At the corner where Diagon Alley angled into Knockturn, evening fog spilled out onto the cobbles like pea soup, the chill that settled in both biting and pervasive. A man—just one out the handful still out and about at this time of night—warily peered down the dimly lit street.

As Gracie took in her surroundings with a pair of eyes that weren’t hers, and gripped her wand tightly with a hand that wasn’t hers (which were both covered by the sleeve of a coat that definitely wasn’t hers), the barest sliver of doubt niggled at her again, sneaking and wriggling about like a hideous, hideous thing. She knew girls weren’t to go to Knockturn Alley by themselves, and she knew especially not at night. All sorts of the ‘wrong sort’ gravitated to there, and at night, and not always alone. A girl could easily find herself struck dumb here, if only because someone had stunned her from behind, let her head hit the cobbles, and proceeded to keep her in a similar state via suspicious-looking herbs and potions. . . But she had made up her mind, hadn’t she?

Still, Gracie-the-seventh-year-boy glanced at the poor excuse of a reflection a dirty window offered, and felt a pang of relief when the telltale twinge (of Polyjuice beginning to wear off) hit. This wasn’t the first time she had done this, and nor would it be the last, but it wasn’t often she got her hands on a potion of the stuff and as such she had never really gotten used to it. And to be honest, the she rather doubted she would; the sensations that came with the change hurt.

And so, almost ten minutes and several painful spasms later, a decidedly female, teenaged figure found herself cautiously sticking her head into a room that looked nothing like a typical tattoo parlor at all. With its wooden ceiling and walls and candles, vases, and. . . other old lady things, Gracie wondered if she had, just maybe, stepped into the wrong building. No one ran a place with that much of that kind of stuff unless they were female or old or both, usually. If anything, the place looked more like one of those New Age apothecaries-

A glance around would have the girl spotting another person among it all—a woman, petite and dark-skinned and dark-haired. The receptionist, maybe? The big book near her seemed as much of an indicator as any.

“Pardon,” Gracie began cautiously, voice low, almost husky as she stepped further into the room, “but I’ve got to ask—is this the Inkwell?” Because one thing was for sure—it sure as hell didn’t seem like it.

   

It had been several months now since The Inkwell had been passed on to Dietrich by his mentor. He still hadn't gotten used to the entrance; with both Lana and Olive around, it didn't seem like that was going to change anytime soon. Damian possessed about as much an interest in decor as the next bloke on Knockturn and nobody could blame him for it.

There had been a bell at the entrance though. He had to get rid of the thing-- why would a tattoo parlour need one? It's not like they ever left the frontroom unattended. So when Dietrich pushed open the door this evening, it opened with a proper squeak rather than a soft chime, thank the Gods. There was a girl at the desk with Lana, which was unusual on a Thursday evening. They didn't always take walk-ins on a weekday and he didn't have appointments scheduled.

"Hello," Dietrich greeted from behind the customer as he noisily dropped his backpack to the floor. It was stuffed with tins and bottles of dye he'd secured from their new supplier. They were running low on black. He gave the witch his usual appraising gaze, looking away only to check on Lana's smiling face. That smile was her way of telling him that everything was alright and they weren't dealing with a twilight vagrant. Gut. The wizard nodded at the stranger: "You here to be inked?" Tired looking creature. They'd have to offer her a drink later, before he got down to the needle. Lana would probably come down with something stupidly appropriate...herbal tea or a drop of brandy, if there was any left.

It would be a lie to say that his appearance hadn’t startled her, but he had; she had been mucking about outside by herself far longer than she, an unrepentant curfew-breaker, was comfortable with, and for a split second she had thought that someone had followed her in. The broad shoulders, the deep voice—they hadn’t helped at all.

Without the comforting presence of her friends, calm and collected Gracie was gone; another one—one who was a little less sure and a lot more on edge—stood in her place, and this one couldn’t quite keep herself from giving the man a wide-eyed look.

“Y. . . Yeah,” came out more quietly than she’d intended, and she winced at the hoarseness of her tone. Discomfited, Gracie forced herself to relax and not to worry how ill-fitting her robes were. “ ‘M here to set an appointment,” she told him, scratching her neck awkwardly. She gave him a rather fixed-looking grin. “Unless. . . you take walk-ins?”

