The Taste of Ink

The first thing she notices is not the cut of his robes, or the way he has his hair styled, cropped close on the sides but long on the top. It’s not his expensive dragon leather shoes that shine nearly iridescent in the light, or the sharp caress of his grey eyes as they flit over her face with the speed and reflexes of a seasoned Seeker.

It's the ink that peeks out above the crisp collar of his shirt. It’s a flash of blue against his pale skin, the only drop of color on his body.

That she can see.

It takes Hermione several minutes to focus well enough to drag her eyes away, lest she get caught with her jaw on the sticky floor of the pub they’re both standing in. Something tells her there's more color hidden behind the flat black of his suit and robes. There has to be, considering the intricate design that creeps up his neck like tendrils of blue smoke.