A/N: The first of my biweekly upload schedule. We're a go for Wednesdays and Sundays!
CW: Brutality, violence, blood, gore, torture.
...
February 27, 1998 - The Makings of Monsters
The Defence Classroom was a place Andrael had truly grown to loathe. The scent of damp stone mixed with something acrid—burnt hair, maybe, or singed fabric. Someone had already been hexed today.
The Carrows stood at the front of the room, their presence suffocating. Amycus paced, his wand twirling between his fingers, like he was waiting for an excuse to use it. Alecto leaned against the teacher's desk, eyes scanning the students like a vulture deciding which corpse to pick at first. The air was thick with the unspoken rule that had settled into every Defence Against the Dark Arts class: someone will bleed before the lesson is finally over.
Andrael Cassowary had long since learned that lesson.
She had become something of a favorite target, the halfblood beast.
The students stood in stiff lines, their wands clutched tight, some already trembling. There were no desks in this classroom anymore, no books, no parchment—just the cold stone floor and the expectation that they would hurt each other.
"Let's make this one interesting," Amycus drawled, his voice as lazy as a cat stretching in the sun. "We see just how much you've learned this year. No more baby hexes. No more stunning spells." His lip curled.
"We're going to see some real magic today."
Silence. No one dared to move.
Alecto pushed off the desk and sauntered forward, weaving between students like a snake through grass. "You can hex, curse, or jinx," she said, her tone almost sweet. "No holding back this time. We'll know if you do."
"You all know if you refuse, you'll get a special lesson from me and my dear sister. So today," Amycus drawled, "You lot are going to run a gauntlet."
There was a murmur among the students, but no one dared speak.
"The premise is simple," he continued. "You'll cross the room and then go back. That's it. But your classmates will stand at the sides—wands drawn. They'll hex you, curse you, jinx you. And you, poor little rats, will have to make it through without falling." He grinned, a sharp, hungry thing. "Worst person on the sidelines runs the next round. And we'll be watching."
The rules were clear and loose: no Unforgivables. Anything else? Fair game.
Andrael's mind whirred through possibilities. It wasn't just about skill, it was about endurance. The Carrows wanted to push them, to break them down and mold them into weapons. And now, after her duel with Amycus, she had become their favorite little project.
She was exhausted already, coming up on sixty hours without sleep. She knew she should have waited for the weekend to start her ritual, but the excitement of the Felix Felicis finally being done had been too much to resist. Naturally, she would now have to pay for her stupidity.
"Let's have… you first, Cassowary."
Of course.
Lucky Longbottom had gotten beaten the day before, and could sit this one out in the Hospital Wing. She had a feeling she'd be joining him soon enough.
Andrael stepped forward, the room stretching wide before her. The students were sharper, crueler than they were at the beginning of the year, some eager to prove themselves, others just desperate to survive. All of them knew how to kill. None of them needed Unforgivables anymore.
She took a breath.
Move. Fast.
Amycus flicked his wand, and the first round of spells erupted like lightning.
A stinging hex glanced off her shoulder. She twisted, barely dodging a knee-locker jinx. Another hex shattered against the stone behind her. Andrael moved, rolling into a low crouch, using her smaller frame to her advantage. Predict the angles. Sidestep.
A bludgeoning curse caught her in the ribs and she staggered, choking down a breath, but didn't stop. She wouldn't stop. It didn't matter if she was faster than the speed of light, dodging a rain of hellfire from two dozen scared children was impossible.
Pain exploded through her calf as a cutting hex slipped through her defences, but she kept running, eyes locked on the other side. Almost there.
The next spell, a Bat-Bogey Hex, was a mistake. She saw the caster: a nervous Mandy Brocklehurst who hadn't quite grasped the assignment.
It gave her an opening.
A flick of her wand sent the girl stumbling backward as his own jinx rebounded. The distraction was enough. She lunged forward, crossing the threshold.
Silence.
Amycus clapped slowly, mockery dripping from every movement. "Not bad," he murmured, striding over. His wand tapped lightly against her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "You learn fast."
Andrael stood rigid. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of flinching.
Amycus smirked. "But not fast enough."
His wand lashed out. She could recognize the familiar pattern of the Cruciatus Curse before she felt it.
White-hot agony seared through her bones. Her knees buckled, her fingers scrabbling against the stone floor. The pain stretched on. And on.
