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The Burning of the Dark Mark


Severus Snape walked down the hallway of Malfoy Manor, Regulus Black right at his heel, tugging on the hem of his jumper nervously, looking around the dark hallway, Kreacher pulling him along by the robes, his fist tight around a clump of fabric at his Master’s knee. “This way, Kreacher will take you to the Dark Lord, yes, Kreacher will take you… This way…” he murmured in a croaky voice and Regulus walked, hesitantly trailing behind Severus Snape, who already knew the way and walked with a bold confidence and assurance that Regulus just did not have. Regulus was afraid, Severus was boldened.

They pushed into the parlor and there was the Dark Lord, standing up before the fire, looking over a copy of the Daily Prophet, the simpering Bellatrix Lestrange beside him, staring at him with absolute adoration. He lowered the paper and stared as the two boys entered, his eyes flitting over them slowly, appraising them. Regulus held his jumper sleeve tighter as Kreacher released his robes and they fell back about his knees.

The Dark Lord put down the paper and moved toward them. Beside him, his snake slithered across the floor, her tongue flickering menacingly.

“And to what do I owe this visit?” he asked lowly.

“I want the Dark Mark,” Severus said. “I want to be a Death Eater. I want to serve you better than I can do at school. Take me on as yours, my Lord.” And he slid to his knees.

Regulus’s eyes widened. This wasn’t what he’d expected when he’d told Kreacher to take them to Malfoy Manor. He felt his mouth go quite dry and he glanced nervously between Severus Snape and the Dark Lord, his fingers clutching the sleeve tightly in his hand.

The Dark Lord looked Severus Snape over. “You aren’t ready.”

“I am ready, my Lord,” Severus breathed, “I am. I’m sixteen, and I’ve been your follower since I was eleven, and I’ve believed in your greatness and your power long before that. My mother was a great follower of yours, she --”

“Married a mudblood,” hissed the Dark Lord, “And the last I have heard, you were looking to follow in those footsteps.”

Severus Snape’s words rang with a horrible truth that sank his heart clear to the floor. “I will never marry a mudblood.”

The Dark Lord looked interested - and pleased - by this severe conviction that dripped over the edges of Severus Snape’s words. His lips tweaked up at the edges and he said, “You sound so sure.”

“I am absolutely...certain…” Snape drawled lowly, his voice coming from deep in his throat, slow and coiling, tense.

Voldemort moved slowly, circling Severus, appraising him. Then he looked up at Bellatrix. “Go and prepare the iron and the chair.”

“My Lord!” she hissed, “He is not ready!”

“Did I ask you to help me in making my choice, Bellatrix?”

“No my Lord,” she simpered and she dodged out of the room.

The Dark Lord looked Severus Snape over. “Stand up, boy.”

Severus stood.

“Open your mind to me, Severus, I wish to see.”

Severus carefully sorted through his mind, carefully stowed away the things he did not want the Dark Lord to access, carefully left out only the parts that were okay for him to see. And he opened that part of his mind alone, and he felt the odd sensation of the Dark Lord sifting through his thoughts, through memories, like sorting through picture books… Seeing the way James Potter had humiliated him, how he, Severus, had struck back and been fought down, how none of the Slytherin boys stepped in like the Death Eaters ought to do to protect one of their own, how he’d hissed the words mudblood at the pretty ginger girl that Voldemort had once seen and accused him of loving…

And a smile crossed the Dark Lord’s face.

“Very well,” the Dark Lord said and Bellatrix came in the room then, followed by many others whose faces Severus knew well - Abraxas, Lucius, Narcissa… Walburga Black, whose hand slid across her son’s shoulder as she entered, pulling Regulus ‘round to greet him formally and pull him off to the side to watch as Rudolphus and Fenrir Greyback came into the room, carrying a heavy, highbacked wooden chair between them with thick leather straps attached to the arms and ‘round the back and Bellatrix danced across the room and threw something into the fire that made the flames hiss and spark and she laughed and spun on her tip toes, sing-songing merrily, apparently happier about this now than she had been.

And the Dark Lord waved his palm to the chair as Fenrir and Rudolphus put it down. “Have a seat, Severus,” he said lowly.

So Severus sat.

Voldemort nodded and Bellatrix excitedly cackled and leaped forward, grabbing onto Severus Snape’s arms and twisting them down, lashing the leather over them, tightening the belts to hold him firm. And once Severus Snape’s arms were lashed down - his left wrist up and bared, his fingers gripping the leather strap at the heel of the chair’s arm, she stepped back out of the way and it was Voldemort’s turn. The Dark Lord smiled as he waved his bone white wand and straps around the top of the chair back snaked about Severus’s forehead, strapping his head to the wood firmly, straightening his spine so he was forced to sit up and another pair of straps went ‘round his chest, pulling back his shoulders and holding him securely down. There was so little movement he could make, and his breath came in great, nervous gasps as he squeezed his eyes shut. It felt like an executioner’s chair.

