Chapter Text
He knew he should not have accepted the last appointment of the afternoon to tattoo and cover for Lucien. He was already tired and needed to put on his reading glasses in order to keep working. But the pay was good, and talking with clients sometimes helped him cope with his stupid dream of once having wanted to be a mental healer.
Lucien had offered him an opportunity when he was in France, and now, as a magical ink potion-maker and tattoo artist in a small studio located far from Magical London, he could get by better than he had ever imagined, and that way his mother would not force him to return to the Manor that had once been his home.
The problem was that Lucien was not there.
Neither his sober-colored coat, nor the scent of expensive perfume, nor his lilting French voice filled the studio. He had only left behind an enchanted note floating above the counter, which Draco read with a tired sigh.
Je reviens bientôt. Urgence.
"Of course," Draco murmured, adjusting his sleeves wearily. "You always have emergencies."
He rubbed the bridge of his nose and checked the clock. He still had time before closing, and canceling last-minute appointments was not something he did lightly. Not after learning what it meant for some people to cross that door.
The bell rang just as he felt the presence of a familiar magic, recognizable through routine.
Draco looked up… and the world slipped out of place.
"Luna is right," he heard a voice coming from the entrance. "This isn’t just art."
Hermione Granger stood at the entrance of the studio, looking at the designs on the wall with a mix of fascination and contained nervousness. She did not carry the tense posture of someone who came out of curiosity; she carried the body of someone who had thought about this for a long time.
Draco’s stomach clenched abruptly.
No.
No, no, no.
All his runes reacted at once. Not as a warning, but as recognition. Known presence. Shared history. Old pain, perhaps a bitter feeling he had thought was new.
Hermione Granger was not supposed to be there.
Not in his space.
Not in something he had built far away from that past.
Not in something he still held together with trembling hands on bad days.
He watched her turn.
"…Malfoy."
The name landed with the exact weight needed to open wounds Draco had learned to seal with flowers and symbols around his body.
He thought about saying something.
He thought about saying many things.
But then he really saw her.
He saw the careful way she held herself. The firm decision beneath the nervousness. The forced calm of someone who had already been to mental healers, who had already cried what needed to be cried, who was not there to argue about the past.
And he understood.
She did not come as the brilliant witch he had once known at school.
She did not come as a war survivor.
Much less as the woman the newspapers announced as practically destined for greatness, to become the first woman Minister for Magic.
So he did the only thing he knew how to do when something was too important to break, ruin, get beaten over, and then throw away: he became professional.
"Welcome," he said, lowering his gaze slightly. "Do you have an appointment?"
He saw her blink. He saw the impact. And it hurt more than he was willing to admit.
"Luna Lovegood recommended the studio," she said. "I was told the person in charge was someone named Lucien Valcourt. He told me my design was already ready in the last owl I received."
Thanks, Luna, I can always count on you, he thought with bitter irony.
"Lucien had to step out," he replied. "I can take care of you, or we can reschedule. I truly have no problem with either option."
"You…?" She stopped. "Don’t… don’t we know each other well enough for you to treat me like this?"
Draco tilted his head slightly, studying her as if she were just another client.
"Not that I recall," he lied, his voice steady.
Silence fell like a poorly cast spell.
Draco felt the temptation to tell the truth burn his tongue, but this was not the place, and probably not the time either. Not yet.
He watched her compose herself. He admired it, even. Hermione Granger had always been extraordinary at that: not falling apart when the ground opened beneath her.
"Oh," she said finally, stiff. "Then I must be mistaken."
"It happens, don’t worry," he replied, his tone perfectly controlled. "If you like, you can sit down. Tell me what you’re looking for."
Hermione moved automatically, still stunned. She sat in front of the worktable, watching Draco wash his hands with almost ritual care, counting the turns his fingers made as they brushed the folds of his skin, now cold from the anxiety he was experiencing. Seeing Luna was, at least for now, less painful than casually running into Hermione Granger.
Every movement of his was measured. Precise. As if his body knew exactly what to do in order not to betray him.
"This studio works with transformative magic and different potion-based inks, as well as some runes," he explained, still not looking at her. "We don’t cover just to cover. The ink binds to intention and to each person’s magical core. So I need to know one thing."
He finally looked up.
The runes on his back vibrated faintly, like a cat’s purr. Not from threat. From recognition.
"What do you wish to leave behind… and what do you want to remain?"
Hermione felt something in her throat break.
When she sat down and rolled up her sleeve, Draco understood why fate had punished him with this coincidence.
The word was there.
Cruel.
Indecent.
Disfigured.
And for the first time in years, Draco Malfoy did not feel anger.
He felt respect.
I won’t ask her anything she doesn’t want to say, he promised himself. I won’t break what she came to repair.
"It’s not to forget," she said, her voice firm even though her fingers trembled. "It’s to move forward. I have a daughter. And she deserves a world that doesn’t start there. It’s a precaution, for when she starts reading on her own," Hermione added, distractedly stirring her fingers.
Draco took a deep breath. He hadn’t realized he was holding it until he let all the air leave his lungs.
"I understand."
It was perhaps the first honest word he had spoken since Granger walked in.
"I’ll need to prepare the ink, and if you already had an appointment, Luc should have the design somewhere here," he added, lowering his gaze. "This isn’t done lightly."
Hermione nodded.
"I should clarify that this doesn’t erase," he said honestly. "It transforms."
And as he prepared the ink, with hands steadier than he felt inside, Draco knew one thing with absolute certainty:
Pretending not to know her was the safest option, but he was not going to pretend not to take care of her.
Hermione did not speak right away; she was probably entertaining herself by observing the designs on the walls.
He knew the silence wouldn’t last. It never did with her.
"Do you always pretend not to know people when it suits you, or am I a special case?"
There it was. Granger’s sharp tongue. Clean and without the need to raise her voice, just as he remembered it, though sometimes he remembered her fist slamming into his face more clearly than the voice he hated admitting he listened to on the radio.
Draco lifted his gaze just enough to see her reflected in the glass of a shelf.
"It wouldn’t benefit you for me to know you, especially since I don’t anymore," he replied with controlled honesty. "Not here and not now, at least."
Hermione let out a short, humorless laugh.
"Of course. Because nothing says new beginning like being ignored by someone who used to call me by my surname with contempt."
That hurt. Not because it was false, but because it simply wasn’t true anymore.
Draco searched through his parchments for the one Lucien had labeled for the 5:30 session, carefully removing his glasses.
"I didn’t do it to punish you," he said. "I did it because if we start being who we were, I won’t be able to do my job properly."
Hermione watched him. Truly this time.
"I didn’t come to argue about the war," she said at last. "I came because I have a daughter who’s going to start reading, and I don’t want the first word she discovers etched into my skin to be a memory I’ve already overcome."
She didn’t need to say it.
Draco nodded slowly.
"I can cover it," he said. "Not erase it. I usually transform it. With something that moves, that distracts the eye. Something that protects, if you want runes."
Hermione took a deep breath and lowered her gaze. She knew she was watching the daffodils on her arm bloom to conceal what had once been her sentence. She relaxed her breathing so they closed into small buds, allowing her to notice the well-done work Lucien had once offered to do.
"Luna said your tattoos… live in the skin, and I’ve seen how some of them move on your body. They’re beautiful."
"Some do," he corrected. "If they’re asked properly and the inks blend well with the magical core."
Hermione looked at her arm, thoughtful.
"Not today," she added. "But later… I’d like to tattoo a Patronus. Can you give me a quote afterward?"
Draco blinked.
"Yours?"
She shook her head gently.
"Ron’s."
There was no drama in her voice. Only affection.
"It’s a dog," she added. "Ron has always been very loyal, and now with Rose… he’s a good father."
Draco felt something loosen in his chest.
"I can do it," he said. "Whenever you want. Just, you know… schedule it and all that."
Draco’s hands returned to preparing the needles.
At that moment, the bell rang. Lucien was speaking calmly with Luna in fluent French on his side and somewhat clumsy French on Luna’s.
"Ah!" said a cheerful voice. "I see I arrived just in time."
Luna Lovegood entered the studio as if there were no tension in the air at all, wearing a wide smile and a coat full of embroidered patches. Lucien, on the other hand, still had his coat damp from the rain. He took both coats and hung them on the rack by the entrance.
The tattoos of magical creatures on Luna’s skin moved slowly beneath the surface, a blue rabbit crossing her shoulder, chasing birds along the path of her collarbones.
"Hermione," Luna greeted from the entrance as she approached her friend. "I’m glad you finally came."
"Je ne savais pas que nous travaillions aujourd'hui avec d'anciennes connaissances." he finally said lightly, in French.
Draco did not look up.
"Nous ne le faisons pas."
Lucien raised an eyebrow, amused, and understood that the no was not a denial, but a boundary.
"Understood."
He approached Hermione with impeccable courtesy.
"Lucien Valcourt," he introduced himself. "I’m the head of the studio. If you need anything, or if you’d prefer that I continue, I’d be happy to."
Hermione looked at him, then at Draco, and something in her eyes hardened.
"No," she replied. "He can finish the work, if you don’t mind."
Lucien caught the tension. He accepted it without questioning.
"As you wish."
Before leaving, he leaned slightly toward Draco.
"You’re very good at protecting fragile things," he murmured. "Sometimes too good."
Draco pressed his lips together.
Lucien walked away. Hermione looked at Luna. Then at Draco. And back to Luna.
"Luna," she said, with dangerously polite calm. "You forgot to mention an important detail."
Luna tilted her head.
"That Draco is very good at listening without interrupting?"
Draco closed his eyes for a second.
"Or that Draco is Draco Malfoy," Hermione added.
Luna smiled wider.
"I thought it would be better if you discovered it on your own."
Hermione sighed, just a little defeated.
"I still don’t understand how I always fall for it if you always do this."
"Don’t change what still works, I suppose," Luna replied serenely.
Draco returned to his work, his hands steadier now.
Maybe pretending not to know her had been a mistake.
But taking care of her… that, he knew how to do.
》》》✧《《《
Hermione left the shop exactly as Luna had promised she would: a new person, one who was choosing to leave certain things in the past, and also choosing when to show the mark that lived on her skin to her daughter, when both of them were ready to talk about the war. She knew that the name Hermione Granger now belonged to the history books, and she wasn’t going to deny that small part of herself to her daughter; she simply wanted to work even harder toward her future, to protect the future of those she loved.
She felt the magic of the tattoo settle into her magical core. The mark no longer hurt, and the potions used to heal the tattoo left her relaxed, her skin carrying a distinctive scent of mint and lavender.
When she arrived home, Ron greeted her with a smile and supported her decision to cover her mark with a tattoo. Maybe, in time, she would tell him who her tattoo artist had been—but for now, that would remain a secret shared only with Luna.
》》》✧《《《
The shop smelled of dried leaves, freshly brewed tea, and old magic—magic everyone present knew would cause no harm.
Hermione held her cup between her hands, as if the warmth helped keep her thoughts in order. She sat at a small table, surrounded by display cases filled with clocks that marked different hours, paintings from different dimensions that moved alongside everything else, and jewelry that seemed to breathe slowly in a case set apart from the shelves of small Muggle objects like a videocassette player and a color television.
“This one is very good,” Luna said, pointing at a pale blue teapot. “It helps memories sting less when they come back.”
Hermione offered a tired smile.
“And if I don’t want them to come back?”
“Then the tea makes sure they leave on tiptoe,” Luna replied calmly.
Harry stood a few steps away, leaning over the counter, an ancient piece of jewelry spread out on a white cloth. He murmured nearly inaudible spells, unraveling an old curse as if it were a poorly tied thread. He didn’t interrupt—he never did when Hermione was like this—and he didn’t dare turn around, lest an ancient curse ricochet through the room.
Hermione glanced at him sideways.
“I always forget this is what you do now,” she said. “Gentle enchantments compared to what you used to do.”
Harry looked up and shrugged. It had surprised everyone when he decided to leave the Aurors barely a year after finishing the grueling training. But breaking curses on ancient relics—and staying away from the kind of danger that reminded him of the war—had been the best decision he’d made so far. He had time now, more than ever, to be with his friends and with Teddy. And most of all, people stopped coming into the shop just because he was the Boy Who Lived; instead, they showed genuine interest in the relics and amulets he offered as a “certified magical artisan” in Luna’s small shop.
“This job has taught me that not everything broken needs to be destroyed,” he replied. “Sometimes it just needs someone to listen to it for a while.”
Luna nodded enthusiastically.
“That’s why Harry is perfect here at Costellatio. Objects trust him, and curses don’t refuse to leave when he treats them kindly.”
Hermione took a sip of tea, nodding lightly. Something in her chest loosened just a bit.
“Luna recommended a place to me,” she said then, as if changing the subject. “A studio.”
Harry raised an eyebrow, interested.
“A studio? You’ve always liked art.”
“Magical tattoos,” she continued. “To cover… something.”
She didn’t say what. She didn’t need to.
Harry didn’t ask if he could join them. He knew Luna always set aside his favorite cup at this hour. He simply set the jewel down carefully and sat with them.
“Do they work?” he asked, more curious than surprised. “I mean… do they really help?”
Luna smiled, turning her arm slightly so a colorful creature slid beneath her skin.
“They run, they hide, they protect—and honestly, they’re very pretty when they’re wandering around,” she said. “Some of them have very ancient runes. They make me feel accompanied.”
Hermione nodded slowly.
“I didn’t want to erase anything,” she added. “Just… transform it.”
Harry thought of Grimmauld Place, of the Black family jewelry that screamed hatred when he touched it—how much it hurt, and how liberating it felt when it finally stopped. If only he’d learned how to do this ten years ago, he might have had more memories of Sirius’s family, though he was sure Sirius would have rejected and sold them anyway, just as he himself had done years ago in this very place.
“That sounds a lot like what we do here,” he said, adding generous amounts of sugar to his tea.
Luna tilted her head toward him.
“I think that’s why, sooner or later, that place will interest you too, Harry. I think you’d look very good with a Nargle for company.”
Harry laughed, shaking his head.
“I don’t know. I’m not much of a fan of needles.”
“Never say never and it’s really more magic than needles,” Luna corrected gently.
Hermione set her cup down on the saucer.
“When I’m ready, I want to go back,” she said. “I think after that I want to do something else.”
Harry looked at her.
“Something else?”
She hesitated for a second, then spoke calmly.
“A guardian Patronus.”
Harry smiled sincerely, imagining a small dog running across his friend’s skin, much like the tattoos Luna showed so proudly.
“That I’d like to see.”
Hermione smiled at the comment.
Luna stood to fetch more tea, humming something very similar to a song they’d heard on the radio. As she moved between the shelves, she absentmindedly touched one of the enchanted frames, causing the image inside to shift colors.
“The tattoo artist I told you about,” she said suddenly, as if continuing a conversation only she had been having, “doesn’t work like the others.”
Harry looked up.
“Oh? No?”
“He doesn’t ask why you want to cover something,” she continued. “He asks how you want to feel afterward.”
Hermione smiled faintly, as if that sentence had already been walking beside her for some time.
“He has many runes,” Luna added. “On his skin and on his bottles. You’d find it interesting and it’s like he lives prepared for the world to surprise him, even in the way he walks. And I think you are the kind of surprise he’d like.”
Harry felt a soft tug in his chest.
