Title: my skin is the sky- give me stars
Summary: The five times Draco chooses to ink his skin and the one time he has the chance to make his own. / To Padfoot.
Dedication: To Padfoot, who will probably never read this due to the fact that she doesn't know about this account.
AN: Yes, I should be working on Hello, but I missed writing oneshots. I hope you enjoy.
the first [black] star
He doesn't know how Blaise has managed to convince him to do this.
Right now he sits in one of the many abandoned desks, waiting for the artist and looking over a catalog of different tattoos. There are wands, stupid sayings, and even more stupid cartoons that are charmed to move. (Oh, Merlin- he really hopes that Blaise doesn't force him to get one of those.) The dungeon is dank and cool, a hint of mildew in the air. Still, Draco felt his skin beginning to clam up. You're a bloody Malfoy- get over it.
They are alone.
Blaise is on his right, glancing over his shoulder and chattering at a speed so fast that Draco could make out a few key phrases. ("-we should get ma-" "Ooh, but this-" "Who the bloody hell would get one of those?")
Draco unconsciously reaches for his tie, fingers slipping amongst themselves as they slip against the air. That was one of the conditions, Blaise had explained before, all Houses and their members were to be considered equal in the dungeon. There were even rumors of Dumbledore marching down clad in a set of faded silver robes and a black coat, ready to get a map of Hogsmade on his knee.
"Hullo," a girl says, arriving and armed with some Muggle machine and her wand. "Are you them?"
"Them?" Blaise asks.
The girl waves a hand, sighing. "Them- the ones who want to be inked."
"Um- yeah. We're them."
The girl narrows her eyes at the two before nodding, gaining some sort of satisfaction from her skimming. She tosses her light brown hair over her shoulder before twisting it into some sort of bun. "Well, then." She plops herself into a desk besides them, scooting closer to the two. "What year are you in?"
"Fifth."
She hums in understanding. "A bit young."
"Look who's talking- you're like a bleeding third year."
She narrows her eyes again, shooting Blaise a glare. "Shut up or I will make some sort of accident."
"That would be unwise, Greengrass." Draco says, shedding his cloak and starting to unbutton his cuffs.
The girl's eyes widens slightly, but otherwise she has the grace to not look like a deer caught in headlights. "Malfoy."
"Wait," Blaise interrupts, looking back and forth from Draco to the girl, then to Draco again. "You know this girl?"
"You don't?" Draco asks, a challenge hidden under his tone, before turning to gaze at the girl. "Astoria Greengrass. Third year." He holds out a hand. "Charmed."
"Wait, you're actually a third year?" Blaise exclaims, "How did you get the Muggle machine, then? How are you able to do this?"
The girl -Astoria- pointedly ignores Blaise and huffs, but accepts Draco's hand. Her shake is one of a business woman's. "I'd never thought I'd meet you here."
"Likewise." At this, he begins to unbutton his shirt and loosen his collar. Astoria raises an eyebrow, but doesn't say a word.
"What'dya want?"
"The star," he decides, pointing to the simple five-pointed figure on the page- a star with no filling, simply just an outline and nothing more.
"Where?"
"Right underneath my collar-" He tugs down his collar and craned his neck to the left. "-here."
"At the nape?" Astoria asks, before shrugging. "I could do that."
...
At the end of the year, he returns to the dungeons to fill it. It wasn't a tribute to that- that blood traitor, of course, nor the life he was prepping to leave behind.
The only way Draco could see it was when he looked in the mirror, which he did surprisingly more often after the gauze came off. Looking at his skin felt like a discovery, like gazing at an unmapped land.
the Mark
It stains his skin in a foreboding manner, the deep black curves prominent, due to the bright contrast of his pale skin. He stares at it sometimes, just like how he used to stare at the star on his neck.
He hates it.
It was a mark of ownership the Dark Lord had branded him with, demoting him to the status of cattle.
And that's all the thought he cared to give it.
the dragon
He gets the sleeve in the Muggle world two years after he'd left school, in the attempt to forget of his past.
It spirals from his left shoulder and down to his wrist, its monstrous jaw opened and prepared to devour the space where the Dark Mark had faded.
It takes him months before he lets Astoria trace the polychromatic drawing with her fingers, which seem to dance with dainty innocence as they trail the angry reds and blues that occupy his skin.
He likes to imagine that the dragon is flying, flying away from all the terrors and being just as afraid as he was. (Is, Astoria would sometimes dare to correct, Is, darling- it's okay to be afraid.)
the second set of stars
He meets her again, but she doesn't give him his fourth tattoo.
All she does is raise an eyebrow while her Muggle friend, Joanne, draws on his back. Draco could swear he could feel the heat of her jealousy searing into his back.
The scorpion in the middle of his back weighs on him as a self-contradictory happy omen.
...
The fact that Joanne gave him the tattoo does nothing to ward off Astoria- instead, she skims her fingers along the creature's frame.
He gives an uncharacteristic shiver, which he could feel vibrate through Astoria.
"Shh," She hushes softly, before taking his lips.
the halo on his finger
He returns to his first artist, who retrieves her equipment from the attic ("Are you really that suprised that I still have it? I'm not going to give this thing away- whether there's a war going on or not,") and he lets her seal herself to him, lets her draw the covenant that will bond them forever.
The tattoo holds a certain air of alluring magic, which causes him to create the habit of rubbing it continuously, as he would rub a ring. Astoria, Astoria, Astoria, the ink says, staining and holding boldly against the shifting of his fingers. Astoria, Astoria, Astoria.
The name circles the base of his ring finger in a halo, clinging to his skin as a reminder of her. Astoria, the girl who introduced him to ink. Astoria, the one with countless stars on her back ("One for each person I've lost,") Astoria, with the dove on her shoulder, Astoria, with skin he could trace like constellations, with stars that guide him home.
the ribbon he tied to her
She doesn't let a single painful sound escape her as he draws his name on her finger.
When he finishes, he want to say something poetic, something witty, but nothing comes to his mind. Instead, he cocks his head to the side and places the machine on their bedside table. "It looks horrible."
She laughs at him as he fetches the gauze. Once he's finished wrapping her finger up, he realizes they're both matching.
"Like wife, like husband." She says, grinning and holding up her hand.
This time, he laughs and then something hits him- he's happy. He's achieved that level of emotional height that there can't possibly be something beyond that.
He wraps his painted arm around her waist, letting them both fall to the bed with breathless laughs. He spins a piece of brown hair in between his fingers.
Astoria. He recalls as he catches a glimpse of her hand. She's his, and he's hers. It's as simple as that.