Disclaimer: Severus Snape, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, and the Potterverse all belong to Warner Brothers and some book publishers. Maybe Ms. J.K. Rowling might still be involved in a little way.
A/N: Just an angsty little ficlet that may or may not become part of a larger story.
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In the dull light of the dungeons, his arm appeared pale and smooth, but as he drew closer to the flickering candlelight, it cast shadows over faint scars that he had believed long gone. Even though it had been nearly five years since he last took a blade to his flesh, the marks were still there for all to see. Other marks, however, were deeper and darker, but remained nearly invisible to the naked eye...at least for that moment.
Severus Snape knew where that mark was-- knew where that Mark was. It had been crawling under his skin ever since that dry summer night that the Dark Lord burned it into his already heavily marred flesh. Voldemort had run light, caressing fingers over the fresh gashes in young Severus' arm, laughing quietly as he pressed his tip of his wand into his skin.
"Morsmordre." The triumphant hiss.
"Morsmordre." Severus unconsciously echoed Voldemort in a hoarse whisper, and his face twisted into an expression of pain and disgust. Overcome by sudden violence, he roughly jammed the blade into his left arm, directly into the center of the faint outline of the Dark Mark. His anger was rewarded by a sharp, cathartic burst of pain, which he spent a moment savoring, until the spurt of thick red blood from the mouth of the skull on his arm spilled over his elbow and on to his immaculate desk.
"Fuck," Severus spat furiously, surveying the mess his lack of control had caused. He fumbled for his robe, folded neatly against the desk chair, and thrust his right arm into his pocket, seizing a white linen handkerchief. He pressed it against the wound on his left arm to sop up the blood, and for once didn't allow himself to be mesmerized by the crimson stain spreading slowly into the snowy white, instead applying pressure until the flow of blood had been somewhat staunched.
He took a deep breath, willing himself back under the tight control that he so cherished, and picked up the knife again. It was an ingenious Muggle contraption called an X-Acto knife-- Severus loathed the idiotic name, but admired its practicality and precision. Gripping it by the hard plastic handle, he focussed his mind.
The first stroke of the blade was light-- too light. The skin remained unbroken, just somewhat roughened, the top layer flaking against the fine edge of the blade. Severus nodded to himself...he knew it hadn't been hard enough, but he was testing the sharpness of the blade. He'd always used a razorblade as a teenager, and this X-Acto knife needed a lighter hand-- and a steadier one. The cuts would be perfect. Severus Snape was a scientist. He knew how to cut.
When he drew the blade over his arm again, merely a thin pink line appeared, but he could tell by the sting that he had broken the skin. After waiting patiently for a few seconds-- years of potions brewing and teaching eleven year olds had made him a very patient man-- Severus was pleased to see a narrow line of blood appear over the pink. Severus smiled with grim satisfaction, and lowered the knife to his porcelain flesh once more.