A crooked smile and the smell of Firewhisky flooded his memories. Runes on skin, a leather jacket, the scent of gasoline and old cologne made from fine woods.
“Sirius,” he said suddenly, not quite knowing why. “He had a lot of tattoos.”
The two women looked at him.
“My godfather,” he explained. “He did—non-magical ones, I mean. Well… not like these. Most of them were Muggle. He said they reminded him that his body was his too, not his family’s.”
Hermione said nothing. She tightened her fingers around her cup. She knew that whatever little Harry chose to share was precious, and she focused on listening.
“I always thought they were… impulsive,” Harry added. “Like something you only do as a teenager to defy your family, the way he did. But now I understand—they were a way to take control of his body, to mark himself, not by force.”
He remembered his own marks from the war, and those of his friends—now accompanied by new lines of color.
Luna returned with the teapot and nodded, as if something important had just been confirmed.
“That’s exactly what he does,” she said. “He doesn’t mark—he accompanies. And he enjoys it when people are open around him.”
Harry rested his elbows on the table, thoughtful.
“And… is he good?” he asked, feigning casualness.
Luna tilted her head, considering the question.
“He’s careful,” she replied. “And that’s rarer than talent in a tattoo artist.”
Hermione watched Harry closely.
“Are you interested?” she asked.
Harry shrugged.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “I like the idea of something staying with you… without hurting you. The needles and all that.”
Luna smiled, satisfied.
“Then when you’re ready, I’ll take you,” she said. “Sometimes Seekers don’t know they’re searching until they find something shiny along the way.”
Luna hid a smile behind her teacup, and Hermione sighed—but something sparkled in her eyes.
Harry frowned. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know what she meant. He’d been without a partner for years, and he certainly wasn’t expecting Luna to be planning anything beyond a professional visit with her tattoo artist friend.
“Seekers?”
“Oh,” Luna replied, sipping more tea. “Forget I said that.”
“You know how Luna is,” Hermione said.
But Harry didn’t.
And for the first time, the idea of a tattoo didn’t feel like another wound…
but like a promise.
》》》✧《《《
Harry didn’t step into the studio that day by chance.
First, he sent an owl.
Luna had told him with complete naturalness: designs were worked on beforehand, thought through and dreamed of; skin was never touched without listening first, and above all, the tattoo artist had to prepare the potions and inks for work tailored to each client’s needs.
The owl returned two days later with a finely textured parchment, sealed with an elegant mark: La Plume Dorée. It sounded far too refined for a tattoo studio, but he trusted Luna.
Tell me what you seek to protect, not what you want to draw.
Harry wrote back that very night. He wasn’t used to writing letters, but this one was easy to answer. He didn’t speak of the war. He spoke of a man who laughed too loudly, of motorcycles, of freedom, of someone who had been a home even when the world was falling apart. Of someone who, like him, had once run away from the house of a repressive family, hoping never to return.
The reply was brief:
A dog is a noble guardian; it gathers many meanings in the end. Still or in motion?
Harry answered:
In motion, as if running beside me.
》》》✧《《《
On the day of the appointment, the studio was almost empty.
The bell rang, and a blond man with an elegant bearing looked up from behind the counter.
"Harry Potter," he said, checking an enchanted list. "Please, come in. I’m Lucien Valcourt."
His accent was soft, foreign, and Harry almost felt his stomach twist, imagining that Luna had sent him here specifically to meet a man who was very nearly his type. Harry nodded and followed him without asking questions.
"The design is already prepared," Lucien continued. "Your tattoo artist is waiting for you."
Harry walked down the narrow hallway, feeling that familiar pressure in his chest: not fear, but expectation. He knew that not having slept well the night before wasn’t helping, but just the thought of unfamiliar magic moving through him made him feel vulnerable.
When the curtain opened, the world stopped.
Draco Malfoy stood with his back to him, leaning over a table. His hair was long, pulled into a low ponytail, a few loose strands escaping carelessly. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing ancient runes that slid softly across his skin, as if they were breathing.
Harry didn’t think about the war.
He didn’t think about blood.
He didn’t think about the Malfoys or Lucius.
He thought, with unsettling clarity, that Draco looked ethereal in the light.
Not imposing.
Not arrogant.
Not cold.
Beautiful in a quiet, focused way, completely unaware of being watched.
"You can come in," Lucien said behind him.
Draco turned around.
Recognition was immediate, silent, dangerously gentle.
For a second, neither of them said anything. Harry supposed this was what his friends had meant when they said he should meet the tattoo artist, just not by name.
Then Draco lowered his gaze, professional.
"Have a seat," he said. "Is this your first tattoo?"
Harry nodded, still caught on the image of the ponytail, on the calm precision of Draco’s movements. He thought about running out, maybe asking Lucien to do the tattoo instead, but as Hermione had said, all of this was about a new beginning.
"Yes."
Draco gestured toward the table.
"Left arm, right?"
Harry was slightly surprised by Draco’s professionalism and by his determination not to acknowledge that they had known each other before.
"Yes."
The design appeared slowly: a dog in motion, large and black, running at full speed with a peaceful forest behind it. There was no aggression in the way the dog moved, only momentum.
Draco swallowed. He didn’t really need to ask anything.
Harry took a deep breath.
"It’s… perfect."
"This isn’t decorative," Draco said as he adjusted the base spell and checked the inks, feigning lightness. "It’s a bond. If you continue, it will never fully leave unless you truly want it to."
"That’s fine," Harry replied without hesitation. "I don’t want it to go."
"Then I’ll begin. Just tell me if you feel unwell or need anything."
Draco began.
The ink reacted as soon as the skin was exposed. Harry had never been good with potions, but sometimes his sensitivity to magic made everything more intense when he felt certain potions and objects in the shop "understanding each other," as Luna liked to say.
Draco worked slowly, not out of insecurity but out of respect. The magic responded with a docility it didn’t grant to just anyone, as if it recognized something ancient in Harry. Draco worked without speaking much. Every movement was precise, careful. There was no trace of the boy Harry had once known. Only a craftsman confident in his hands.
Halfway through, the tattoo moved slightly, just a subtle shift in the bright eyes of the dog, as if it were looking back at him.
Draco held his breath.
"It’s remembering," he murmured, more to himself than to Harry.
"Is that bad?" Harry asked softly.
"No," Draco replied. "It means it trusts you, and that your magical core accepted the ink well."
Harry said nothing, but Draco felt the tension ease beneath his fingers.
When he finished, Draco cleaned the skin gently, and the soreness faded thanks to the potions he applied.
"If you ever feel like the world is leaving you behind," Draco said without looking at him, "it will run with you, not faster than you, and never ahead of you."
Harry stared at the tattoo for a long moment.
"Thank you," he finally said.
Draco nodded, serious.
He didn’t say "you’re welcome."
He didn’t say "take care."
Harry stood up, pulled his sleeve over the new tattoo, and paused for a second before leaving.
"You’re… very good at this."
Draco looked up just in time to see him smile, a small smile… real.
Harry Potter stood there a few seconds too long, his pulse strangely quickened, wondering when Draco Malfoy had stopped feeling like a painful memory… and become something dangerously beautiful.
When the curtain closed again, Draco leaned against the table, breathing deeply. The runes along his back had calmed.
The ink was satisfied, and Draco Malfoy understood, with a clarity that frightened him, that he had just marked someone who was not going to disappear from his life. Not as a memory, but as a constant, stronger than anything from more than two decades ago.
Harry Potter.
Not the boy.
Not the soldier.
Not the memory full of noise, pain, and above all anguish.
An adult Harry Potter, with broad, relaxed shoulders, a calm expression he didn’t recognize, and a presence that demanded nothing he couldn’t give. The world felt briefly without air, and Draco decided to start cleaning up the mess from the session that had just ended.
Draco was still putting away the vials when the curtain moved.
"So," Lucien said, leaning against the frame with a dangerous smile, "how did it go?"
Draco didn’t look up.
"Fine."
"Ah," Lucien replied. "That kind of ‘fine’ usually comes with either screaming or awkward silence. And I hear neither, little dragon."
Draco closed a drawer with slightly more force than necessary.
"This wasn’t your idea, was it?"
Lucien blinked.
"What wasn’t?"
Draco turned, visibly irritated now.
"You didn’t set me up. You didn’t make him come knowing I’d be here, did you, Lucien?"
Lucien observed him calmly, like someone watching an interesting chemical reaction. It wasn’t the first time he had seen Draco behave this evasively, so much like a skittish cat.
"Draco," he said, "if I’d wanted to set you up, I would’ve brought wine and good cheese."
That didn’t help.
"Because for a second I thought that…" Draco stopped, jaw clenched as he removed his reading glasses and rubbed his eyes hard, forcing down everything that had gathered in his throat. "Forget it. I’m tired and I need sleep. My eyesight is a mess at this hour."
Lucien stepped into the studio and looked at the empty table, then at the white cloth embroidered with Draco’s initials. He shifted his gaze to the ink, still slightly warm and crackling with Draco’s magic.
"You made a bond tattoo," he said. "You don’t do those for just anyone."
"I didn’t know who he was when I accepted the appointment. I never ask for names so I don’t get too involved," Draco replied defensively. "And when I saw him there, I knew it was already too late."
Lucien looked at him gently.
"Do you regret it?"
Draco shook his head immediately. That was answer enough. Lucien smiled faintly.
"Then it wasn’t a trap," he said. "It was a coincidence."
"I don’t believe in coincidences," Draco murmured.
"Come on, Draco, I do," Lucien replied. "Especially the ones that arrive when someone has done enough inner work not to run away."
Draco scoffed.
"You’re unbearable."
"And you’re nervous," Lucien said as he turned away. "Which is… interesting. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you like this."
Before leaving, he stopped and smiled.
"Oh, by the way," he added. "The ink likes you today. That doesn’t happen often."
Draco was alone again.
He looked at the empty table, thought about the way Harry had trusted him without asking questions. About how the magic had responded.
"Damn it," he murmured.
Because if that hadn’t been a trap… then it had been the beginning of something far more dangerous.
》》》✧《《《
The afternoons were still rainy, but he didn’t have the energy or the desire to an Apparition directly into his flat, so he decided to walk home instead.
Draco closed the apartment door more carefully than usual.
The click of the lock echoed too loudly in the silence. Muggle London always had that quality: everything sounded more real, more final. He took off his shoes and left them by the entrance, aligned with almost automatic precision, then loosened his scarf without realizing his fingers were still tense.
The flat was small but welcoming. Light wood, a warm lamp over the table, plants that survived more thanks to discipline than affection. Nothing floated, nothing moved on its own, like his life that way after growing up in a Manor full of magical objects that, over time and under Voldemort’s presence, had become cursed and heavy with dark magic.
Draco dropped his keys into the ceramic bowl and leaned against the wall for a second.
He breathed.
It didn’t work.
He ran a hand through his hair and undid the ponytail, letting the blond weight fall over his shoulders. The reflection in the hallway mirror showed him a version of himself he still didn’t quite recognize: softer, more human, definitely less prepared for… everything that had just happened.
Harry Potter.
Not the hero.
Not the famous boy.
Not the boy he used to fight with in the school corridors.
The man who had trusted him without reservation, who had closed his eyes when the needle touched his skin, who had thought about someone he loved while wiping away a few tears and asking permission to hum a song he remembered hearing once.
Draco sat down on the sofa and let his head fall back.
“Ridiculous,” he murmured to the ceiling.
He had been professional, careful, and distant people liked him that way. That was why they came back. He was no longer Draco Malfoy; he was just Draco.
And yet the magic had reacted as if it knew him. That was what unsettled him the most.
He stood and went to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. The sound of the tap as he watched the water run until it spilled over the rim, the cold sensation on his fingers, everything terribly normal. He drank slowly, as if he could dilute the memory.
But it didn’t fade.
The way Harry had looked at him when he recognized him.
Not with resentment.
Not with painful surprise.
Just… with something open, accepting, willing to pretend they were strangers unlike their friend.
Draco set the glass in the sink.
He had spent years building that studio alongside Lucien after leaving school, traveling to learn about potions, perfecting inks, learning to read bodies and silences. He had tattooed trauma, farewells, promises.
He had never expected someone to mark his own without touching him.
He leaned against the counter and closed his eyes.
“This is not a good idea,” he told himself, with the same firmness he had used so many times before.
But magic didn’t make mistakes and for the first time in a long while, Draco Malfoy didn’t know whether he wanted to run… or open again a door he believed he had closed many years ago.
》》》✧《《《
Harry rested his left arm on the kitchen table and slowly turned it, as if doing so might help him understand it better.
The tattoo was still there.
It didn’t hurt; it didn’t really burn. The deep and alive ink seemed to settle beneath his skin as though the space had always been reserved for it. The dog slept with its head resting against the curve of his forearm, drawn in soft yet firm lines, a quiet presence. It wasn’t Padfoot, not exactly, its eyes didn’t carry his godfather’s wisdom, but it was close enough to make something in his chest loosen.
“Hello, Sirius,” he murmured.
Magic answered with a faint, almost imperceptible tingle, like recognition.
Harry leaned back against the chair and let his head fall backward. He closed his eyes, and the image returned without asking permission: the studio, the warm light, the scent of magical ink… and Draco Malfoy.
Not the Draco Malfoy from Hogwarts.
This Draco wore his hair long, loosely tied back, his glasses slipping down his nose when he focused, even his tongue peeking out a telltale sign of deep concentration. His hands were steady, careful. There was no arrogance, no coldness.
Only attention to detail, and an awareness of Harry’s feelings when he chose to speak about Sirius while magic flowed into his body.
Harry frowned.
He didn’t understand why it had affected him so deeply. Years had passed since the war. They had worked in the same world, breathed the same air without ever truly colliding, though sometimes he had felt Draco’s presence in certain places, like a ghost. And yet, seeing him there, bent over his arm, had stirred something… different.
Too different.
Harry looked back down at the tattoo and hovered his fingers near it, without touching.
“You were right,” he admitted softly. “I liked how it felt.”
The memory of Draco, focused and almost vulnerable, twisted his stomach in a way that was uncomfortably pleasant.
That was when he decided he couldn’t stay silent.
》》》✧《《《
Dinner had started out calmly.
Too calmly, even.
Ron was on his second helping, talking about a particularly long shift at the Auror Department, while Hermione nodded distractedly, clearly reviewing something in her head that Harry was certain had to do with the Ministry. The table was filled with simple dishes, an open bottle of wine, and low candles. Harry liked the normalcy, the quiet of the afternoon while Rose napped, giving them space to talk.
Harry moved his left arm carefully, aware of the tattoo beneath the sleeve of his sweater.
He waited, though he wasn’t entirely sure about what.
“By the way,” he said suddenly, interrupting Ron mid-complaint, “did you know the tattoo artist from the studio you recommended is Draco Malfoy?”
Silence fell like a poorly cast spell.
Ron froze with his fork halfway to his mouth.
Hermione blinked.
“You already went?” she asked, genuinely surprised.
Harry tilted his head.
“Yes, Hermione, I went. And I didn’t expect to find out there that it was him.”
Ron cleared his throat.
“Malfoy? That Malfoy? Draco Malfoy? The Ferret?”
“The very same,” Harry replied without looking at him. “Long hair, glasses, impeccable magical tattoos, and Muggle clothes.”
Hermione frowned, piecing things together far too quickly.
“Harry…” she began. “I didn’t think it would”
“matter to me,” he finished. “Or affect me?.”
