THE DEATH EATERS Wormtail’s robes were shining with blood now; he had wrapped the stump of his arm in them. “My Lord . . .” he choked, “my Lord . . . you promised . . . you did promise . . .” “Hold out your arm,” said Voldemort lazily. “Oh Master . . . thank you, Master . . .” He extended the bleeding stump, but Voldemort laughed again. “The other arm, Wormtail.” “Master, please . . . please . . .” Voldemort bent down and pulled out Wormtail’s left arm; he forced the sleeve of Wormtail’s robes up past his elbow, and Harry saw something upon the skin there, something like a vivid red tat- too — a skull with a snake protruding from its mouth — the im- age that had appeared in the sky at the Quidditch World Cup: the Dark Mark. Voldemort examined it carefully, ignoring Wormtail’s uncontrollable weeping. “It is back,” he said softly, “they will all have noticed it . . . and now, we shall see . . . now we shall know . . .” He pressed his long white forefinger to the brand on Wormtail’s arm. The scar on Harry’s forehead seared with a sharp pain again, and Wormtail let out a fresh howl; Voldemort removed his fingers from Wormtail’s mark, and Harry saw that it had turned jet black. A look of cruel satisfaction on his face, Voldemort straightened up, threw back his head, and stared around at the dark graveyard. “How many will be brave enough to return when they feel it?” he whispered, his gleaming red eyes fixed upon the stars. “And how many will be foolish enough to stay away?” ‘645‘