into the business at the age of twelve, which is obviously where his nick name had originated, and all
skeptics had to do is look him over once to have all their doubts set aside. The Kid was what the Muggles
called a tattoo artist of sorts, and it would have taken at least twenty six years to do the work over on
himself that he had. He was white, but you wouldn’t be able to tell from a distance. It really depended what
part of his body you looked at nowadays. Ink was his second skin, loosely fitting designs of different shapes
and colors that all intertwined, and seemed more weird than anything else... until you looked closer. Under
magnification smaller patterns were evident, smaller color schemes, and more intertwining. He was like a
human tapestry.
He was also said to be one of the most powerful wizards in the eastern hemisphere.
Wizard tattoos are different than the cheap Muggle imitations. The ink they use are really potions. Subtle
ones, yes, but potions nonetheless, and they are as useful as they are artistic. Special boons could be given
by the presence of some of those potions, special protections given by the right symbol or the right design.
The truly talented artists in the craft were said to be able to contain spells in the tattoos they drew, to lie
dormant until called upon by the sigils wearer. Needless to say, there was no removing of wizard tattoos.
Draco placed the bag on the table in front of the kid. It hit the table with an almost impossibly loud noise for
an item that small, and it was obvious what the contents were before the Kid even glanced up. Gold. It was
generally not his asking favor in return for the gifts he granted, but by the looks of the young man in front of
him, gold was all he really had to give. And those eyes... haunted. Though he’d never admit it to anyone-
after all, he was a man of business- he felt right then that if Draco had not even had the gold, he would have
done the tattoo for free.
Eyes rimmed in a painting of steely curved scimitar blades glanced up and looked Draco over. “What are
you looking for?” he asked him, in a voice marred with the rasp of someone who doesn’t get out much. Or
at all.
Draco’s face didn’t twitch under the piercing gaze. “Protection,” he said simply, “against a kiss.”
For a moment, The Kid drew a blank, and then recognition flickered into his eyes. He frowned, then picked
up the bag of gold, weighing it with his hands, which he maintained were the only scale he would ever need.
“I think I can help,” he said, “but were going to need to change your face a bit.”
Without speaking, Draco pulled back his hair, revealing the scar on his forehead. His eyes said the words.
My face has already been changed. And I don’t care.
The Kid sighed, and pulled up his wand. Sixteen inches, ultra thin, ultra whinny. “OK then,” he said.
***
It was raining out, but Hermione couldn’t tell, even if she had been facing the window. Water running from
her eyes would substitute just fine for the tears dripping from the heavens. Her lamp remained unlit, and the
piles of books and papers on the desk in front of her were untouched. Her chair rocked softly with her in it,
but she didn’t notice that either. Her knees were drawn up to her chest and her arms were wrapped around
them, her chin jammed firmly up top. She remembered sitting like this when she was a scared little girl, and it
seemed appropriate now.
“Oh Harry...” she moaned.
It seemed so wrong, so unfair. He’d survived the strongest known curse thrown by the world’s strongest
dark wizard, and some psychotic in law had simply snuffed him out with a rifle. It was horrible, and it was
unreal. Hermione had simply refused to belief it at once. But shed gone to the hospital anyway, just to prove
them wrong, and then had seen him. His body had been whole, they’d repaired him fine... just not quickly
enough. His eyes had been closed, thank gods, but she could still feel him staring at her...
A knock came at her door and she jumped, hard, almost spilling off her chair. Wondering if her parents had
gotten home from their vacation she quickly wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt and rushed to the
door. Anyone, or anything to talk to would be better than sitting here alone. Even Neville, at a time like this.
Anyone. Hastily she threw open the door... and realized shed been wrong.
“You!” she nearly choked, “What do you want?”
Draco was framed in the doorway, rain pouring down over him, but he seemed oblivious. He was
momentarily surprised. He and Harry had been living together for a bit now, and it was a complete secret.
So in Dumbledore’s words, that Harry had recited to him, naturally the whole school knew. Oh course,
Harry would make it a point not to let Ron and Hermione know, wouldn’t he? Love or not, they wouldn’t
exactly take it with bright smiles. And then he remembered it was raining.
“Can I come in?” he muttered, and Hermione recoiled at how raw his voice sounded. Then she nodded
numbly. Draco sighed and nodded in appreciation, then stepped inside.
Hermione followed closely behind him. “Draco, what are you... oh my god. What happened to you? You
look worse than...” she froze, realizing how horribly morbid what she was about to say was, and suddenly
burst into tears. Draco made no move to comfort her, because he had no comfort to offer. His grief was
levels beyond hers.
“Than Harry. I know. And yeah, I probably do...” the cut aside, the Kid had gone at him with coal black ink,
tracing interlocking tiger stripes over his cheeks, looping around his eyes, and two each hooking down
around his jaw like ant mandibles. It made him look like some kind of skeleton. Of course, if it worked, it
worked... and looks no longer mattered. He decided to simply go out and explain things. “I need your help,
Hermione.”
