Author's Note: Just a one-shot I had bouncing around my noggin for a while. Rated M, just to be safe, as it hints at some things. AU of course. My sister and I agreed that we could see Scabior as a tattoo artist somehow. Sorry if anyone is OOC, tends to happen when you take them out of their universe.

Enjoy.

Oh yeah, and disclaimer: I don't own, never will, just borrowing for my own amusement. If I owned them, I wouldn't be on this site would I?

Tattoo

The air of antiseptics and well-preserved building assaulted Hermione Granger's nose as she vigilantly stepped into the shop between the pub and the second-hand clothing store. She wouldn't customarily be caught dead at a place such as this, but she was in the tattoo parlor as a favor for her friends.

"Ronald," she hissed, "Harry. Are you sure I can't go to the library down the block?" Among the smell of decaying pages held fast by yellowing glue was where Hermione found her succor. The profoundly tattooed and pierced shop manager scrutinized her, amused by her palpable distress.

"mione," Ron whined, rolling his eyes. "You promised." Hermione glanced at Harry, only to see him shrugging, as if to say 'well you did.' She sighed despairingly, used to their conduct.

"Alright," she sanctioned, "but I am not getting anything." Her parents, being medically minded even if they were just dentists, would probably throw a fit. Though, even now, as she glanced around at the art known as 'flash' in the tattoo world, she become conscious that she was sorely tempted.

"You sure about that love?" a tattoo artist solicited, as he left one of the private rooms, yanking gloves from his hands, salient blue eyes considering her avidly. "You 'ave beau'iful skin." On inclination, Hermione glanced at the fair unclothed skin of her shoulders and arms.

"Come on Hermione. Get a tattoo with us," Harry implored her, "then we'll all have something to remember this summer by."

"Come on girly, listen to your mates," the tattoo artist added, a wicked grin playing on his lips as he leaned nonchalantly alongside the appointment desk. Hermione felt her pulse hasten with his awareness.

There was a lawless organization to his appearance, but she found it somewhat charming. The plaid of his pants matched well with the swatch of red nestled among his bushy dark tresses. He had a tender waywardness about his eyes.

"mione," Ron urged, "do something risky for once."

"Nah, she's too scared," the tattoo artist prodded. Hermione reviled being told how she was feeling, especially by a disheveled, self-confident stranger.

"I am not," she told the three men standing around the reception area, her chin thrust out in determination. She had briefly considered marking herself forever, letting the internal rebel out.

"Come on, you can't come in and not get anything," the shop manager added, as the previous customer paid his bill. She could see the black plastic covering the customer's recent addition to a vibrant sleeve.

"Yes," the artist approved, righting himself from the desk and coming toward her. His eyes seemed to be engaged already sketching designs on her. "I can see it about you. You want a taste of the wild side. Prove these blokes and me wrong. Probably piss off your parents."

The artist's hands were unpredictably supple as he quietly procured one of her arms to assess her complexion. She couldn't see if he had any tattoos himself beneath his long sleeve shirt and pants. Around his neck a worn-out, once red but now a fading pink scarf was coupled, hiding the skin there too. The aroma of tobacco and leather clung to him like a perfume.

Hermione found she was earnestly considering a sample of danger. What woman didn't do something such as this? Plenty of women had at least one tattoo somewhere. She glanced again at her friends, noting their eager expressions. Oh, peer pressure was dangerous wasn't it?

But wouldn't it also be conquering an instinctive fear of pain? Proving that, indeed, she wasn't as weak as she appeared. Wouldn't it drive that infuriating classmate Cormac away? Would she really have come with them, just to leave unmarked? Innately, she knew that she had probably premeditated all along to join them.

"Alright," she decided, "I'll do it."

"Good decision beau'iful," the artist advised her, taking her hand. "I've got some spare time for someone as pretty as you." She knew it was part of the customer service, to make the female customers more at ease with put-on compliments. Hermione knew that she wasn't close to attractive, even though he was making on over her. Harry and Ron had appointments with another artist. "What are you going to get?"

"Well, since I am going through with this," she told him, resigning herself to follow him to the seclusion of his appointment room, "I don't want the typical butterfly or rose." When Harry and Ron had first come to her with the idea of getting tattoos, she had proceeded to do some investigation on the subject. Tattooing had improved since her parents' day.

"No," the artist granted, shutting the door behind them. Hermione tried not to gulp, appraising the diminutive room instead. In some ways, it reminded her of the cozy accommodation of her parents' dental practice. Everything was tidily arranged; all the tools close by, shipshape and ready for use.

