You lean back in the armchair, your gaze flickering from face to face. "This wasn’t a choice for us," you say. "Not really."

"Not when your father is V0Idemort," Mattheo says. He doesn’t look at you — he stares into the fire, like it holds the answer to something none of you can name.

Tom doesn’t flinch. "It was in our veins before we even knew what the war was."

"He didn’t ask," you murmur. "He just did it. Me. Mattheo. Tom. His children, his legacy..."

Theodore shifts in his seat. "He didn’t ask me, either. Just told me it was time. Like it was a promotion."

"My father didn’t even speak to me about it," Draco says, his voice hollow. "He told me what day to be ready. That was it."

"Lucius wanted it more than you did," Blaise says, his arms crossed. "For you to be more like him. It was never about you."

"And for some of us," Regulus says softly, "it was about proving something. I took it young. I thought it meant I mattered."

Lorenzo scoffs. "We all thought that. At least once. That we were special. That the Mark meant something real."

You shake your head. "It means we were claimed. That’s all. It didn’t make us strong. It made us his."

Mattheo pulls up his sleeve just enough to show the edge of the Mark. "It still burns sometimes. Not from pain. From memory."

Tom nods. "Because it never leaves. It never fades."

Theodore frowns. "He gave me this thinking it would bind me to him. But all it did was chain me to you lot."

"And yet here we are," Blaise says. "Tied together whether we like it or not."

"You think I liked it?" Draco snaps. "You think any of us wanted this?"

"No," Regulus says. "But we chose to survive it. That’s what matters."

Lorenzo leans forward. "We may not have chosen the Mark. But we choose each other now."

You look around the room — each face haunted, each soul scorched in different ways. Yet still here.

"We wear it like armor now," you say. "Not for him. Not for our fathers. For each other. For what we endured. What we carry."

"For what comes next," Mattheo adds.

Tom gives a slow nod. "We’re not his anymore. We’re our own."

The fire burns on. And for the first time in a long while, the silence doesn’t feel like a prison.

It feels like a vow.