A/N: True to this chapters name, this one is rather violent. I have no words other than that.
...
May 20, 1998 - Crucio
The DA had been hiding for weeks now. Longbottom and his group were always one step ahead, always just out of reach. Every attempt to track them down was met with dead end after dead end.
The longer they stayed hidden, the more desperate the Carrows and their patrols became. The emerald-clad horde was no longer a mere precaution. They were a constant presence, a reminder to every castle occupant that any misstep could lead to betrayal, imprisonment, or worse.
They scoured the castle every night, searching for any signs of dissent. Andrael knew the drill. Students worked in shifts, crawling through the darkest corners, peering into abandoned classrooms, and checking the Room of Requirement even though they knew it would never yield. She had needed to bolster the protections on her lab to make sure no one went poking around her runes.
The nights were long, sleepless, filled with an ever-present hum of unease. Eyes darted around corners, wands gripped tightly in their hands, ready for a flash of movement. Every creak of floorboards, every gust of wind through the broken windows, was enough to set dangerous children on edge.
Students no longer trusted each other. No one knew who the Carrows had gotten to.
The halls themselves were hostile. Curses exchanged in whispered voices, flickers of red and green lighting up the shadows as students fought in hallways over the smallest disagreements. The once-pristine corridors were now marred with spells gone awry, scorch marks on the walls fading just to be replaced by new ones.
It wasn't just about the DA anymore. It was about control, about power, about who could bend the rules and who would suffer for it.
The Purists were in full force, their ranks swelling as the Carrows emboldened them. They bullied the younger half-bloods with ruthless abandon, knocking books from hands, jeering in corridors, calling them traitors to their blood. Professors who once might have stepped in to stop it now turned their backs, either too afraid to intervene or too complicit in the school's new regime.
It wasn't just Slytherins anymore. Other houses had fallen into line, some unwillingly, others with twisted eagerness. Ravenclaws, once the embodiment of intellect and curiosity, now harbored whispers of support for the Carrows' regime, convinced that their obedience would ensure their safety. Gryffindors had always prided themselves on their courage, but now their bravery had become more about survival than resistance. Hufflepuffs, the ones who had always valued loyalty, found themselves unsure of what that loyalty should mean in this new world.
The Carrows still saw potential in Andrael, but they continued to prove that they didn't understand her. They tried to praise her when it suited them, masking their manipulation with shallow compliments. But it was empty flattery, nothing more than a tactic to keep her in line, to make her their weapon. They wanted her to be their attack dog, to lash out and follow orders.
But Andrael wasn't anyone's pawn. She didn't bend to their will. The insults still came, sharp and frequent—"filthy halfblood," telling her to "know her place," and worse, each one meant to break her. It never worked. She let their words bounce off her, never showing the hurt they tried to provoke.
The Slytherins knew not to mess with her. They respected the power in her silence, the speed of her hexes. Word spread that crossing Andrael meant pain. She had made it clear—she didn't tolerate anyone getting in her way. So the Slytherins kept their distance, giving her a wide berth, knowing she could make them regret it in an instant.
Andrael wasn't a follower. She didn't need their approval, and she didn't care about their insults. She'd use their schemes for her own gain, but never for theirs.
The only solace was the warming weather. The Slytherin common room was dimly lit by the flickering flames in the hearth. The air was thick with the scent of saltwater, the lake enchanting the room to feel a constant cool sea breeze. Andrael sat huddled in a corner with Blaise Zabini and Crabbe, the three of them having been assigned a Charms project. She hated group work.
It had been three hours, their attention wandering, brains overloaded. Blaise's eyes were sharp, scanning the room before he spoke, clearly weighing each word with a calculated deliberateness.
"Did you see the Prophet this morning? Seems like the Carrows' latest plan to control Longbottom through his grandmother has backfired," Blaise said, almost casually, as though recounting a piece of gossip. "They thought Augusta Longbottom would be an easy target—well, not so much. She's as stubborn as he is." He leaned back slightly, glancing at Andrael to gauge her reaction.
The Carrows had long controlled parents through threats to the students. It was only a matter of time before the Death Eaters on the outside thought to reverse the method.
Crabbe, on the other hand, scowled and let out a low, growling noise, his fists tightening at his sides. "Why not just kill him?" he spat. "He's a bloody thorn in the Dark Lord's side. We've been at this for weeks, and all he does is hide in his bloody hole, refusing to come out. Skittering around like a rat… he's too much of a bloody nuisance." He slammed a fist down on the armrest of the chair, the thud echoing across the common room. Startled first years looked up in fear. "Take him out, make an example of him. It's simple."
