A/N I unfortunately forgot to include an important part of Harry and Draco's conversation last chapter, so it has been updated. It was only in the last few paragraphs, so if you just re-read one of Draco's last bits of dialogue ('Draco at least had the good sense…we are respectable."') you should be good. I'm really sorry about this.

'Real entertainment' involved torture, Harry soon realized. About a dozen prisoners, all grown men and women wearing torn ministry robes, were dragged in by a masked Death Eater and flung before Voldemort's throne. Harry was relieved that he didn't recognize any of their faces, and more relieved that his Master had finally finished with Bellatrix - she wasn't anywhere to be seen. Harry hoped that she had performed badly and been sent away. Permanently.

The whimpers of terror brought him back to the present. Much to Harry's consternation, Draco was inching forward through the massing crowd of Death Eaters. "I want a good view," he said. "Follow me."

Harry, on the other hand, had no intention of getting nearer to the oncoming action. He was even less comfortable by these events than with the evening's earlier lechery. "I think I'm okay here, thanks."

"Nuh, uh, Potter." Draco appeared to be harnessing his inner Dudley. Perhaps he was involved in his cousin's 'care' during his imprisonment, and some of Dudley's more brainless mannerisms were rubbing off on him. The two were a right pair, really. In another universe, they would have gotten on well together. He decided to tell Draco this when he was especially annoyed at him, which would likely be later that night, given how things was going so far. "We're going up front where the action is. And the Dark Lord wants you with him for this. He told me so when I met with him earlier."

Draco set off through the crowd. Like Harry, he was slight and, though he was jostled a bit, he managed to work his way through to the front easily enough. Harry hissed at his rival's arrogance in expecting him to docilely follow like a whipped Crup.

But if his Master had ordered him to the front, he certainly wasn't going to disobey. Harry refused to elbow his way through the crowd like Draco had, though. "Wake up, Nagini. Time to frighten some prey."

She yawned. Harry nudged her, and she hissed in annoyance.

"Open your eyes, sister, and terrify the people around me. Just a little. I want them to move out of my way."

"Fine," she grumbled. "But then I'm going back to sleep."

She did a fine job, though, at forcing a path through the blockage of Death Eaters. They quickly scrambled to either side as she bared her long fangs. Harry was briefly irritated that his own presence was so much less intimidating, before remembering that for years he'd wanted nothing more than to fade into the background. To just be Harry, not Harry Potter. 'Harry Potter' was an icon of false hope. Even now, what he really hoped was that no one would notice him. He didn't want the prisoners' terrified eyes drawn to him. He didn't want to see their disappointment.

The Dark Lord had been waiting for him to emerge before the newest event began in earnest. "And the guest of honour has graced us with his presence."

Harry looked around to see who had entered and thus garnered his Master's attention. To his consternation, all eyes were locked on him. He stared back at Lord Voldemort, who beckoned him forward.

This attention was exactly what he had not wanted.

"Go." Draco's prodded him with his foot. Harry had the sense that Malfoy would have shoved him in the back, had he not risked upsetting the twenty-foot snake resting there. "Get up there, he's waiting for you."

Now Harry wished he'd made greater haste in coming forward. He hoped he wasn't about to get publicly chastised for taking too long.

But there was a pleased glint in the Dark Lord eyes, and Harry's scar was quiet. His Master didn't seem angry with him for his tardiness. No, he seemed enthused, as if he was anticipating something exciting, something he'd longed for. Something more than a routine, celebratory torture session.

Harry moved to the front of the throne room and quickly knelt before the dais. "My Lord," he murmured.

"Rise," answered Voldemort, perfunctorily. He stood from his throne and came down the step to where Harry waited. He then reached out with his long, elegant hands and, grasping Harry's arm, turned him so that he was facing the assembled crowd.

The Death Eaters had all donned their masks, and those that had stripped in their hedonism had redressed. Harry didn't know why they bothered concealing their identities; it wasn't as if any of the prisoners would survive the night. Besides, Voldemort had won. The Ministry was his. Wizarding Britain was his.

"It is for effect, Harry," hissed his Master. "They cower more when we are the faceless horror they were taught to fear. But you, Precious," and here Harry shivered, breathless, "they must see. Before they die I want them to know that their hopes for salvation were unfounded. That Dumbledore had told them nothing but lies."

