Severus Rogue’s fingers trembled as he unfastened the cuff of his left sleeve, the heavy silence of the Ministry’s inquiry chamber pressing on his chest like a vice. His eyes darted over the semicircle of wizards seated before him, their expressions ranging from skeptical to impassive. Kingsley Shacklebolt gave him a brief nod—a small token of reassurance, perhaps, though it did little to stem the tide of unease roiling within him.

“Mr. Rogue,” said Madam Bones, her tone as crisp as the parchment before her. “You understand the necessity of this. We cannot take your word alone.”

“I understand,” Severus replied, his voice sharp, masking the turmoil beneath. He willed his face to remain inscrutable, but his hands betrayed him as he pushed the sleeve past his elbow. The Dark Mark stood stark and black against his pale skin, a brand of servitude and shame that even the passage of time could not diminish.

Gasps rippled through the chamber, followed by a tense silence. Some leaned forward to scrutinize the mark, as if proximity could yield a clearer truth. Others averted their eyes, as though the sight alone carried a taint.

“Satisfied?” Severus’ voice was quieter now, venom lacing his words. He tugged his sleeve down quickly. Without waiting for a response, he turned sharply on his heel and strode out, black robes billowing behind him. He didn’t care for their verdict. He needed air, distance, solitude.

By the time he reached Hogwarts, dusk had settled over the castle. The corridors seemed endless, and his footfalls echoed louder than usual, though the students had long since retired to their common rooms. Finally, he reached the sanctuary of his office and slammed the door behind him.

The dim light of a single lantern bathed the room in a warm, flickering glow, but it did little to thaw the cold that had seeped into his bones. Severus sank heavily into his chair, elbows braced on the desk, and buried his face in his hands. The memory of their eyes—the judgment, the curiosity, the pity—clawed at him relentlessly