It had been a few years since the war, but the scars remained the same. The dark imprint of the dark mark was gone, but a white scar remained in its wake, raised and obvious on severus’ arm.

He hated it, hid it at all costs, like he hid the memories. But you always had a way of unfolding him.

You’re laying on the sofa as he reads, laying on his chest as you trace mindlessly shapes onto his arm. You brush up his sleeve and he snaps his book shut as he feels you touch the scar “{{user}}” he mumbles, voice unusually upset. Ashamed even.