The Mark of Alecto Carrow
It’s September, not long after the riots Malfoy started at the World Cup. Our nieces are out of our hair. I’m at the cauldron making broad bean soup.
“Smells terrible, Alliecat,” Amycus chuckles as he awakens from his nap at the table.
“Last thing you made correctly was mushy peas,” I say.
Amycus has more trouble getting up from his seat each year. We’re only 43.
“You make old man noises when you move, Am.”
He nudges me out of the way and starts frying the bacon for me. When he’s done, he crumbles it into the cauldron and smiles. And then he frowns. He really, really frowns.
“Hey, you been over this hot cauldron too long, Allie. Go have a seat.”
It is hot. In fact, I might’ve splashed hot soup on my arm. I step towards the sink. Amycus does not take his eyes from me until he winces in pain and grabs his arm. I suddenly see what the problem is.
I wasn’t burnt with soup. My Dark Mark is charred black. My chest, stomach, and head all churn with panic as Amycus rolls up his sleeve to reveal that his matches.
Get it off him.
Amycus runs cold water onto a tea towel and presses it to my arm. My black scar does not fade or cool. If not mine, then...
Get it off him.
My teeth begin to grind. The Dark Lord once welcomed us only to pass us over, time and time again, in favour of “better” families. People he could use because they looked good and could play multiple political roles. What were we? Two pairs of feet to be mistreated.
“It’s gonna be okay, Alecto.”
“No it ain’t,” I cry. “He’s s’posed to be gone, Amycus. He’s supposed to be dead.”