Hermione set her cutlery down carefully.
“I thought it would be better this way.”
“Why?”
She looked at him with that expression she always wore when she was about to say something he wouldn’t like.
“Because every time Draco Malfoy reappears in your life,” she said, “you tend to obsess a little.”
Ron nodded slowly as he tried to resume eating.
“Sixth year,” he added. “That was… strange, to say the least.”
Harry let out a short, humorless laugh.
“I’m not obsessed.”
“Harry,” Hermione replied, “you tracked his every move for months.”
“So what? I was right.”
“Not about everything,” she said gently. “And now…”
Hermione glanced at his arm or rather, the sleeve covering it.
“Now you see him once, he gives you a tattoo, and a week later you come here upset because you saw him.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond, then stopped.
Because part of him understood exactly why they thought that.
“It’s not the same,” he said finally, quieter. “I’m not chasing him, and I don’t distrust him anymore. I let him tattoo me. I talked to him about Sirius.”
Ron raised an eyebrow.
“So?”
Harry hesitated. He thought about Draco’s hands, about the way magic had responded around them.
About Sirius.
“I just wish I’d known,” he repeated. “That’s all.”
Hermione studied him for another moment, assessing.
“Alright,” she conceded. “But promise me something.”
“What?”
“That you won’t turn this into another… thing.”
Harry lowered his gaze to his wineglass and gripped it slightly, breathing in the sweet scent.
He didn’t promise anything.
And Hermione, seeing that, knew it might already be too late.
》》》✧《《《
Harry woke before dawn.
It hadn’t been exactly a nightmare; it was one of those gentle dreams that hurt afterward, where Sirius wasn’t dead or alive, he simply… was. Laughing from somewhere Harry couldn’t reach.
He opened his eyes. The room was still dark.
That was when he felt it.
A gentle warmth in his left arm. It didn’t burn or hurt, it was more like a calm pressure, like a careful hand resting there. Harry reached for his glasses on the nightstand and cast a soft Lumos, pulling up the sleeve of his pajamas.
The dog seemed to move.
Not literally, not like the animated tattoos from magazines. It was subtler than that: the line of its back vibrated faintly, its head seemed to settle against his skin, as if searching for a more comfortable place to doze beside him.
Harry held his breath.
“What…?” he whispered.
When he thought of Sirius—his laughter, his mocking voice, the weight of his arm over Harry’s shoulders—the tattoo answered with a deep, almost comforting tingle. It wasn’t an image or a forced memory, but it was there, accompanying the memory of him, like an echo.
Harry closed his eyes.
The dog went still again, seemingly satisfied, and the warmth slowly faded.
“You’re always watching over me,” he murmured, unsure whether he was speaking to Sirius… or to the magic in his skin.
It wasn’t a standard protection charm. Harry knew that he’d seen many, cast quite a few himself on amulets and jewelry meant to protect witches and wizards. This was different… almost as if the tattoo had learned how to listen.
And without meaning to, he thought of Draco again.
The quiet concentration.
The steady hands.
The way magic had responded without being asked.
The tingling returned, slightly stronger.
Harry’s eyes flew open.
“No,” he said, more to himself than anything. “That has nothing to do with it.”
The tattoo settled.
But Harry didn’t fall back asleep.
》》》✧《《《
Draco realized it too late.
It wasn’t during the tattoo, not even when the needle touched skin.
It was later—after leaving the studio, as the days passed following the tattoo and his new “accidental bond.”
He was cleaning his instruments, following his routine with near-ritual precision, when he felt the pull.
Not physical.
Almost… magical.
A deep, low pressure traveled up his back from the runes to the center of his chest, right where magic usually warned him that something important had happened… or was about to.
Draco froze.
“No,” he murmured.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to isolate the sensation.
It didn’t work.
The magic was still there in alert, vibrating as though it had recognized a familiar frequency.
Harry Potter.
Draco braced both hands on the worktable.
It wasn’t attraction, not a summons. Maybe it was nothing yet or maybe something worse.
Recognition.
The ink he had used on Harry wasn’t special. It was the same ink he’d prepared hundreds of times for hundreds of people before was stable, noble, obedient. He should have felt it the moment it touched Potter’s skin. The magic had… yielded, as if it didn’t need instructions.
As if it already knew what to do.
Draco swallowed.
The memory struck without warning.
The bathroom. His tears. Harry Potter behind him.
The echo of shattering glass.
The smell of blood seeping across the cold bathroom floor.
Sectumsempra. Marked forever.
White, blinding pain. The cold, damp floor. The absolute certainty that he was going to die without understanding why.
Harry had marked him first.
Not intentionally. Not knowingly.
But magic never forgot those things.
Draco brought a hand to his side, where the scar almost perfectly healed by Snape still lay beneath his skin. It never hurt anymore. He knew it was there every morning when he woke up.
But now…
It vibrated.
“Damn it,” he whispered.
The analogy hit him with brutal clarity:
Harry had marked him without knowing what he was doing.
And now, years later, he had trusted Draco with his skin—without knowing what he was capable of awakening from magic born ten years ago.
Draco let out a humorless laugh.
He had spent his life learning how to mark bodies without harming them, how to cover scars with beauty, how to transform pain into symbol.
And Harry Potter…
Harry carried a magic that asked to be touched.
That was the dangerous part.
Draco straightened and walked to the studio mirror. He removed his robe and turned just enough to see the runes on his back, faintly glowing, alert—meant to ensure he would never be taken by surprise again.
“No,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “Don’t bring an omen.”
The magic didn’t answer.
Because deep down, Draco knew.
Harry Potter hadn’t marked him only with a spell that tragic sixth year he so often refused to remember.
He had marked him because he always had.
》》》✧《《《
Weeks passed after Draco’s name was first mentioned at Ron and Hermione’s table.
Harry found himself staring at his reflection in the bathroom mirror, his sweater sleeve rolled up, the tattoo visible and calm. Higher up, on the back of his right hand, the scar was still there.
I must not tell lies.
He knew it by heart. Sometimes he cast a light glamour so he wouldn’t have to see it.
Harry pressed his lips together.
He thought of Hermione, of the way she talked about Rose learning to read someday, about how beginnings could be clean.
And he thought—again—of Draco, and how easy it had been to trust him with his skin.
That night, he took out paper and quill.
He wrote the name of the studio.
Then crossed it out.
He wrote:
Dear…
Crossed it out again.
In the end, the words came on their own.
I would like to inquire about the possibility of covering an old scar. I’m not looking to hide it completely just… to reframe it.
Harry paused and looked at his marked wrist.
He added:
I’d like something related to truth, or to learning when to stay silent.
The dog tattoo responded with a faint pulse, as if listening.
Harry closed his eyes.
He saw Draco bent over, focused, and trying to summon the same calm that memory gave him, he let out a breath.
He crumpled the paper and left it on the table without tearing it completely.
“Later,” he murmured. “It’s not urgent.”
The owl was never called.
But the paper stayed there.
Waiting.
》》》✧《《《
Weeks later, Harry was leaning over his worktable, carefully cleaning the gilded frame of a magical painting that had belonged to an old family. The scene was a lake enchanted with figures barely moving beneath the surface had lost color along the edges, as if time had begun to consume it from being kept in the wrong place.
“If you keep staring at it like that,” Luna said from the other side of the counter, “it might end up telling you a secret.”
Harry smiled.
“I wish it were that easy.”
Just then, the doorbell chimed—clear and soft.
“I’ve got it,” he said, setting the brush back in its holder.
Harry looked up just in time to see a tall, blond wizard enter, elegant in posture, wearing a dark coat and a perfectly arranged brown scarf. He recognized him immediately, though it took a second to place him outside the tattoo studio. He carried a wooden box under his arm and wore the same curious, pleasant expression Harry remembered from that first visit.
“Good afternoon,” he greeted. “I’ve brought the inks Luna requested… and a painting that needs light restoration.”
Luna’s face lit up as she stepped through the back-room doorway.
“Lucien, always punctual, as usual.”
Harry set the brush aside.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Lucien smiled easily, assessing him with a quick but attentive glance.
Harry took the box by reflex and suddenly felt self-conscious.
“Thank you. Lucien, right?”
Lucien smiled, clearly pleased.
“So my eyes didn’t deceive me,” he said. “Harry Potter, correct?”
The last thing Harry needed was someone interested only in his name.
“Yes.”
There was a brief silence, which was slightly uncomfortable.
“I’m glad Luna finally invited you to the studio and stopped keeping you as one of her secrets,” Lucien added, as if that explained something. “Did the tattoo heal well?” he asked then, in a genuinely professional tone.
Harry blinked and internally thanked fate for not being praised by name being face to face with someone foreign was probably an advantage.
“Yes. Very well, actually.”
Lucien nodded, as if confirming something he already expected.
“I’m glad. Draco is always… attentive to those things. You saw yourself how much of a perfectionist he is.”
Harry felt the pull at the sound of the name.
“It shows he knows what he’s doing.”
“He truly does,” Lucien replied. “He’s not just a tattoo artist—he’s the potion-maker behind the inks. He rarely lets anyone else prepare them.”
Harry ran his fingers over the wood of the box, noticing the well-contained magic—dense, finely tuned. He could almost say it bore a mark of quality Snape would have praised with fervor.
“They’re… stable. You can tell they’re excellent quality.”
“Of course,” Lucien replied with a crooked smile. “They’re prepared by the best potioneer I know.”
Harry looked up, his pulse jumping without permission.
“Oh, really?”
“He learned at Beauxbatons, though I don’t doubt Hogwarts left its mark too,” Lucien added casually, smiling like someone proud of his alma mater.
“Have you worked together since then?”
Lucien shrugged.
“When we can. In this case, I help with logistics, clients, records—and some tattoos as well. He prefers not to talk too much.”
Harry remembered the focused silence, the way Draco seemed to listen even to what went unsaid during that session.
“That explains a lot,” he murmured without thinking.
Lucien raised an amused eyebrow.
“Oh?”
Harry realized he’d said too much and took a closer look at him. Lucien’s hair wasn’t quite as blond, his eyes were a blue that didn’t quite appeal to him, and at this point Harry found him mildly irritating.
“It’s just… he clearly trusts his work.”
Lucien smiled, something different in it now.
“He doesn’t do that with just anyone.”
Harry managed to nod, though something tightened in his chest. He didn’t understand why Lucien was smiling so much—it irritated him, the half-spoken truths.
“He has… a good hand,” Harry said neutrally.
Lucien’s eyebrow lifted, immediately interested, and he chuckled.
“That sounds very Draco.”
Harry frowned despite himself.
“You know him well?”
“Since France,” Lucien replied. “We shared studies, rooms. I talk too much, he listens. I get into trouble, he fixes it after a tantrum. A very healthy dynamic, if you ask me.”
Harry tightened his grip on the box lid more than necessary.
“You haven’t separated since then?”
“We’ve been together for years, actually,” Lucien said. “Draco is brilliant, meticulous, and far too hard on himself—though he thinks everything good he does is just compensation.”
Harry swallowed and nodded silently.
“Compensation for what?”
Lucien looked at him a second longer than necessary.
“For surviving whatever happened to him before France.”
Luna appeared then, holding another painting.
“This one needs gentle restoration,” she said. “The magic is tired, but I’m sure the young lady sitting here will be able to sit comfortably in her chair again when she returns.”
Lucien nodded toward her, curious, and studied the painting in progress.
“Draco can help with that too, if you’d like. He’s very good at reading old magic.”
Harry looked up.
“Does he usually… help outside the studio?”
Lucien smiled, amused.
“Only if he trusts the person. Luna sometimes asks for his help when she’s run out of options.”
The comment hung between them.
Harry glanced down at the dog tattoo hidden beneath his sleeve and felt a faint pulse, as if the magic had been listening to the entire conversation.
“Thank you for bringing them,” he said finally.
Lucien inclined his head.
“If you ever want to know more about Draco,” he added casually, “you can ask me—or send us an owl.”
Harry nodded without speaking, trying to appear indifferent.
Lucien took his coat, ready to leave.
“And if the tattoo reacts strangely to the ink,” he added before stepping out, “don’t worry. Sometimes Draco’s magic recognizes things even he doesn’t anticipate.”
The bell chimed again.
Harry stood still for a few seconds, the box of inks in his hands.
And for the first time since he’d entered, he felt something uncomfortable, unexpected, and entirely unjustified—not because it was dangerous, like Hermione warned about developing a new obsession.
But because Lucien spoke of Draco with a natural intimacy.
He didn’t like how much Lucien knew about him.
Were they really partners, after all this time?
Lucien spoke of Draco like someone familiar with an intimate territory Harry had only just discovered he wanted to understand—and without knowing how or when, Harry wanted to be the one who understood those things first.
》》》✧《《《
After midday, and that uncomfortable conversation with Lucien, Luna sat on the shop floor with her legs crossed, small fragments of an enchanted chandelier floating around her like curious fish, casting muted reflections across the floor. Harry worked behind the counter, cleaning an old ring that reminded him of ones Sirius used to wear, when she spoke without warning.
“One of my tattoos is learning how to sing.”
Harry looked up.
“Sing?”
“Mhm,” Luna replied calmly. “Not with sound. More like… advice.”
Harry set the ring aside and approached.
“Where is it?”
Luna lifted her sleeve, revealing a tattoo among the others: a silver bird, drawn with impossibly fine lines, surrounded by small runes that seemed to shift when you didn’t look directly at them.
“It appears when I’m about to lose something,” she smiled. “Or when I find something I don’t yet know I need—like a Remembrall, but more alive.”
Harry frowned, fascinated.
“That’s not a common enchantment.”
“No,” Luna agreed. “It’s a companion tattoo.”
Harry sat across from her.
“Did the same tattoo artist do it?”
Luna smiled as if the question were endearing.
“Draco? Yes. The ink knew I didn’t want protection,” she said. “I wanted a bit more company. It was before you worked here with me.”
Harry thought of his dog, the way it reacted when he was tired or when he remembered Sirius.
“Mine reacts to memories too,” he admitted. “Not always, but… when something matters, I think it tries to make the memory a good one.”
“Of course,” Luna said. “Good tattoos don’t obey orders—they act on their own, like enchanted portraits.”
Harry rested his elbow on his knee.
“Do they always work like that?”
“I don’t think all tattoos work the same way,” Luna corrected. “I think it depends on how the artist works with the ink and the canvas.”
Harry felt the familiar tingle in his left arm, as if the dog had lifted its head to listen more closely.
“And it doesn’t scare you?” he asked.
Luna shook her head gently.
“It comforts me. It means magic still believes in us—and it helps me forget the bad things.”
She stood, brushing invisible dust from her skirt.
“Besides,” she added, looking at him closely, “from what Lucien told me, it chose you very quickly.”
Harry didn’t know how to respond and frowned slightly at the mention of the name.
Luna smiled and returned to her work, leaving Harry with the persistent feeling that something in his skin—and in his life—had just begun to move.
》》》✧《《《
Later that night, after finishing his shift at Constellatio, Harry found himself alone in the sitting room of his old house as darkness fell.
The light was low and warm, the silence carrying that gentle weight that only comes after a good day’s work. Restoring his new home had taken effort and many years—bringing it back to a kind of glory Kreacher claimed hadn’t been seen in decades. Harry removed his jacket and dropped his keys on the table but didn’t turn on the television he’d recently managed to repair in old Grimmauld Place. Kreacher still stopped by weekly after Hogwarts to make sure Harry was maintaining “the Great House of Black” properly.
