Without warning, the scar on his forehead seared with pain again and his stomach churned horribly.
The parchment was now dotted with drops of blood from the back of his hand, which was searing with pain.
And then, as she took hold of him to examine the words now cut into his skin, pain seared, not across the back of his hand, but across the scar on his forehead.
He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill on it once more, wrote I must not tell lies, and felt the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second time; once again, the words had been cut into his skin; once again, they healed over seconds later.
The scar on his forehead had seared again, more painfully than it had in weeks.
Harrys scar seared again, but he did not care.
Ron wrenched the hangings apart and Harry stared up at him in the moonlight, flat on his back, his scar searing with pain.
He had reached the floor, his breath coming in searing gasps.
His scar seared and burned… the pain of it was making his eyes stream… ’LIAR!’ she shrieked, but he could hear the terror behind the anger now.
Harry roared and, as he shouted it, pain seared across his forehead; his scar was on fire again, and he felt a surge of fury that was quite unconnected with his own rage.
All Harry knew for sure was that his godfather had neither done as Voldemort wanted, nor died, for he was convinced that either outcome would have caused him to feel Voldemort’s jubilation or fury course through his own body, making his scar sear as painfully as it had on the night Mr Weasley was attacked.