The place was mostly quiet—she couldn’t hear anything coming from downstairs—but one never knew.

A little young, thought the wizard, though they got all kinds in here and he wouldn't turn away anyone who really wanted to be mark'd. A job was a job. The girl came across as vaguely intimidated and she probably wasn't in her best state, from what he could gather. He'd never met a person who'd come to be inked in socially prime condition. It was more like people came in to be repaired. Like a scar could fix their lives for a short while.

Before Lana could speak, Dietrich quickly responded: "Only on the weekends but today's your lucky day. I don't have anything scheduled," he smiled warmly at the girl and motioned towards the stairwell leading downstairs: "You know what you want yet? I can show you some prints or we could get started right away." It was instinctive of him to be nice to the little ones whenever they came in. Reminded Dietrich of his sisters before they became bad apples.

The studios couldn't be heard from up here and he supposed that only Damian was in today. Their tattoo rooms were far noisier than the boy's piercing parlour, which had a clinical silence to it-- so at least they wouldn't be interrupting anyone else's work. Dietrich glanced at his girlfriend, standing behind the desk, but she had already gone back to pencilling dates into her large appointment book. He turned back to their customer: "We do everything from fluid marks to tracking ones. It shouldn't take very long but that depends on what yer looking for."

The warm smile went a long way. Before long, Gracie met his with a more genuine—if tiny—one of her own. “I brought a. . . a design with me,” she offered, straightening a bit unconsciously. A hand disappeared into the depths of those too-large robes, and pulled out a piece of paper a moment later.

In a very clear, painstaking manner, a snake was drawn on it, thin, winding, and serpentine with those curves and coils. It was gray, for the most part, an ashen gray made of faded lines and red eyes—and, in Gracie’s personal, very private opinion, a fucking, honest-to-God piece.

Huck had really outdone himself on this one.

“That,” she would point at a little shyly when she handed it over to him. Liv or the others (-well, probably not Liv) would probably be raising their eyebrows at her manner if they could see her now, but Gracie had always found that it was best to play polite first if she wanted something from a stranger. Especially one much, much bigger than her. “An ashwinder–” and not just any snake, it was important that he knew, “–silver skin and all.”

She was rambling, she knew, and had it not been for that (mostly) calm veneer well-weathered by every faux-pas she had ever made, she would probably be puce with embarrassment by now. But bloody hell the man was b—er, tall, she thought hurriedly, the way only a person who constantly watched the flow of her own thoughts would. Tall, and blonde, and gruff-looking. And tall. And blonde.

. . .With a rather nice smile, come to think of it—but definitely not now, of course. There were rather more important things to worry about at the moment.

Rubbing at her cheek with the heel of her palm as if to chase those thoughts away, Gracie followed him down the stairs. When they reached the basement floor, “Size to scale, please,” her hands were held five inches apart, and any double takes she’d get would be met with a steady-eyed look. Her tone, although quiet, was firm. “With. . . with moving ink, if you have any. Like it’s alive.”

She wanted this. Oh, how she wanted this. It had been a desire of hers ever since she had seen a man covered in them in the streets, and it had only grown brighter and hotter as the months passed her by. By the time her birthday had rolled around she already had a Polyjuice potion prepared. That was how much she wanted this, and if she couldn’t have it just the way she wanted, if not better, well. . .

Well, she’d sooner leave before she was told to settle for something stupid, like a Chinese character that actually stood for ‘soup’ or some sodding little rose.

   

Dietrich's eyes, blue and lucid, did not leave the sketch that the girl had handed him-- he studied it very carefully, only partially listening to the customer as he led her downstairs to the Olive Room. It was only when she asked for it to be sized to scale that he looked up to understand her full meaning: the detail on the snakeskin would take a while if she wanted a shifting mark though at that size, it would be manageable. He only nodded his head with a sombre atmosphere . Not everyone came into the parlour knowing exactly what they wanted and although this didn't allow for much artistic flexibility, it indicated that she wasn't going to run off as soon as he prepped the needles.

