1700 hours. The Inkwell, Knockturn Alley.


"What do I have next?"

It was closing in on sunset and the cloudy English day was slowly dying into a foggy English night. Lana was busy at the counter filling out the records book, somethin' obnoxiously modern was playing on the Wireless downstairs and the front door had been left open to let in what was left of the summer air. Dietrich, just emerging on to the stairs landing, repeated his question until finally his girlfriend lifted her dark head to attention. "Tattoo mending, gave the name of Harper."

"Nothin' big? Y'should get going on dinner then," he moved over to the other side of the counter and leaned across it to give the witch a quick kiss on her cheek. "I can log the fella in." Lana sighed softly and she stared back at him drolly. "If you think you can handle it," she replied. Dietrich smiled.

After she had left, he shut the parlour door and returned to sit at the counter with a bottle of firewhiskey- a small tumbler was procured. The tune on the wireless changed to something a li'l more to Dietrich's taste ('least a couple of decades old) and he leaned back with his full glass in one hand.

Kinda nice, havin' the place all t'himself every now and again.

Summer in London was busier than Erin was used to, spending most summers as he did in Newport pent up in his family's house or hiking out in the country, but this summer he'd been more restless than most. With the memory of Razzy still hot in his mind he trawled London, from the compact spider's web of Diagon (familiar, boring) to the dizzying stretch of Muggle streets beyond the gate-keep pub (couldn't use magic anyways, his family'd never know). Darian'd let him crash on his couch for first a week, then a fortnight, but his generousity wouldn't last much longer. It wouldn't matter - he'd be back to Hogwarts soon enough. For now, though, he liked the city. Forget Wales. He thought he wouldn't mind moving here when school was done.

Bumming a bed at Darian's carried crazy hours; Erin was too grateful to be a prat about it, and knew when to make himself scarce. Darian was only home maybe two nights a week (and then with company), their cousinly bonding time limited to Darian ruffling his hair on the way out or a five-minute teasing interrogation over morning toast. Bizarrely, the designer had decided to stay in tonight, so Erin was glad he'd had a previous engagement.

He'd made the appointment a week ago, wanting to get in the errand before he left town. He was old enough that he didn't feel like he was scamming anybody when he slunk in the front entrance of the tattoo shop.

It was empty except for some bloke dozing with his hand wrapped around a whiskey glass. Erin examined him from the door, duly unimpressed with everything except the man's muscles. The walls were covered in art, which interested him a little more - it was art on people's skin, the stuff you lived with, so Erin could feel open about admiring it. It didn't feel automatically highbrow.

When he was done casing the joint (about five minutes, with his attention span) he poked around the front desk until he uncovered some apppropriate ammunition. "Oi! Appointment here!" A MagicMark erasor bounced off Dietrich's head. "Sleepy heads get hexed in bed, and all that."

Drowning. Drowning, gasping for air, struggling underneath the overlapping waves of a dark and stormy ocean... but it was so warm and so quiet... he needed air, he needed to brea--


"Oi!"

Something blunt clonked him right on the melon with a loud thunk and Dietrich snapped out of his half-reverie, almost choking on a gulp of firewhiskey that had gone unswallowed. His grip on the glass loosened and he quickly set it down on the counter, blinking sleepily. A free hand went to gingerly rub the sore spot on his temple.

Standing on the other side of the desk was a young blonde fella sayin' something 'bout sleepyheads that Dietrich didn't really catch. Didn't want to- his head was a'hurting. Gods. Maybe he was getting old? Dozin' off in his own fucking parlor. He squinted at the boy and began to haul himself up, balancing with one hand on the chair.

"Harper issit?" he mumbled tiredly. "Yer already down in the books."

Dietrich cracked his neck once, with a jerk, and the weary glaze of his eyes cleared up a li'l. Young kid. Prolly another'un outta Hogwarts looking to repair an old regret. It was kinda nice, getting needled when yer young, but not every'un makes the right decisions. Hell- he'd been in the business for years now and there weren't more than three or four marks on his own damned skin.

"We do our work downstairs," a quick gesture indicating the stairs around the counter. "Ya got some ink fer me t'fix?"

The man lurched upright like a drunken bear, bleary eyes fixing on his new customer. Erin'd heard good things about this place, but this bloke wasn't exactly inspiring confidence. He thought about a snappy 'no shite I'm down in the books - why d'you think I'm here?' In the end he refrained, due less to good manners and more to the fact that the tattoo artist was built like a brick shitehouse.

" 'S right," he replied, turning to head to the stairs like Dietrich indicated. He clomped down them in heavy boy-boots, voice rising to carry behind him, "Enchanted stuff. My first artist was rubbish, didn't get any of the magic right. Heard you were good at that, though." He hadn't exactly been in a position to complain when he'd gotten the tat at age almost-fifteen, too smug about finding someone willing to ink him at all. It wasn't a bad job, all right if you liked Muggle pictures, but Erin could at least get it looked at now that he didn't appear quite so young.

The Olive Room was all prepped up for a job. Dietrich had gone and filled the inkin' machine with the special kinda solutions they used t'repair ink gone wrong. A coupla bottles of clear blue liquid lined the table next to the green chair.

"Sit." He headed straight for the bottles'n picked one up t'give it a good shake. "And lemme take a look at yer mark. Jobs like these, they don't much need me t'use a needle but if you want a big change , that can be arranged." Unless the fella was sportin' an evil mark, it weren't nothing that couldn't be altered.

Dietrich turned to face the needling chair, the last of his naptime sluggishness fading. He pulled a cloth outta his back pocket and doused it with some of the blue fluid. Corrosive shit. Back a few years ago, the stuff used t'give a real fuckin' burn if ya didn't know how to soothe a mark. Nowadays the suppliers learned t'throw in somethin' to keep it from hurting.

Better not t'let the customers know that, though. They don't take none kindly t'being told truths or at least most of 'em didn't.

"Let's take a look at the damage, eh?" Dietrich smiled faintly, leaning back against his stool and indicating the cloth he was holding. "Won't hurt a bit, this."