He went straight to the desk in his renovated study, now full of new colors thanks to Luna and Hermione after he left the Auror Corps.
He rummaged through the drawers and took out a fresh sheet of paper.
This time, he didn’t hesitate as much.
Good evening.
I would like to know if you work with old scars from blood curses. I’m not looking to erase them—only to integrate them into something I already am.
I’d like to discuss options when convenient, along with the corresponding budget.
Harry reread the text and smiled. No names. It definitely didn’t say Draco.
It certainly didn’t say, This is for me, Harry Potter, and it’s a horrible mark left by an old witch you once respected, Draco Malfoy.
Still, something weighed on him. He couldn’t quite balance what he wanted with what might actually come of it.
The dog on his arm responded faintly, as if recognizing the gesture, and Harry rested his forearm on the desk, letting the tingle fade.
He thought of Lucien and his infuriating smile, of Luna and the calm of the studio. Maybe, unintentionally, he thought of Draco’s hair falling into his face when he concentrated.
He wrinkled his nose.
“It’s not about him,” he told himself. “It’s about me.”
He added one more line.
I’m in no hurry.
That was what stopped him—maybe because it wasn’t true, and he really did want to return to that place and ask a few more questions.
Harry set the quill down, folded the paper carefully, slipped it into the drawer, and closed it again. He simply didn’t want to bother an owl, that was it.
That night, the dog tattoo settled closer to his pulse.
And Harry slept with the uneasy feeling that even without sending anything, he had already been heard and that it stirred things he truly wasn’t ready to examine just yet.
》》》✧《《《
After a month of thinking it through and slowly having spoken with her husband about who the tattoo artist was after that dinner with Harry, Hermione knew she was ready to take the big step of getting another tattoo, this time with Ron’s protective magic.
After exchanging a few owls with Draco, she finally received her officially scheduled appointment.
If you truly want the Patronus to become your new guardian, you must bring the caster of the spell.
As you know, the cost is high, but tattooing a Patronus requires more time.
Hermione vibrated with excitement when she received the confirmation. The price did not matter to her now that she enjoyed solid stability from her own work, something she had to admit. A few days later, Ron agreed to how Hermione’s new tattoo would be done and had to admit that he was curious about how it would work.
The studio was prepared with an almost ritual sobriety. The wall decor was exactly as she remembered it, and it smelled like something very similar to a potions cabinet mixed with the cleanliness of a light cleansing charm.
Draco had closed the inner door and reduced the ambient magic to the minimum necessary.
Lucien took their information efficiently and discreetly, without unnecessary comments, and when he was finished, he guided them down the hallway to meet Draco. There was already a chair prepared for Ron’s accompaniment.
Hermione entered first, and Ron did not let go of her hand for a single second as he sat down beside Draco.
“I’m here,” he said, simple but firm and comforting. It was something Hermione assumed he had perfected over the years after seeing them interact in different ways during school.
Draco looked up when they entered. He did not show surprise, as the runes on his back had alerted him the moment they stepped into the studio. He only inclined his head slightly, professional and proper.
“Granger,” he greeted. “Weasley.”
Hermione tightened her jaw slightly.
“Malfoy.”
“I need you to be comfortable. I remind you that this does not work if the body resists, and in this case there are two magical cores I have to work with.”
Hermione obeyed, taking a deep breath.
“I know we already discussed this in letters, and I even researched on my own, but could you repeat again what we need to do?” she said, throwing a brief glance at Ron that was impossible to ignore. “I do not want surprises.”
Draco nodded, serious.
“What I will do with this ink is mix it with the spell, as if it were a Pensieve memory,” he said, making sure Ron heard everything.
Draco picked up a small bottle of milky glass.
“A Patronus is not just a form,” he continued explaining. “It is a shared memory when it is bound this way. So if there is no real resonance, the ink resists.”
Hermione closed her eyes.
“I trust him.”
She looked at Ron, now wearing clothes that fit him better, showing his tall, solid build in all its splendor. There was no doubt that Auror training had paid off.
“You are the anchor of the memory and the Patronus she wants.”
Ron swallowed. He knew what was expected of him.
“Whatever it takes. I’m here.”
Draco took another bottle of ink and gently shook it. The substance glowed faintly with a silvery light like a Patronus, and he prepared the needle with his wand.
“A bound Patronus is not imposed,” he continued. “It is invited. So please, Hermione, focus on a memory that does not belong only to you. Something that belongs to both of you.”
Hermione closed her eyes, and Ron stood in front of her.
“Remember the day Rose was born,” he whispered. “The noise, the fear, and how I never let go of your hand for a second. But when she started crying, I cried too, because I fell in love with her the second I saw her.”
Hermione inhaled sharply and smiled with nostalgia as she felt her magic bind itself to the ink on the needle.
Draco felt it immediately.
There was no pain, only a deep vibration, as if the magic had been waiting for that moment to sink into Hermione’s skin. The ink reacted, spreading in soft lines that wrapped around her skin without truly damaging it.
“Now, Ron,” Draco said, the name feeling strange on his tongue. “Touch her.”
Ron placed his hand on Hermione’s forearm and summoned his Patronus so it could take form. It did not burst out all at once from her skin, but rather as if it were waking up. A luminous dog moved around her shoulder blade, beginning to sniff as if marking territory.
Hermione opened her eyes, silent tears falling.
“It’s… alive,” Ron whispered as he watched her skin begin to change color to give way to his Patronus.
“It’s bound,” Draco corrected. “To your core and to hers. The ink responded well to both of you. It is protecting you.”
When it was finished, Draco carefully cleaned the area with potions and gave her aftercare instructions.
Hermione looked at him, exhausted and grateful.
“Thank you.”
Draco inclined his head.
“Take care of it, both of you,” he added. “Shared magic grows if it is treated well.”
Ron wrapped an arm around Hermione’s shoulder, where the skin was healing under potion.
And for the first time in a long while, for Ron, a mark stopped meaning a wound.
Ron extended his hand.
“Thanks, Draco.”
Draco raised his eyebrows but took it.
“But I think I’ll keep calling you ferret. Draco sounds very strange at this point.”
Draco smiled and let out a sigh, and Lucien accompanied them to the exit after the final paperwork at the studio was completed.
Days later, the weekly dinner went on as usual, but this time it was Harry’s turn. Simple dishes in large portions, light conversation, and little Rosie asleep in her small “guest crib” that Harry himself had assembled with Ron in the living room under everyone’s watchful eye. A simple routine, but one that calmed Harry’s nerves these days.
Until Ron set his glass down on the table after Hermione finished talking about a strange law she was having trouble getting approved.
“By the way, we saw M…” he started, before Hermione shot him a look that years of marriage had taught him meant shut up. “The ferret is… well.”
Harry looked up immediately. Hermione smiled tiredly, recognizing that look on Harry’s face that said I promised something I clearly did not keep.
“Did that just happen?” Harry asked.
Ron shrugged.
“The guy is a professional. He didn’t judge, didn’t ask too many questions, and he took care of Hermione as if…” He stopped. “As if he knew exactly what he was doing.”
Harry frowned while chewing his food.
“Malfoy? As in Draco Malfoy?”
“Yes,” Ron repeated. “I didn’t dislike him, and that’s already saying a lot.”
Hermione took Ron’s hand under the table.
“He was respectful,” she said. “And very precise. He didn’t use unnecessary magic.”
Harry turned his glass between his fingers.
“Of course he didn’t,” he murmured. “And the tattoo?”
Ron smiled, genuinely.
“It works. It really works. It runs like my own Patronus. Even when I’m next to her, it reacts to me.”
Harry said nothing, but the dog on his arm reacted slightly, ears lifting.
And Harry knew that, whether he liked it or not, Draco Malfoy had just entered the narrative as something more than a school-era obsession.
》》》✧《《《
Draco knew exactly what Lucien was doing.
He knew it the moment he read the note:
Livraison directe. Luna needs your help and a few additional ink cartridges. You are going.
“I don’t need to go,” Draco said, arms crossed in the studio. “Lucien, you can do it.”
Lucien smiled, far too pleased.
“Lucien can’t,” he replied. “Because Luna asked for your help, and someone requested that the potioneer be present.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Oh, but it does,” Lucien replied. “Besides, it will do you good to leave the studio. Lately your magic makes my hair stand on end and gives me a headache.”
Draco glared at him.
“If this is a trap…”
“It’s logistics,” Lucien said, pushing the box toward him. “Go, but first fix your hair.”
Draco raised his middle finger as he moved to grab the things for the delivery.
》》》✧《《《
Luna Lovegood’s shop had a strange quality. Magic did not pool there; it breathed with a certain stillness, like someone enjoying an afternoon nap. Draco had not been in the shop for a long time, and he noticed it the moment he crossed the threshold. Enchanted objects coexisted with useless things, more Muggle items that were surely someone else’s doing, and everything felt… comfortable.
Harry was behind the counter.
Draco stopped for a second too long, pressing the box against his chest.
Not because it was Potter, but because he looked… good. As messy as ever, with his hair in a tangled, uneven mop and his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing the tattoo Draco himself had done. Harry looked at ease in his new element, something that had been true for several years now.
“Good afternoon,” Draco said, forcing neutrality. “I brought the inks you requested.”
Harry looked up and smiled.
And damn it, why did he have to smile like that? Did he go around doing that with everyone who walked through the door?
“Thanks for coming,” Harry said. “Lucien told me in the owl that it might be you.”
Draco tightened his grip on the box. He should have known. Damn traitor.
“Lucien says a lot of things.”
Harry laughed softly, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes, I noticed.”
Draco set the box on the counter and began explaining its contents with professional precision, detailing what each bottle contained, even though he felt his pulse quicken and the runes on his back urging him to flee from danger if he was this nervous about being there.
“These are medium-drying, although I suspect you did not really need the explanation for all of them, but…”
Harry tilted his head, leaning one arm on the counter.
“But I wanted to hear you explain them.”
Draco blinked as if he had not heard correctly.
“What?”
“What?” Harry repeated.
“Oh.”
Silence and discomfort were things Draco had learned to handle over the years, but clearly Harry Potter was not.
“How did you…” Harry began. “How did you learn to make them like this? I mean, Snape was good, but…”
“Beauxbatons,” Draco replied. “After Hogwarts, I specialized in potions for bodily application, but Lucien liked ancient objects, and I suppose inks, paint, and potions get along well.”
“That explains the control,” Harry said. “And the patience.”
Draco looked away.
“It’s just practice.”
Harry hesitated, but he did not want to keep wondering.
“Lucien speaks very highly of you.”
There it was. Draco straightened. The last thing he needed was for bloody Harry Potter to want to date his best friend, but it was probably for the best anyway, since Luc always got what he wanted in the end.
“Lucien is just a friend,” Draco said quickly. “And before you ask, no, we are not together.”
Harry blinked, surprised.
“I wasn’t…”
“Besides,” Draco added with a grimace, “even though people say blondes have more fun, two blondes in a relationship is objectively a terrible idea. Too many bad decisions, very little common sense, and horrible inflexibility, although that last part might just be Luc.”
Harry laughed, genuinely.
“When you put it that way, I suppose you’re right.”
Draco allowed himself to look at him again.
“Did the ink… react well to your skin?” he asked, more quietly.
Harry nodded and, without thinking, showed the dog marking his skin. The dog looked alert and alive.
Draco felt the pull again.
“Yes,” Harry said. “It feels good… being accompanied, I mean.”
Draco swallowed.
“I’m glad.”
Luna appeared then from the back of the shop, smiling as if she had been waiting for the exact moment.
“Everything all right here?” she asked innocently.
Draco shot her a glare, a faint blush on his cheeks.
“Perfect,” he replied. “I was just leaving.”
Harry looked up.
“Draco, thank you for coming,” he said. “Really.”
Draco nodded and turned toward the door.
But as he crossed the threshold, he knew something with unsettling certainty.
Lucien had not forced him to come, and even though he knew Luna wanted help with something, he had not bothered to go back into the shop humiliated and nervous. He would send an owl later if it was truly that important.
Luna was arranging an old Game Boy when Draco left through the door. She did not look at Harry right away; over time she had learned how to deal with Harry as if he were a hare. She waited. She waited for the silence to settle, for the shop’s magic to return to its natural rhythm, and for Harry to exhale the breath he had been holding in his lungs. Then she spoke.
“You like him,” she said, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather, still cleaning the small old console.
Harry blinked.
“What?”
Luna turned to him with a gentle smile.
“The new Draco,” she clarified. “Not the old one. He no longer exists. I like this new Draco too, so full of art on his body and so relaxed. He does not resemble what he was.”
Harry opened his mouth to deny it, but he simply could not.
“I don’t think I like him like that,” he said finally. “I just… like him. He’s changed, and that’s good.”
Luna tilted her head.
“Of course, and Nargles like unsweetened tea.”
Harry sighed and leaned on the counter.
“I’m not looking for him or stalking him like Hermione for some reason thinks I do or did or will,” he said. “I’m not doing anything.”
“I know,” Luna replied. “That’s what’s interesting.”
She stepped closer and lightly touched the edge of the counter where the box of inks was still vibrating with residual magic.
“You don’t look at him like someone who wants to possess him,” she continued. “You look like someone who has just recognized something familiar.”
Harry looked at his left arm.
“I have to admit he reminds me of…” He stopped.
“Of calm,” Luna finished. “Maybe of another version of yourself who is willing to learn new things.”
Harry swallowed.
“That doesn’t mean I like him.”
Luna smiled.
“I didn’t say you liked him,” she said. “I said you like the new Draco.”
Harry fell silent.
Luna returned to the Game Boy and placed it in a display case surrounded by more Muggle trinkets.
“When you’re ready,” she added with a smile, “don’t ask him about what he was. Ask him about what he creates and about his dreams.”
Harry watched the closed door for another second, and for the first time, he did not feel guilty for wanting to see it open again.
》》》✧《《《
Harry had learned not to send letters.
He wrote them, folded them, and stored them in drawers he did not reopen as often as he liked to admit.
But that night, the tattoo on his left arm was warm. It did not burn or hurt; it was simply responding to him and to his nervous magic, as if listening to every beat of his racing heart.
Harry set the parchment down on the kitchen table, still marked with traces of cold tea, and wrote without thinking too much.
Draco,
I’m not good at this, so I’ll be direct. The tattoo healed well, better than I expected. Some time ago Lucien said that certain inks react over time, and I think… well, I think that’s happening.
If you don’t mind, I’d like to talk about it with you, although maybe not as a client.
Harry
He read the letter three times.
He desperately searched for something that sounded less exposed, but when he could not find it, he decided it would go as it was.
He sealed it in front of an owl that looked at him with ancient judgment.
“Don’t start,” Harry muttered.
He tied the letter and gave it a treat. When the owl took flight, the tattoo responded with a soft, almost approving pulse. Harry remained standing, staring at the empty window.
For the first time in a long while, he did not wish he could undo something.
》》》✧《《《
“No.”
“Draco, when you came whining back from the shop, I told you that you were an idiot.”
“Lucien, no.”
“Draco, darling, it’s literally Harry Potter, and the letter very clearly says Draco. It was obvious the confusion wasn’t about me.”
Draco sat on the edge of his apartment sofa, the letter in his hands as if it might explode after being read so many times.
