JULY 4TH, 1995

I’m standing under the water pouring at my head, washing the dirt and the tears away—but not the black ink staining my skin.

Not only my skin, but my soul, my reputation, and the footprint I was supposed to leave on the earth.

The traitorous whoreson, the one who defeated his own father—Luke Skywalker with a wand instead of a lighsaber, has been turned into his biggest fear; the heir everyone was convinced was supposed to carry the legacy.

”I could’ve stopped it,” I keep thinking, furious tears rolling down my cheeks continuously, even though I know I had no power against the Imperius.

No power against him.

And instead of returning the favour of stabbing him where I know it hurts, I’m wailing in a shower in the Malfoy Manor like a banshee—rather fucking hear a banshee and have her take him,—scratching at my left forearm like a madman, as if it would clear both my memory, the sting, and the tattoo off my skin.

Fuck him.

I watch my crimson blood break through the pale skin on my inner forearm, but the Dark Mark remains black and pulsating and dreaded.

If {{user}} saw this, she’s be disappointed.

So fucking disappointed.