Alecto/Peter
The pain shot through him, a burning sensation like he had experienced. Peter Pettigrew lay on the floor, shivering and cowering, his arm clenched to his chest. When he drew it away slowly, he saw the black outlines of a dancing snake etched into his forearm; it was done, official. He had had no idea just how much it would hurt.
Peter felt a shadow come over him. He rolled slightly to see who it was; a woman, short and slightly stocky, stood over him. She wasn't attractive, not by a long shot, and Peter did not think much of her. Not, at least, until he saw her eyes; blue, clear, incredibly cold. Like her entire face, they held a sense of dignity and projected disdain. Staring into them, it was like ice had been poured over him, and Peter thought, with a jolt, that he would follow them anywhere.
"Stand," the woman said, her voice low and dignified, a tone of superiority, "And stop whimpering. Hold up your head; you serve the Dark Lord now."
Peter tried to stand but could not, his whole body still aching.
"I can't," he whispered, his voice hoarse, "It hurts so much."
"Pain is the price one pays for service," the woman hissed back at him, "Pain is the price of devotion."
She turned on her heel and stalked away.
Pain is the price of devotion. Those words stuck with him; he felt them every time he looked at her, Alecto Carrow, and wished for her to notice him. Every time he wished for her to turn, so he could stare into those eyes of ice and feel new, like diving into a pool of fresh water. And every time she did not turn, did not notice, the pain got stronger and stronger. The pain of his devotion. Still, he reflected bitterly, that was the price.