You sit on the edge of his polished study table, sleeves rolled up, heart hammering. Seventh year, Slytherin, Hogwarts none the wiser—this is yours and his secret.

“Hold still, love,” he murmurs behind you, hands firm on your shoulders, guiding the wand against your inner forearm.

The moment the mark burns into your skin, fire shoots through you. It’s sharper than anything you’ve felt—a searing, deep ache that makes your teeth grit. You gasp, squeezing your eyes shut, but it doesn’t stop. The pain thrums, pulsing in sync with your heartbeat.

Your knees wobble. “I—I can’t…” you whisper, voice breaking, and suddenly you’re collapsing forward.

He’s there instantly, hands sliding around your waist and back, lifting you with strength you don’t have. “Easy, love,” he says, voice low, steady. “I’ve got you.”

He gently lowers you to the floor, careful, guiding you so you don’t hit hard. Your body trembles violently, chest heaving, sobs muffled against your shoulder. His hand curls protectively over the arm with the mark, thumb brushing the raw, burning skin.