Harry refused to admit that he would give a lot to be called 'precious' again by his Master. "How may I serve you, my Lord," he asked in English, for the benefit of the crowd before them.

He would prove to everyone, again and again if need be, that Dumbledore had indeed lied to them all. And always to Harry. Especially to him.

Voldemort smiled. "Well done," he praised before turning to address the crowd, Death Eaters and the condemned alike. "Welcome, my loyal supporters, to what I know will be a fine celebration of our combined victory. And welcome to our Ministry friends." The black-clad crowd laughed cruelly at the Dark Lords words, with a few creative jeers thrown in as well. Harry thought he heard Bellatrix's voice, and was simultaneously dismayed that she was still here and pleased that she was at the back, far from his Master. "I am afraid you have missed the more enjoyable part of the night. But perhaps if some of you, or some parts of you rather, manage to survive the next hour, you may engage in the midnight reprise."

Harry didn't know what his Master meant by that last bit, and neither did the assembled prisoners, judging from their confused expressions. They were still terrified, though, as they had easily understood the Dark Lord's main message. None of them were expected to live beyond the next hour, and the next sixty minutes promised nothing but pain.

The Death Eaters, minus Harry of course, seemed to understand perfectly the Dark Lord's cryptic words, and their laughter pealed off the ballroom walls.

The Dark Lord took a deep breath, and gently squeezed Harry's arm. "Keep being good for me, Harry," he murmured. Nagini sighed in her sleep, her scales sliding comfortably along Harry's neck. It was very soothing. Once the crowd had become quiet again, Voldemort continued his speech: "You all recognize the young man standing beside me. Many of you were present for his Initiation into our ranks, but one week ago. Since then, Harry Potter has completed his first mission, successfully apprehending the last of the rebels entrenched within the bowels of Hogwarts. Our captives from this last engagement are still being processed, so in their stead I have brought you the remaining Ministry dissenters. Please, gentlemen, I expect a good show. Try not to kill them all within the first five minutes."

With that, the Dark Lord retreated to his throne, dragging Harry with him. He pushed Harry into a kneel next to his throne, and idly began carding thin fingers through his hair. Harry felt awkward at first. He was getting used to being touched by Voldemort, had begun to crave it, though still uneasily. But that was private, and this was most definitely not. Yet had he not been envious of Bellatrix when she had knelt before this very throne earlier that night? True, it was for a far different purpose. But he was the one now before their Lord. He was the one with their Master's attention, the one whose devotion was payed back with fond caresses.

Harry heard his name being called by the Ministry employees, even as they were being surrounded by dark-clad assailants. Their words varied from pleas for him to help, to incredulity that he was kneeling before the Dark Lord, to curses at his betrayal.

He had never betrayed them. He had never promised them anything. They had rallied behind him because he was famous, and yet his claim to fame was in surviving. And that was exactly what he planned to keep doing. It wasn't his fault they were unwilling to follow his lead.

Harry leaned into his Master's touch, revelling in the way the long fingers scratched gently along his scalp, how they smoothed the fine hairs at the nape of his neck. The Feather-light charm on Nagini had been lifted at some point, and now he could feel the press of her weight against him, and the gentle rise and fall of her ribs as she breathed.

The screams from below were drowned out in the wake of his utter contentment.

It seemed as if nearly all the Death Eaters took turns with the prisoners. Harry recognized Draco, even with the mask hiding his face. His Crucio was standard, if torture could be called such. The witch he targeted writhed beneath his wand, blood pooling in her nostrils, but she recovered quickly after the curse was lifted. Draco was pushed aside by another Death Eater who shot off a brutal Diffindo at the woman; she screamed as her left arm was severed several inches below her shoulder.

Harry closed his eyes. He was now beyond pleased that his Master had taken him out of the fray. He wouldn't have been able to participate in this. But what if something else was expected of him? Something he couldn't do?

"Do not fret, Harry. I have something special planned for you. Someone you will relish hurting."

Harry couldn't think who that could be. Who would he enjoy tormenting? Vernon and Dudley, obviously, but his Master had said something about Midsummer, which was more than a month away. Who did that leave? Snape?

