The station visit rattles me to my very core.

I gasp for breath, even when out in the open— my nerves catching on the trouble laid on the tracks ahead. I'm almost beginning to think involving Brandon was nothing but a stump I went ahead and dug in my foot that's now made wounds I can't stitch with all the vices of the world. It's definite he has more history with Kylie than I had anticipated, and a given that now my hope rests on the sole fact that he can't possibly know her better than we do; with all the good, bad and twisted wrapped up to make a teensy terror. He's got this thing figured for a motive in sight I can't seem to decode, so George is all I've got for a possible lead or breakthrough into the Brandon Jacobs case.

Why George? Sarah is of the belief he was close with Kylie and might be of help with the interrogation as well. I can't deny that stirred something within, the possibility that he was the one who spilled the beans on our furtive act while I paid for the consequences borne. Whatever the case, he is all I've got for an ally at the moment, a friend and even if a foe, one that knows the least of the blood on my hands.

We haven't had a chance to talk lately, but gossip is always a whisper away in Arlington and if I'm to believe the sources he's back to leading his usual casanova life, with none other than Rachel Stinson garnering all the fame as his newest conquest in the infamous Georgie Bailey fling list. Good luck handling the notorious daddy's princess.

I pull my phone out to call for a cab, but come across Harry's text message instead. *remember how you said you have been wanting to get a tattoo since a long time? If your mind hasn't changed, I'll meet you at sixth avenue :)*

*see you soon then!* I text back with a silly grin on my face. This would probably be the last of us meeting, or for the matter talking even. Once he finds out all about Brandon being called at the station, he wouldn't want to see me anymore. I better savour it while it last.

***

I can already spot him from a distance, his dark curls flopping around freely with gusts of wind marking the onset of fall. He isn't dressed in his usual attire, but in a collared white shirt along with heavy washed jeans. Archie's staple for all the times we went out.

He looks at me and waves enthusiastically, black eyes twinkling under the shadow of the moonlight. "So, are you definitely ready?"

"I have to do it sometime," I nervously begin to tuck my hair behind my ears. I am often confused about what to do with my flailing arms, hoping he doesn't realise it though.

"Alright, then," he steps ahead and flings open the rust stained door for me. My eyes instinctively dart over to the bright red board hinged only a few inches away from our heads; a habit which I picked upon as a child. "Est.1994, Brooklyn's finest tat..." I try to read ahead, but the letters have faded off.

I get a knot in my stomach at the eerie appearance of the shop, but oblige anyway. Appearances can be deceiving at times.

"Hey, pal!" a deep voice startles us, and we curse it together. I look to my side, expecting a huge guy, whose inked body can be easily used as a catalogue for this shop, but am left dumbfounded when a stout Asian guy who looks like he hasn't even been near to a needle his whole life, greets us.

"Charles!"" Harry lightly hugs him. "This is Emma, a friend of mine and your new client," he remarks, his pearly smile assuring to any doubts I might've had plaguing my decision.

"Pleasure to meet you, Emma. Do you have anything specific in mind?"

"Umm.... I think I will go for something small. How about a Gemini sign near the crook of my neck?"

"That was pretty quick," Harry counters with an impish grin, while I try to find a stray hair to come to my rescue.

"Okay, have a seat and I will be back in a minute." Charles directs us to the black pleather couch in the corner. I notice a dim blue light flickering above, giving the shop a gothic appearance befitting to New York. The walls are covered with polaroids of Charles' clients over the years, and what's unique is that there aren't any customers comments on these photos, just a signature to personally mark each one of them. The unusually happy faces are a relief to my bolting heart.

I easily presume all stress will eventually fade into oblivion until when the needle is barely a few inches away from my skin, reality taking a leap I'm not ready for. Forcing deep breaths, I try to take my mind off it, but the unwanted adrenaline coursing through me doesn't seem to wear off as quick,

"Don't be scared, alright. Just look at me," Harry picks on the fear washing my face pale and grasps my hand within his, my nails instinctively curling into his fingers. If I weren't so scared, the embarrassment of my clammy hands would without a debate be the primary cause of my anxiety.

I do as he says, trying not to let my attention divulge to the drilling sound which keeps ringing in my ears. My gaze fixates on his hands as I take notice of the tattoos covering the length of his bronze arms. I can recognise a fire breathing dragon etched over the estuaries carved by his veins, which weirdly enough, seems to be playing basketball. The chorus theme of Dragon Ball Z begins to play in my head as I study it further. Shrugging the catchy tunes off, I look over at his bicep, which has a calligraphy quote inked over it in traditional roman. It reads as 'There's no where you can be that isn't where you're meant to be.'

Moving on to his shoulder, I see a not so terrifying skull, mostly because it's only half completed. I'm prepared to spot a few more of such dark, mystique stroked designs, which surely have a history of anecdotes behind their inking, but stand amused when a colourful butterfly stands out amongst the monotone of black on his collar bone. I stifle a laugh, not wanting to break into splits and spoil my own tattoo. I almost forget I am getting one as well.

"Holy fucking shit," I mutter out loud, feeling my heart race like never before. The pain is excruciating to say the least— the needle drilling inside my skin, giving an illusion of a thousand ants biting on my flesh, all at once.

"Okay, calm down. Let's talk about something else, huh," Harry fumbles in his attempts to soothe my cries breaking out in intervals. "I've got it, I've got it. So... why are you getting this tattoo, there must be some reason? A story maybe?"

"Yeah, I guess there is one," I yell over the squirming in my guts, matching his thrilled voice. "My mother... it's her zodiac sign." He doesn't say anything back, expecting for something more to follow behind. "Well, that's it. I know its nothing huge, but—"

"It's enough," he mutters, blinking. "When you decide to permanently mark your body, it's because there is a depth to your reason. The pain you experience during the process is only felt by you, and no other person can even come close to relating to it. So, why does it matter if someone else gets it or not? You don't need to give a damn about it."

I just nod in reply whilst my lips spread into a wide smile. The adrenaline is now replaced with a fresh stock of dopamine, and a feeling of giddiness is uncontrollably taking over my whole body.

It goes away all too soon, though. "You're done," he lets go of my hand, forcing me back to reality. Charles hands me over a hand mirror to take a proper look at it, and my first reaction isn't very positive. Before I can take note of the precisely done tattoo, I wince at the swelling gathered around, marring the skin beneath my jaw in a wincing pink.

"It will wear off soon," Charles assures, and walks over to his counter. He pulls out a Polaroid camera from one of the drawers. "If you don't mind, can I take a picture? It's a tradition to keep a memory of every artwork we create in here."

"Sure, go ahead," I pull my hair aside and gleefully pose, even though essentially it's the tattoo that is being captured. The Polaroid slips out within a snap of fingers, and I sign it off with my name along with a smiley face.

"You can pin it over there," Charles points to a dot of an empty space amongst the plethora of pictured stuck to the soft board. I place it carefully, securing the photo with a push pin. The fact that I have created a tangible memory of simply a day I've remembered my mother and with not wistfulness, but with something happier is enough a convincing thought to deem all that pain worthy.

My glance briefly shifts to the photo beside mine, which has a Slytherin symbol inked on a boy's bare back. I can almost imagine the rest of the sly grin on his face from the angle visible, at the time he must have got the picture clicked. I go on to read his signature, but it has something else written altogether. Red lips fumbling in utterance, I give the writing a once over, except it doesn't change the i's dotted and t's crossed.

"Rest in peace A.L."