The difference was the kind of equipment. She could see the outline of the heavy tattoo gun where it was laid out on the nearby silver tray, a tray analogous to those her parents used.

"You're probably going to laugh," she admitted as he directed her to his chair. She tried to envisage this was just another teeth cleaning. "But I want a book."

"A book?" He chuckled, but the sound was agreeable. The paperback she had been holding previously was now tucked into the safeguard of her purse. "Why a book?" She watched him ruffle through stencil designs and drawings.

Hermione didn't know why she was illuminating this perfect stranger with things she didn't disclose to her friends, answering with "Sometimes they are my only true friends." He stopped the pillage of his design station to turn around and gape at her, his mouth forming the perfect 'O' shape for a moment. She perceived the faint stubble around his mouth, how it suited his devil-may-care image.

"I don't believe that gorgeous."

"It's true," she told him gently, trying not to shift around in the chair. She was having second thoughts about this procedure. But she didn't want one of the boys watching either, just in case she cried. "All through school I've been shunned because academics are more important."

He returned, holding an unpretentious rough draft of an open book with a quill positioned across the bottom corner. It was a sight often witnessed around her house, the quill exchanged with a proper pen of course.

"A custom design that got rejected," he presented. She held the drawing in her hands, hoping they were composed and not wracked with nervousness, as the rest of her seemed to be. The drawing described her perfectly.

"It's spot on," she told him on tenterhooks, speculating how in just a few seconds her mind had changed about ink. She would be like a book, her pages marked evermore with something evocative. It was ink, after all.

He nodded. "Now, where are we going to put it?" His eyes roamed the sections underneath her clothes. Hermione anticipated having a proper occupation some day, and she knew that many employers still frowned upon noticeable ink.

"On the back of my right shoulder." There. It would be visible when she was wearing more unfussy clothes than those used for work. She didn't want to have to conceal her arms all year round.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes. It will be my little secret."

"Alright." He disappeared outside of the room for a few minutes to make a transfer stencil. Hermione was using the time to prepare herself for the activity as she filled out the paperwork.

From what she had read in personal accounts on the internet, most people compared the sensation to being sliced by a razor, or serious sunburn, or an annoying and sporadic pain.

Glancing at an erstwhile scar on her arm, a mark of her intellect not being esteemed by her classmates, Hermione figured there wouldn't be much dissimilarity in a tattoo. Of course, she could peruse all the material on it she liked, but it would never compare to the real act.

"Miss me love?" the tattoo artist asked, poking his disordered head around the door.

Hermione wasn't thoroughly sure he was teasing, so she responded charily, "yes," as he captured the clipboard with her signature, setting it aside, and heading for the sink. She could hear the tap water running as he scrubbed up, to make sure that everything was sanitary. A moment later, there was the 'snap' of latex meeting skin as he donned a pair of gloves.

"This strap is in the way," he told her. She thought she might have heard a delicate huskiness in the remark. Before she could reach for it, the synthetic flesh of the latex brushed against her skin tenderly, the strap falling down her shoulder. Pleasurable tremors raced down her spine.

Hermione hastily slid her arm from the ring of cloth, feeling more uncovered than the day she was born. He massaged a gauzy layer of slick petroleum jelly across the surface of her skin, to transfer the design.

Hermione speculated if he could sense her pulse start. A firm hand pressed the stencil to her back, a circular motion applying pressure to adhere the design to her skin.

Hermione tried not to think about how his hand might feel on other parts of her body, with the same circular motion, or how wrong these thoughts were about a perfect stranger.

She had probably been fourteen since her last proper snog and it was starting to affect her in ways she hadn't counted on, like inappropriate thoughts about her tattoo artist. An artist that she didn't even know the name of, come to think on it.

"I don't even know your name," Hermione notified him, as he leisurely peeled the paper away. She didn't want to think about the loss of pressure from his hand and how she wished he had simply continued that motion all day.

"Scabior," he told her, assisting her from the chair to the adjacent full-length mirror. She took in her glowing appearance, the strap of her sun top hanging wantonly below her bare shoulder.

Hermione was thankful she had decided to drag her bushy hair off her neck today in a slack ponytail off the alternating shoulder. As if sensing the question about his lack of a first name, he continued with "Just one word, all simple, like those posh artists."

He gave her a handheld mirror so that she could be sure of the tattoo's placement. It sat just below her shoulder, but not too far across her back. It changed her appearance somewhat, offering her more depth as a person.