"I can do that," Dietrich absently gestured towards the deep green chair by the shelves, motioning for the girl to sit down as he moved over to the table next to it. Needles of various lengths and width were meticulously set out: "So you'll be needing a fluid tattoo. We use a special ink for that, essence of snake scales. Gives it the right quality..." he trailed off and placed the sketch of the reptile down onto the table, other side up.

Taking out his wand, Dietrich fell into a working silence-- he tapped the sheet once, to ensure it was the correct size, and then he picked up a shiny marker to trace onto the lines of the sketch. The marker lines would remain damp so that he could easily stamp it onto the girl's skin. As he did this, the wizard began to speak again: "I'm guessing you have a name? Don't need a real one but I got to keep the records straight." His hands moved rapidly and with seasoned skill.

The wizard decided that he more or less liked the design. Snakes were common marks but for the most part, they were rarely ever the same as one another.Once done, he looked over his shoulder at his customer...appraisingly. Odd creature. Her clothes hung on her like they would on a hanger; it made her look very small and very much like a little girl.

But then again, most people seemed quite small compared to Dietrich. He turned around completely and leaned against the table, paper in one hand: "Where will you be wanting this, then?"

When she stepped inside the studio, Gracie stared owlishly at the walls, green eyes widening instead of squinting to take in the brighter lighting and the olive tones of the room. ‘The Olive Room’ indeed; the name was as appropriate as it’d ever get, the girl decided, visibly relaxing.

Completely relaxing, though, was still a Quidditch game and a half away; some of those needles were really big-looking and their size was noted with more than a little wariness. And then she wondered if size correlated with pain, and immediately regretted it. Stupid stupid stupid, scare yourself, why don’t you-

Maybe she should have taken Liv with her, or Huck, or, hell, even Lu—no. Definitely not Luc. The topic of body art hadn’t been brought up yet and while Gracie knew he was pretty laidback about most things,  she got the feeling that getting a tattoo wasn’t one of them. And after making her mind up for so long about this, the last thing she wanted was to hear a great, vehement ‘no’ to sour the experience.

Distracted by the needles, “Wha- oh. Gracie’s fine,” sounded a little far-off as she tore her eyes away from the tools. She pinkened faintly when the rest of what he said—the bit about ‘essence of snake scales’ and all—reached her brain. “Here,” she twisted in her seat, offering Dietrich a view of her back. She pointed out a spot on its lowest curve, somewhere more off to the right than the center, just around her hip. “I want it here.”

Dietrich nodded his head once and then turned back to his table, hands moving to ready the inking apparatus. There was a ruckus of sounds as he opened and shut several drawers, taking out vials of differently shaded inks, "Alright, Gracie. If you could just whirl around completely and lift your shirt, we can get started." He slipped four vials of ink into the tanks and then, picking up the tattoo gun, screwed a tube into the back of it until the locking mechanism clicked.

Not all clients could stand having their hips marked- it was a sensitive and ticklish area, especially for women. But the girl seemed determined and he doubted that a little pain would be much of an obstacle. The wizard switched on the gun, feeling for the telltale buzz that would tell him that the apparatus was functioning well. When he felt it, he switched it off and moved towards his customer:

"This will hurt a little. If you think it's too painful even after the first two or three minutes, tell me to stop." Dietrich dropped onto his stool next to the tattoo seat, adjusting it so that he was a little lower and looking down at Gracie's back at only a slight angle. He set the needle gun down on a side table and picked up the sketch that he had lined with the wet marker. Quietly and methodically, he flattened it out against her bare hip, "Now let's see..." he murmured as he kneaded the sheet against her skin and peeled it off.

The outline of the design she had given him was neatly imprinted, ready for him to ink over. Dietrich glanced up at the witch with an easygoing smile. He didn't reach for the gun quite yet: "Are you ready?" Tenderfoots, when they came in alone, could be nervous. There'd be no needling her until she was set.

“Alright, Gracie. If you could just whirl around completely and lift your shirt, we can get started.”