And just when she thought she might drown in it, it stopped.
Amycus crouched beside her, voice almost gentle. "Do better next time."
She gasped for breath as he straightened and turned to the rest of the class. "Now go back."
They were breaking her down. Beating her to the ground so they could build her back up into something else. Something useful. They thought they were molding her.
Andrael bowed to no one.
She pushed herself up, fingers curling into the cold stone beneath her. Her breaths were ragged, but her mind was sharpening into something cold and cruel. If she had to cross this gauntlet again, she wasn't doing it empty-handed.
She moved.
A wandless shield shimmered into existence in her left hand—unstable, flickering, but enough. With her right, she raised her wand and sent a Blasting Curse straight at the first student who tried to stop her. They barely deflected in time, stumbling back, their counter-spell going wide.
Someone else fired a hex and she twisted, her shield absorbing it with a sharp crack before she sent a wordless Expulso at their feet. The stone shattered, dust and debris spraying into the air. Keep moving.
A jinx clipped her shoulder, her arm went briefly numb, but she didn't stop. She slammed a Flipendo into the caster's chest, sending them flying backward. Someone else tried to Stun her; she ducked low, throwing up another shield in time to block a second Cruciatus. Fricking Crabbe, of course he was breaking the rules.
Amycus laughed. "Look at that! Finally some fire in you!"
She ignored him.
Her body ached, but she wasn't going down. If she was going to suffer, she would make them regret every single curse they threw at her.
Another hex. Another shield. A flash of red light—she barely sidestepped it, retaliating with a Petrificus Totalus that caught a boy in the chest, sending him toppling over like a felled tree.
Almost there.
The last stretch. The students in her way hesitated now, wary. They had seen what happened to the others.
Andrael didn't stop. Didn't give them the chance.
A flick of her wand, Ventus. Wind howled through the dungeon, forcing them back, buying her just enough time to cross the threshold.
She turned on her heel, panting, her hands trembling from the effort.
Amycus clapped. Slow. Mocking.
"That," he said, grinning, "was fun."
She wanted to spit at his feet. She wanted to wipe that smug grin off his face with the same hexes he'd forced her to learn. But she didn't. She swallowed back the bile, the rage, the exhaustion, and forced her expression into something carefully neutral.
"Of course, Professor," she said, voice steady despite the lingering tremors in her limbs. "Only a fool would cross a battlefield unarmed."
His grin widened. "Smart girl."
The words made her skin crawl.
Amycus thought he was shaping her, breaking her down to rebuild her in his image. But he didn't know that every time he knocked her down, she was learning how to stand back up stronger. Every lesson, every curse, every humiliation—it wasn't making her theirs.
It was making her unstoppable.
Andrael barely had a moment to steel herself before Amycus barked, "Back in line, Cassowary."
She turned, pulse hammering, but she didn't argue. She knew better. Knew that hesitation, defiance—any sign of resistance—would only make things worse. The Carrows didn't just punish disobedience; they made examples of it.
So she walked, silent and measured, back to where the others stood trembling.
"Now," Amycus continued, pacing in front of them like a wolf surveying fresh meat, "we'll see how well you've learned. You've made it across, girl. Now make sure they don't."
It took her a second to understand, brain sluggish from pain.
Her stomach twisted.
She wasn't going to run the gauntlet again. She was going to be the gauntlet.
The realization sent a fresh pulse of nausea through her, but she didn't let it show. She just stepped forward, lifting her wand with a steady hand.
This was different from a duel, different from hypotheticals, different from when an opponent had a fighting, conscious chance. She wondered what Snape thought of students hunting each other for sport. Andrael didn't blame him for staying in that tower. She would avoid the hell she ruled over if she were in his shoes. It truly hurt to watch your students, to watch your classmates, to watch these children hurt.
The next student hesitated at the starting line.
Andrael felt something deep inside her crack.
She lifted her wand as the first student sprinted forward. A spell fired from the tip, quick, precise. Not a wasted movement. Not an ounce of doubt.
The curse hit its mark, a tripping jinx. The boy caught himself before he fell, stumbling but moving forward. Andrael adjusted her stance. Another hex. This one aimed for his dominant hand. He barely managed to deflect it before diving out of the way.
Who even was it? She couldn't tell. Features blurred into each other, a cataclysm of light from wands creating ghastly shadows on the walls.
