over to Orchid.
"Hey sugarplum, how can I help you?" Orchid beamed, not looking at him, continuing her doodling.
"I was going to settle our bill," Draco said with a quirked brow.
"I thought your sister was paying," Killian called out from the floor. For some reason, he was now sat on the floor, legs spread wide, and he stretched forward, hands sliding along his leg until his fingers touched the toe of his right shoe.
"I can do it," Draco said, turning back to Orchid.
"You paying for just you, or for everyone?"
"Everyone."
The smile was gone, and she was scratching down some numbers and illegible scrawl on a scrap piece of paper.
"We have a fixed rate per hour, so tallying up the length of time for his...and the two of you...and your friends...well they aren't out yet, but knowing Georgie… I can round down there, and maybe, yea, okay and with that that makes your total come to…" Orchid finishing scribbling with a flourish, snatched up the paper and with a prim look handed it over to Draco.
Draco glanced it over, tried to decipher her writing, and thanked Merlin that her numbers were slightly rounded and easily digestible.
Draco reached into his trouser pocket and withdrew his money pouch, and began to count out the money they owed with tip.
The sound of a door shutting came from across the room, and Draco looked up just long enough to see Hermione, Remus and their vast tattoo artist exit their room.
Draco heard Sirius ask what the significance of the tattoo on Hermione's inner wrist was, and Draco's interest piqued at that so he keenly listened to her explanation as he finished paying their bill.
"...it's for someone who was very important to me when I was younger."
"Who? Is it someone we know?" Sirius asked.
"She wouldn't tell me," Remus cut in.
"Who they are isn't really important, or who they were I should say...they aren't around anymore."
They aren't around yet, Draco thought with pursed lips; he was almost positive her tattoo would have something to do with Harry. Draco shot a friendly smile Orchid's way as she collected the money, he then pocketed the money pouch, and ambled over to his friends.
It was a lightning bolt. Alive, fearsome, crackling and ready to rip from her skin and slam forcefully into the ground. If you touched it, it would give you a nasty shock; that's what it looked like at least.
The sad truth was only two of their friends would come to know the full truth about Hermione's tattoo, and one of them would be denied the chance of ever knowing.
Draco didn't wish to linger on that, so he instead asked James what he'd gotten. James slipped his shirt up and over his head with a vibrant grin.
The tattoo was in the centre of the scars across James's back (not all of the scars were covered, and Draco assumed that was done on purpose). The stag's bust was staring at Draco, eyes somehow wise. It shook its head and its elegant antlers moved across James's back in a mesmerising way. Its pelt was full, luscious and the same colour as James's animagus form. Perhaps the most striking part was the vines and quaint white lilies that wrapped their way from the base of the stag's antlers all the way to the tip of them.
"It's gorgeous," Draco breathed, a hand moving out to gently stroke the stag's neck, and it closed its eyes and stretched its head to the side as if giving him better access.
Orchid called out something about having 'a magical touch'.
"Magical tattoos are fun aren't they?" Killian smirked, lying on his back like a starfish. "Wait till you see yours."
Which of course set off everyone aside from Sirius (who'd already admired it thoroughly), and they all bounced up and down and pulled at his shirt and pleaded for him to show them. He sighed heavily, and relented. Just as one Potter was putting on their shirt, the other was peeling his off.
Draco turned around, his back to the others, and in amongst the awed noises, he heard a sharp gasp—it must have come from Hermione. Hermione's favourite flowers may be lilies, but her birth flowers were asters.
Killian cut into their show and tell. "Right, we healed up all your tattoos, but the area might still be sore for the next few days, so just be mindful of that. It is fresh ink after all," Killian warned them, and the Marauder's firm nods and pleasant thanks quickly followed after.
The Marauders were sent off with brilliant smiles, and the three tattoo artists revelled in the serene quiet that they were left in.
Georgie yawned loudly, and clapped Killian on the back, "I liked them. Hopefully they come back for more ink some time soon."
"I have a funny feeling they will," Killian said, an amused sound slipping out his mouth. "You should have seen, Black. He had that look in his eye. We'll definitely be seeing him again soon."
Georgie snorted, scratching at the side of his neck right above his tattoo of a crescent moon, "they were an interesting lot, that's for sure," Georgie said, with a knowing look.