Blaise raised an eyebrow, a slight smirk on his lips. "Oh, it's simple to kill him, is it? What does that get us? Another dead idiot on the wrong side of the Dark Lord's will? And then we'll have the blood on our hands. For what? To placate the Carrows? They're already angling to take credit for his capture." He shrugged, disinterested. "He's a fool, but not that foolish. Let him stew a bit longer. He's bound to make a mistake eventually."
"I'm tired of waiting. I want him fucking dead," Crabbe grumbled.
"The Dark Lord doesn't want to kill pure blooded children. You know that." Blaise sounded rehearsed, as if he'd had this same argument with Crabbe dozens of times before.
Andrael shifted, leaning against the stone wall, her gaze unfocused as she absently traced a line with her finger across the armrest of her chair. She hadn't been vocal in the conversation so far, letting Blaise and Crabbe argue it out. Her expression was hard to read, her thoughts veiled by the sharp control she had over her emotions. She continued scribbling on parchment, trying to ignore them.
"Is Longbottom not seventeen?"
"Seventeen doesn't count. We're seventeen and we don't have the mark yet," Blaise sighed. "We've talked about this. The Dark Lord and Minister Thicknesse have both released statements emphasising the importance of education." Blaise turned to her then, eyes flickering with curiosity.
"You don't have much to say, Andrael. What do you think?" Blaise asked, his voice low and probing. "If we kill him, it could be over. If we don't, he could just keep slipping through our fingers and make things even worse."
"Yeah, what do you think, halfblood?"
Andrael's eyes flickered for a moment, a quick flash of something unreadable passing across her face. She glanced at Blaise, her gaze lingering for a moment before she answered, her tone carefully neutral.
"Whether he turns himself in or not, the damage is done. We all know that," she said quietly, her voice carrying the weight of truth. "But killing him… that doesn't solve anything. It just makes things worse. The Dark Lord's reputation will be further tarnished if we let a student die in his name." She paused, considering her words. "And if Longbottom's death creates a martyr… well, you know the risks of that."
Crabbe sneered. "We're already doing everything for him, and he's still playing the hero. He's not going to turn himself in, and we know it. So why not just deal with him?"
Andrael's lips tightened, a fleeting flash of frustration crossing her face. She remained calm, though, her voice low and almost amused. "Because killing him only plays into his hands, Crabbe. It makes him exactly what he wants to be—a symbol for whatever resistance he thinks he's leading." She leaned forward slightly, her eyes narrowing as if weighing the gravity of her next words. "If we kill him now, he's just another lost cause. But if we let him feel the pressure, he'll crack. You'll see."
Blaise nodded, his gaze distant. "We don't have to kill him. Yet. But we'll see if he breaks. He has his pride, but pride will only take him so far. He'll have to make a choice soon. Maybe he'll be stupid enough to think he can keep hiding forever."
"He can't." Crabbe growled.
"True. Graduation day is coming. He, Bones, Lovegood and the rest will need to vacate the grounds over the summer."
Crabbe grunted in agreement, though it was clear his impatience was building. "What do we do until then?"
Andrael leaned back in her chair, her gaze landing on the flickering fire. "For now, we let him dig his own hole deeper. The longer he stays hidden, the more dangerous he becomes. He's already made himself an enemy of the Carrows. If the Dark Lord doesn't deal with him soon, someone else will."
Blaise exhaled slowly, his voice suddenly sharp. "I'll make sure to let the right people know when the time comes. We need to be ready to act. It's only a matter of time before Longbottom's own pride gets the better of him."
Andrael didn't respond immediately, her mind still racing through possibilities, all of them fraught with risk. Finally, after a long pause, she spoke. "And if he doesn't break?"
Blaise's eyes glinted with something darker. "Then we'll just have to make him."
Crabbe chuckled, a dark, grating sound. "Or kill him."
Andrael looked away, her expression unreadable as she considered the delicate balance they were all walking. For now, she said nothing, simply allowing the conversation to end on that note. They were all watching Neville Longbottom, waiting for him to slip. And if he didn't? Well, the stakes would rise. And she would be ready.
Blaise stood abruptly. "Patrol time. We've got to relieve Malfoy and Pansy's squad."