A death to his old self, perhaps.

That was a death he was willing to surrender to.

Perhaps this new Severus Snape would not love Lily Evans, would not pine for her, would not feel as though he were drowning without her. She had been his only friend, the only ray of hope in his otherwise entirely dismal life. He remembered the first time he’d seen her - playing on a swing set, flying through the air like an angel, her hair caught in the sun, copper as a new penny when she was young - before it had darkened and matured to the shade it now was…

Lily Evans, to him, had always been pure light in the shell of a person, a prism.

Well, he would no longer need light.

He would be dark.

He would be the darkest of the dark, the purest black, a void.

He would need nothing. He would feel nothing.

Nothing would be better than the screaming agony that went through him every time she rejected him.

“Shall we begin?” whispered the Dark Lord, leaning close to Severus Snape.

And the Death Eaters in the room praised Voldemort, whispering in low voices.

Yesss my Lord, yes.

Burn him my Lord, make him yours! Mark him, my Lord, mark him!”

Voldemort leaned in, staring into Severus Snape’s eyes, searching them. “With this Mark, I make you mine. Is that… acceptable to you?” he hissed.

“Yes my Lord,” Severus breathed.

“You will heed my bidding, answer my call, and fight for the purity of the wizarding world, fight to destroy the mudbloods and end this ridiculous notion that wizardkind should be in hiding? You believe we are royalty and that all of the muggles must be put in their proper places - beneath us?”

“Yes my Lord,” Severus answered. “Broken and beneath us, my Lord.”

Voldemort hissed with appreciation. “Then we shall begin the initiation with the Dark Mark.” And he hovered about Severus, who grit his teeth, his fingers balled tighter around the leather strap in his left hand.

“You’ll want this,” said Lucius Malfoy, stepping up and putting a soft ball of cloth into Severus’s mouth. “To bite down on.” Narcissa stood, staring, wide eyed, tears clinging to her lashes and when Lucius stepped back, she clung onto his arm and buried her face in his shoulder. Lucius shook his head and motioned for her to watch and she did, but her jaw trembled slightly.

Severus held the cloth in his teeth, nervous.

How bad could it be?

Across the room, Regulus Black tried to turn his face, but his mother took hold of his chin and turned it back discreetly. He balled his fists instead. He could feel Kreacher hiding about his ankles beneath his robes.

For there came Voldemort, turning from the fireplace and floating before him was a bit of iron - which had been sitting in the hearth as it blazed, and the iron was glowing white hot… and Severus’s fingers tightened with nervousness, clenching, every muscle in his body tightening as he realized what Voldemort was about to do, his heart racing, and he bit into the cloth to keep from screaming long before the iron touched his skin. And as Voldemort dropped it onto his wrist, Severus bit even harder, so hard he could feel his teeth quaking in the pressure and he felt as though his mind were being thrashed about, the pain so absolute it blinded him, and he heard Voldemort hissing lowly as the iron burned and burned and seared its way through his skin…

Issssth eth valaroothhhh shhhhissssth yehhhmitthh essss shomassss ethhhhhh valarothhhhh….

A weird, snake-like language… a mantra, a spell, an incantation… and the skin of his arm seemed to melt straight through to the bone and he thought he might die from it. He just might die, it was so great a pain.

Shaaaaaahhaahhh marriiiiiithaa shammmaahh valarothhhhhh shiiiiithh essssss ethhh valarothhhhh….

And after agonizing minutes that seemed eons to Severus Snape, the iron had gone cold, all of it’s heat deposited into the skin and blood of Snape, who was breathless, whose heart burned with the overheated blood… and Voldemort waved his wand and the iron fell away… and there on Severus Snape’s skin… was the skull with the snake wrapping from it’s mouth.

And Voldemort raised his wand. “Now. To test it,” he breathed and he brought his wand to press into the soft skin of Severus’s wrist.

The mark glowed as white hot as it had when the iron had been upon it and Severus screamed, biting into the cloth Lucius had given him once more - and all of the Marks in the room blazed bright and the Death Eaters held up their wrists in unison, a war cry, an acceptance of unity, of brotherhood, and they shouted in welcome as the Dark Lord raised his wand and the mark went black once more and Severus Snape shuddered as the bindings were released and he was pulled up from the chair by Lucius Malfoy, who held onto his shoulders to keep him from falling, even as all of the Death Eaters descended around him… accepting him as one of their own.