Title: Forever On His Arm and In His Heart
Ratings/warnings: 1st-2nd Years, character death
A/N: Apparently, the Tattoo Artist is an actual shop on Diagon Alley. It makes an appearance in the second Lego Harry Potter game.
Walking down Diagon Alley, George trembled at the familiar sights and smells. Even from a distance his store looked sad and abandoned. He’d been away for a month. This was the first day Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes would be opened without one of its co-founders. The thought still made George weak in the knees. How could he run the store without Fred? How could he do anything without Fred?
Trying to keep his mind focused on business, he continued towards the store. He was thinking about inventory when a sign caught his attention: QUICK, PAINLESS, HYGENIC, TATTOO ARTIST. Was that always there? He should know what businesses were on the street, but the building was a mystery to him.
Without making a conscious decision to do so, he entered the small building. Inside it was dark and cramped. The tiny room he found himself in gave an eerie vibe that normally belonged in Knockturn Alley. Realizing he had no reason to be there, George turned to leave.
“Can I help you with something, sonny?” a husky male voice asked.
When George looked back a man cloaked all in black stood behind a small wooden table.
“I don’t think so,” George replied.
“You sure?” the man persisted. “You don’t have a girl you want to commemorate with some ink? Maybe a loved one you want to remember?”
The last suggestion caused George to reconsider his hasty retreat. Maybe that was the reason he’d wandered into this shop in the first place.
“Can you do a name?’ he asked. “Just a name?
“Of course, I can boy,” the man replied, stepping out from behind the table. “What do you take me for? I can do anything your little heart desires. I am the Tattoo Artist.”
“Right,” George replied. This was the type of guy he and Fred would’ve had a lot of fun with. In some ways, he was even reminiscent of Filch. He was certainly equally attractive. But on his own, no jokes came to mind. “I want a name on my left forearm.”
The wizard raised an eyebrow. “Left forearm?”
“That’s right,” George said, knowing Fred would appreciate this part. “When Death Eaters look there they can be reminded of evil and pain. When I look there I’ll be reminded of love and a brother lost too soon.”
A few minutes later, George left the shop with Fred’s name forever embossed on his arm and a slight smile on his face.
Ratings/warnings: 1st-2nd, none
A/N: I hope you enjoy the drabble.
After the Battle of Hogwarts, the clean up, the funerals, Cho Chang turned her back on the wizarding world. She was a half-blood, with one Muggle grandparent, even if her parents were a witch and a wizard. Even if she didn’t have much experience with the Muggle world, she had some. She moved into Muggle London, exchanged her Galleons for pounds and tried to put herself back together.
No one knew her here. The streets were quiet. The Muggles had no idea that in Britain, there had been a war... that children had fought and died in that war.
Everyone had suffered that year, but everyone else bore their scars on the outside. Fred had lost an ear to Snape. Hermione had the scars that Bellatrix had carved in. Terry’s left hand had been severed.
Somehow, Cho had escaped unmarked from the War. She had been safe from the Carrows, because she had graduated. She had been safe from the Snatchers and the Ministry investigations because she was a half-blood. Her family had been safe: her mother was a half-blood, her father was a pure-blood. Her Muggle grandmother had died years earlier. She looked at Mrs. Tonks and wondered why she had to lose her husband, her daughter and her son-in-law, when the Changs had been completely spared. Cho had come back to Hogwarts to fight, but she hadn’t suffered - not like the others.
Cho stood, looking at herself in a full length mirror. She wasn’t wearing a thing, but her skin still looked near flawless. The Healer said it was a miracle that she had healed without a scratch. She just felt disgusting.
Cho needed something. It wasn’t fair that she was the only one without marks on her skin. She picked up a pen and started drawing on her skin. In her mind, Cedric was Qudditch, Hufflepuff, dreams, first love, first kiss, and first loss. She drew broomsticks, a Snitch, badgers, hearts, and butterflies. Michael was Potions, books, Ravenclaw, second chances, starting over, but losing again. She kept drawing until she had covered her body with memories and ink.