But he'd barely managed to break Snape's thumb when he'd had the chance. That felt like years ago, now.

"Not Severus. I realized, but recently, that I still have need of his expertise. There are several exacting potions I require that, while not outside my own capabilities, will demand more attention than I can spare during this transformative time. For now, at least, I will allow him to live. I promise you though, Harry, he has much to atone for in regard to his continuous betrayals. This is hardly a reward."

Harry nodded, understanding. The Dark Lord was, above all, pragmatic. He didn't need to forgive his foes to make use of them. But he had to ask, despite worrying that he'd be punished for questioning his Master's judgement, "How can you be sure he won't brew something poisonous, Master?" He tensed a little, anxious that Voldemort's hand would tighten painfully in his hair, which would be but the first sign of his ire. Sometimes it took so little to anger him.

Voldemort didn't seem bothered by Harry's words, though. He continued petting him, the repetitive action soothing away his worries. "Do not concern yourself over such things, Darling," which made Harry tense for an altogether different reason. "I will have Severus hobbled under so many vows that he will barely be able to stand straight. He will never be a danger to either of us again."

Time seemed to flow strangely. On the one hand, Harry knew that little time had passed since the first of the prisoner's screams, but it also dragged on forever. Harry's Saving People complex was much reduced from what it was—he felt no desire to throw himself in front of any of them, to use himself as a shield—but he still felt empathy for them.

The Death Eaters had grown bored with the Cruciatus at some point, and had liberally used spells that Harry was less familiar with. He recognized the aftermath of the Entrail-Expelling curse, but Voldemort's followers were above all creative in their sadism. Regardless of which incantations, which hexes and curses had been used to brutalize the bodies before him, the effect was the same. Excruciating pain, then death.

When there was but one captive still alive, a witch who was even now bleeding out on the gore-strewn floor, Lord Voldemort stood and said, "Friends, that is enough for now. Antonin, patch her up. We have one more event planned this evening, and this lovely young lady will be required to participate."

A man with dark hair emerged from the crowd. Harry noticed that his robes looked wet with blood, much more so than many of the other Death Eaters in the room. From behind his mask he said, "Look alive, love." He cast a quick healing spell at the cowering witch. Judging from her pained yell, it must have stung. Like iodine on a cut, Harry thought, then chided himself for thinking like a Muggle.

As if Petunia would have wasted iodine on a freak like him, anyway. But for once that word—Freak!—which had once brought shame upon him, gave him a sense of pride. He was a wizard. He was powerful, superior.

And Petunia was dead.

Lord Voldemort seemed to be waiting for something. The room grew still, and all that could be heard were the muted cries from the Ministry witch. Dolohov quickly Silenced her, and all was quiet.

A rapping at the door. Then it opened, without leave from the Dark Lord. Who would dare…?

A witch with monstrously pink robes.

Umbridge, of course. She was pale, obviously frightened, but she plastered on a sycophantic smile and sauntered right up to the dais.

"My Lord," she simpered.

"Dolores Umbridge," he returned. He sounded mostly indifferent, but Harry knew better. His scar had flared to life with a pulsing sting. Anticipation. A hand was again in his hair, not quite the gentle stroking from before. This was a light pulling, a tugging. Almost a new branding. This is mine. "Welcome."

Harry wondered if she lacked the good sense to never interrupt Lord Voldemort. The memory of her nightmarish speech from the Welcoming Feast of his fifth year made its way into his mind, and Harry kept waiting for the hated 'hem hem'. But she seemed to have more respect for the Dark Lord than she'd had for Dumbledore, or at least a better developed sense of self-preservation. She waited demurely for him to continue.

"I have been told that you requested an audience with me, that you wish to join our ranks. Or was Yaxley misinformed?" said Voldemort.

No. This was worse than the Malfoys. Worse than Bellatrix, even. If Harry had to put up with that horrid woman at every one of his Master's meetings…well, he would just beg to be excused from attending. The Dark Lord would hopefully understand. His Master's hand had switched back to a soothing, repetitive stroke upon his head, his scar pushing soothing pulses upon him.

