Removing the Mark!

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Harry's frown deepened as he considered the words, memories flickering in his mind. Over the past week, the time he spent seemingly idle had been anything but. His absence from his usual routines was twofold: first, he had merged the soul fragments from the diary and Hufflepuff's cup into the piece already residing in his wand. The result was undeniable—his "Voldemort Aura," had become far more potent. Secondly, he had been studying Voldemort's memories through the system.

Watching those memories, rather than directly absorbing them, had proven invaluable. Harry wasn't foolish enough to let Voldemort's experiences influence him more than necessary. Memories shaped character, and Harry had no intention of letting a decades-old dark wizard's perspective seep into his own. Instead, he treated them like a film reel, dissecting each moment to understand without internalizing. That caution had paid off. He now understood the Mark Lucius was referring to: the Dark Mark—a magical brand Voldemort had used to summon his followers.

The Mark had vanished when Voldemort was defeated, and its absence had left his Death Eaters rudderless. Harry realized with a jolt that he hadn't considered the implications of that detail before. The Mark, or its lack, could expose him if someone looked too closely.

"You thought I was gone," Harry said slowly, his voice cutting through the room like a blade. "And yet here I stand."

Lucius's head bowed lower, his hands trembling against the dusty floor. "We were wrong, my Lord. Forgive our foolishness."

Harry let the silence drag out, his mind working quickly. The Mark's absence had been a symbol of Voldemort's defeat, one that allowed his followers to feign innocence or disavow allegiance. Its reappearance—or lack thereof—could become a liability.

"You believed I had abandoned you," Harry continued, his tone cold but measured. "That I was defeated. And in my absence, you grew complacent. Tell me, Lucius, do you think that warrants forgiveness?"

Lucius's breathing quickened, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists. "No, my Lord," he whispered hoarsely. "I… I have failed you."

Harry tilted his head slightly, watching the man grovel. "You have," he said simply, letting the weight of the words settle over the room. "But failure can be corrected… if one is willing to prove their worth."

Lucius's head shot up, his eyes wide with a mixture of hope and desperation. "I will, my Lord. Anything you ask of me."

"Good," Harry said, his voice clipped. "Then you'll make yourself useful. For now, that means silence. Speak only when I demand it."

Lucius nodded quickly, lowering his head again. "Yes, my Lord."

Harry's gaze shifted to the others in the room. The Carrows were fidgeting uncomfortably, their expressions pinched. Crabbe and Goyle looked more like overgrown children caught in the act of mischief than seasoned Death Eaters. Nott, however, met Harry's eyes briefly before looking away. That flicker of defiance—or was it curiosity?—didn't go unnoticed.

"You all failed," Harry said, addressing the group at large. "In my absence, you let yourselves believe that I was gone, that your oaths were meaningless. Let me make this clear: I do not tolerate disloyalty."

The Carrows flinched visibly. Crabbe and Goyle stiffened. Bellatrix, however, seemed almost euphoric under the weight of Harry's words. Her devotion was as fierce as ever, but Harry knew better than to let it cloud his judgment. She was useful, but also dangerous. Devotion that intense could easily turn destructive.

"The Mark's disappearance," Harry continued, his tone sharp, "was not an excuse to abandon your purpose. I removed it because it was a link to me. Do you think I would allow that old fool Dumbledore to track me through you? Those who betrayed me—those who thought themselves clever by siding with the Ministry—were cast aside. Those who claimed innocence, hiding behind the excuse of the Imperius Curse, were no different. Cowards, the lot of you."

Lucius flinched at the scorn in Harry's words, his pale face nearly as white as the floor he knelt upon. The other Death Eaters remained silent, each one barely daring to breathe under the oppressive weight of Harry's presence.

Harry let the silence linger, watching them squirm. "Bellatrix didn't cower," he said finally, his gaze cutting to her. "She endured. She waited. And when I called, she answered."

Bellatrix's lips parted in a wide grin, her expression one of manic delight. "My Lord, your praise is all I desire," she breathed, her voice trembling.

"Don't get ahead of yourself, Bella," Harry said curtly, his attention already shifting back to the others. "Unlike you, the rest of these fools failed to uphold their oaths. So tell me, Lucius"—his voice turned icy—"why should I tolerate your continued existence?"

"My Lord, I—" Lucius began, but Harry silenced him with a sharp flick of his wand. The weight pressing down on the group intensified, leaving Lucius gasping as he clawed at the floor.

Shaking his head, Harry stepped closer to Bellatrix. "Give me your arm," he said evenly, holding out his hand.

Bellatrix froze, her face draining of color. For a moment, her lips parted in a silent protest, but no words came out. She extended her arm slowly, as if she feared what would come next. Her wild eyes darted to his face, desperate to gauge his intent. "My Lord… have I failed you?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

Harry sighed, ignoring her panic. "That old mark is useless," he said, gripping her forearm firmly. "I will craft a new one. But you know why, Bella. That mark is not safe."

Her eyes widened, understanding dawning on her features. She nodded quickly, her wild curls bobbing. "Of course, my Lord," she whispered, her voice trembling with awe and apprehension.

The room was deathly silent, save for the faint crackle of magic as Harry raised his wand over her arm. The rest of the Death Eaters knelt in uneasy submission, their eyes flicking nervously between Bellatrix and Harry. Lucius dared a glance up, his expression caught somewhere between dread and curiosity, but quickly looked away when Harry's gaze shifted toward him.

Harry spoke no incantation as he began weaving the spell. The mechanics of the Dark Mark were clear to him now after reviewing Voldemort's memories. Ingenious as it was, the Mark wasn't as complex as it appeared—just an intricate combination of spells and runes layered together for chain of purposes. It facilitated summoning, communication, loyalty enforcement, and even punishment via pain. A mix of Crucio and Imperius spells gave it its darker edge, but removing it? That was child's play for Harry. Crafting a new mark on the spot, however, was an entirely different issue—one that would take more time and preparation than he had right now.

For the moment, he focused on dismantling the existing Mark to ensure that Voldemort—or whatever remnant of him lingered—couldn't summon these so-called followers to disrupt Harry's plans. His wand moved deftly over Bellatrix's arm, the tip glowing faintly as it traced over the skin where the Mark lay embedded.

Bellatrix flinched as the Mark reacted, writhing against the magic as though it had a life of its own. Her breath hitched, but she didn't move, her wild eyes fixed on Harry's face, waiting for any sign of displeasure.

"Relax, Bella," Harry muttered, his tone distracted. "I'm not about to incinerate your arm."

Her shoulders sagged slightly, though her hands still gripped the edge of her robes tightly. The rest of the Death Eaters in the room were silent, their eyes darting nervously between Harry's face and Bellatrix's arm. The glowing Mark began to dim under Harry's spellwork, its intricate lines unraveling and fading into the pale skin beneath.

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