“He can’t write to me like this,” Draco said. “That’s not… that’s not a casual letter.”
Lucien, comfortably reclined with a glass of wine, smiled like a satisfied demon.
“Not as a client,” he read aloud. “Oh, tragedy, romance, and a new old, very old romance story for Draco Malfoy.”
“It’s not romance,” Draco snapped, running a hand through his hair. “It’s… it’s a technical consultation.”
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
“Of course, because when someone wants a technical consultation, they clarify that the tattoo reacted well, don’t mention prices, but do make sure to say NOT AS A CLIENT.”
Draco paced in circles.
“He can’t like me, and I can’t like him,” he murmured. “Not like that. Not after everything we went through.”
“But you do like him,” Lucien said mercilessly. “The new Harry for the new Draco Malfoy. Don’t you find that poetic?”
Draco stopped short.
“Don’t say that.”
“Did you notice you didn’t say no?”
Draco closed his eyes.
The memory of Harry’s magic, warm, intense, careful, ran over his skin again, right over the nearly invisible scar where Sectumsempra had once burned.
“In the shop, he looked at me like I didn’t have to defend myself,” Draco said softly. “Like he didn’t expect anything bad from me.”
Lucien softened his smile, just slightly.
“That’s usually fatal. Have you seen those eyes? I mean, of course you have.”
Draco pressed the letter to his chest.
“What if I’m just a phase?” he asked. “What if he gets tired of me?”
Lucien stood and gave him a pat on the shoulder.
“Then you will have lived something good,” he said. “And believe me, Malfoy, that’s already a victory, even for someone who’s as afraid of love as you are.”
Draco took a deep breath.
Then, with trembling hands, he reached for parchment.
“I hate it when you laugh.”
“But don’t leave me like this, chérie. Answer your Romeo, and after you go out with him, you’d better come back and tell me all the details.”
Lucien was already laughing.
》》》✧《《《
The next day, the owl arrived while Harry was reorganizing inks that did not need reorganizing. It pecked impatiently at the glass and hooted, as if it knew exactly what kind of emotional disaster it was carrying.
Harry froze. The tattoo on his left arm gave a small tug, barely perceptible, like a thread being pulled taut.
“No,” he murmured. “No, no, no…”
Luna, sitting on the counter with a cup of tea that was definitely not hers, tilted her head.
“If you don’t open the window, it will feel rejected,” she said calmly. “Owls remember those things and tell their children how to treat you.”
Harry hurriedly opened the window and the letter fell onto the counter.
He stared at it for a full second, as if reading it might alter the universe.
Luna smiled.
“It’s from him.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Yes,” she replied. “Your magic is making that little happy noise, like when you finally remove a curse from a screaming kettle.”
Harry looked down at the tattoo. Traitor.
He untied the string with clumsy hands and unfolded the parchment.
Harry,
I’m glad to know it healed well. I should tell you that not all inks react like that, but some recognize when the magic they were made with is compatible. Talking is fine, and it doesn’t bother me.
The studio is open on Thursday afternoons, although if you prefer not to come as a client, there is a café nearby.
Draco
Harry read the letter twice.
Three times.
Four.
“Oh,” he said.
Luna took a sip of tea.
“That wasn’t an ‘oh’ of panic,” she commented. “It might have been one of spiritual revelation, although sometimes they look the same.”
“He said compatible,” Harry whispered. “That’s not… that’s not just any word.”
The tattoo pulsed again, clearer this time.
Harry leaned against the counter, breathing deeply.
“I don’t know what to do,” he admitted. “Every time I think I’m over it, he shows up again, but different. More… real.”
Luna watched him with gentle attention.
“People change,” she said. “Sometimes enough that we get to meet them for the first time.”
Harry laughed nervously.
“What if he thinks I’m ridiculous?”
“Oh Harry, we all know you are,” Luna said without hesitation. “Just not in a dangerous way.”
Harry ran a hand through his hair.
“Do you think that…” He stopped. “Never mind.”
Luna slid off the counter and came closer, looking at the letter.
“I think,” she said, “that Draco is panicking at exactly the same time as you are.”
Harry looked at her, alarmed.
“How do you know?”
Luna smiled, wide and satisfied.
“Because letters written with neat handwriting and carefully measured sentences by Draco always are.”
Harry let his head fall onto the counter.
“I’m in trouble.”
“Yes,” Luna agreed. “But they’re nice troubles.”
The tattoo glimmered faintly, as if in agreement.
And for the first time, Harry did not try to ignore it.
Harry took exactly three days to accept what he had known from the moment he read the letter.
He could not keep looking at the scar every morning as if it were a debt.
Not after everything had he survived.
The word compatible kept echoing in his chest.
He thought about the years he spent applying a light glamour whenever he visited Teddy.
That afternoon, before closing, he sat at the small table at the back of the shop with a sheet of parchment in front of him. He wrote, tore it up, wrote again, tore it up again.
Luna watched him from the stairs, sitting among boxes of enchanted objects that hummed softly.
“Scars get tired of being ignored,” she said suddenly. “When you least expect it, they start screaming.”
Harry looked at his right forearm. More than ten years had passed, and sometimes he still hated himself for that mark.
I must not tell lies.
The black ink still looked fresh on some days. On other days, it burned like the first one.
He sighed and wrote again.
Draco,
I would like to schedule an appointment as well, not just to talk. I want to cover an old scar. I’ve been thinking about something related to truth. In Latin.
If it’s possible for the ink to react to lies, I’d like to know what you think.
Harry
He sealed the parchment before he could regret it.
When the owl departed, Harry felt the immediate tug in the dog tattoo, not painful but attentive, as if something had awakened.
That night, the scar burned. Harry did not scream, but he clenched his fist. He simply closed his eyes and let the sensation pass. Years ago it had felt like a punishment. This time, the burning felt more like a warning.
》》》✧《《《
Draco knew it was Potter’s letter before he even opened it.
Not because it bore his name, Lucien had handled the registry, but because the magic of the parchment brushed his back, right between the alert runes. A soft, attentive, recognizing tingle, very different from other times when someone sought to harm him.
“Oh,” he murmured. “That’s new.”
Lucien smiled as he watched him read the letter.
“Considering that he already wanted to talk to you without being a client and now actually wants to be one, I’d say he’s asking to see you rather intensely, little dragon.”
Draco rolled his eyes and decided that, for once, ignoring Lucien reading his mail and mocking him was the best course of action. He read the letter, then again, then a third time, more slowly, as if each word needed to settle into his body before moving on.
Truth in Latin and reactive to lies.
Draco set the letter down on the worktable and removed his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Of course you want that,” he whispered. “Of course you do.”
It was not a light request. Revelation inks were not offered to just anyone. He himself had a small rune at the nape of his neck to reveal enemies, and he knew it could be annoying at times. They required a stable magical core, conscious intent, and an honest relationship with pain.
Harry Potter had all three. That was what unsettled him most.
Draco stood and went to the cabinet sealed with silver runes. He opened the lower section, where he kept ingredients he did not use lightly.
He took out:
moon onyx powder
ancient ash sap
one drop of heavily diluted Veritaserum, illegal in the wrong hands, delicate in the right ones
He prepared the small cauldron, his personal one. Not the studio’s.
“No burning,” he murmured as he stirred. “No punishment.”
The ink took on a deep gray tone, like black ink seen through water.
“To point,” he repeated. “Only to point.”
The runes on his back activated faintly, not in alert but in recognition.
Draco extinguished the fire beneath the cauldron and wrote the reply with a steady hand, though his pulse betrayed him at the end with a slight tilt to the D in his name.
When he finished, he remained seated for a moment longer.
Thinking that Harry Potter had trusted him with something that had never truly belonged to him:
the way truth would touch him from now on.
The reply arrived the next day, perhaps faster than he had expected.
Harry,
Yes, it is possible.
Revelation inks do not react to involuntary deception or ignorance. Think of it as very diluted Veritaserum, as it does not force you into anything.
It will only react to conscious lies. They do not punish or compel, they only point them out.
We can work with Veritas or with a longer phrase, depending on how much you want the magic to respond.
Come on Thursday.
D.
Harry read the letter with his heart racing.
“They don’t punish,” he repeated softly. “They point.”
Luna appeared beside him as if summoned.
“That sounds fair,” she said. “Truth shouldn’t hurt, it should just make itself known.”
Harry nodded slowly.
“I don’t want to forget,” he said. “I just… don’t want it to keep being someone else’s order.”
He looked at his arm again, down to his fist.
For the first time, he imagined the scar transformed.
Not erased, rewritten by him… by Malfoy.
》》》✧《《《
Thursday arrived without hurry when Harry crossed the studio door that afternoon. He was not nervous about seeing Draco, not entirely at least.
He was nervous about what the magic might choose to reveal.
And, deep down, about the unsettling possibility that the tattoo might react not only to others’ lies, but to his own as well.
Lucien was not there, which was a relief, and the studio looked calmer than usual. The front door bore a sign reading Private Session. Draco greeted him without a smile, but with something more honest: absolute attention behind his almost storm-gray eyes.
“Are you sure about this?” Draco asked, gesturing to the area where the design of the new tattoo was projected. “Once the ink settles, it can’t be deactivated. It’s not Veritaserum exactly, but I don’t know how strongly your magic will react to the potion’s influence, or how much truth it will choose to reveal.”
Harry nodded.
“I’m tired of it telling me what to do,” he replied. “I’d rather it tell me when I’m not being honest.”
Draco said nothing and simply prepared the skin with care, as if touching something fragile, even though he knew Harry was not. The scar reacted immediately with a brief, defensive burn.
“Easy,” Draco murmured, more to the magic surrounding the scar like a curse than to Harry. “You won’t be alone anymore.”
The needle touched skin. It did not hurt the way Harry had expected after vividly remembering, in dreams, the burning of that first mark in fifth year. It was more… cold. As if something were settling around the memory instead of piercing through it.
The word VERITAS took shape slowly, in an elegant stroke that did not cover the scar, but integrated it.
Harry closed his eyes.
He thought of Umbridge.
The rage.
The forced silence.
Everyone refusing to listen, and of all the hidden truth behind it.
The pain and burning etched with his own hand and blood.
The ink shone once.
“Breathe,” Draco said softly as he worked. “The magic in the ink is accepting you.”
When he finished, Draco placed an enchanted gauze and allowed himself to exhale.
“I don’t think it will react to thoughts, although that depends on your magic,” he explained. “Only to conscious lies. Yours or others’.”
Harry opened his eyes.
“So…” He smiled faintly. “The magic is going to be pretty honest with me now.”
Draco met his gaze.
“That’s the hope.”
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable.
It was expectant.
》》》✧《《《
They didn’t call it a date.
That would have been ridiculous; they were simply two adults willing to talk.
They called it coffee, although Draco actually ordered tea, because the studio smelled too strongly of ink and because Draco had said, as if it were nothing:
“You should eat something sweet afterward. It helps stabilize the magic in the ink, and I think that… you wanted to talk to me outside of here.”
The café was small, discreet. Too Muggle to feel casual, too quiet not to feel intimate, with low lights and small cookies that came courtesy of the house.
They talked about safe things. They didn’t want to talk about the war and ruin the comfortable atmosphere they’d settled into. Instead, they found topics they could discuss without drawing the attention of the Muggles around them.
They talked about how much Teddy had grown and his reaction to seeing Harry arrive with a tattoo. They talked about the dog tattoo and how it reacted to the memory of his godfather.
Harry found himself saying,
“I’m fine. It doesn’t affect me as much as it used to.”
And that was when he felt it—a tingling sensation.
His left forearm warmed, barely perceptible, as if someone had brushed a finger over his skin.
Harry went still when Draco looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
“Was that…?” Harry asked.
Draco lowered his gaze to the arm.
The word Veritas glimmered for a second in silver, like a sigh.
“Yes,” Draco said, with absolute softness. “That was.”
Harry swallowed.
“I wasn’t lying completely.”
“No,” Draco confirmed. “But I don’t think you told the whole truth either.”
Harry laughed, nervous.
“Great. I’ve got a self-deception detector tattooed on me.”
Draco looked up, and for the first time he truly smiled—and he simply looked beautiful.
With his hair freshly adjusted, tattoos visible above the collar of his shirt on a pale nape. Was that eyeliner? How had Harry not noticed before he’d taken off his reading glasses?
“I thought that, being a Gryffindor, you’d always liked things straightforward.”
The tattoo calmed.
“I wouldn’t call myself a pure Gryffindor.”
“Liar.” Draco smiled again as he wrapped both hands around his cup, pale long fingers tightening slightly.
“I’m not lying. If I’m honest, the last time I saw the Hat it was still saying I should’ve been in Slytherin.”
Draco glanced sideways at the tattoo and showed no sign that it was a lie.
“I think this time I’ll have to believe you. Though I’m not sure how I feel about that information.”
The coffee kept cooling between them.
And neither of them mentioned that, if this wasn’t a date, it looked far too much like one—and maybe it was something they should keep to themselves for now.
Draco didn’t say anything until they stepped outside and the café door closed behind him.
He walked two full blocks before stopping. Two, because stopping sooner would have meant admitting that something inside him had shifted.
He leaned against the wall of a building, inhaled deeply, and let the runes on his back settle. They weren’t alert like they’d been years ago when they thought someone was following him. They were simply… curious, which somehow felt worse on several levels.
“Brilliant,” he muttered. “Absolutely brilliant.”
The ink had reacted.
With him there.
Not during the session. Not in solitude, while Harry digested the magic in secret. Not in some abstract moment.
It had reacted while Harry Potter was right in front of him, trying to convince himself—himself, not Draco—that he was fine with certain memories of his dead godfather.
And Draco had seen it. Had felt the magical pull. The clean, honest, compatible response.
Compatible.
The word hit his chest again.
Draco ran a hand through his hair, loosening the ponytail just enough to tie it back more tightly, leaving a few strands out of place.
“Don’t look at yourself like that,” he told his reflection in a shop window. “He’s just a client.”
A lie.
A client doesn’t make you adjust your sleeves to cover tattoos you never cared about showing.
A client doesn’t make you wonder whether he smiled because he was comfortable—or because he was with you.
A client doesn’t activate presence runes as if your body had decided to pay attention before you did.
He kept walking.
The reflection in another Muggle storefront gave back an image he didn’t fully recognize: more relaxed, less sharp… dangerously more human.
“You gave him revelation ink,” he whispered. “That’s all.”
But his magic disagreed.
It was still vibrating beneath his skin, restless, as if it had marked something he didn’t yet fully understand.
Draco reached his apartment and closed the door more carefully than necessary.
He leaned against it and closed his eyes, allowing himself—for the first time in years—to think a complete thought without immediately discarding it.
Harry Potter didn’t look at me like I was his past.
The thought alone made him laugh, brief and nervous.
“Of course not,” he said. “He looked at me like I was… part of his present.”
He pressed a hand to his chest, right where the magic still hadn’t settled.
“This is a problem.”
And yet, when he took off his jacket and let the ink on his back breathe, he didn’t try to suppress the feeling.
Because, deep down, Draco Malfoy knew how to recognize a truth when it touched him.
And this time, the truth didn’t hurt—maybe it was just reaching him too quickly to fully process.
》》》✧《《《
For Harry, that night, the silence of his apartment felt different.
Not uncomfortable. Not heavy. Just… expectant.
