Severus Snape's Private Quarters
*tosses and turns, unusually restless, drifting in and out of consciousness*
Someone is gently prodding the Mark on his forearm. The fingers are blunt. The touch is light. The snake writhes and undulates in and out of the skull's empty sockets. It feels good.
it feels good and he cannot remember feeling good and he wants to thank the person touching him for making him remember what it feels like to feel good, but before he can look up, the blunt fingers elongate, become razor-thin claws, before he can look up, a claw sinks into his forearm and glides through his skin around the Mark, setting the Mark afloat like an island in a sea of red flesh, and the claws curl under
The claws curl under and pull the Mark back. He cannot look. He looks up. It is Him. Slitted eyes of a snake hypnotize, command him to look back down at his forearm. Blunt fingers pull the Mark back and there is skin, miles of skin.
*flings arm out to side, sweat breaking out all over body, trapped by exhaustion*