After a few days, the ink faded away. She needed it to be permanent.
* * *
“Aren’t you a little young to be getting ink? Law says you have to be at least eighteen.” The tattoo artist gave her a skeptical look.
They had all been young. Colin had just been sixteen.
“I’m nineteen.” She was old enough to fight, to die, to kill... and she had.
A few hours later, Cho walked out of the shop with a bandage around her right wrist and a badger inked on her skin. It hurt, but it felt right.
It wasn’t enough, but it was a start.
Title: How Vain, Romilda.
It’s no use, Ginny thinks irritably, snapping her book shut. The common room is too noisy, making it impossible for her to concentrate on her revision. Getting up from the plushy red armchair, she decides to head towards the library.
“Ginny!” sings a familiar, annoying voice.
The red-head sighs and stops walking. It takes her every bit of self-restraint not to turn around and Jinx the girl who had called her; instead, Ginny turns around and smiles at her with the most sugary smile she can muster.
“Yes, Romilda?” she asks sweetly.
The brunette flashes a grin, baring her super-white and flawlessly straight teeth. “How are you, dear? And how’s Harry?”
Of course, Ginny thinks, resisting the urge to roll her eyes. Ever since the day Harry kissed her (Ginny’s heart flutters at the thought), Romilda had been following her around incessantly, like a dog behind its master, trying to get her to reveal secrets about their relationship. This, on top of all her other worries, annoys Ginny to no end.
“Harry and I are both fine, thank you for asking,” she replies through gritted teeth. “Now, if you don’t mind, I need to revise for -”
“Oh, Ginny, you wouldn’t believe the rumours I’ve been hearing about Harry,” Romilda says dramatically, ignoring her. “I can’t help but ask -”
“Bet you could,” Ginny mutters under her breath.
“- is it true that he’s got a Hippogriff tattooed across his chest?”
Ginny raises an eyebrow. She can’t believe how vain Romilda can be; people are dying all around them, and all she finds worth talking about is Harry and his tattoo, which Ginny is pretty sure doesn’t exist.
“No, it’s not.”
“But Marissa from Ravenclaw said -”
“Well, if you must know, it’s a Hungarian Horntail,” Ginny says derisively, hoping that it’ll shut her up. “I believe I’d know better about my boyfriend than some Ravenclaw Harry doesn’t even know.”
Romilda’s already large eyes widen further. “Seriously? And I heard Ron’s -”
“He might have a Pygmy Puff for all I care!” Ginny snaps, losing her patience. “I’ve got to revise for my OWLs, Romilda, so if you don’t mind -” and without waiting for an answer she traipses away, whipping her hair backwards with the back of her hand, leaving the other girl speechless and staring after her.
Ratings/warnings: 1st-2nd years, slash
A/N: Started with "tattoo" and went from there. Hope this is okay even though it doesn't feature an actual tattoo.
What do you do when perfection stands before you?
When what you had thought could only exist in dreams, suddenly appears just as real as the mundane surroundings?
Before he came, Albus had thought perfection and appeal couldn’t exist in the same being. To him, a beautiful face had to be marred by at least one big flaw, in order for the allure of the entirety to manifest itself. Otherwise, he’d find it uninteresting and slippery and it would slide from his grasp. He had thought that if he ever came across a perfect face, he wouldn’t be able to comprehend it. That it would pass him by, because there was nothing in it to catch his eye.
Then that blonde man came along and all his presumptions were blown out like weak candle-lights.
From the moment he first saw Gellert, his image burned in his mind. Like a tattoo on the back of his eyelids, a crooked smile and a knowing stare, mocking him every time he closed his eyes…
Eyes bright enough to burn him. Lashes like a curtain in front of them. Veiled gaze, clear and unsteady at the same time. His posture and height were like that of a tamed predator’s. He dressed and carried himself like a dapper tramp and his facial expressions could contain just as much boyish glee as stately pride.
