He was sitting at his desk when he felt it. Like the dawn that was breaking across the night, pain wrapped around his forearm. At first, it was little more than a sting, but quickly intensified.
Setting down the quill, he slowly rolled up his midnight dark cloak, and examined his arm with benign curiosity.
A redness flared like fire, spilling from the number across his skin. The pain spread too, seeping into his skin and underlying bones.
The sharp burning sensation gripped his arm like the handshake of an old acquired aintance.
He turned his head to one of the portraits behind him.
"Armando; please inform the ministry that there has been a break-in at Nurmengard." His voice was soft and calm in the candlelight.
He heard Dippet shuffle out of the portrait, and turned back to trail a brittle finger along the figure.
2.
The ink was bold against his skin and, although he had tried his best to avoid looking at it, the number was just as he had remembered it. The ornate curve of the hood, a fragile neck leading into the thick base.
As he watched, spasms seized his whole arm, and he had to keep from gasped; just as he remembered doing those years ago.
Then, as he felt his vision blurring with pain; it all stopped. The pain evaporated; leaving a simple, dull ache.
He blinked, and watched the redness retreat back into the figure.
2.
But even as he saw it, it was changing.
The neck straightening, and moving as the hood retracted into itself.
His eyes could barely follow the movements, but even so he knew what the result would be.
1.
As fresh on his skin as if cast yesterday. It had stayed true to its master, with similar flares and Gindelwald's trademark lavish hand.