"Right." Andrael gathered her books back into her bag. Crabbe got to his feet, and the three of them exited the common room. The two boys towered above her slight frame comically.
They had started talking about Quidditch— there was a possibility the Inter House sport was going to be reinstated the next year. She tuned them out with a practiced ease, drifting in front of them. The three of them followed the familiar route to the Defence classroom, straggling students practically diving to get out of their way.
Andrael walked into Amycus Carrow's office with the weight of the evening pressing down on her, each step echoing in the cold, stone hallway. Crabbe and Blaise trailed behind her, their conversation a steady hum of sycophantic chatter.
"She's got that look again, doesn't she?" Crabbe's voice was low, but loud enough to catch her attention. His grin was wide, the kind that made her want to snap something off him. "Like she's better than us, just 'cause she's got magic in her veins."
Blaise snorted, his voice smooth but laced with sarcasm. "If you didn't keep tripping over your own feet, Crabbe, maybe we'd all be in her league." He shot her a glance, and there was a flicker of something between them—nothing too friendly, but an understanding of sorts.
Most likely, he understood. she could disarm him before he could even utter a spell.
Amycus Carrow's office was dimly lit, filled with the sour scent of stale parchment and the residue of too many meetings. The Carrow siblings had a way of making everything feel heavier, darker. Amycus stood behind his desk, hands clasped in front of him as he looked up from a stack of papers. His eyes narrowed the moment Andrael stepped inside.
"Ah, Cassowary," Amycus sneered. "You're late. And dragging these two down with you… don't think I haven't noticed." His voice was thick with contempt, the same venom he always used for her. According to the clock on the wall, she was perfectly on time, but it didn't matter. "Your kind always has an excuse, don't they?"
Crabbe let out a low chuckle at Amycus's words, adding, "Yeah, she's probably too busy with her little halfblood friends." His tone was mocking, as if being a halfblood was some kind of joke that only Crabbe was allowed to laugh at. He didn't notice how Andrael's fingers tightened around her wand, the subtle tension in her body barely noticeable.
Blaise smirked, but his eyes stayed on Andrael. "If you can call what she has 'friends' at all." He didn't mean it to be cruel—at least, not entirely. But it was the same dig they always threw at her. The same reminder that, in their eyes, she wasn't fully one of them.
Andrael didn't say a word. She never did, not about this. The silence between them was a weapon in itself. She didn't need to speak to make her point; they knew exactly how she felt. She simply pinned them with a look, and they fell silent. Let them say what they wanted. Let them mock her, label her, try to tear her down. It didn't matter. She was above them in more ways than one.
Amycus's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. "Crabbe, Blaise, you two keep your eyes peeled. Cassowary, you're with me. We've got a castle to patrol. And if I catch you slacking off again..." He trailed off with a grin, one that sent a cold shiver down her spine. Sometimes, she couldn't tell if the threats Amycus made were because she was a halfblood or a girl. He would follow through to exploit both angles if she let him.
They filed out of the office, the tension heavy in the air. Crabbe and Blaise fell into their familiar roles—talking, laughing, trying to please the Carrows with their every step.
The halls grew quieter as they split from the others, Amycus leading the way with long, deliberate strides. The air between them was thick with disdain, but Amycus never wasted an opportunity to speak his mind, especially when it came to Andrael.
"You're not like the others, Cassowary," he spat, his voice harsh. "You don't need a leash like the rest of them. Halfblood mongrel or not, you're the strongest of your kind. Pity you don't know what to do with it."
Andrael's gaze didn't waver, her steps quiet against the stone floor. She didn't need to answer right away, but the question loomed in the air. She'd long learned to respond just enough to keep them satisfied.
"Maybe I'm just waiting for the right moment."
Amycus barked a laugh, turning to face her as he continued walking, his smirk widening at her reply. "Waiting for what, exactly? Some pureblood to ask for your hand?" He scoffed, flicking his wand dismissively. "Like that would ever happen. You're smarter than that. I know you are."
He waited for her response, but she said nothing, letting his words hang between them like a challenge. There were other routes to take than marriage.
"Tell me something," he went on, his voice dangerous, quieter. "What's your plan after Hogwarts? You're not the type to fade into the shadows. I'm sure you've thought about it."
She met his eyes then, sharp and focused. He had underestimated her a thousand times, but it didn't matter anymore. "I'll be taking the mark," she said simply, without hesitation, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. "Obviously."