Harry left his jacket on the chair and carefully rolled up his sleeve, as if the gesture itself might change something. The tattoo on the back of his hand was calm. The word VERITAS rested over the scar as if it had always belonged there.
He poured himself a glass of water.
“I’m fine,” he said aloud, almost out of habit.
The warmth came immediately, not painful or distressing, just present.
Harry closed his eyes and leaned back against the counter.
“Alright,” he murmured. “Not completely.”
The warmth receded, satisfied.
He exhaled slowly as he sat on the sofa, resting his arm along the back and watching how the ink reacted with subtlety, like a shared breath. It wasn’t accusing him, much less punishing him; it was magic that simply wouldn’t let him hide behind a small lie one mostly meant for himself.
He thought about the café and the way Draco had held his cup, effortlessly elegant.
About the loose ponytail, the focused expression when he talked about magic.
About the way he’d looked at him when Veritas had glowed.
“It’s just curiosity,” Harry tried.
The tattoo warmed, and Harry laughed without humor.
“Sure. Curiosity.”
Then he thought something more honest.
“I like the way he looks at me now.”
The warmth vanished completely.
Harry went still.
“Great,” he whispered. “That’s new.”
He sank back into the sofa, staring at the ceiling.
It wasn’t obsession, he knew it hadn’t been for a long time. It wasn’t the past coming back to bite him. It wasn’t the shadow of sixth year or the constant tension of the war.
It was… calm.
A possibility that didn’t hurt to touch.
“I don’t have to do anything,” he said, testing the words. “I can let this be slow.”
The tattoo remained serene, and Harry smiled small, genuine.
“But I want to see him again.”
Silence, then a soft pulse, as if it were approving what he’d said.
Harry closed his eyes and, for the first time, allowed himself not to correct it.
Not to deny.
Not to hide.
Because if the truth was going to accompany him on his skin, maybe it was time to let it into his chest as well.
And, for some reason he didn’t yet fully understand, the idea of Draco Malfoy being part of that truth no longer felt dangerous.
Just… inevitable.
》》》✧《《《
Days later, Draco had been in the studio for exactly five minutes when Lucien appeared.
He did not greet him.
He did not comment on the orders.
He did not mention the inks Draco had used just a couple of days earlier with the now “man who lived twice.”
He just looked at him.
Long. Slow. Like someone watching a natural disaster unfold.
“Oh,” he said finally. “Merde.”
Draco did not even look up from the inventory.
“Do not start.”
Lucien set the box of ingredients on the table and crossed his arms, leaning against it with a dangerously satisfied smile.
“You have changed the way you tie your hair,” he observed. “That only happens when you are nervous or in love, and it has been centuries since I have seen you like that.”
“I am not in love.”
“Then you are nervous, which for me is almost the same thing when it comes to you and your ‘nothing ever unsettles me’ act,” Lucien replied. “You are nervous because of someone I think I know.”
Draco clenched his jaw.
“He was just a client. Nothing more, nothing less. Leave it there.”
Lucien let out a soft, delighted laugh.
“A client who activated all your runes at once?” he asked. “Because I felt them from the doorway.”
Draco looked up sharply, mortified.
“You felt them?”
“Cher, when you have worked for years with a tattooist who engraves protection runes for ‘just in case and for whatever may happen,’ you learn to recognize when they vibrate like they have just spotted a Veela in heat.”
“Do not say that.”
Lucien tilted his head and smiled knowingly.
“So… Harry Potter?”
Silence.
Lucien snapped his fingers.
“Ah.”
Draco dragged a hand down his face.
“It was not intentional.”
“Nothing interesting ever is. And I must admit, I find him very attractive too. Completely your type, I would say. Since always?” Lucien said cheerfully. “Tell me, did the ink react well?”
“Yes.” There was really no point in answering those two questions separately when both of them knew the truth after so many years.
Lucien made a small, indecent little jump of excitement.
“Oh, mon dieu. With him present?”
Draco growled.
“Do not celebrate it.”
“Draco,” Lucien stepped closer, resting his elbows on the counter, “you made revelation ink for someone who trusts you enough to let his skin respond to the truth right in front of you.”
Draco swallowed.
“That does not mean anything.”
Lucien smiled with unexpected gentleness.
“It means he did not look at you like an object,” he said. “He looked at you like a person.”
Draco lowered his gaze, trying to keep his composure and his serious expression.
Lucien sighed theatrically.
“Also,” he added, “it seems he really likes looking at your neck.”
Draco tensed.
“What?”
“The ponytail is not discreet,” Lucien said. “It is criminal.”
Draco closed his eyes.
“I am going to kill you.”
Lucien laughed, delighted.
“No,” he said. “I am going to invite you to dinner when you inevitably tattoo him again.”
Draco opened his mouth to protest, but there were things he no longer wanted to keep denying.
Lucien raised an eyebrow.
“Or are you going to lie to me?”
The runes on Draco’s back vibrated faintly.
Lucien smiled with absolute victory.
“Exactly.”
Draco dropped into the chair.
“This is a disaster.”
Lucien patted his shoulder.
“No, chérie,” he said. “This is a story I am willing to listen to and tell someday at your wedding, because clearly I will be your best man.”
And Draco Malfoy, against his will, could not stop thinking that maybe he was right. Harry Potter was going to be his ruin.
》》》✧《《《
This time, it was Draco who appeared at Luna’s shop without warning.
Well, maybe with technical warning, because Harry had ordered more inks than he needed, and because Lucien, professional traitor, had insisted that the delivery be one hundred percent “personal.”
Draco walked in with a box under his arm and his hair tied back again. Draco Malfoy walking through Luna’s shop carrying a box of inks was, without a doubt, a criminal distraction.
“I swear you did not need this many,” Draco said, setting the box on the counter.
“I did need them,” Harry replied, far too quickly.
His hand warmed, and Harry cleared his throat.
“Well. Maybe not that many.”
Draco raised an amused eyebrow.
“Interesting tattoo.”
Harry shrugged.
“It is… useful.”
The tattoo warmed slightly.
Harry smiled, resigned.
“Tea?” he offered, trying to hide a foolish smile.
Draco hesitated for exactly one second.
“Is that what you offer all your clients?”
“I do not think so.”
He was not flirting with Draco. This was just tea in the back room, among enchanted artifacts and a kettle whistling off-key. Luna left them alone with a smile that said this is better than any romance novel with Fabio on the cover.
They talked about small things. Strange clients. France. Even Muggle London.
The conversation flowed with a naturalness that was unsettling.
They stayed there, talking about nothing important, too aware of each other. Harry gestured more than necessary and, of course, knocked over a small spoon.
“Damn it,” he muttered, bending down.
“I will get it,” Draco said at the same time.
Draco was faster.
He bent down.
And the world stopped for Harry in that moment.
Draco’s shirt slid just enough, slipping slightly out of his trousers, revealing a sliver of pale skin.
Harry was not a voyeur. He really tried not to look.
But he saw it.
A golden snitch, delicate, tattooed right on the lower back. Not ostentatious at all. Almost intimate. Like a secret that only appeared when someone was close enough.
Harry’s tattoo warmed in recognition and he bit the inside of his mouth.
Draco straightened with the spoon in hand and froze when he saw Harry’s expression.
“What?” he asked, pushing his hair away from his face.
Harry opened his mouth.
He thought about lying.
The back of his hand almost glowed.
“I…” he swallowed. “Sorry. I saw your, you know… tattoo.”
Silence.
Draco did not turn around.
“Which one?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
Harry could not escape.
“Was that a snitch?”
Draco closed his eyes for a second.
“Shit.”
He straightened fully and leaned against the counter, exhaling.
“Alright,” he said, placing his hands on the table. “Ask whatever you want.”
Harry blinked.
“Why a snitch?”
Draco looked at him then, assessing him directly.
He shrugged.
“The elegant version is that I have always liked Seekers.”
Harry smiled without thinking.
“And the non-elegant version?”
Draco looked at him, amused.
Harry’s tattoo remained still.
Draco sighed, resigned.
“And,” he added, “it was a drunken bet in France. I lost horribly.”
Harry let out a nervous laugh.
“That… makes sense.”
Draco tilted his head.
“Does it bother you?”
Harry did not hesitate.
“No.”
His Veritas did not react.
Draco watched him with renewed attention and smiled.
“Do you like it?”
Heat rushed up Harry’s arm and into his face.
Harry laughed, defeated.
“A little, yes.”
The tattoo stayed warm, but it was not planning to say more.
Draco let out a low, incredulous laugh.
“Great,” he murmured. “Two functional adults incapable of lying.”
Harry smiled.
“It could be worse.”
“Oh, really?”
Harry leaned slightly closer.
“It could have been a name.”
A comfortable silence settled between them.
Too comfortable.
Draco looked down at the table, then at Harry, and finally sighed like someone giving up on changing the subject.
“I never thought I would end up here,” Draco said suddenly. “Tattooing, making inks, living… quietly.”
Harry looked at him with sincere attention.
“It suits you,” he said. “The calm. And also…”
The tattoo did not react.
Draco blinked.
“Do not say it.”
Harry raised his hands in surrender.
“I do not regret it,” Draco added. “I just… do not usually talk about it.”
Silence settled again between them.
This time, heavier.
Harry rested his elbow on the table.
“I am glad you told me.”
Draco watched him closely.
“Why?”
Harry thought about lying.
“Because I like knowing things not everyone knows.” He did not.
Veritas remained calm.
Draco smiled slowly, as if something clicked into place for the first time.
“Then,” he said, “I suppose I could keep telling you horrible anecdotes and you would enjoy them.”
“Of course not.”
Veritas reacted just a little.
But they both knew they were stopping pretending.
“I need sugar after admitting that.”
And Harry nodded as if he had not just seen a snitch tattooed on the lower back of Draco Malfoy.
“I know a place.”
》》》✧《《《
They ended up at the same café as before.
Not because they planned it.
They sat by the window, enjoying a bit of pretend privacy while watching people rush by outside. It was drizzling, and Muggle London seemed to glow.
“So,” Harry said, stirring a tea with far too much sugar. “France.”
Draco huffed softly.
“I knew you would ask again.”
“I am not obligated not to,” Harry replied. “The tattoo only stops me from lying.”
Draco smiled to the side.
“Technically unfair.”
He took a sip and sighed.
“It was at Beauxbatons. My final year of specialization. End of exams. I think I was drinking too much enchanted wine and making very bad decisions.”
Harry looked up, interested.
“Who was the bet with?”
“A Seeker from the rival Quidditch team,” Draco said. “Arrogant and charming, but the unbearable kind.”
Harry blinked.
“That sounds familiar.”
Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Oh, really?”
Harry shrugged.
“I have met a few.” He winked at Draco, smiling and revealing a dimple.
Draco laughed.
“The deal was simple. If I lost the final match, I got tattooed with whatever he chose. Something elegant, according to him.”
“And he chose a snitch, on your lower back,” Harry said.
“Exactly. Somewhere I could not pretend it did not exist.”
Harry felt a faint tingling in his arm.
“Do you regret it?”
Draco shook his head.
“I do not think so. It reminds me there was a time when I could lose without the world ending.”
Harry smiled.
“That sounds… good.”
The tattoo remained calm.
Draco looked at him curiously.
“And you?” he asked. “Does it bother you to have seen it?”
Harry held his cup with both hands, color rising to his face.
He thought about lying, but he knew Draco had asked with a different intention.
“I like it,” he said. “It reminds me you are still someone who plays, not just someone who survives.”
Draco went still.
“That is…” he searched for the word. “Unexpected.”
Harry laughed softly.
“I am learning to say things like that, you know. A little more honest.”
Draco watched him for a few seconds longer, then smiled for real and bit into another biscuit.
“Do you have anything you regret?”
Harry took a sip of his tea.
“Definitely not.”
But the tattoo glimmered faintly.
And both decided, in silence, not to correct it.
》》》✧《《《
Dinner with Ron and Hermione had always been his safe space.
Hot food, familiar conversations, no dangerous questions, and the chance to hold his goddaughter before she fell asleep.
This time, Harry knew he had made a mistake the moment he sat down.
Hermione watched him for only a few seconds before frowning.
“You are acting strange,” she said. “More than usual.”
“I am fine,” Harry replied automatically.
The back of his hand warmed, and he clenched his fist in recognition.
Ron blinked.
“Did you burn yourself?”
Harry sighed.
“No.”
Hermione narrowed her eyes.
“Harry.”
“Alright,” he said. “I am not completely fine.”
The ink settled.
Hermione and Ron exchanged a look.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Ron asked carefully, trying not to stare at the new and ever-changing tattoo.
Harry took a breath.
“I went to have tea with Draco.”
Silence.
Ron’s knife froze midair.
“What?” Ron and Hermione said at the same time.
“Twice actually, although the second time was more like having dessert, even though the café did not really have much to offer,” Harry added, because apparently he could not stop himself anymore. “And maybe I saw another tattoo he has. One with a Snitch.”
Hermione closed her eyes slowly.
“Oh no.”
Ron blinked.
“Is the Snitch relevant or…?”
“It is very relevant, especially because I think I like it a bit more than I should and it has me intrigued,” Harry said, looking down as he tried to ignore the heat rising to his face.
Harry let his head fall back.
“And I like him,” he admitted. “I like Draco. The new Draco. The one who tattoos, the one who laughs while telling me about losing drunken bets in France.”
Ron pressed a hand to his chest, sarcastic.
“Blessed Merlin.”
Hermione leaned her elbows on the table and reached for Harry’s hand.
“Is it because of the tattoo?” she asked. “Does it force you to tell the truth?”
“It does not force me like Veritaserum,” Harry defended himself. “It just… does not let me lie unless it is a white lie, and it also reveals when someone is lying to me on purpose.”
“That is worse,” Hermione muttered.
Ron looked at him with a slow smile.
“And what does it feel like?”
Harry thought about it.
“Terrifying,” he said. “And… exciting, calm… like flying.”
The ink remained serene.
Hermione sighed.
“Harry,” she said softly. “Promise me you will not obsess like you did in sixth year.”
Harry opened his mouth to say of course not, but the tattoo warmed, the little traitor.
Harry closed his mouth.
“I cannot promise that,” he admitted. “But I can promise this does not feel the same.”
Hermione studied him for a long moment.
“It had better not,” she said finally.
Ron smiled.
“If it helps at all,” he added, “Malfoy has been doing incredible work. He covered Hermione’s scar like it had always been part of her, and with the Patronus it moves, responds to my magic and I think to Rosie’s too.”
Harry looked up.
“Really?”
“Really,” Ron confirmed. “And he was… respectful, professional, and not weird at all.”
The ink on Harry’s hand did not react.
Harry exhaled.
“Thank you.”
When dinner ended and Harry walked back home, he realized the real problem.
Not being able to lie did not just make him honest. It made everything more obvious.
He smiled to himself, nervous, as the tattoo glowed softly beneath his sleeve.
“Great,” he murmured. “Now everyone is going to know before I do.”
And yet, he did not try to suppress the feeling.
Because for the first time, telling the truth did not feel like a sentence.
It just felt like the beginning of something he could no longer hide.
》》》✧《《《
Draco did not usually think about the Snitch.
It was a discreet tattoo. A reminder of a stupid night. A detail he owed no explanations to anyone. Above all, a sometimes warm memory that reminded him that after the storm comes calm. It lived on his back the way many things did. Present, but under control.
