Draco Takes a Mark

Chapter 4

Late in the afternoon after quidditch tryouts, Harry was in the Gryffindor common room, just opening up the Marauder's Map to catch up with watching Malfoy's marker after spending the day away from it, when Ron came back from the showers.

Harry glanced up at him. "Ron, wipe your face. You've got something on it."

He puffed up his chest, asking in his loudest indoor voice, "Have I? What's it look like?"

Harry shrugged. "I dunno. Splotchy, like maybe you fell asleep on the purple half of a puking pastille and melted it onto your face."

Ron tapped his jaw near the splotch, as if he was thinking carefully. "Odd. I haven't been near a puking pastille since the twins moved into town. Look harder, mate. Shape doesn't look familiar, does it?"

Harry left off unfolding the map. "Well, splotchy isn't exactly unfamiliar on you, you being a ginger and all."

Ron punched his arm. "Thanks."

"Go look for yourself," Harry told him. "Whatever you do, wash it off, yeah? You look like a sticky five-year-old."

Ron ducked into the bathroom. His hair had dried in a right mess but before it had, the water dripping from it had kept running down the sides of his face and jaw, streaking through Pansy's lipstick, causing the mark, which had started as a perfectly shaped, pretty pair of lips, to morph into the mess Harry had just described.

Ron swore as he wet his fingers to scrub the rest of the mark away. She was going to kill him when he told her they'd have to do it again. But at least they'd have to do it again. And maybe this time he could convince her to do it more softly, maybe even a bit sensuously, giving the pigment a chance to warm up and cling to him properly instead of just stamping him like a train conductor. Honestly, Fred and George must have something in the shop that could print lip marks all over him better than Pansy had managed to thus far.

Well, except for the one time, with the love-charmed inter-house dancing at the Yule Ball. She'd marked him up so well during that number he had to spend the rest of Christmas holidays wearing mufflers indoors. He stood frozen over the bathroom sink, remembering that dance too long and too well, until he had to splash his whole face with cold water.

Out in the common room, Hermione had just got back from -- somewhere. Harry had stopped her to pull grass and a few thin, yellow leaves out of her hair before her roommates spotted any of it.

Ron scowled at them as he came back into the room. Bloody Malfoy in the golden willow again. "Oh sure, you notice something like that on her right away," he bawled at Harry.

Hermione frowned at him. "What're you on about, Ronald?"

"Nothing," Harry hurried to answer. "What he meant to say was 'happy birthday.'"

Ron's eyes bugged in horror at himself for not remembering to mention it yet. "Right. Yeah, seventeen." He whistled. "Wow, proper adult."

She scoffed. "Try telling my parents that."

"What?"

"Eighteen is the age of majority in Muggle Britain," Harry explained.

"No way."

Harry jumped, as if he'd just come up with something brilliant. "Hey Hermione, if you're an adult witch now, then wouldn't it be indecent if you were to be -- um -- involved -- with a minor -- like, um -- romantically?"

Hermione crossed her arms. "Nope. Not always, such as in cases where the adult and the minor are extremely close in age. Trust me. I have researched the question thoroughly."