Good. Keep them moving. Keep them reacting. That was what the Carrows wanted. That was what she had to give. She could be much crueler with her magic, launching bone-shattering blasting curses like Goyle next to her, but Andrael refused to cross that line. Thankfully, his aim was terrible.
In her mind, the battle was something else entirely. She was not dueling. She was not testing her classmates' defences. She was not hunting them.
She was surviving.
There was no emotion. No hesitation. No nausea. There was only spellwork, calculations, the smooth precision of her wand slicing through the air. This was what she would need to do when she was marked, waiting for an opportunity to strike.
Surviving. That was what Snape had commanded her to do, anyway.
She fired a hex toward another student, seeing Lisa Turpin's sharp eyes and tense jaw. Their gazes met for the briefest moment before she dodged. Andrael knew the look. The quiet understanding. The knowledge that this was not a game. That this was not Andrael's choice.
It didn't matter.
Lisa still resented her.
She turned, firing at the next one.
And the next.
Each spell built a wall around her mind, each strike stacking another layer between the part of her that wanted to be sick and the part of her that needed to survive.
Because there were no choices here.
Only expectations.
And expectations could be met.
Amycus chuckled somewhere behind her. "Much better," he praised.
Andrael didn't react, unsure who exactly he was talking to. The world had faded away to senseless violence. She just kept casting. Kept firing. Kept playing the part.
She had no other option.
The class ended when the last student collapsed at the finish line, gasping for breath and clutching their arm where a poorly deflected curse had left an angry, weeping gash. Amycus barked out a laugh and clapped his hands together.
"Well done," he drawled, though there was no warmth in his voice. "Some of you even learned something today."
The classroom was painted red. Blood dripped onto the stone floor in sluggish, winding rivulets. Hands trembled as wands were holstered. No one spoke. No one dared to meet each other's eyes.
Some students—those with wounds too severe to ignore—began the slow, agonizing journey to the hospital wing. They staggered down the corridors, leaning against one another, teeth gritted against the pain. The monsters helped each other now, feeling the soul-crushing shame as they looked at injuries on their classmates made by their own wands.
Andrael remained standing, her back straight, her wand still loosely held in her fingers. She had learned not to let her hands shake. Not in front of them.
Alecto Carrow approached her with a slow, deliberate step. Andrael tensed.
"You're proving yourself," Alecto murmured, her voice thick with something resembling surprised satisfaction. "They were right about you. All that potential. And you're finally using it."
Andrael forced her lips into the ghost of a smirk, as if she appreciated the compliment.
Alecto smiled, saccharine and sharp. "Guess it's true what they say. Even a half-blood mongrel can be trained." She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to a whisper. "If they know when to obey."
Andrael felt nothing.
Not the tight coil of nausea in her stomach. Not the heat crawling under her skin. Not the way her muscles screamed, stiff with bruises, with exhaustion, with restraint.
She only nodded.
"Yes, Professor."
No one lingered.
Andrael let out a slow, measured breath before following the others into the corridor. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears as she walked past the trail of blood they had left behind.
She saw Pansy stumbling against the wall, and looped an arm around her shoulders. Pansy's signature icy tendrils hadn't been able to stop debris from Nott's blasting curse from catching her in the ankle. "Hospital Wing," she murmured to the girl.
Pansy adjusted stiffly, and they walked on with an awkward three-legged hobble.
"Stop resisting and lean on me." Andrael commanded, sensing Pansy's pride. Even now, she was refusing to show weakness.
But slowly, she eased up, allowing Andrael to support her. Their progress was slow and silent.
All around them were other students that she couldn't help but see in a new light. They made the journey upstairs together in a shameful silence. They were animals, the lot of them. Blaise had thrown some putrid Italian poison dart curse. Millicent had been brutal with her bludgeoning jinxes. Even sweet Hannah Abbott, who had been made to run the course twice, had come around to wielding the cutting curse like a weapon by the end. By desensitizing them to violence, the Carrows were creating killing machines.
Self-preservation above all.
(Snape had told her to survive.)
Her victories earlier in the semester just seemed petty and meaningless.
As she helped Pansy into an open bed, she nearly missed the girl's quiet thanks. Andrael quirked her lips, setting Pansy's wand beside her.
She slipped out of the busy infirmary, feeling Madam Pomfrey's stressed fury radiating off of her in waves. The woman had gone through more medical supplies in the past month than she usually did in a year. Their Potions classes had literally become about replenishing Hospital Wing stocks. Andrael could brew Skele-grow in her sleep at this point.