Giving the needle gun one last, lingering look, the girl nodded. After only a brief moment of hesitation, she shrugged off the oversized school robe and neatly rolled it up into a bundle; a few seconds later, her vest followed. Now all that was left was the shirt. Gracie undid some of the last buttons and, leaning forward, bunched her shirt up around her chest. It took a great deal of effort not to jump—or swear—when the paper was pressed against her skin. Physically speaking the fifth year was a sensitive, sensitive girl and the thing was wet and cold. And when he brought up the prospect of pain-

Maybe I should have brought someone along. But it was too late now, of course, and even the thought of backing out now was just—not to be thought of—

And then Dietrich smiled at her, and Gracie felt some of the tension knotting her belly loosen. Sweet sodding Jesus the man was a looker. “Ready as ever,” she said, that weak little smile she gave him turning wry.

Her hands, however, maintained a white-knuckled death grip on the seat.

   

"Ready as ever."

Which was exactly what Dietrich wanted to hear. He picked up his needle gun, popping the switch and feeling the buzz run through his right hand with pleasant familiarity. Glancing back up at his customer with his unchanged smile, he nodded at the device: "Not as scary as it looks. You just keep talking to me if you feel faint and it'll be fine."

Then, looking back down at Gracie's hip, Dietrich placed a hand on the other side of her waist and leaned in closely as the tip of the marking needle came into touch with her tan skin. He would begin with the outline of the snake. The subtle buzzing now hummed all the way up his arm and to his shoulder. His eyes remained glued to the drawing and the needle gun, grave with attentiveness.

But the expression didn't translate as such when he spoke, in a tone that was light-hearted and distracted: "It's a beautiful snake, you got here..." The needle travelled with ease and the enchanted ink he was using flowed well from the tanks into the gun: "Slytherin kid, I'm guessing?"

Talking. Yes. Right. . .

She’d try, though. Distraction was distraction if nothing else, and talking was as good as any. Once she was more used to the unfamiliar sensation of a needle gun’s tip buzzing against her skin, Gracie relaxed just enough to loosen up on the seat. Though Dietrich couldn’t see it, the corner of her mouth lifted into a sheepish, if slightly strained grin. “Yeah,” came the muffled reply. “Sixth year. Thought I’d. . .” Y’know. “Do my bit. Try a little for House loyalty.”

A soft “ha” followed. It was something she was lacking in—cavalier about—when it meant siding with the likes of Housemates she neither liked, acknowledged, nor got along with. Sure, she’d stick up for a fellow Slythie if the odds were unfair enough—even when her help wasn’t wanted. But blind unity? No. She preferred to leave that to those who embraced all of Salazar’s ideals, thanks all the same.

“My friend made it,” she said. Pushing the thought away, Gracie buried her forehead into the crook of her arm a little further—though carefully enough so as not to jostle him—and as she did, a little bit of pride entered her voice. It was one of the few things she truly admired about the moron, his ability to draw; he was very, very good at it, in her opinion. She wasn’t, and it certainly wasn’t for a lack of trying. “It is pretty good, isn’t it?”

   

"My friend made it."

The needle travelled along another of the curve that came along the perimeter of the design, moving as smoothly as Dietrich hoped the mark eventually would. A quick smile crossed his face as he listened to Gracie. An awkward kid, he thought, but it took some guts coming in here on your own this late. He figured she was made of sturdier stuff than she looked.

"Your friend's pretty talented," the artist murmured in an impressed voice when she'd said that the snake was pretty good. It was the kinda thing he liked inking, the kinda mark he didn't have in his albums. Not enough people came in with usable designs. He paused, lifted the needle to examine the imprint, and then continued without so much as hesitating: "Must be pretty special to ya, t'be using his art."

There seemed little question as to the sex of her friend... Dietrich took it for granted that it was a guy. He was bringing the snake perimeter to a close when he pulled away the tattoo gun and glanced up at his customer, her head rested sidelong across her arm: "He a Slythie too? I get a lot of your kind 'round here." Without looking away from her, he clicked the gun to switch inking tanks and then switched it back on: "More skulls than snakes, though."

Absentmindedly, almost sleepily, Gracie smiled, the corner of her mouth lifting in agreement. As much as he acted like an idiot at times—sometimes getting in trouble for the most stupid of things, antagonizing Lucas being one of them—Huck was special to her. In fact, it was just a matter of not thinking too much on how much he was; if she admitted it to herself, the tattoo artist had a point: Luc could draw just as well and she hadn’t gone to him for the design.