Georgie could see their bonds, and he could smell them; animagi the lot of them. It's refreshing to see a young werewolf so happy, healthy and with such a strong pack bond, Georgie thought, turning on his heel, and with his fingers laced behind his head he headed back to his room.
Orchid had already disappeared back into hers.
Georgie paused in front of his door, and shouted back at Killian, "I'm going back to sleep, and this time, don't fucking wake me unless someone's died or the place is on fire."
The cerulean dress slipped down the length of her body and pooled around her legs, leaving the witch bare save for the black lace covering her pert breasts and nether region. She was standing a few feet away from the wizard silently watching her from the armchair in the corner of the room: mouth partially covered by his right hand—his thumb was stroking his jaw—and his eyes were molten pools of silver.
The raven curls that tumbled down her back hid the ink that was slithering along the right side of her back, and the witch's head turned slightly so that she was shooting him a sultry look over her left shoulder. "You ready?"
Draco smirked, leaning back in the chair, "yes, princess."
Hermione's eyes grinned provocatively as she reached back and undid the clasp on her bra, easily slipping it off and dropping it on the ground beside her. "Are you sure?"
"Yes, Hermione."
Hermione's hands dove into her curls, and with nimble fingers she twisted them into a messy bun and held it in place with her hands. Draco's mouth dropped open. Hermione's tattoo put his sentimental crown of Aster flowers to shame.
The dragon was curled up with its head resting on its front legs, and its long, spiked tail trailed down to the small of Hermione's back. The dragon's scales were pitch black, shiny and glinting with life, its wings were folded into its body, but when the dragon shook its head, its wings rose up off of it on either side. It was a sleek, slender beast with pure white eyes.
Draco's body moved before he gave it permission, and he flew out of the chair and immediately began exploring her body. Draco ran his hands over the tattoo in awe, fascinated as the dragon reacted by raising its head and swishing the end of its tail from side to side.
"I—I love it," Draco gaped.
"Thank fuck, this shite is permanent you know, no take backs," Hermione teased, spinning around in his arms—accidentally bumping his chest with one of her elbows, but neither of them paid much mind to that. Part of her had been fearful of making such a huge commitment, but after seeing the look in his eyes all of her fears vanished in an instant.
"I wasn't finished looking at it," Draco sulked, hands slipping around her waist and pulling her against his front. Hermione released her curls, and rested her hands on his chest.
"I basically got your name tattooed all over me," Hermione murmured, fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt, tilting her head upwards and biting her bottom lip.
Draco sucked in a sharp breath, a shiver ran across his body, and some of his longer bangs had fallen forward onto his forehead, "fuck."
Hermione frowned, and was about to ask what that meant when he ducked his head and roughly smashed his lips against hers; a ferocious wave crashed over her, and the pair parted long enough for him to rip his shirt up and over his head.
Hermione's heart squeezed as she undid Draco's belt. Draco gripped her face. The metal part of the belt made a clanging sound as it hit the ground, and Draco slipped his tongue into Hermione's mouth at the same moment.
Hermione unfastened Draco's trousers, and slipped her hand down his abdomen into his pants; her slender hand enclosing around his cock. Draco hissed into their kiss, and one of his hands skidded down her body and cupped her sex.
Hermione broke the kiss, "Draco Abraxas Potter née Malfoy, I'm going to shag you senseless."
Draco quirked his brow at the 'née Malfoy' part, and a toothy, breathless grin broke out on his features, "that's a pretty big claim."
"Fuck off," Hermione growled, her hand stroking up and down his cock, and with a hiss one of Draco's hands delved into her curls and tugged her head back.
"I love you too," Draco breathed, glee dancing in his eyes as sparks crackled at the ends of Hermione's hair.
"Stop talking," Hermione demanded, removing her hand from his pants; not before her finger toyed with the head of his cock, which caused Draco to swallow audibly—his Adam's apple bobbing up and down.
Hermione's placed her hands on Draco chest—fingers splayed—and walked him backwards until his knees hit the back of the bed, and she gave him a firm shove.
Draco's back barely hit the soft sheets before Hermione had crawled on top of him and was now straddling his lap; the witch laced their fingers together, and leant down to kiss him whilst raising their intertwined hands over their heads.