The change in Amycus was immediate, his smirk turning into a satisfied grin. "Ah," he murmured, nodding as though everything made sense now. "I knew it. You're not like the rest of them—playing at politics, hiding behind their lies." He looked her up and down, his tone dripping with approval. "You have ambition. Power. The Dark Lord will appreciate that. You'll make your mark, Cassowary."
Andrael gave the faintest of nods, eyes narrowing as she considered his words. It was a dangerous game she played, but there was no turning back now. The mark was her way out, a symbol of power in a world that had always tried to crush her.
Amycus's grin widened. "Good. You'll fit right in. Just don't forget—strength like yours is rare. It should be put to proper use."
"Don't worry, I won't," Andrael said, her voice a low whisper, barely audible. But the message was clear. The more useful she was, the further she would get.
The sound of footsteps echoed in the distance, and Amycus immediately held up his hand, signaling for Andrael to remain still. She had learned not to question the way he operated.
They had to always be listening, always anticipating on these routes. Usually, it was just a few students heading back towards their common rooms, panicked at the sight of the Slytherins that terrorized them.
But as they rounded the corner, the sight before them made Andrael's stomach drop.
There, on the wall before them, were Neville Longbottom and the Patil twins, moving quickly but confidently, their wands in sync as they enchanted a piece of the stone wall with graffiti—a bold, rebellious symbol of the DA.
Amycus snarled under his breath, his eyes narrowing with fury. "Pathetic," he muttered, before flicking his wand once, the command clear. Ghostly green serpents erupted from his wand, the slithering forms twisting into eerie, glowing patronus-like creatures. They shot off, streaking down the hall like ominous omens, gathering Alecto's patrols, bringing the full force of their group to bear.
Andrael could feel the weight of the situation closing in around her. She glanced at Amycus, and his eyes flicked to her, a silent command for her to act.
She didn't hesitate. It wasn't ideal—nothing about this was ideal—but she couldn't afford to resist now. The DA had already seen too much of her. This time, there would be no playing both sides. She had already made her choice.
Without waiting for more instruction, she pulled her wand and stepped forward, her movements fluid as she aimed directly at Neville. He was already too late to escape, trapped in the moment of his defiance. The air crackled with tension as she muttered the incantation under her breath.
"Incarcerous."
The spell hit him with precision, and thick chains erupted from the tip of her wand, binding Neville tightly. His body jerked and twisted under the force, his breath coming in quick, strained gasps as the chains tightened around his limbs, pulling him off balance.
Just like Andrael had hoped, the Patil twins managed to slip into the shadows, disappearing before Amycus could react, but Neville was too slow, too stubborn. His wide eyes filled with hatred as they met Andrael's, and for a brief moment, she almost hesitated.
But Amycus's voice shattered that moment. "Diffindo!"
The cutting curse followed, slashing across Neville's torso with vicious precision. He gasped, collapsing to his knees as blood began to stain his robes.
Andrael raised an eyebrow at the sight. Her lack of emotion was effortless. She didn't want this. She hadn't wanted to be a part of this brutality. But the chain she had bound him with had done its job—he couldn't move.
Neville glared up at them through the pain, his chest heaving, defiant despite the blood trickling down his side. His eyes locked onto Andrael's, filled with a hatred she hadn't seen in years. It was the same look he had given her in Defence Class, the one that told her they were never going to be on the same side again.
Amycus loomed over him, his voice cold and mocking. "Don't look so angry, Longbottom. You're just getting what you deserve."
Neville's lips twitched with effort, the sound of his breath rasping out as he muttered, "You'll never win."
Amycus spat in response, but Andrael couldn't help but stare at Neville's face, at the fury and conviction in his eyes, even as he struggled to stay conscious.
Amycus's voice cut through the stillness like a blade. "Do it, Cassowary. Crucio him, just like his filthy parents."
Time slowed to a crawl as Andrael's gaze flickered from Neville's bloodied form to Amycus's cold, expectant eyes. The words echoed in her mind like a curse of their own. To the well-organized mind, the Cruciatus was the most feared of all the Unforgivables. The pain it caused was unlike any other, and once cast, there was no undoing it. It was an irreversible step, one that would mark her forever.