She looked up at him through streaming tears, sniffed once, and hiccuped. “With what?”
Draco paused. He had no idea how to say this. A week ago he would have smirked and detailed specific
ways he and Harry had fucked like rabbits. But now... he took a deep breath. “Harry and I have been living
together. I was there when his uncle shot him.”
Silence. Dead silence.
“His Uncle wasn’t just acting on impulse... he’d been hexed. And you know exactly who it was that was
responsible. I’m going after him.”
Hermione gazes at him in disbelief, obviously trying to process one fraction of this information. She
responded with the only thing she could think of. “You’re crazy.”
Draco nodded. “Yeah. Uh... yep. I am. I can still hear him you know.”
Hermione jerked as if she had been slapped. “You what?”
He shrugged. “I still hear him. He... well, he doesn’t really talk. I hear him chanting... he’s crying a lot of the
time. So yes, I’m just a little crazy.”
“Posmorta Conncocta...”
Draco looked at her as if shed joined him in the depths of insanity. “What?”
Hermione looked very pale all of the sudden. “Harry always talked about it... he still heard his parents for
years, until he turned eleven... he thought he was just making it up, imagining a set of parents to make
himself happy. But he looked into it. And there are a few records... posmorta conncocta. The dead
contacting with the living. Not real conversation but... a message, I guess.”
Draco continued to stare at her. She cleared her throat. “You do know were never going to see you again if
you go after him, right?” she asked, “Too many have been lost today...”
“That’s the plan,” Draco said simply. Hermione nodded. Typical.
“What do you need?” She asked.
“For starters,” he said, “an address. And a potion. For transfiguration.”
***
Sirius Black stepped outside the door, the weight of the pack on his back unfelt across his muscular
shoulders. His face had returned to the state it had been in Azkaban... gaunt, drawn, and pale. He didn’t
know why he’d come here before setting off. The shrieking shack held so many horrible memories... of
course, that might have been the point. He was adding this one, the worst of them all, to the stockpile,
before ending it all. Because he was going to repeat himself after fifteen years. But this was no Peter
Pettigrew he was hunting. He was heading after a much bigger fish.
“Sirius.”
The voice was choked, but still familiar. Sirius could remember it sounding smugger, lighter, only a week
ago... he had gone to visit Harry, as he often did now that he was out on his own, and couldn’t say he’d
been entirely surprised to find out what was going on under that roof. “Hullo, Draco,” he said, and it
sounded like he was screaming it, but softly. He didn’t figure he’d ever be able to talk correctly again. It was
like someone had slit his throat, taking his vocal chords with it. Or at least some of them.
“You aren’t going anywhere, Sirius.”
Stunned, this time Black did turn around. What was this, another betrayal in his life? He would kill Draco
with his bare hands if it was. But the man he saw standing there was not Draco Malfoy. Whoever it was, it
wore his face... decorated, yes, but his... but there was nothing Draco in that expression. His angry retort
was cut off, and he kind of exhaled his improvised question. “What are you talking about?”
Draco walked up to him, and laid a hand on his shoulder. Sirius would take it as sympathy, but he knew that
wasn’t what it was. It was comradary. Draco was empty, and he knew Sirius was empty too. He was just
acknowledging that fact. “I’m going, Sirius, and we can’t both go.”
Sirius closed his eyes tightly, pain jarring threw him. He knew what was coming, and he felt like he was
being robbed from a conquest that should be his, but he also knew he would do whatever Harry’s lover
asked of him. “Because you need me to give you some power.”
Draco nodded at him. “Borrow it, really,” he joked, with no humor in his voice, “I don’t think Ill be able to
keep it for very long. But you’re the only one I can ask. Because you’re the only one who feels the same
way.”
Sirius heaved a sigh. He turned to Draco, and his face was the face of a lost man. “I considered Harry my
son. You know that, don’t you?”
With a nod, Draco screamed inside his head. He could not deal with any one elses hurt, he wasn’t even
dealing with his own. “I know.”
Sirius placed his hand on Draco’s forehead, over the scar. “I think that, with time, I would have thought of
you the same way. Lets go into Hogsmeade. Well need some ingredients for the instill energy charm...”
Draco cut him off by holding up a bag of his own. “They’re all right here. I made a stop with someone who
knows this sort of thing.”
Eyeing Draco’s tattoos, Snape nodded. Of course he did. “All right,” he said, and reached into his backpack.
he pulled out a knife, and calmly pressed it against his forearm, easily slicing through the cloak there, and
ripped it to the side. He didn’t make a sound as the blood began to fall, and Draco held out his hand,
catching the spilling drops.
Step one, Sirius thought. Step one.