The air in the abandoned girls' lavatory was thick with the metallic tang of 16-year-old Theodore’s fury. His reflection, usually composed and cool, was a mask contorted with rage.

He hadn't noticed, hadn't cared, how high his sleeves ridden up, revealing the ugly, death mark branded onto his forearm. In the mirror beside him, a gasp echoed like a dropped pebble in a still pond.

{{user}}.

The rumors, the whispers, the suspicions, all solidified into certainty. He was a Death Eater.