She didn't want this. She didn't want to be here, any of this. Her mind flitted to the faces of those who had made her life a nightmare—the Dark Lord, Dumbledore, the Carrows—everyone who had ever dragged her into this wretched existence. She could feel the weight of their expectations, their manipulations, their cruelty pressing down on her shoulders, grinding her to a breaking point.
And then she saw Neville again, his defiance etched into every line of his battered body, the anger still burning in his eyes.
And that anger… It was fuel.
The hatred she had to summon surged up like fire, growing stronger, hotter. She projected it onto Neville, onto everyone who had ever stood against her, against the life she had been forced into. She channeled everything she could feel, her bitterness toward the Dark Lord for pulling her in, her resentment toward Dumbledore for abandoning them, the hate for every single person who had turned her into a weapon. They all deserved this.
With an empty, unfeeling mind, Andrael raised her wand. She had no choice but to push all of it into one spell, to harden her heart and cast it coldly, without hesitation.
"Crucio."
The curse blasted from her wand, and Neville's body arched violently, his scream of agony ripping through the air. His muscles locked in a cruel, unrelenting spasm, and Andrael watched as the pain consumed him. Her heart didn't flinch. She didn't feel anything. Not then.
The room was silent once the curse was lifted, the echo of Neville's torment lingering in the air like a memory that would never fade.
Amycus was grinning, his cruel smile wide and satisfied. "Good. You see how easy it is when you stop thinking about it? Do it again. Don't waste time."
Andrael's pulse throbbed in her ears, but she didn't hesitate. She could still feel the echo of the curse running through her veins, the adrenaline still sharp, still burning in her chest. Her grip tightened around her wand as she looked down at Neville, barely conscious, but still fighting, still burning with that damned defiance.
And without a single thought—no emotion, no fear—she muttered again, "Crucio."
It was just a spell now. Just another step.
And she was already too far gone to turn back.
The air around them crackled with the twisted satisfaction of victory. Blaise, Crabbe, Alecto, and the rest of the Slytherins on patrols in twos and threes appeared from the shadows, their eyes gleaming with a mixture of approval and something darker, something less easily named. They approached Andrael with slow, deliberate steps, their expressions filled with an odd blend of admiration and resentment. It was as though they were seeing something in her—something they didn't understand.
"Well done, mongrel," Alecto purred, her voice as cold as the stone walls around them. "I told you she'd do it right."
Andrael's mind was numb. It was as if the part of her that could feel had been ripped away and cast aside. There was nothing now—nothing but the cold, sterile space she occupied. She didn't feel triumph or remorse, didn't feel disgust or pride. Her mind was emotionless, focused only on logic and cunning, clinging to the end goal of her plan.
The whispers began almost immediately. The others stared at her, some with envy, some with thinly veiled resentment. They had wanted this. Wanted the power, the approval, the usefulness that came with the Dark Lord's favor. But she had done it first. She had cast the Cruciatus without hesitation. And that meant something.
Theodore Nott glanced at her with something close to admiration, but it was quickly overshadowed by a sharp edge of jealousy. Blaise's eyes narrowed, as if calculating her every move, gauging whether she was a threat or an asset. Crabbe was fuming, his fists clenched, his anger barely contained.
Andrael barely noticed. She barely cared.
They dragged Neville's broken body toward the dungeon's torture room, their footsteps heavy on the stone floor. He could hardly walk, barely able to hold his head up. His bruised face was still twisted with defiance, his eyes glaring up at them with everything he had left.
Something in Andrael flickered, but she shoved it down before it could fully form. It wasn't time for weakness. Not now.
She turned, walking alongside them, as Neville wrenched out of Crabbe and Goyle's grips. He bit Crabbe's hand despite the punches swiftly raining down on him.
The pathetic escape attempt was over in a moment. He was doomed from the start, outnumbered fifteen to one.
"Well, well, well. Cassowary, it doesn't appear like Longbottom has learned his lesson." Amycus's voice was almost gleeful, as if the man had been hoping Neville would try something like this.
Her movements were almost mechanical. She raised her wand once more. It was a fleeting impulse—almost like muscle memory at this point—one last lash of agony to bring him to his knees.
"Crucio."
Neville screamed. It was a guttural, tortured sound that seemed to echo in the cold air.
But then, a voice cut through the silence like a thunderclap.
"Longbottom!"
It was McGonagall. Her fury tore through the castle as she ran toward them, her voice sharp with the righteous rage of a mother who had lost everything, a lioness who saw her cub bleeding. "What in Merlin's name do you think you're doing?"