"It's good," she told him, taking a few steadying breaths. She could see his content smirk in the reflection. "Let's get started." The more time she had to think, the more she would attempt to talk herself out of it.

"Do you want to lay down then?" His query flabbergasted her for a second, until she realized he meant for the tattoo. He was indicating an exam table near the wall.

"Is it easier on you?"

"More comfortable for you." She wasn't sure that she was entirely at ease with the suggestion, but the chair didn't give the impression of being any more tempting.

"I'll lay down then." As he primed the ink and tools, Hermione took her place on the pleather-covered surface of the exam table. She could smell the disinfectant that had been used to scour it, the same brand her mother preferred. It was just like a jaunt to a spa, she supposed, getting ready for a massage by lying on her stomach.

The squeak of metal on tile snatched her attention as Scabior hauled his rotating stool and loaded tray over. She could see the ink cups lined up efficiently, prepared for her skin. He changed gloves again before starting, keeping everything hygienic.

The buzzing needle was poised above her skin, a firm hand on her shoulder to keep her still, as he said "This is going to hurt, I won't lie to ya love."

She was appreciative that he didn't, like the nurses tended to exaggerate for immunizations. Her research, for the most part, was right. It wasn't absolutely excruciating, but it wasn't a walk in the park either. It was unexpectedly intimate and Hermione couldn't help but notice, as he began tracing the outlines.

With his hand in place, she did her best to remain absolutely immobile. The primary minutes were the worst, until her endorphins would begin to take over. She had to think of something to do during that time.

"Love, you're squirming," Scabior informed her. She apologized, her fingers digging into the smooth surface. "Everyone does I think," he continued.

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Squrim."

"I don't know actually. I was drunk. I passed out at some point." She stifled a laugh, knowing the motion would disturb his work.

"What was your first tattoo?"

"Part of a naked girl."

"Why only part?"

"Why all the questions?" he teased, stopping for more ink. There was a quick swipe to her skin. She hissed as the needle continued along her flesh.

"Well, I think I should know how qualified you are," she smiled, turning her head to glance at him.

"I only got part because I was broke and drunk."

"But I thought good tattoo artists weren't supposed to work on inebriated people."

"Done your homework have you? No, I didn't say he was a good artist, love. Glad it was just a small outline."

"Is that why you decided to tattoo then? To correct all the wrong ones?"

"No, the money is quite attractive, not to mention seeing some of the most intimate parts of girls naked." He laughed, pausing to refill his gun and swab more ink away.

"So where is this tattoo?"

"Why? You tryin' to entice me to strip?" Hermione felt herself flush with color. She stammered out a forced 'no', though she wouldn't have minded of at least seeing him shirtless for research purposes.

"It's nowhere inappropriate," he confessed. "Just me left arm."

"Do you have any more?"

"Yeah, I have some. I like being the one to do 'em, not the being the one getting 'em." They were silent for a few moments as he continued to work. Her skin still felt like it had been set on fire, but it wasn't as bad as the first few minutes.

Her mind began to digress with the sensation of his hand mixed with the pain of the needle.

His hand was large, but not freakishly so. She could imagine his hand gently covering her own. Or perhaps covering something else, her mind thought deliciously, something usually hidden.

His mouth was sensuous when pulled in a smirk and she bet he knew how to snog properly, not like the idiot boy she had once dated who was all wet and slobbery.

No, Hermione imagined this man knew ways of kissing that would literally knock the socks from her feet. He probably wouldn't hold her awkwardly either, unsure of where his hands should go. Hermione imagined that he would hold her close and sure, so that she fit impeccably into the curve of his body, so that every part of their bodies was intersecting. He certainly knew how to hold her steady for the tattoo.

But there was the mischief she had seen about him earlier. He would probably play games, naughty games. He would probably refute her pleasure until she asked a certain way. Or perhaps he would spank her, not enough that any real harm would come to her, but just enough to get her attention and so that her bottom was cherry red while it was thrust into the air.

He would understand things about her body that she would never be able to figure out, all the gratification points, all the ways to make her scream. How to make all senses fire at once, kiss her wobbly, take her over the edge for that moment of climax she had only read about in torrid paperbacks from the library that she picked up when no one was looking. She could envisage the unbidden sighs and moans they would both make in that moment of ecstasy. His name would taste good tumbling from her lips. He wouldn't just be ink and paper, like those covers.

Most of all, he would be a real man and not a fumbling boy.