Until Harry Potter.
Until the way he had looked at it.
Living up to his old title of Seeker.
Draco was alone in his flat when he took off his shirt, more aware than ever of his own body, and looked at himself in the hallway mirror, turning just enough to see it.
The golden Snitch seemed to move slightly as he breathed, its wings beating slowly at an almost imperceptible pace.
“Do not start,” he told himself.
The runes on his back vibrated, paying attention to their surroundings.
It was not the first time someone had seen it.
But it was the first time someone did not look away in embarrassment or see him as a piece of flesh to conquer.
He thought of Harry’s voice.
Do you like it?
Draco closed his eyes.
“It was a bet and it has nothing to do with him,” he murmured. “Nothing at all.”
The Snitch glowed faintly.
“And I have always liked Seekers,” he added quickly.
Nothing changed.
Draco huffed, frustrated.
“Damn it.”
He fell onto the bed on his back, his arm covering his eyes. His magic was restless, moving through him as if it had recognized something his mind refused to name.
Harry Potter had looked at his back as if it were… human.
Not like a provocation.
Not like a trophy to “conquer the bad boy,” much less like a dirty secret.
Like a funny story about a younger Draco.
Draco turned onto his side, his heart pounding against his ribs.
“He cannot like me,” he told himself. “That would be imprudent.”
The runes vibrated, soft but firm.
Draco went still.
“Alright,” he admitted in a whisper. “I like that he looks at me like that.”
The Snitch fluttered its wings just a little, as if responding to a small but necessary truth.
Draco laughed, nervous.
“Great. Now even my skin agrees.”
He sat up and walked back to the mirror, smiling, because for the first time the Snitch did not seem like a mistake.
It seemed like… a promise that had been waiting for the right Seeker.
And that, Draco Malfoy thought as he covered his face with both hands, was an entirely new level of trouble.
》》》✧《《《
A few weeks later, Harry walked a step ahead, almost without thinking, along the narrow paths that opened through Portobello Road.
The Muggle flea market was one of those places where his body went on autopilot. He knew what to look at, what to ignore, how to tell useless junk from something made with intention. He did not need magic for that. Just time. And the experience of too many years rummaging through forgotten boxes at Grimmauld Place.
“Do not touch anything yet if you see something buzzing, crackling, or making you want to cry for no reason,” he told Draco, stopping in front of a stall. “First, do not touch it. Observe.”
“Does that happen often?”
“More often than Luna considers prudent.”
Draco raised both hands in mock surrender.
“At your command, Potter.”
The market was crowded. Families, tourists, collectors with eager hands.
Harry moved with disconcerting ease. He stopped, observed, and touched only what was necessary. There was no wand, no visible magic, and yet Harry felt something vibrating beneath his skin.
He picked up an old compass, turned it, and listened to the faint internal scrape.
“This is rubbish,” he declared. “But that music box…”
Draco leaned in slightly, attentive and not mocking.
“The wood is good. And the mechanism was not replaced.”
Harry looked at him, surprised.
“How do you know?”
Draco shrugged.
“Years of being friends with Luna teach you how to recognize what is worth something, even when it does not shine.”
That unsettled Harry more than he expected.
They moved on between stalls, now side by side. Harry pointed out details. Original screws, uneven engravings, symbols that were not magical but were deliberate. Draco listened and nodded, but also intervened.
“That is not Victorian,” he said in front of an oval mirror. “It is later. It imitates the style, but someone made it by hand. Look at the curve.”
Harry ran a finger along the edge.
“You are right.”
Draco crouched in front of a box of old watches. Harry noticed the gesture before he noticed himself noticing it. The way the coat gathered, the way blond hair slipped free from the ponytail.
“This one,” Draco said, pulling out a small brass astrolabe. “Look.”
“It does not seem very old,” Harry said, holding it with both hands. It was cold and heavy.
“It was made by someone who believed in the stars. Luna will like it.”
The vendor, an older man wearing a cap, eyed them suspiciously.
“Thirty pounds.”
Draco raised an eyebrow.
“Twenty. It is misaligned, and the needle is not original.”
“Twenty-five.”
“Twenty, and I will tell you where to get the correct needle.”
The man hesitated. Harry watched the exchange as if hypnotized. Draco did not raise his voice. He did not smile too much. He was… elegant. Confident. Beautifully irritating.
“Deal,” the vendor said at last.
Harry realized he was smiling again.
He was not used to that. To someone else understanding without him having to explain too much.
They bought a wooden box with secret compartments, a Muggle astrolabe with no magic but full of symbolism, some old video game consoles, and a couple of old frames that Luna would love for no apparent reason. Draco paid for some things without arguing, bargained over others.
Harry bought a lighter just because Draco said it “had character.”
“Luna helped us get the studio space,” Draco said while haggling with another vendor. “The previous owner thought it was haunted.”
“Was it?”
“A little, but it was really just an old boggart we released into the forest,” he smiled. “But she said that gave it character.”
Harry laughed, imagining it easily.
“She also helped us decorate,” Draco continued. “Lucien wanted French antiques, elegant things, because you know he is a bit vain. I… preferred Muggle things. I like it when objects do not pretend to be something else.”
“And Luna?”
“She said both could coexist. That magic is in the intention, not the origin.”
Harry thought of Constellatio, of the mixed objects. Of how everything made sense without being uniform.
They spoke with a woman selling old postcards. With a child who swore a spoon was cursed. Draco listened to everyone as if they were clients in a tattoo session. Harry thought, without meaning to, that this was not something he had ever expected from him.
When hunger became inevitable, they ended up sitting at a wooden table, greasy paper under their fingers and two generous portions of fish and chips between them.
“This is something I missed,” Draco said, trying a chip. “France is unbearable with these things.”
Harry laughed.
“I never thought I would hear you complain about French food.”
“I am not complaining,” Draco corrected. “It is just… not this.”
They ate in silence for a moment. Not uncomfortable. Dangerous.
“That lighter I bought… it does not work,” Harry admitted. “But it belonged to someone who used it every day for years. You can tell.”
Harry realized he was speaking without thinking too much.
Draco looked at him with genuine attention.
“That is magic too.”
The dog tattoo on Harry’s arm warmed slightly, a mild pulse of recognition.
They ate in silence again. Comfortable. Dangerous.
“Thank you for coming,” Harry said suddenly. “I know Luna insisted, but… it was a good idea.”
Draco wanted to say yes. He wanted to say I think so too. He wanted to say too many things.
“You are welcome,” he replied, and for a fraction of a second Harry’s tattoo glowed, soft, almost affectionate.
It was not a lie. It was an omission.
And Harry understood, as he watched Draco wipe his fingers with a napkin and talk about the next commission for Constellatio, that he was not spending time with him because of Luna’s shop or the market.
Harry thought, not for the first time that day, that Draco was nothing like his father. Not even like the version Harry himself had built over the years. He was something else. Someone more… refined.
And although Harry was still guiding the way, for the first time he did not feel like he was doing it alone.
》》》✧《《《
Harry had been staring at the blank parchment for twenty minutes.
It was not the first time that week.
The quill hovered over the paper as if it, too, were hesitating.
Dear Draco, he had written… and erased.
Malfoy sounded too distant now, so he crossed it out, but Draco sounded too intimate.
He sighed and let the quill fall.
“This is ridiculous,” he murmured.
His fist warmed and Harry closed his eyes.
“Alright, maybe it is ridiculous because I care too much.”
The heat faded, satisfied. He stood up immediately and paced the shop, rearranging things that were already perfectly fine. Constellatio was quiet that afternoon, filled with the soft light Luna claimed came “from things that feel heard,” and it was almost closing time.
As if summoned by the thought, Luna appeared from the back room carrying what was probably a commission.
“You are writing a letter you do not know whether you are going to send,” she said casually.
Harry startled.
“How do you know?”
“Because the quill gets nervous every time you try to send a letter you do not want to send,” she replied. “And you are shaking almost as much as the quill.”
Harry dropped into a chair and leaned his head back, staring up at the large chandelier he had enchanted for Luna long ago.
“I do not know how to invite him,” he admitted. “I do not want him to think it is… pressure.”
Luna tilted her head.
“Invite him to what?”
“To your exhibition,” he said. “To the magical gallery. To… something that already feels like a date even if we do not say it.”
Luna smiled, bright and gentle.
“Then you should definitely invite him. Even though he knows my exhibition date is coming up, he could have forgotten.”
Harry looked at her, alarmed.
“Luna.”
“Make it a real date,” she continued. “There will be art and there will be stars there, just like between you. You can talk, and we will all be there. I want everyone there, and you would stop pretending this is accidental.”
Harry opened his mouth to say that Draco already had an invitation as Luna’s friend, that it was unnecessary for him to trouble himself—
The tattoo warmed, forcing his mouth shut.
Luna watched him with curiosity.
“Were you trying to lie to yourself?”
“Maybe a little,” he admitted.
“Then invite him yourself,” she said. “Sometimes magic needs you to face it. You are a Gryffindor, after all.”
Harry returned to the parchment and wrote slowly, carefully, trying to sound as honest as possible.
Hello, Draco.
Luna is opening a temporary exhibition at a magical gallery this week, and I was wondering if you would like to go with me?
Harry.
He read the letter three times. Harry smiled nervously, but his tattoo did not react.
“Alright,” he whispered. “This one is going.”
He tied the parchment to the leg of one of Luna’s owls and sent it off before he could regret it.
》》》✧《《《
Draco was fine-tuning a commissioned design when Lucien placed a letter on the table.
“You received something… interesting,” he said with a dangerous smile.
Draco frowned.
“If it is to schedule an appointment, leave it on the desk and I will check it before I leave.”
“It is not.”
Draco picked up the parchment and read it once, then twice. The world tilted slightly.
“No,” he said.
Lucien leaned against the table, arms crossed.
“Oh, yes.”
“This is not,” Draco ran a hand through his hair. “This is not a general invitation.”
“No,” Lucien confirmed. “That would be boring.”
Draco felt the rune on his back meant to protect him from fear heat up, alert and alive.
“He invited me,” he said, incredulous.
“He invited only you, with him,” Lucien corrected. “Like a real date, with a place and a date, so no excuses.”
Draco shot him a glare.
“Do not start.”
Lucien laughed.
“Draco Malfoy, the man who tattooed truths into other people’s skin, is having gay panic over a polite invitation.”
“Shut up.”
“Are you going? Well, it is obvious you are going, but are you going with HIM?”
Draco did not answer immediately.
He thought of Harry, earnest and awkward, of the way he looked at him, and of how he did not lie, not because he could not, but because he did not want to.
“Yes,” he said finally. “I am going.”
The runes along his spine settled.
Lucien smiled like someone watching a small prophecy come true.
“At last,” he said. “A real date for the Petit Dragon en colère.”
Draco covered his face with both hands.
“I am going to regret this.”
“No,” Lucien replied. “You are going to fall in love, although I think you already were, many years ago, if I remember correctly.”
Draco did not dare deny it.
The owl arrived through the window as if it knew Harry was already on the verge of a small collapse. The parchment landed on the table, plain and unadorned. Draco had always been like that, or at least that was how Harry remembered him. The owl did not wait for a reply or a treat and left calmly.
Harry held the parchment for a few seconds without opening it.
“Breathe,” he told himself.
Veritas was warm when he untied the string.
Harry,
I would like to go with you.
I just want to confirm something first, and I hope I am not rushing.
Is this time like a date?
Draco
Harry closed his eyes.
His body reacted before his mind. His heart raced, his hands sweated, and his small tattoo burned with almost cruel clarity.
“Merlin,” he murmured. “Yes, it is a date.”
The ink settled, satisfied.
Harry sank into the chair and rubbed his face. He could not lie to himself anymore, and he did not want to. He picked up the quill with more care than he had used for any Ministry report.
Draco,
Yes, it is like a date, if you want it to be too.
Harry.
The reply was short, clear, and definitive. He rushed to send the owl before he could add anything that sounded like retreat or something more incriminating.
Only then did he allow himself to panic.
“It is a date,” he repeated. “It is a real date.”
》》》✧《《《
Harry stood in front of the mirror, three shirts laid out on the bed.
“This is too much,” he said, holding up a blue one. “This is not enough,” he added when he looked at a white one, discarding it immediately.
He ended up choosing something simple. A light green shirt, Hermione’s recommendation, comfortable black Muggle trousers, and his denim jacket that reminded him of Sirius. He did not want anything that screamed past.
He stopped in front of the mirror and pulled his sleeve down, hiding the tattoo for now.
“Just be yourself,” he told himself.
Draco, for his part, had already discarded half his wardrobe.
“No,” he said to a jacket. “I am not going to look like a Malfoy.”
Lucien, sitting on the sofa with a glass of wine, smiled.
“You are wearing Muggle clothes,” he observed. “That is already progress.”
Draco settled on something simple but deliberate. Dark trousers, a well-cut shirt, a navy blue cashmere sweater, and his beige coat. His hair loose, barely pulled back into a half ponytail. He considered doing something more elaborate, but he did not want to overthink it.
He looked at himself in the mirror.
“I do not want him to think I am pretending.”
“Good,” Lucien soothed him, lifting his glass. “Then do not pretend.”
“I think I am ready, and you should leave. Luna is surely waiting for you to gossip about this.”
Lucien did not reply. He smiled, set his empty glass on the counter, and with a soft crack, disappeared from the flat.
》》》✧《《《
The building was more discreet than Harry had imagined. Not ostentatious at all, with old brick and a clean entrance, unmistakably very Muggle.
Harry adjusted his leather jacket without realizing it, grateful that Draco had trusted him with his home address after confirming that yes, this was a date and that he had definitely offered to pick him up so they could Apparate together as a final act of bravery for the night.
Calm down, it is just Draco, he told himself before knocking.
When the door opened, the world went quiet.
Draco was there.
A dark blue cashmere sweater, soft to the eye, with a light shirt peeking out at the collar, black trousers fitting perfectly along long legs. His hair was pulled into a half ponytail, loose strands framing his face. Rings, several of them, of different sizes, adorned his fingers, some discreet, others impossible to ignore against that unmistakably pale skin.
Harry forgot how air worked.
“Hi,” Draco said.
Harry opened his mouth.
Nothing came out.
Veritas warmed, demanding brutal honesty, pushing him to be braver.
“I,” he started. “Hi.”
Draco really looked at him then.
The leather jacket fit Harry as if it had always been his, paired with a simple, well-fitted shirt that highlighted his eyes without overpowering them. Dark trousers and worn but elegant dragon-hide boots that made him look steady and a little daring. He was simply Harry. Messy hair, half-moon glasses, an insecure posture that could not hide how good he looked.
Draco blinked.
“Merlin,” he murmured without thinking.
Harry swallowed.
“What?”
“Nothing. Just,” Draco recovered himself, though the heat in his cheeks betrayed him. “You look very good.”
Harry felt his chest might burst.
“I think the same,” he said too quickly. “I mean, you, you look… very good.”
They stood there, staring at each other, too close to the door and yet too far from any escape.
Draco was the one who stepped back.
“Do you want to come in?” he asked. “We can Apparate from here.”
Harry nodded, still processing.
When he entered, the flat smelled of ink, coffee, and something familiar he could not quite name.
Draco closed the door, and they looked at each other again.
“This,” Harry said with a nervous smile. “This is definitely a date, right?”
Draco smiled too, slow and real.