Hermione's taut nipples grazed Draco's skin, and a soft moan passed through her lips and was devoured by Draco.
Hermione growled as the pair divested themselves of the rest of their clothes, and Hermione threw her head back as she ground her cunt along Draco's cock; one motion hit her clit just right and the lightning bolt on her wrist crackled viciously.
Electricity spat from her fingertips as she dug her fingers into Draco's torso.
Hermione bowed her head, entranced as she lifted up just enough, and with one hand guided Draco's cock into her. They froze in time, adjusting and revelling in their coupling.
It was a sensual dance as Hermione rode Draco, both of them groaning in ecstasy, and Draco's gaze was locked on Hermione's folds as she bounced on his cock.
"My turn," Draco growled, hands moving onto her back, and rolling them both over so that he was on top. Draco hovered over his girlfriend, caressing her face as her inner walls squeezed his cock.
"I love you, Draco," Hermione whispered, hands cupping his cheeks as he pressed his lips against hers again, and he began rocking in and out of her—tantalizingly slow.
Hermione tried to avoid raking her hands down Draco's back when he rubbed her clit, and her lips parted in a as she toppled over the edge; Draco increased his ministrations, and Hermione's leg shook as she screamed his name.
Draco paused, and Hermione's breath shuddered in and out of her as she attempted to catch it. Bright spots danced in front of her eyes.
"Your turn," Hermione said, and lines were drawn across Draco's forehead and in between his eyebrows in light confusion. Hermione smiled airily, and with immense strength flipped them over again.
Hermione pulled Draco's cock out of her, and fluidly slid down his body, spreading his legs, kneeling in the space formed in between them, and with vigour she gripped the top of his thighs as she ducked her head and licked the length of Draco's member.
"Salazar's tits," Draco swore softly, propping himself up on his forearms, utterly mesmerized as he watched his girlfriend. "Hermione—"
Draco hadn't noticed that one of Hermione's hands had shifted, until it was gently fondling his balls; and he was rendered speechless.
"Fuck, Hermione," Draco moaned, hands spread out on either side of him, tightly gripping the sheets.
Hermione's mouth enclosed around the tip, and Draco's hips jerked up instinctively. Hermione was clearly aware of how she was unfolding him, because she swirled her tongue around the head. With a twinkle in her eye, she took more of him into her mouth, and he let free a string of lively profanities.
It wasn't long before Draco's own release, and Hermione only removed her mouth when he finished. She swallowed. She pressed a dainty kiss to his tip. Hermione sat back on her haunches, and stared down the slightly frazzled male with a cocky upward twist of her lips.
"I fucking love you," Draco panted out, hands thrust into his hair as he stared at the ceiling.
Hermione crawled forward, and flopped onto the bed beside him: she rolled onto her side, snuggled into him, threw a leg over him, and tucked an arm under her head as she examined his sharp features.
It was odd knowing someone in your former life. Hermione recalled Harry's obsession with proving Draco was a Death Eater in their sixth year, and she also remembered how gaunt, miserable and unusually pale—even for him—Draco looked that year; he was the complete opposite of that now.
The couple enjoyed a companionable quiet for a time before Hermione affectionately said, "asters…they're my birth flower, did you—"
"I thought you'd like it," Draco exhaled, his head falling to the side so he could get a better look at her. "Plus, you'll be able to see it sometimes when we're sleeping…or whenever I take my shirt off."
Hermione drank in the boyish look on his face, the pure joy, and resisted rolling her eyes. He was adorable. She told him as much. The boyish grin twisted into a scowl, and he dove forward and captured her lips once more—it was a bit awkward with the angle, but neither of them cared.
"Adorable," Draco grumbled when they parted. Hermione flashed her pearly white teeth at him and giggled.
"You are," Hermione said.
Draco snorted.
Hermione proceeded to trace patterns on his chest with her free hand, and added, "and I love you."
"Of course you do."
"Git."
"Know-it-all."
"Wanker," Hermione yawned. She was tired, and her eyes were drooping a touch.
"Prissy princess," and Draco burst out into a round of hearty laughter as she mumbled, "I'm not prissy."