Equal amounts of youngster and gentleman in him.
A deep and slightly hoarse voice, which at times swung higher, a way of expressing himself like no one else possessed.
Gellert, only eighteen and more of a man than anyone Albus had ever met.
Pulsating light and magnetic darkness.
A man so intensely alive.
Albus had lived in books, in his dreams and in his mind – Gellert lived in reality.
He wasn’t a dream. He wasn’t a schoolboy fantasy. He was a human being of flesh and blood and dancing eyes, breathing the same air as Albus, laughing with him every day, sweating in the same warmth, so close.
Close, but never close enough.
They could talk for hours, shuttle-cocking light phrases and hidden meanings between them. Words thrown, chasing each other, coiling and curling while illusions unraveled around them. A language that no one else would understand. The mediocre world couldn’t reach them. They flew higher, farther away each day, shooting upwards to meet the stars.
And every night when Albus turned to leave, he did so with an ache and a song in his heart, knowing those eyes would continue to pierce him through the night, for they were now branded onto his retinas. Almost like he’d been staring into the sun. Two points of fire to burn him until he could be there, with him, again.
What do you do when perfection stands before you?
You make every last effort to remain in its presence.
Title: The Stag and The Dragon
Ratings/warnings: 3rd-5th years, for references to substance abuse
A/N: This was very fun to write.
“You’ve done what?” Ginny said into the two-way mirror.
“It’s not like Muggle ones,” said Harry guiltily from the other end. “It doesn’t hurt or bleed or anything. Well, not much anyway.”
Ginny snorted with a surprising elegance, gained through extensive practice. “What’s it of?”
Harry looked away sheepishly. “It’s a Hungarian Horntail, right across my chest.” The picture shifted as Harry, taking a deep breath, tilted his mirror to show Ginny the offending area.
Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Very nice I’m sure. Inspired by my comments in fifth year?”
“It was Seamus’ idea,” countered Harry defensively. “He said that when you first came out with that, he got Dean to design one for him. He never actually got it done - kept wimping out - but he still had the picture lying around. His flat wasn’t far from the pub we were in at the time, and he’d left a window open, so he Summoned it for me.”
“And you were drunk enough to make use of it,” stated Ginny, trying not to laugh.
“Um, basically, yeah.”
She rolled her eyes. “That’s the trouble with leaving the stag do 'til the night before the wedding; there's no time to deal with stuff like this. I did warn you. I had hoped that having Percy there would keep a lid on things. I specifically asked him to keep an eye on you.”
Somehow, Harry managed to look even more sheepish. “Actually, well, George sort of got rid of him.”
This time Ginny couldn’t contain a burst of laughter. “How on earth did he manage that? Percy with an obligation is like a Niffler with an engagement ring.”
“And who could forget that?” Harry laughed. He shook his head and went on. “Actually, George may or may not have forged a note from that French girl Percy’s been going on about.”
“What, that friend of Fleur’s he met when he went out to France? The one who must have been the only non-Veela there?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Audrey thingamajig.”
“Chastain, I think. So Percy dashed off to see her?”
Harry nodded with a grin. “He had had enough to drink at that point to he believe exactly what he, or in this case, we wanted. Even Victoire would have known the significance of the smirk on her Uncle Dordie’s face.”
Ginny smiled fondly into space. “Bless the spoilt little sweetheart.” Remembering the business at hand, she focused on Harry again. “Hermione’s given you the hangover potion?”
“Yeah, about ten minutes ago,” confirmed Harry. “She’ll be busy today, between sorting out me and Ron, getting herself ready and looking after you.”
“I don’t need looking after, thank you very much,” Ginny exclaimed. She paused, and a wicked grin spread across her face. “I’m not the idiot with the hangover and the dragon tattoo!”
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