3. Morsmordre

“Give me your arm, Severus.”

The sleeve of his robe slid down as he raised his arm to be branded, revealing the pale, unmarked skin. Tonight, he would be admitted into the Circle. He had proved himself worthy of the Dark Lord’s attention; he would receive his Mark.

If he refused, he would die.

He very nearly jerked it back, as the Dark Lord took hold of his arm, gripping his elbow. Very nearly.

“You have changed your mind?” Lord Voldemort’s voice was mild, solicitous.

Dangerous.

“No, my Lord,” He forced himself to look up, to meet his penetrating gaze. “Never.”

The pain was indescribable: sharp, sudden and searing more than flesh. Blue flames encircled his forearm, but all he could see were the Dark Lord’s eyes, burning into his. In some dim corner of his mind, he knew he was screaming.

As suddenly as the pain came, it stopped. Snape wept with relief. Voldemort’s grip slid from his elbow to his wrist.

“Look, Severus. See, you are mine.”

An inky, coiled serpent writhed sinuously where there had been nothing a moment before, prodded by the Dark Lord’s wand.

“Morsmordre!”

The Mark danced with its reflection in the night sky.