"How about this? Brilliant witch that drives me fucking mental?" Draco asked, as if pitching a serious proposal in front of corporate executives.
Hermione fondly shook her head, "you want to play that game? Okay, fine. Spoiled brat that I am absolutely, madly, in love with?"
"Why was that a question, that should be a given," Draco sniffed proudly, his hands leaving his hair to pull her closer—one of them came to a rest on the thigh draped over him.
"You're so fun to tease," Hermione said, poking fun at the raven haired boy.
Draco kissed his teeth together, looking rather unimpressed.
"I'm sorry, baby," Hermione's bottom lip jutted out, and her eyelashes fluttered madly. "Forgive me?"
Draco was dead silent, and his eyebrows rose, "forgive you for what, love. What did you do?"
"I hurt Drakie poo's feelings," Hermione said, but her voice cracked halfway through the sentence, and she cackled harshly as she rolled onto her back—partially untangling herself from Draco.
The wizard sent her a dark glower, and quickly descended on her with a barrage of kisses.
Hermione's cackling died in the back of her throat when Draco roughly slammed his cock back into her.
"You know I hate being called that," Draco snarled.
"I know...which only makes it more fun," Hermione gasped, her back arching into Draco as he drove in and out of her; her eyes clenched shut.
Draco's arms were on either side of her head keeping himself propped up—careful to avoid all of her hair—and with a wry smile he stopped moving.
Hermione's eyes flew open.
"I think you were in the middle of an apology," Draco said innocently.
"You don't play fair…" Hermione scoffed, and with a mocking smile she continued, "...I'm sorry, I love you very much."
"Doesn't sound sincere," Draco said with gaiety, sinking himself back into her just enough to draw a whimper from her lips.
"This is ridiculous," Hermione whinged.
"Apologise," Draco requested merrily, grey eyes bubbling with sadistic elation. The witch was stubborn as a mule, so it took a few moments before she eventually said, "I'm sorry."
"Glad we could sort that out," Draco said, and his expression transformed into a tender one as he said, "I love you."
"You're a sadistic arsehole, but I love you too."
Draco whispered something inaudible before claiming her lips once again.
Hermione was floating on a dream, soaring above its fluffy white clouds and her heart was a rainbow of emotion. He may be a sadistic arsehole, but he's my sadistic arsehole.
The pair shagged into the early morning, and they fell asleep as the sun decided to peek above the horizon, and neither of them emerged from their sanctuary until well into the afternoon.
Dorea already had tea and breakfast—with a stasis charm on it—waiting in the Sun room where she was cuddled into Charlus as she read the Prophet and Charlus took a small nap. James was lying on the floor a few feet away recounting some of their tales from this past school year; Hermione and Draco giddily joined in and the house echoed with laughter.
Later that afternoon the Potter siblings stopped by Sirius's flat in Diagon Alley to assist him with the final touches on the place: he'd gotten some new furniture over the last week and needed help arranging it. Draco and Sirius whipped up some grub with one pan, enthusiasm and plenty of seasonings.
At some point they had a somersault competition (Sirius won, but James gave him a run for his money). Hermione couldn't hold a handstand, so Draco held her feet and the pair collapsed onto the ground in a mess of rowdy laughter. Hermione gave James's hair a trim, and 'accidentally' cut off a couple inches more than James wanted; he was in desperate need of a haircut.
The four christened the flat properly with a couple shots of Firewhisky and some exuberant speeches.
It was one in the morning when the three boys passed out on the floor; all tuckered out. Hermione diligently crept over to the fireplace—ensuring she was as quiet as a mouse—and flooed Dorea to let her know they would be staying at Sirius's for the night.
When Hermione settled down on the floor with the boys, she curled her way around them and rested her head on Draco's chest. Hermione Potter fell asleep that night, warm and filled with good food, toasty Firewhisky and happy thoughts.
A lot of people have asked me when the next future/present scene is going to be, and NEVER. Nah, I'm only joking. On a serious note though, the time that passes in the future/present is about a week and a half for every year in the past. So I have to space them out.
Not sure if that makes sense or not, but the short answer is the next one is chapter 126 (127 on FFN's site, because I offset my chapters since chapter 9 isn't a real chapter).