Draco Malfoy stood just beyond the entrance to the hospital wing, his pale brows drawn into a scowl as he examined the gash slashed across his forearm. Blood seeped sluggishly from the wound, staining his already-ruined sleeve. But he made no move to step inside.
Andrael caught up to him, slowing her pace just enough to match his reluctant strides. She didn't speak at first. Neither did he.
The silence between them was thick, but not unfamiliar.
"You're not going in?" she asked finally, nodding toward the infirmary doors.
Draco scoffed under his breath. "What, and let Pomfrey fuss? No." His voice was flat, exhausted. He adjusted the sleeve of his robes, as though the dark fabric could hide the blood. "It's nothing. The others need her more."
Andrael eyed the wound. "It doesn't look like nothing."
"I think I saw a bone sticking out of Zacharius Smith's arm. Compared to that, this is nothing."
"Still. It looks nasty."
Draco shot her a look, sharp at the edges. He was mistrustful, always. But today, there was something different in it. Less suspicion, more apathy. He didn't have the energy to care if she was playing some kind of angle.
Neither of them could say what they were really thinking. They were Slytherins. They couldn't speak against their own Slytherin professors, even when those professors forced them to duel their classmates like animals in a pit. Especially not when their destiny was to join the same people said professors served.
So instead, she fell into step beside him, letting their silence stretch.
Then, finally—
"Let me see it."
Draco hesitated. His fingers twitched where they were clenched around his wounded arm. But he didn't pull away when Andrael reached for it.
Her touch was clinical, practiced. She'd gotten better at healing charms. The cut wasn't deep, but it was ragged, the skin torn in a way that would scar if left untreated. She drew her wand with her free hand, murmuring a quiet incantation. Soft golden light pulsed against the wound, knitting the skin back together.
Draco exhaled, barely audible.
His shoulders sagged, but only slightly.
"You performed well," Andrael said as she worked. The words were neutral. An observation. A way to say I saw you hexing people and running away from other peoples' curses like you've been practising without making it seem like a sin or vulnerability.
Draco huffed, his expression flickering between bitter amusement and self-disgust. "Wonderful. That's what matters, isn't it?" His voice was dry, but not mocking.
Andrael didn't answer.
The wound sealed, leaving behind only a faint pink mark.
Draco looked down at his arm, then back at her. His grey eyes were bloodshot, ringed with exhaustion.
"Thanks," he muttered.
Neither of them said anything more as they set off toward the dungeons, moving through the castle's dim corridors with quiet, measured steps. The walk was silent at first, the air between them thick with things they couldn't say.
Then Andrael took it upon herself to break it.
"Do you think this is training?" she asked, her voice even, almost casual.
Draco didn't look at her, but she saw the tension in his shoulders shift.
"Training for what?" he asked, though he already knew.
Andrael tilted her head, considering. "For the real world. For what comes after this."
For war. For servitude. For whatever miserable future awaited them with the Dark Lord's mark carved into their skin.
Draco scoffed, but it lacked real bite. "If you have to ask, you already know the answer."
Andrael hummed, her gaze drifting over the stone walls of the castle. "I suppose."
A pause.
Then, quietly, she asked the real question.
"Do you think we'll end up like them?"
Draco finally turned his head, his grey eyes narrowing in pretend innocence. "Like who?"
Andrael didn't smile, but there was something almost wry in the way she lifted a shoulder. He knew who she meant. "Why the Carrows, of course. Our esteemed professors. Maybe even your aunt."
Draco's disgust was immediate. He didn't bother to hide it, didn't even try to temper his reaction into something neutral. "No," he said sharply.
Andrael raised a brow. "No?"
"No." He clenched his jaw, looking away. "They're—" He stopped himself before the word monsters could leave his mouth. A moment later, he exhaled sharply, forcing his tone back into something smoother, more controlled. "We're not them."
Andrael let that settle.
"Not yet," she said finally.
Draco didn't answer.
They walked a little farther in silence, the flickering torchlight casting long shadows against the dungeon walls. She didn't want to do this any more, to be here and stare at the monster in the mirror.
"What if we are more like them than we think? They were students too, once." That's what Flitwick had said on Christmas Eve.
"Why are you thinking about this?" Draco said dully.
She didn't answer.
