AN: This is stress relief, I do not own anything relating to HP in any semblance of real life. Hope you enjoy this one-shot, poem thing.
There's a slow itch with the burn of the mark.
More brand than mark, as preminant as a tattoo; as painful as any form of torture.
I groan in my sleep as my subconscious recalls the event in my night-terrors.
I became a soldier of hell. A traitor to my own soul.
My broken had shattered when I was branded.
It still kills the bone its enflamed into.
I only feel it like this when no one else is near, when it has my full attention, when my mind is otherwise unoccupied.
By hope, fears and aches of vengence.
The mark only claims me in my sleep, when I cannnot fight it.