"Yes, my Lord. That is what I told him." She giggled, then. It was a nervous giggle, but a giggle nonetheless. Who giggled in front of Voldemort? Bellatrix would cackle on occasion, true, but Harry wracked that up to her being completely nuts. Also, she had certain privileges. Harry relaxed into his Master's touch, reminding himself again that it was he that was up here enjoying these pets, not her.

"Excellent," Voldemort replied, his smile evident in his voice. "I am afraid you missed the bulk of this evening's activities, my dear. But all is not lost. I am unaware…did Corban explain to you what an Initiation entails?"

"No, my Lord, but I am ready." And with that, the odious woman fell to her knees and pulled up her sleeve, revealing her bare arm.

Voldemort hummed. "Rise, Dolores. We are not yet at that stage. First you must demonstrate your sincerity and your willingness to do my bidding."

She scrambled to her feet, a pronounced blush upon her plump cheeks. Her lips were drawn to a tight line; she was becoming angry in her embarrassment, though within a moment she seemed to remember where she was. The silly smile she'd always worn in front of Fudge returned.

Not so much self-preservation after all, Harry decided.

Beside him, Voldemort made a small sound of amusement, which Harry guessed was due to his own thoughts. He took the slight scratch his Master gave to the top of his head as affirmation.

"All of my new followers must prove themselves to our cause by demonstrating their prowess. To be clear, we have left you the remnants of our earlier revels." He pointed towards the centre of the ballroom, where the frightened Ministry witch was trembling. "Put her out her misery."

Umbridge's eyes widened as she took in the blood-slicked floor and the figure huddled in the middle of it. Someone had vanished the corpses at some point, but it was clear that a great deal of suffering had occurred there, and not long ago. Harry wondered at how she'd missed the mess on her way in. Maybe this was normal for her, he mused. She did have a penchant for torture, after all. Harry knew that first hand.

Still, Umbridge didn't manage the Killing Curse at first. The assembled Death Eaters began whispering amongst themselves, bored, as the green-hued spell repetitively fizzled out at the end of her wand. Her failure wasn't helping her victim, either. She knew she was going to die. She tensed, bracing herself, each time the curse fell from Umbridge's lips, but nothing would happen. Again and again. Tears were running down her face, and Harry hadn't felt so sorry for someone in a long time. Meanwhile, Umbridge's cheeks got pinker and pinker with each failure, until they nearly matched her robes. She was so angry, it was unclear why she hadn't managed to kill the woman. But…

"Enough." Voldemort's voice caused all to freeze.

All but Umbridge, that is. "Just one more…" and another failed attempt.

"Pathetic," the Dark Lord said, then laughed, cold and cruel. Around her, the masked Death Eaters laughed along with their Lord. "Dolores Umbridge, how can I Mark you when you cannot perform this one, simple task for me."

She turned to meet his stern gaze. "My Lord," she said. "Have I not been serving you this past year? I have organized the Muggle-born Registra—"

"Enough!" spat Voldemort. "I did not grant you audience so that you might brag about how well you have served me. Did I ask you to set up this Commission? Did I give you permission to rob and to torture? To imprison? I do not recall giving such orders."

"B-but my Lord, you—" Umbridge stammered.

"Silence," he hissed. "As you might guess, Madam Umbridge, you will not be Marked this evening. You will not be serving me, just as you have not served me this past year. In fact, all that you have managed is to created a number of hurdles for my new government. You have endangered the Statute of Secrecy and made England little more than a laughing-stock with your poorly administered policies. And, worse yet, your agenda was thought to be my own. Even Harry Potter here believed this to be so. Did you not, Harry?"

Harry felt the weight of many eyes upon him, then. Kneeling at Voldemort's feet, the skeletal hand still stroking his hair—he must have been quite a sight. "Yes, my Lord," he agreed.

Umbridge's beady eyes were the most piercing. "Mr Potter," she said, bitterly. "And is he Marked?"

Voldemort laughed again, though this time no one joined in. "Such gall. It is almost admirable. Yes, Harry was Marked last week; you missed that celebration, too. Harry managed to kill his victim, didn't you?" He waited for Harry to nod. "His own aunt. It was glorious."

"I'm sure," Umbridge replied, pale.

