Author's note: A short but significant chapter to push me through my writer's block. The next chapter is already half-written. I hope you enjoy and that everyone is staying healthy during this crazy time. Please review!

Disclaimer: I do not own Harry Potter.

The Dark Mark

Severus was seated in the Great Hall a couple mornings later, trying to consume his toast as quickly as possible without looking like an uncultured hedonist, Moody having just arrived and doing his cursory sweep of the room with his magical eye alone, when a pain in his left arm flared up. It was brief, so brief he might have thought he'd imagined it, except for how off-guard it caught him: he sucked in a sharp breath and clenched his fingers into a fist.

The staff members closest to him looked up from their conversations.

"Is everything all right, Severus?" Dumedore inquired.

"Of course, Headmaster, I simply choked on a piece of my breakfast." The pathetic lie rolled off his tongue before he could stop it, and he gave an equally pathetic cough to try and cover up the ridiculousness of it. Sweet Merlin, he thought in exasperation at himself.

Dumbledore gave him a look that clearly said, We'll talk later. He hadn't fooled the old wizard. "Mm. Do be careful," said Dumbledore mildly, "I'd hate to have to find another Potions Master so early in the year," and then he restarted his discussion with Minerva and Pomona. The women looked a bit baffled by the exchange, but quickly let it go.

Moody, on the other hand, was staring at Severus with both eyes. There went his appetite.

"I have final preparations to make for today's lessons," he murmured to nobody in particular, and then excused himself, sweeping out of the Great Hall in his usual dramatic fashion.

He waited until he was back in his rooms, where he knew he was away from the prying eyes of students, portraits, or other busybodies who had no lives of their own besides gossiping about the lives of others. He rolled up his left sleeve, quickly, like ripping off a muggle plaster. There on his forearm was the faint print of the Dark Mark.

The Mark, like the pain, was so faint he could almost convince himself he was imagining it. The Mark had never gone completely after the Dark Lord fell, only faded to an outline. This image, however, was a wash of solid grey, light though it was, and to deny it would have been foolish.

He wasn't sure what he felt. He'd always known this would happen, it was hardly a shock. But this wasn't a theoretical "some time in the future, presumably when Wonder Boy is old enough to hold a wand," this was now. At the moment, it didn't feel like anything, but Severus knew he would later have dread prickling in his stomach, the way it always did when he thought about the return of the Dark Lord.

Dumbledore, of course, had deduced what was bothering Severus at breakfast, had probably known it from the moment he laid eyes on the other man. It was no surprise, then, that he called Severus to his office "just for a chat."

"Sherbet lemon?"

Not in the mood for their customary exchange, Severus wordlessly drew back the sleeve of his robes and held out his left forearm. The pleasant expression vanished from Dumbledore's face, replaced by seriousness.

"Then it is as I feared," he said simply.

Severus crossed his arms and paced in front of the desk. "I haven't heard anything since Lucius implicated himself casting Morsmorde at the Quidditch World Cup," he said. "They say no news is good news, but I'm not sure that applies to this front."

"The rumblings aren't yet enough for us to begin formulating a plan," Dumbledore mused. "For now, all you can do is keep an eye out for anything suspicious."

"I could talk to Karkarov," said Severus. In the back of his mind was the thought that the darkening of the Mark and the congregation of the three schools for the Tournament, one of those schools being known for its Dark affiliations, was quite the coincidence. That was a thought to examine later.

"He is a deserter," Dumbledore pointed out, and Severus gave him a withering look.

"You and I both know that nobody can truly desert the Death Eaters. The abomination on my arm is proof."

Dumbledore tipped his head in concession. "Perhaps talking to Karkarov could be useful. But," he added, "not yet."

Severus nodded curtly. "Will that be all, Albus?"

"Yes, my boy," Dumbledore said, resuming his pleasant, politely-cheerful demeanour.

"Then I'll see myself out."