“M-my Lord,” Wormtail floundered, “there is a s-s-s-scar.” He could not tear his gaze from Voldemort's brow.
A scar? Impossible. Voldemort had never been marked. It was one of those things that set him apart. Injuries and scars were something sacred in their world–magical connections across space between soulmates–but nothing so base as a soulmate had ever been an obstacle to Lord Voldemort. The only way his new body could be scarred was if Wormtail had blundered the resurrection potion.
But when his loyal, marked servants began raising their covered heads, the way their shoulders jerked at the mighty sight of him was ominous. The graveyard of Little Hangleton became deeply silent but for the quiet whimpers of the Boy Who Lived behind them.
Voldemort conjured a disc of pure silver and beheld himself. There, unforgivably obvious in the thin skin across his eye, was a cursed scar in the shape of the killing curse.
The silver disc blasted apart. The shards became bullets. One hit a Death Eater, whose wife, wherever she was in the world, was surely emerging a similar killing gash across her face at that moment. The earth quivered. Grave markers slumped where they were rooted. And though the dirt and grass was dead and dry, sections bubbled and steamed like geysers.
“Wormtail.” It did not sound spoken by a human, but like a message from the divine.
Tongue-tied by terror, Wormtail did not respond. He crumpled to the earth, hiding in his hands. Around them, Death Eaters scattered and apparated away with fractured sound.
“Wormtail, what have you done?”
“I am innocent, innocent, my Lord, innocent…” The crumpled, bleeding Wormtail wailed but he wasn’t heard. The Armageddon was louder. And so were Harry Potter's shrieks of agony.
Voldemort turned to face him, the one who has destroyed him in every way. The boy's scar was frightfully red, bubbling with fresh, enraged blood. It was not hurting him enough.
When the boy could open his eyes, he saw their matching mark and he sobbed with grief along with pain. Voldemort was so nauseous he exploded gravestones. The angel statue on a dead mother's grave, the slab with a rose for passed life partners, the cross of a faithful man.
“Face me, ruiner,” Voldemort said.
Harry's glare burned, just as hot as Voldemort’s hellsteam.
Their wands locked. The boy escaped the boiling graveyard.
Voldemort's new, perfect body was tarnished.
Lost in the ecstasy of a cruel muse, Voldemort pointed his wand at his right forearm and carved.
After dark in the hospital wing, Harry pulled off his jumper. The Dark Mark was there on his arm, on his right arm rather than the left–distinguished from others but claimed nonetheless; forced into subservience.
How was he meant to defend against this, Harry wondered? This time, it wasn’t Dark magic that had sentenced him.
We used to believe Love would save him; make him untouchable. But really, “love” made him forever touched.