He was sitting at the table, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. This was like seeing him practically naked—his Dark Mark stood out, inky and venomous, against the pallid skin of his inner forearm. Seeing him in such a state sent a little bolt straight to her belly. He was reading the Daily Prophet as though nothing was amiss, as though he always rolled up his sleeves like this. On the front page, as usual, was Harry’s mugshot. Every so often he would snarl in a cartoonish expression that made Harry look utterly unlike himself. It was almost ridiculous, if so many people didn’t believe it. 