Andrael paused, her grip tightening on her wand. McGonagall's face was a mask of fury, her eyes blazing with righteous anger. The other Slytherins faltered, looking back at her with varying degrees of unease. But none of them spoke.
Amycus and Alecto's voices were shrill, filled with the venom of their hatred. They stood tall, looming over McGonagall's smaller figure, their insults spat with such force they nearly seemed to rattle the walls.
"Don't start, Minerva. He's a traitor!" Amycus barked, his voice low and threatening. "He's broken every rule. Skipped classes. Disrespected every last one of us—"
"A terrorist," Alecto added, her words slicing through the tension like a blade. "He's a blood traitor, McGonagall. And you're defending him? He deserves to be punished, and you know it!"
McGonagall's face flushed with outrage, her wand raised in front of Neville protectively, casting a shield charm that shimmered between them like a translucent wall. "He's a boy," she roared, her voice vibrating with fury. "A student! How dare you treat him like this? You monsters!"
"Shut up, you bitch! Your time here is done—"
"Unforgivable Curses in the castle—"
The words poured from them with an intensity that could not be ignored. It was this echo that filled the corridor now, the Slytherins chiming in to jeer at Longbottom.
Flitwick and Slughorn appeared, stumbling around the corner, arms full of potion supplies, their faces full of confusion, then alarm. It took them a moment to take in the scene—fifteen Slytherins, Neville on the ground, barely able to move—and then, with perfect synchronicity, both professors began shouting too.
"What is going on here?" Flitwick demanded, his voice high-pitched with a note of disbelief. "You've gone too far! This isn't discipline; this is cruelty!"
Slughorn, his usual jovial demeanor replaced with a hard edge, stepped forward, his voice rumbling, "This is barbaric. You have no right to—"
But none of them could get a word in before the Carrows were back at them, interrupting, hurling insults, painting Neville as the villain, as a threat, as someone who had gone too far. Their voices overlapped, each one trying to drown out the other, until the words melded together into one indistinguishable roar.
Andrael stood there, her wand still in her hand, eyes cold, her heart absent. She should have been angry, or disgusted, or horrified—but she felt none of it. It was as though something inside her had frozen solid, locking away any spark of humanity she had left. It was as if the whole exchange was happening to someone else, somewhere else, far away.
A twisted amusement flickered behind her eyes for a brief moment, but it was not the light of joy—no, it was the strange humor one feels when seeing others bicker, knowing that none of them mattered.
And then silence. The only thing that echoed was a thunderous Silencio, the corridor ringing with the Headmaster's roar. And with that, all the players were here.
Andrael could feel the surge of something inside her, something bubbling up like laughter. How bloody predictable. But she forced it down. This was not the time.
Snape stood at the front, arms crossed, his eyes narrowing at each of them in turn. He was a master of control, his presence alone making it clear that this was no longer a petty argument between the Carrows and McGonagall. This was something bigger. And when he spoke, his voice cut through the room like a razor.
"Let's proceed," Snape said, his tone icy and unyielding. "Explain yourselves. Amycus, you may go first." He was bathed in the white glow of his magic, the light as solid as his resolve.
Amycus, still red-faced and furious, didn't even seem to flinch under Snape's cold gaze. He stepped forward, his fists clenched in anger, as he began recounting the events. His voice was sharp, filled with venom.
"We found fucking Longbottom and the Patil twins," Amycus spat. "They were enchanting a wall with graffiti. Clearly plotting more insurrection. We prioritized capturing Longbottom—the head of the snake, as it were. We needed to stop the heart of Dumbledore's Army before they could make more moves. Then this hysterical bitch comes to protect her snivelling—"
Before he could continue, Snape raised his hand, silencing him with a mere flick of his fingers.
"You will not insult Longbottom or McGonagall in my presence, Amycus," Snape said sharply. "Stick to the facts."
Amycus bristled, the insult clear in his eyes, but he held his tongue, realizing that he would get nowhere with Snape if he kept ranting. He cleared his throat before continuing. "We're bringing him in for questioning. We need to extract information about the terrorists—where their hideout is, who else is involved, what they're planning."
McGonagall, who had been standing rigidly to one side, unable to stay silent any longer, stepped forward, her voice trembling with indignation. "This is torture, Severus!" she exclaimed. "You cannot allow this! Fifteen against one? You're putting Longbottom through unspeakable pain, and for what? You know as well as I do that these tactics are—"
"Silencio."
