Every time she closes her eyes, it's there, as if it's carved into her eyelids too. The skin on her arm is red and raw and it burns, but she doesn't mind; it means she knows she isn't dreaming. The bits that aren't red are blackened and charred, but it's the most beautiful thing in the world to her.
Now you're mine, he'd hissed, as his mark burned into her flesh and she cried out in blissful agony.
Yes, she whispers now, yearning to touch it, to call him to her, but knowing the consequences if she did. I'm yours.
A/N: I hadn't written Bellamort for ages, so I decided to remedy that :) For the Diversity Competition. I own nothing.