"You alright girly?" he asked, turning her chin to look at him, hooded blue eyes scanning her face. How on earth had Hermione let herself disappear so long? She realized that she was flushed around her core area.

"What?"

"You drifted away for a bit. Need a break?" She noticed that he had set the tattoo gun down, clenching and unclenching his fist in a rhythmic motion.

"Yeah." She rolled over on her side cautiously, not wanting to risk getting up. Her shoulder was aflame now, more than before as she regained full consciousness of her body. "How close is completion?"

"A few more minutes." He stretched his hand a few more times before expanding his shoulders and torso, his body elongating with the movement. Hermione found that she was staring at him. "Like what you see love?"

Never one to tease, Hermione wished she paid more attention to flirting during school. "I think so," she answered, hoping it sounded more like a joke than the truth. A cry of shock distracted them both from the next room.

"One of your mates I take it?" he asked. It sounded vaguely like Ron, when he broke his leg one year. She still recalled the awful 'snap.'

"Yeah. Women naturally have a higher tolerance for pain than men." Scabior blinked at her in surprise.

"One of those things you learned from a book?"

"Yes."

"Never read many books," he told her as he picked up the tool again, his foot working the pedal beneath the table, the sound of angry bees filling the room once more. "Didn't have the concentration."

"That's almost all I have concentration for," Hermione professed, trying to keep from hissing. The skin was smarting, with all of the work.

At least this mark would be prettier than the one on her arm that bore an insulting message. Finally, the scar was fading enough for her to wear shirts without sleeves.

"You must have a special fella in your life, pre'tty girl like you," he spoke softly.

"No," she said, "my intellect either scares them away or attracts the wrong sort." No no, she was much happier not taking risks, spending her Friday nights indoors with her parents when she was home, or at the dorm doing homework when she wasn't.

"Then they're twits," Scabior told her. Hermione tried not to snort, as that was what she sometimes thought of them. "You need someone older, wiser."

"You?" Hermione meant it as a joke, sort of, but she wasn't laughing. The force of the needle stopped again, this time for a few seconds longer than to fill the gun again.

"Well, I might be interested in the job," he told her.

"I find it hard to believe you don't already have someone," she continued, wondering why she was acting this way. The tattoo artist shrugged.

"They don't like me for very long, whatever the reason." He resumed the tattoo. "I think I date girls who can't see beyond my skin."

"I can't see beyond your clothes," Hermione remarked. It sounded more like a joke that time.

"I would like to see under more of yours love," he told her, chuckling, "for tattoo purposes, of course." She didn't have to see his face to know that he had given her a very saucy wink. Hermione only replied "of course", before her energy was consumed with the final additions to the tattoo.

After what seemed an eternity, when it was probably less than two hours, Scabior swabbed the whole tattoo down with the proper aftercare regimen before allowing her to see it. The tattoo looked superior below her skin now.

She knew in two weeks it would heal, the redness and swelling vanishing, so that she could show it off. Her parents would have to allow her this one immoderation.

"What do you think?" he asked her, "Just remember, I can't redo it."

"I wouldn't want you to," she told him, "as it looks perfect." He nodded, his demeanor shifting vaguely. Was that melancholy Hermione detected? She felt a twinge of it herself. Then again, it might be the fresh tattoo.

He bandaged her up and ran through the aftercare with her, before it was time to open the door and go pay for it.

"Can I see your first tattoo?" she asked just before she walked out, unsure of why she was spending more time with him.

"Just for you beau'tiful," he chuckled, rolling the sleeve up. There, amid other colorful designs, some recognizable and some not, was just an outline of a woman's head in prison-blue ink.

"Maybe you should get it finished one day," she told him.

"Maybe I'll have someone in mind to finish it with." Hermione had to pretend to be very interested in the assorted things around his office to hide her blush this time. He showed her out to the shop manager, where her new ink and aftercare supplies were rung up.

Harry showed her his tattoo of a lightning bolt first, before Ron showed her his tattoo of a rat. She smiled, knowing that was just what she had expected from them. She tried not to glance back in Scabior's direction, afraid of the disappointment she might see.

The boys were preparing to leave the shop when Hermione rushed back in, claiming to have forgotten something. Scabior was cleaning his station.

"About those older-wiser lessons," Hermione started, her heart hammering in her chest again. Those adroit eyes were scanning her again, form some sign of a joke. Hermione marched over to where the design template sat. Retrieving a pen from her bag, Hermione jotted her number down on the paper. "A little more schooling never hurts."