Snape had cast the charm before she could finish her sentence. He turned to her, his eyes sharp and unwavering.
"I see you have nothing new to add, Minerva," Snape said coldly, his words cutting off her protests. "Continue."
Amycus grinned, his voice thick with venom, but he didn't dare challenge Snape. "We need to extract the information, Headmaster. Longbottom's involvement with Dumbledore's Army is a fucking threat, and he's been breaking every rule. We need to make an example that he's not too good for this castle, that he's not above the Dark Lord's law."
McGonagall, now visibly furious, was struggling to control her temper. As Snape removed the Silencio from her, she immediately shot back. "You cannot possibly expect anyone to abide by them under these circumstances, Severus!" Her voice was almost a shout. "Yer damn rules are fecking oppressive—"
Snape cut her tirade off, the Scottswoman truly coming out in her fury.
Amycus cut in with a sneer. "Punishments don't need to be fair, Minerva. Longbottom has broken the rules, and if you can't see that, then perhaps you've lost your mind along with your common sense, you wench—"
McGonagall recoiled, but Snape's voice rang out again, icy and demanding.
"Enough," he snapped. "Both of you."
The room fell still again, but it was a strange stillness, one thick with the bitter tension of unsaid things. Andrael's heart pounded in her chest, but she didn't show it. She didn't show anything. She just stood there, her face unreadable, as Snape turned his gaze to Flitwick and Slughorn.
"Do either of you have something to add?" Snape asked, his voice quiet, almost dangerously calm.
Flitwick was the first to speak, his usually cheerful demeanor gone, replaced with a somber tone. "What is happening here is a cruelty, Severus," he said, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and anger. "This is torture, not discipline."
Slughorn, looking older and more frail than usual, nodded gravely. "Filius is right," he added, his voice quiet but firm. "We've lost control of this place, Severus. Their motives are no longer about teaching students, it's about power and cruelty."
Alecto, standing at the edge of the group, stepped forward, clearly ready to defend her brother's actions. "Longbottom deserves everything he's getting. He's a sorry excuse for a student," she sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. "We're being merciful to a blood traitor like—"
Before she could continue, Snape silenced her with a flick of his wand, his expression colder than ever.
"I will not tolerate the endless spewing of insults from either of you," he said sharply. "We will stick to facts. Is that clear?"
Alecto scowled but said nothing.
McGonagall, finally allowed to speak, didn't hold back. "What you're doing is barbaric," she said, her voice firm, though it shook with emotion. "Using torture as a tool to control people, it's monstrous. This is no better than handing him to the Dark Lord himself."
Snape's face was unreadable as he slowly turned to face her, his voice low. "Barbaric, you say?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. "And you would prefer… what? A change in tactics, Minerva? A little tea party with Longbottom?"
The words stung, but McGonagall didn't back down. "You know exactly what I mean, Severus," she said, her voice unwavering. "Having a student use the Cruciatus curse? You've crossed a line. This is not discipline; this is abuse."
"Explain."
"When I arrived, I saw Mr. Longbottom being held down and being pummelled by Mr. Crabbe and Mr. Goyle. They only stopped when Amycus instructed her to Crucio him again."
"Who." It was not a question.
"Cassowary, of course—" McGonagall spat, Snape cutting her off again.
At that moment, Snape's eyes flicked to Andrael. She felt the weight of his gaze, and for one fleeting second, his mask slipped. His eyes burned with the hatred of a thousand suns. The intensity would have made anyone else recoil, but she only noticed it with quiet disinterest. She couldn't quite place it whether or not the emotion was directed at her or something else. It was hard to tell.
But before she could process it, Snape's voice cut through the tension like a knife.
"Cassowary," he asked quietly, his tone almost dangerous. "Is this true?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and accusatory.
She didn't hesitate, feeling the ability to speak return to her. "Yes, sir." She said, her voice calm and even, betraying nothing. "It's true."
"How many times?"
"Three times. No more than twenty seconds each, sir."
Snape's lips curled into a thin, almost imperceptible smile. "Composed," he said, his voice almost dripping with sarcasm. "Someone tell me why a fucking student has more wits about her than the five of you combined. Pathetic."
Andrael didn't respond. She didn't need to. The words were sharp, but they held no weight. Not for her.