"Just stop thinking about it." He paused, as if speaking from experience. "It's easier."
Still she said nothing.
"Stubborn… You're just causing trouble again," Draco muttered under his breath.
Andrael allowed herself the faintest smirk. "Am I?"
"You always do."
"It's a gift."
"Where has that gift gotten you?"
"Okay, it's a curse."
Draco huffed, but he didn't argue.
"There is one thing that still… confuses me." He finally said.
"Which is…?"
"Everyone has changed this year, slowly becoming more like they want us too, except you. You… you already seem to be what they're looking for, Cassowary. Precise. Do you just… turn it all off?"
Andrael tilted her head, blinking at him with feigned innocence. "What do you mean?"
He scoffed, unimpressed. "Don't play dumb. You weren't like this before."
"Like what?" she asked, her tone light, almost teasing.
"What they want us to be."
"First you say I was always like this, now you say I've changed… I don't think you even know what you're asking, Draco."
He scowled. "But I know you know exactly what I mean. The way you moved, the way you fought, your expression… it wasn't just instinct. You've been trained." He hesitated, then added, "Or you've been through something."
Andrael hummed as if considering it, but her answer was already decided. "I fought in the same battle you did last year."
Draco's jaw tightened. He looked away, like he could physically turn from the memories pressing in around them. "Right."
"But even before that, I studied combat. Reaction times, pressing advantages… of course, that was back when I thought it would only be used for a simple duel."
Andrael studied him. His shoulders were tense, his steps heavier than before. He was exhausted and had been for a long time. She wondered how often he had replayed that battle in his mind, the same way she did, Dumbledore toppling off the tallest tower to his death.
"Those things change people," she murmured.
Draco let out a sharp breath, something between a scoff and a laugh. "Yeah. No kidding."
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The torches flickered along the stone walls, their footsteps echoing in the silence.
Then, after a beat, Draco muttered, "You weren't on our side, were you?"
Andrael smirked faintly. "That depends. Were you?"
He shot her a sharp look, but there was no real venom in it. Only exhaustion. Only understanding.
He shook his head. "You cause too much trouble."
She snorted. "That's what I keep hearing… But seriously Draco… if you think I don't feel anymore…"
Andrael trailed off, looking over at him, answering the question he had really meant to ask.
"I'm not allowed to feel. I'm just a bastard ass halfblood in a pureblood's world, Draco. No one lets me forget it. Unlike you, this fighting keeps me alive. If you don't think I wouldn't be jumped in the hallways if I wasn't so ruthless… It's for myself as much as it is for them. So yes, I've learned to turn it off."
He flinched at the word halfblood.
"I already know what my future leads to," she murmured.
"Which is…?"
"Taking the mark." It was the first time she had said it aloud to anyone.
"But… you…?!" She wasn't sure if Draco's horror was on her behalf or on behalf of all the people that would be exposed to her.
"Oh yes, me. I'll be bloody good at it too… we both know that." She smiled harshly. "Work my way up the ranks and then give the Carrows something to really be worried about…"
His expression shifted subtly, but Andrael could see the thinly veiled disgust at her words.
"Oh, come on. How is that any different from you? You've already got that stamped on your arm. You've had it since you were sixteen." She could feel herself getting annoyed at him, getting annoyed at his judgement of her based on the barest hint of information.
"We are not the same. I joined because I had to. I-I'm not saying it isn't… the right cause, but if you want to be a foot soldier, an attack dog–because that's all you'll ever become! So be it." She was silent, studying her nails and ignoring him. "You know what, you're not going to listen. You're just going to be another savage person trying to climb the ladder. What an ignorant halfblood."
"Wow." She laughed, her voice becoming dangerously low. "Brave words from someone who wouldn't stand a chance against this halfblood attack dog. I love how you switch the moment you find out I want something more for my future. But then again, you've always been a hypocrite, Malfoy."
"Better that than a monster." She glared at him, the expression enough to make him step away from her reflexively. She bared her teeth at him watching him flinch, hating the rush of power it gave her.
"Wow," she said again, sarcastic and mocking. "I guess now I know what you really think. Good day, Malfoy." Andrael spun on her heel, abandoning him to find the Slytherin common room himself.
Instead, she headed to her lab, trying to hold in the pure, unbridled rage. She wasn't a monster. Andrael Cassowary wasn't a monster. She was joining the Death Eaters to try to save the bloody world, not make it even worse.