“Ha, yeah, I’ll bet,” was the reply to his comment. There was nothing bitter about it, though now that she was more comfortable with the buzzing (talking, as it turned out, really did help) it was more than a touch wry. The revival of Slytherin’s dark rep came from more than twenty years ago, she knew, and she liked to laugh at those who tried to fit themselves into the hype. It was one thing to take pride in a history of infamous alumni, but to try to be one of them, with nothing as a good reason to show for it? Laaame.

She hesitated, and then added with a grin he couldn’t see, “I’ve seen a few of your work, actually.” It hadn’t been hard to—they’d all been on biceps, forearms, and shoulders, and their owners had been too happy to show them off; she had just happened to be around at the time. Personally, she thought they could have done better with a Matchback or Horntail, but. . . whatever. “They were pretty cool.”

To his question, “He is,” she answered, shifting her folded arms carefully. “He’s sixth year, too, like me.” As well as a whole slew of other words, but Gracie rather doubted that that was here nor there, so instead she asked, curiously, “You see kids coming here from other Houses too, then, right? What’s the usual run for them?”

It was always good to hear 'bout people noticing his work. Dietrich had a rep back in Manhattan; one of the best in town, the guy to go when you needed to be needled. But over here, starting from scratch... getting noticed for your marks felt pretty great. He smiled to himself, pushing the tip of the tattoo gun further down the length of the snake. The ink that embedded itself into Gracie's skin was a greyish-green.

It shimmered and rippled, almost alive in its scintillating shade. Dietrich's gaze didn't shift from his hand as he continued to fill in the snake. He kept his free hand on the side of the green chair, partly to steady it in case the girl moved but mostly because he had to keep the rest of his body anchored. This wasn't the kind of ink that got off easy if a mistake were made.

“You see kids coming here from other Houses too, then, right? Gracie asked, moving on from the subject of her friend: "What’s the usual run for them?”

Gods, there was nothing usual about the kids from that school. The wizard's smile widened a li'l and he pulled away the gun, clicking it to switch cartridges again. "Well y'get a few of 'em asking for House crests. Family emblems and Quidditch mascots..." he paused to crack his wrists before leaning forwards to resume his work.

Not long now-- the job was going by a lot faster than he'd expected. "Had a kid come in once asking for a map on her back. That was pretty intense," Dietrich recalled out loud: "We do matching tattoos too. For couples, y'know. Corresponding. Those are the ones the kids regret." 

They always came back a few months later, pleading for removals. Messy business. He glanced up quickly at Gracie and then back down to the mark: "Almost done here. I'll be working on his eyes and it'll be 'bout an hour before he starts moving."

As Dietrich switched cartridges, Gracie took that moment in between to carefully stretch out her arms, though she was hesitant to take the kink out of her back, too. She wasn’t about to risk botching the work he’d done; the idea of removing fluid tattoos sounded like an even bigger mess than regular ones. It wouldn’t be a simple matter of a modified Scourgify or some magical wipe-away solution, she could guess that much.

Yeah, couple tats never even crossed her mind. She’d probably save that for a silver anniversary—if she ever got married. She couldn’t even imagine getting that old!

At his remark on his progress, she brightened, letting herself imagine how it looked like already. Even eye-less she bet it’d be something to look at; the tattoo artist seemed to really know his stuff. “Family emblems sound cool,” she admitted, thinking about the Ukrainian Ironbelly and sword that made her paternal grandfather’s crest, or the Runespoor and key that was her grandmother’s. “Definitely a lot better than someone’s name. Or your mum’s. Dunno if I’d ever like one enough to get it inked, though.” The idea of something so. . . identifiable didn’t sit well with her.

“Helpful when yer dead,” Eamon Slant had said, when she’d gotten him to discuss tattoos. “But when ye don’ want t’ be foun’? Not so much.”

“So…” she began, letting green, green eyes roam the walls once again. “How ‘m I to take care of it? Is there anything I’m supposed to, well, do? I mean, I know Muggles have this period where it’s all slimy for a while…”