Snape turned his attention back to the room, his posture shifting. "Veritaserum," he said coldly. "Only Veritaserum. No more Unforgivable curses. We will do this properly. The Dark Lord will want this one whole," he said, his voice almost a whisper. "And I will be present for the interrogation. We are not risking anything."
He turned to face McGonagall, his eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Minerva. This is the last time you will pull a stunt like this. The Dark Lord already finds you unfavourable. If you cross me again, He will deal with you."
Minerva glared back at him with a white hot fury, but Andrael could see a note of fear in her eyes. Flitwick and Slughorn were much more open about their alarm, trading looks of panic.
The room fell into a deep, uncomfortable silence. Everyone knew what it meant: this was far from over. And they all understood what it meant to defy Snape, to defy the regime. But one thing was clear: whatever happened next, it was going to be brutal.
"Slytherins, you will return directly to your common room. Should I find any of you disobeying my orders, the wrath of the Carrows will be the least of your worries." His eyes settled on Andrael again, daring her to challenge him. It really was unfair that she would never live her first year down.
She nodded, the first to turn to leave. The others quickly fell into line behind her.
Just before she rounded the corner, Andrael took one look back. McGonagall's disgust was written all over her face. If Andrael was unsure of the woman's opinion of her before, it was clear now. Flitwick's body language mirrored hers. Slughorn still looked stunned.
They all thought her a monster.
The walk back to the dungeons was silent, the only sounds were the rhythmic clanking of their boots against the cold stone floors and the occasional shuffle of someone adjusting their robes. The weight of the night hung heavy in the air, but no one spoke about it. Not yet.
Andrael kept her head high, her expression blank, her fingers flexing at her sides as if shaking off the residue of something unseen. Crabbe and Goyle stomped beside her, their usual dumbfounded silence now carrying an edge of satisfaction. Blaise walked a little further back, his hands tucked neatly into his robes, a smirk threatening to curl his lips. Theo's delighted eyes flicked to Andrael every so often, but he too said nothing. The younger Slytherins, fourth- and fifth-years who had tagged along to prove themselves, carried an energy that was barely contained, like a spark waiting to ignite.
But no one spoke. Not until they crossed the threshold of the Slytherin common room.
The moment the door shut behind them, the silence cracked.
It started with a grin—Goyle's, big and stupid and filled with the kind of triumph only he could manage. Then Crabbe let out a low chuckle, and suddenly, the whole room was alive.
Word had traveled fast. The common room, usually dim and cold, was filled with an electric sort of energy. Someone conjured drinks. Someone else had already started rehashing the night's events, embellishing the details, twisting them into something even grander.
Neville Longbottom, broken under Slytherin's might.
Dumbledore's Army, cornered and crushed.
Andrael Cassowary, wielding the Cruciatus like it was nothing.
People clapped her on the back, but there was hesitation in it. Boys who used to tease her now barely met her eyes. Girls who once whispered about her behind her back now stepped aside when she passed. They were celebrating, yes. But they were also afraid.
Andrael barely noticed.
She stood in the center of the chaos, unmoving, unfeeling. The roaring fire cast flickering shadows against the cold stone walls, but she felt nothing from its warmth. Around her, the other Slytherins laughed and drank, toasting their victory, toasting their house, toasting the Dark Lord, but the sound felt distant, muffled, as if she were hearing it from underwater.
Something had changed.
She could feel it in the way they looked at her. In the way the triumphant laughter dipped into something quieter whenever she walked past. The way people—her housemates, her supposed allies—gave her space now, careful not to brush against her, careful not to stand too close.
Even Draco, usually trying to play cool and unreadable, seemed openly tense. His hands were in his pockets, but there was something measured in the way he moved, as though he was further recalibrating his understanding of her.
"I'll be a bloody good Death Eater too… we both know that."
She was no longer just Andrael Cassowary.
She was just The Cassowary, the girl who had cast the Cruciatus.
The girl who didn't blink.
The girl who didn't flinch.
The girl who had done what needed to be done.
Her stomach twisted, but she ignored it. Instead, she turned away from the celebration, moving toward the staircase without a word.
No one stopped her. No one dared.
As she reached the solitude of her dormitory, she finally exhaled. She sat on the edge of her bed, staring down at her hands.
They weren't shaking.
Maybe they should have been.
Maybe something inside her should have cracked under the weight of what had happened tonight.
But nothing did.
She was alone with her thoughts. And, for the first time in a long time, she wasn't sure if she liked the silence.