Stupid Malfoy.
He would never understand.
She pushed open the door with a heavy sigh. Tonight was her third night of chanting. The final night.
Her makeshift space had become a ritual chamber meticulously arranged, every detail deliberate. At its heart lay the mirror, its once-ordinary surface now a tether to the magic she sought to bind. Encircling it, a complex web of runes had been carved into the stone, each symbol painstakingly inscribed to guide and contain the energy she was about to invoke. Candles flickered at the outer edges of the ritual circle, their golden glow casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls. Moonstone dust had been sifted in precise spirals, glimmering faintly, and at the very center, a vial of gold-infused oil rested beside a small, untouched blade—unused, but present, a silent acknowledgment of the gravity of what she was attempting.
She had some time to gather her thoughts before the moon rose and she needed to begin her intonations again. Andrael cracked her neck, stretching. Another long night on the cold stone floor was not an inviting prospect. At least tomorrow, she could sleep.
The Felix Felicis gleamed in its tiny vial, liquid gold catching the candlelight. She hesitated only a moment before tipping it back. It went down smooth, warmth blossoming in her chest. And then—
A tug. A whisper at the back of her mind.
It wasn't a voice, not exactly, but an urge, a subtle pull in the right direction. She turned slightly, shifting her weight onto the balls of her feet, angling herself just so in the runic array. A nudge of instinct had her adding another pinch of moonstone powder, more deliberate this time, letting the fine dust fall in a precise spiral. She exhaled, the tension in her spine unwinding ever so slightly. Luck was on her side.
And yet.
Doubt gnawed at the edges of her thoughts. This was more than a spell. More than potions and parchment equations. This was a ritual, a permanent binding of magic to self. What if she failed? What if she carved something into herself that could never be undone? What if she emerged from this changed beyond recognition?
A monster.
Not just in her mind, but physically.
Her fingers curled against her palms. Felix nudged at her again, a whisper of reassurance, but the anxiety still coiled tight in her gut. She had already changed. Had already become something colder, harder, something that made even Draco Malfoy afraid.
She had already messed up big magic in the past.
What if, like her animagus transformation, she botched it? Her research after McGonagall's lecture had indeed shown she had done that too early, stunted her growth, and paid the price. What would be the price for this? Everything had consequences.
Her eyes flicked to the mirror—the final component. It had once hung in Akira Ungaku's shop, reflecting her as she studied, as she listened to his quiet wisdom, as she lingered too long, feeling safe. He would not approve of this. He would see her and think—
She buried the thought before it could take root.
She would not falter now.
And so she began.
It was not long before Andrael's voice was hoarse from the past two nights of muttered Latin, the words etched into her bones by sheer repetition. The first night, she had started strong, whispering the incantation with steady resolve. By the second, exhaustion had set in, her tongue thick in her mouth, syllables tripping over each other, but she had persevered. Any mispronunciation could be disastrous, any faltering could destroy her soul Now, kneeling in the dim glow of candlelight, she was raw, frayed at the edges, her body vibrating with the accumulated energy of two nights spent courting the unknown.
She could feel the tug at her magic, feeling her senses expand to the edges of the circle, her essence not quite all in her body. It would be so easy to let it drift away, to not have to worry anymore…
With steady hands, she dipped two fingers into the gold-infused oil, feeling the fine dust swirl through the liquid, and pressed them to her eyelids. The symbols had to be exact, the strokes clean, the meaning unbroken.
A cold shiver ran through her as the oil sank into her skin.
She was almost there.
Hours later as the moon reached its zenith, the last incantation spilled from her lips, barely a whisper, but it carried. The runes around her flared to life, a web of interwoven magic locking into place. Power curled around her, pressing against her ribs, sinking into her bones. The mirror caught the light, its surface shifting, rippling like disturbed water.
Everything snapped into focus.
The world erupted in colour. Not colour as she knew it, but raw magic, swirling in dizzying, shimmering trails. Every surface thrummed with unseen energy, every object connected by invisible lines of force. The room spun, her breath caught—
And then darkness crashed over her like a wave.
Andrael crumpled, the ritual's weight dragging her under. The last thing she felt before unconsciousness took her was the candlelight flickering, distorting through the trails of rainbow magic still seared into her vision.
A/N: Uh-oh... It appears our hero may have done something idiotic again. Let's hope this one doesn't have any permanent consequences...