She curled against the little Longbottom brat, stroking her wand against his quivering neck. He was so proud, so scared of the future that was so certain to come. She hated him and loved him at the same time, disgusted by the resemblance he had with his parents and yet intrigued. She wanted to see him break like she'd watched them break. She wanted to see him squirm and shiver beyond what cold sweat she felt from his back as they watched her fellows approach the other boy, the Potter boy.
And then there were more, bright flashes of light as the real meat of the evening arrived. The pathetic little movement that had died so soon after Voldemort rose the first time, clinging together under the pathetic wing of her sniveling little cousin.
"Sirius," she searched through those that arrived, looking for that familiar dark hair, that familiar figure that had changed so little since he left the family home. He was delusional, clinging to the back of his precious godchild ever since he had broken free of Azkaban's clutches.
She'd show him what a true Black was like. She'd show him what happened to those who didn't know their place, who hid amongst the quivering sheep of the world like the Longbottoms. She'd show him what real pain was like.
"Avada Kedavra!"