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It will not come off. It will never come off.
It is a fact, a mere truth Theodore Nott knows but can still hardly accept. A visible stain on his pale skin, a brand he never asked for—nor desired—yet had no choice except to bear.
Every day, the Dark Mark glares at him. Reminding him, haunting him—and those around him—of the past and its consequences. It continues to mock him as he clears his name of the accusations and builds a new image for himself, far away from what his father had established for the House of Nott.
Theo stands under the shower, sighing. The scalding heat of the water drizzles on his shoulders, washing away the tensed pressure coiling on his muscle. It passes by his toned abdomen, traveling down the length of his legs before reaching the tiled floor. He reaches for the shampoo bottle and squeezes, letting the lemony-citrus scent engulfs his senses before gently stroking his scalp.
He sighs once more, finally letting go.
It has been a draining day, and understandably so. The second of May marks the end of the Second War and the downfall of the Dark Lord. It had been the day new light shines upon the Wizarding World, freeing every British witch and wizard from the oppression, the fear, and the war. And though wounds may heal through time, the scars left will be constant reminders of what they have lost—and what they’ve fought for.
And Theo knows this. For he, too, has scars—and wounds still—that need healing but probably never will.
He turns the shower off, the haziness dissipating, making the room clearer. Lighter. Brighter. Enticing his thoughts of a world where the Dark Lord never existed and the Death Eaters were mere night stories to tell the naughty children. A world where he received no glares or Howlers—no Dark Mark painted on his skin.
Oh, how Theo wishes for that to be true.
He grabs the acromantula silk towel, one of the two hanging near the glass doors. He wraps it around his lower torso before heading toward the sink.
Amid the fogginess preventing a clear view of himself, Theo recognizes the outline of his body. He seems to be the same old Theodore Nott, the identical chestnut-colored hair and the blue eyes he proudly got from his mother. Yet, the man in the mirror seems unfamiliar.
Tracing his reflection, Theo notes every change—both little and astronomical. His hair, though it may have retained its natural color, is much longer, curlier. His stance, with his back straight and his shoulders square, says, ‘dependable’ . Reliable. Confident. So unlike the quiet, weedy boy from his teenage years.
His gaze lowers, landing on the thick black ink wrapped around his left side and shoulder. It travels down his bicep until it reaches his forearm, coiling into an intricate design.
He had scoured every resource, every book, every library accessible to him. The Notts and their undeniable collection on the Dark Arts; the Malfoy’s, the Hogwarts Restricted Section, even the dingy and questionable bookstores in Knockturn Alley. He had searched and searched, and searched, almost driving himself into madness with obsession. But the Mark remained.
His efforts were fruitless; discovered clues only led him to dead-ends.
It left him forever tainted, permanently unclean.
And in the middle of his grief and frustration, Theo threw every reasoning in his bones out before deciding to taint himself some more and cover his body with even more ink.
The serpent’s head lays on the left side of Theo’s abdomen, teasing his hipbone with it’s sharp fangs and split tongue. Its body curves around his side, onyx scales teasing his chest before finding comfort on his shoulder and wrapping snuggly on his arm.
A live beast—a majestic creature ready to strike.
And from his wrist moving upward to his elbow, a beautifully designed waves of deep black ink—like flowing water—accompanies the giant serpent on his travels along Theo’s left side.
A true masterpiece on his body.
“Theo?” Hermione calls, pushing the bathroom door open and making her way inside. She is the same as she was; nothing much changed—still the fiery, brilliant, and sometimes absolutely violent witch he admired in their Hogwarts years.
She stops in front of him, wrapping her arms around his waist before placing soft kisses on his chest, his neck, followed by his jaw and ending her trail on the corner of his lips.
“What are you doing?” Hermione asks, fingers tracing the long scaly design of his tattoo. “Other than showering without me, of course.”
Theo chuckles. Honestly, he never understood how he got so lucky. After being branded—after the war and the trials—he was sure no woman would ever look his way. And if they had, it would probably be to send dirty gazes, accompanied by false rumours, in his way.
Yet, here he is, standing with his arms wrapped around a war heroine, his fingers tangled in her wild and untameable curls.
“Nothing much,” Theo answers, a smile still on his face. “Just wondering what new design I’m adding to my collection.”
Hermione’s brows rise, eyes wide. “You’re getting another one?”
Theo smirks, their bodies swaying to a silent song no one but them is allowed to hear. “Yes, I’ve been planning for quite some time now.”
“And pray tell, what you plan on getting?” Hermione asks, ever the curious witch before her eyes land on his arm. “Maybe, not as big as this one? I mean, for now, at least.”
Theo chuckles, placing a chaste kiss on Hermione’s nose as she chews on her lips.
Hermione looks at him expectantly— hopeful , if Theo may say so himself. And truthfully, his heart swells every time she even says his name—more so, look at him with eyes full of adoration. It’s like someone is casting a Bombarda to his chest repeatedly.
“What if I say I plan on getting you tattooed on me?”
Hermione blanches, lifting her head from his chest as if getting burned.
“Theodore Nott, don’t you dare.”
And he laughs.
Oh well, his Hermione-tattoo can wait.