"But my greater contention with you, Dolores, is due to a different mark that young Harry bears. He has three notable markings, and I detest that one of these was not inscribed by my own wand. His famous scar, of course, was my own. And the brand upon his arm." Harry pulled up the sleeve covering his left forearm, even as his Master flicked the fringe from above his right eye, revealing the famous lightening-bolt scar. "But there is one other mark, Dolores. On his hand. Come closer, and tell us what it says."

Umbridge stepped forward hesitantly, her shoes leaving bloody prints upon the floor. She stopped several metres from the throne. "I must not tell lies," she whispered hoarsely.

Voldemort scoffed. "You're not even looking, yet you seem most certain. Closer, woman. And let us all hear that repulsive, sanctimonious voice of yours. Read it to us."

It took a good minute before Umbridge could muster up the courage to obey. Voldemort, for once, was all patience, revelling in her obvious distress and terror. When she was close enough, Harry raised his right hand. The words he'd been forced to cut into his skin were now a pale silvery-pink, which over time had become easy enough to ignore. Until now, he hadn't known that his Master had even noticed them. Umbridge cleared her throat, a pitiful, genuine sound so unlike the skin-crawling noise she usually made. "I must not tell lies."

"Harry, why don't you tell your brethren how it is that you came to have this scar. And why."

Harry had always hated being placed in a spot-light, which was unfortunate since he'd been thrust there so frequently since he was eleven. He was glad that his Master was still petting his head. Yes, it drew further attention to him, but everyone was already looking at him anyway, and the touch soothed his nerves better than any dram of Ogden's Finest. "Professor Umbridge," he began, "didn't like what I was saying about Vol—our Lord's return at the end of the Tri-Wizard Tournament. She had tried, and failed, to silence me before I even got to Hogwarts. When I was directly under her care-" and here Harry's composure broke. He was angry, dammit. He took a calming breath before continuing. "She wouldn't let any of us study Defense properly. She said we didn't need it, that I had made everything up to get attention. I was given detention, and she made me write lines. But she used a quill that did this to me. Made the words carve right into my hand."

"A Black Quill," Voldemort explained to his assembled Death Eaters. He ignored Harry's slip, when he'd almost called his Master by his chosen name; Harry hoped that he understood that, in reciting his story, his mind had fallen back into that of fifth year, when the name had foolishly tripped off his tongue.

"I wasn't the only one, my Lord, though I received the most detentions. She wanted to make sure the words 'sunk in'. But she made other students do this, too."

"I don't care about the other students, Harry," Voldemort said. Then, to Umbridge, "I believe Harry said that this was not your first attempt to silence him. What was the first?"

But Umbridge was unwilling, it seemed, to answer that. Voldemort must have known what it was, anyway. He seemed to know everything about Harry, from either their soul-link or a more standard Legilimency.

"It is best," the Dark Lord decided, "that you remain silent, I suppose. We are all tired, I expect, of your falsehoods by now." And with an idle flick of his free hand, her mouth was gone. She reached up and groped at the blank stretch below her nose. A noise of panic could be heard, just barely, but that was soon drowned out by the cruel laughter from the congregated Dark witches and wizards.

Harry felt a gentle prodding of fingers at the back of his head. He looked up at his Master, and saw that he was gesturing for him to continue his story. Harry took a deep breath, then said, "She was the one that sent the Dementor to Surrey earlier that year. The one that attacked my cousin and me. And then I was almost expelled."

His Master must have known. It had been all over the Prophet that summer, the attack and the trial. But it was as if Voldemort was only now making the connection. The soul piece within Harry could have been sucked out and destroyed before he'd even realized it existed.

Harry's scar erupted in vicious fire, more painful than he could remember. He moaned, keeling over. That woke Nagini, who cinched around his neck in her own panic. Harry, choking, tried to push the snake off himself, but she was stuck fast. His vision going gray, he looked up in terror at his Master, his eyes begging for help. But Voldemort was gone from the dais now. Harry couldn't see anything, and could barely make out someone screaming before everything went dark.

A/N Harry actually has more than three scars/marks. In addition to the ones mentioned, there is the one Pettigrew gave him during Lord Voldemort's resurrection ritual, as well as the scar from Nagini's bite at Godric's Hollow. And let's not forget the runes that Voldemort carved into Harry's skin in an earlier chapter. However, not one of these other marks is particularly 'notable'.