“Yes,” he replied. “Definitely.”
And for the first time, neither of them wanted to be anywhere else.
》》》✧《《《
“—Are you ready?” Draco asked.
Harry nodded, though his body didn’t seem convinced, and he offered his hand for a joint Apparition. Apparating itself wasn’t the problem for Draco—the problem was how they would do it.
Draco’s skin was warm, steady, reassuring without pressing. His fingers fit naturally with Harry’s, as if they already knew where to go.
“Focus on the place,” Draco said softly. “Selene Gallery, side entrance.”
Harry swallowed.
Focus on not fainting, he thought.
The magic activated.
The familiar pull of Apparition came… but something was different. It wasn’t abrupt or violent. Draco held his hand more firmly, anchoring him, as if the movement wrapped around them both instead of tearing them apart.
In that suspended second, Harry was aware of everything:
Draco’s pulse and the softness of his skin.
the light brush of his thumb against Harry’s knuckle,
the devastating fact that it felt good—he might even say it felt right.
They landed.
Harry inhaled sharply.
Draco didn’t let go of his hand right away.
“Okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” Harry replied, honest to the bone. “Very okay.”
They looked at each other and shared a small smile.
Then it was as if they both suddenly remembered they were in public, and they let go almost at the same time—far too quickly to be comfortable.
The gallery was flooded with light: small floating lights, overlapping conversations, and magical art softly vibrating along the walls as if the paintings were breathing. Luna’s temporary exhibition occupied the main wing—old and new pieces coexisted on the walls, as did stories suspended in the air.
Draco had taken barely two steps inside when he felt it all along the runes on his spine. He had known, somehow, that entering shoulder to shoulder with Harry would draw attention—but he hadn’t expected it to happen so fast.
The looks made him more nervous than he’d thought he would be.
“Oh,” he murmured. “They noticed already.”
Harry blinked.
“Noticed what?”
Draco tilted his head slightly.
“That we arrived together.”
Harry opened his mouth to respond… and then he really looked around.
Hermione, wearing a smile she wasn’t even trying to hide.
Ron, watching them with an expression that clearly said *ah, that explains it*.
And Lucien, leaning against a column with his arms crossed and an insufferable grin.
Luna—positively radiant, as if she’d just won some cosmic bet—approached and took Harry’s arm affectionately.
“You arrived at the same time,” she said, as if commenting on the weather.
“We Apparated together,” Harry clarified, once again far too quickly.
Draco glanced sideways at him.
Luna tilted her head, studying them with a gentle smile.
“The paintings noticed,” she added. “They’re always happy when the right people arrive together.”
Harry gaped like a fish out of water but decided not to press the issue and make himself more nervous.
“The exhibition is beautiful, Luna,” he said, looking around. “Truly.”
“Thank you,” she replied. “Draco helped a lot.”
Draco felt several gazes settle on him.
“The inks,” he explained. “Some of them are from my collection.”
Luna nodded.
“Many of the paintings are happy now. Like you.”
Harry choked slightly.
Hermione approached then, wearing the smile that meant *finally, I found you*.
“Luna, it’s incredible,” she said. “The restoration is impeccable.”
“Draco is very careful with things that have already been hurt,” Luna replied.
Harry lowered his gaze for a moment.
So did Draco.
Lucien cleared his throat.
“And besides,” he added, as if making an academic observation, “you arrived together.”
“Lucien,” Draco warned.
Ron let out a short laugh.
“I’m just saying… you look good.”
Harry turned red. He honestly didn’t know who or what Ron was referring to, and they moved away quickly.
Then he looked at Draco, as if seeking permission.
“Thank you for coming with me.”
Draco met his gaze. The gallery lights seemed to gather around Harry, outlining him with care.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he replied. “I like seeing it with you.”
Harry took a deep breath.
They didn’t hold hands.
They didn’t need to.
The paintings shone a little brighter.
And everyone—absolutely everyone—understood that that night wasn’t just an opening.
It was the beginning of something that no longer intended to hide.
》》》✧《《《
They did not notice exactly when the noise was left behind.
It simply happened.
One slower step, a different turn, or a wall that seemed to absorb the voices until they faded into a distant murmur. Harry noticed the air change, denser, more attentive, as if the gallery itself had decided to keep them folded into its own private space.
One of the paintings was there.
It was not the largest or the most striking. It was a nighttime landscape: a deep sky, almost black, crossed by stars that did not follow any known constellations. Below, barely visible, two human silhouettes seen from behind looked up, as if mirroring what was happening around them.
Harry stopped without knowing why.
Draco did too.
The painting reacted first as Harry approached, and the stars blinked one by one, as if someone were counting them.
“This wasn’t like this a moment ago,” Harry murmured.
“It was,” Draco replied. “But not like this.”
The golden ink of the sky began to move with more intention. A new line appeared, delicate, as if drawn in that very instant, shaped like a shooting star.
Draco inhaled slowly and, for a moment, thought about making a wish.
Harry slipped an arm around Draco’s back, and the runes along Draco’s spine responded, a soft vibration like a distant heartbeat. Harry felt it too, though he did not know how to respond.
“Luna said some paintings choose when to reveal themselves,” Draco commented quietly. “They don’t react to just anyone.”
Harry swallowed.
“And to us they do?”
Draco looked at him in profile. The bluish light of the painting traced his jaw, the half ponytail, the rings catching golden reflections.
“It seems so.”
They stayed there without moving, as if a sudden gesture might break the moment. The stars continued rearranging themselves until they formed something Harry recognized with a start. Not a constellation, but a pattern. Two trajectories crossing again and again without colliding.
“It looks like…” Harry began.
“Shooting stars,” Draco finished, with a small smile.
Harry let out a low, almost incredulous laugh.
“Of course it does.”
The silence settled again, more intimate now. Harry realized he could hear his own breathing, and Draco’s too, calm and close.
“Draco,” he said, without thinking too much.
The name felt different now, no longer heavy or sharp in his chest.
“Yes?”
Harry looked at the painting again.
“I didn’t think magic could do this. React like this to two people at once.”
Draco lowered his voice even more.
“It almost never does. Luna says it’s when something already exists, and the painting just recognizes it.”
“That’s… terrifyingly clarifying.”
Draco let out a soft exhale, a humorless laugh.
“Tell me about it. I spent years pretending I didn’t understand the magical paintings in my family home.”
He turned slightly toward Harry.
“But with you, it’s hard to pretend.”
Harry lifted his gaze. Their eyes met in the reflection of the glass covering the painting, as if they did not yet dare to face each other directly.
“I’m not very good at pretending lately either,” Harry admitted with a laugh. “My magic stopped letting me.”
The stars in the painting shone a little brighter, approving.
Draco inclined his head just slightly, close to Harry’s shoulder.
“Then I suppose we are… being honest now.”
Harry smiled.
“I suppose we are.”
They did not touch.
But the space between them grew so small that the painting, satisfied, stopped moving.
As if it had said that was enough, I have seen what I needed to see.
London at night felt different to Draco when Harry walked at his side.
It was not the noise that still lingered in the background, nor the lights, nor even the mild cold slipping down the collar of his coat. It was that strange sensation of having shared something that still vibrated in his chest, as if the exhibition had not quite ended and the magic was still clinging to them.
“Thank you for coming,” Harry said, breaking the silence as they stopped in front of Draco’s building.
Thank you for existing, Draco thought involuntarily, and almost laughed at himself.
“Thank you for inviting me,” he replied, calmer than he felt.
The Veritas reacted before Harry spoke. Draco noticed it even without seeing it: a warm, insistent pressure, as if the truth wanted to surface through the skin.
Harry swallowed.
“Draco…” he began, and the tattoo burned a little more. “May I kiss you?”
The world narrowed to that question as the runes on Draco’s skin responded immediately, lighting up beneath his clothes, recognizing something they already knew. It was not urgency. It was calm, as if the magic were saying this, exactly this, was what it needed.
Draco did not trust his voice and simply nodded, then he was the one who closed the distance.
The kiss was soft, awkward in the best possible way. Harry hesitated for a second before resting his hand on Draco’s waist, as if asking permission even after having done so. Draco smiled against his mouth and kissed him a little more firmly, just enough to say I am here and I truly want this.
The tattoo on Harry’s skin settled.
For the first time since he had carried it, it grew quiet and found a steady peace, without demanding that something be true or revealed.
They pulled apart with a shared low laugh, the kind that happens when something important has just occurred and you do not yet know what to do with it.
“Wait,” Draco murmured.
He reached up to Harry’s face, carefully removed his glasses, smiled, and kissed him again without the barrier of glass between them, slower, more deliberate.
Then, with a small but bright smile, he put them back on.
“I don’t want you tripping now,” he said.
Harry laughed, already red up to his ears.
“See you soon, then.”
“See you soon, Harry.”
Draco closed the door.
He waited exactly half a second.
Then he leaned against it, as if someone had removed his bones with a spell that turned his legs to molasses.
“Merlin’s mercy,” he whispered, pressing a hand to his face while the runes still glowed softly beneath his skin. “He kissed me and I kissed him and it was too much.”
He pushed himself upright again, breathing deeply, smiling like an absolute idiot in the empty hallway, and hurried up the stairs to his flat, because there was no way he would let his neighbors see him like this, foolishly in love, because he was not in love. Not yet.
On the other side of the door, Harry Potter walked away at a brisk pace, then Disapparated once he judged there was no one around to see him.
And Draco Malfoy, reformed tattoo artist, was officially and irreversibly lost.
》》》✧《《《
Harry did not knock. Against all odds, he stumbled in through the Floo Network and covered himself in soot after shouting too hastily in his own fireplace at Grimmauld Place.
“He did not kiss me like a friend. That is not how you kiss your friends.”
“HARRY,” Hermione shouted from the kitchen. “Merlin, warn us when you are on your way. You could have woken Rose.”
Ron nearly dropped his mug of tea.
“Is someone chasing you? Why are you red? What did not kiss you like a friend? Who kissed you?”
Harry gave his friends one last look, already in their pajamas, and ran both hands through his hair.
“Draco. Malfoy kissed me, properly, and with permission,” he said, taking a deep breath. “With explicit consent, Hermione.”
Hermione appeared in the doorway, arms crossed, expression dangerously calm.
“I see.”
“Do not say ‘I see,’” Harry exploded. “That is worse than yelling.”
Ron blinked.
“Wait, wait. Tattoo artist Malfoy? The one with the expensive sweater? The one who according to you is just a new friend I am getting to know?”
“It was not just that and you know it.”
Hermione raised an eyebrow.
“Harry, dear, he kissed you. Why did you come into our house like the Ministry was after you?”
Harry opened his mouth, closed it when no words came out, and began pacing in circles.
“Because,” he started. “Because the Veritas did not heat up even a little, it calmed down, and because when I asked him if I could kiss him, the answer was yes. Because he looked at me like I was something he wanted to protect and…” Harry stopped short. “Oh no.”
Ron smiled slowly.
“Oh yes.”
“I like him,” Harry whispered, horrified. “I like him a lot.”
Hermione smiled, the kind of smile that said I knew it all along.
“Harry, you have been orbiting Draco Malfoy for over a month like he is a giant, beautiful treacle tart.”
“No,” he protested. “Well… maybe. But now it is worse because I cannot lie to myself. Every time I think about him, the tattoo responds like I am saying the truth out loud.”
Ron leaned back in his chair.
“That explains why you came in screaming.”
Harry collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands.
“He asked me to confirm it was a date, Hermione. I confirmed it, with words and no evasions, like a functional adult. Who am I becoming?”
Hermione sat in front of him with a cup of tea in her hands.
“Someone who just had his first calm kiss after years of war, trauma, and emotional denial.”
Harry looked up, defeated and smiling.
“He took off my glasses,” he added quietly. “Just to kiss me again and then he put them back on.”
Ron made a strangled sound and took a sip of tea to hide his laughter.
“That is criminal.”
“I know.”
Hermione leaned forward, set her cup on the coffee table, and rested her elbows on her knees.
“And what do you feel now?”
Harry did not have to think.
“Panic, a lot of it, but happy. I think I want to see him again, but I also want to run. I want to write him another letter and also want to write nothing so I do not seem desperate. All at once.”
Hermione patted his knee gently.
“Congratulations. You are falling in love.”
Harry let his head fall back.
“This is a disaster.”
Ron smiled.
“Yes, but it is a good disaster, mate.”
Harry closed his eyes. The Veritas did not react.
And for the first time, he did not want to run from the truth.
》》》✧《《《
Draco does not melt immediately; that would be easy, and it would be honest in a way he still does not allow himself.
He closes the door, rests his forehead against the wood, and breathes as if he has climbed too many flights of stairs, mentally counting the seconds that have passed. The silence of his flat welcomes him with its usual calm, but something is… out of place, and he feels restless until he realizes it is not the space—it is him.
He removes his rings first, as he always does after a long day, one by one, carefully, watching the slight tremor in his hands.
This time, when he takes off the last one, the runes on his back tingle in recognition: they have reached home, and there is no danger.
“Merlin,” he murmurs, almost annoyed.
He walks into the kitchen without turning on the light; he does not need it, as London’s glow slips in through the window like a grey whisper. And for the first time in years, Draco feels… far too present in his own body.
Harry Potter kissed him.
Not in a shameful fantasy he would have neatly filed away and hidden behind a thousand walls of Occlumency. Not a “maybe, if things were different,” like when he was at Beauxbatons and allowed himself to fantasize about the few photographs of Harry Potter that reached France, clad in his Auror uniform, gaze unyielding.
He kissed him after asking for permission.
That detail is what undoes him the most.
He takes a couple of steps to brace himself against the counter and closes his eyes. The memory returns on its own: the uncertain voice, the honest pause, the way Harry waited for the answer as if Draco were something fragile and not a man full of visible and invisible scars.
“Of course it had to be like this,” he tells himself with a soundless laugh, trying to make sense of his thoughts. “Of course Potter had to kiss like he was making an oath.”
The runes react again with a soft vibration, almost teasing, as if the magic were reminding him that he chose this too. That he also chose to go out with Harry Potter and to let him take him by the waist and pull him closer during the kiss.
He runs a hand through his hair, undoing the half-ponytail without realizing it, and steps away from the counter to drop onto the sofa, staring at the ceiling, counting breaths the way he learned to do at Beauxbatons when the pressure became too much during final exams.
This is dangerous.
Not because Harry is unpredictable, but because he is consistent—consistent in his life and in his actions toward him now.
Because he did not lie.
Because he did not push.
Because he asked.
Draco turns his face toward the door, as if he could see it from the other side of the city.
“This is going to be a problem,” he whispers.
And for the first time, it does not sound like a warning.
It sounds like acceptance.
A sharp knock on the wall makes him sit up, followed by another in a familiar rhythm.
“No,” he says out loud. “Not now.”
Too late.
Lucien’s laughter filters in from the neighboring flat, muffled but unmistakable, and that is when Draco thinks he should have silenced his floor when he came in.
“Oh no!” Lucien shouts, delighted. “Was that the sound of someone who was definitely kissed by Harry Potter and is pretending not to be panicking?”
Draco lets his head fall back.
“Go to hell.”
“Gladly,” Lucien replies, “but first tell me one thing—does he kiss well?”
Draco does not answer, but the runes on his back glow with barely contained excitement.
Lucien laughs as if he has just won a long-awaited bet.
》》》✧《《《