A/N: Welcome to Arc 2: The Acolyte Era. CW: Torture, brutality, allusions to SA, alcohol.
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July 14, 1998 - Branded by the Devil Himself
The air in the Hog's Head was thick with the scent of stale ale and damp wood, the low hum of murmured conversation weaving in and out of the occasional clink of glasses. It was the kind of place where people kept to themselves unless they had a reason not to—unless they were looking for something.
Andrael had spent the last three weeks here, moving like a shadow, always wrapped in her dark grey cloak, her presence a whisper rather than a declaration. She had learned, quickly, which of the regulars were useful, which ones were talkative, which ones had seen the Dark Mark burned into pale skin under candlelight and had lived to tell about it.
Old Mulciber had spoken in half-truths and riddles, spitting into his drink as he muttered about tradition and power. "The Dark Lord doesn't give you anything," he had sneered one evening. "He takes you, piece by piece, and if you're still standing at the end of it, well—then you're worth something."
Avery's nephew, a lean man with a cruel mouth, had laughed over a game of dice, explaining that some who took the Mark never made it past the ceremony. "Some of them scream themselves hoarse," he had said, grinning over his drink. "Others? They bite clean through their own tongues."
Andrael had stored all of it away. The words, the sneers, the boasts, the warnings. It didn't matter.
Tonight was the night.
She sat in the corner of the bar, back to the wall, nursing a glass of something sharp and biting. The lantern above her flickered, casting unsteady shadows across the floor. The windows were darkened, barely letting in the last slivers of sun. She wasn't nervous. Not exactly. The Mark was simply another step forward, another piece of the puzzle falling into place.
And yet—
Her hand tightened around her glass.
She had no illusions about what she was walking into. She had spent years wrapping herself in armor, carving herself into something cold and sharp and untouchable. But tonight, there would be no place to hide.
Andrael let out a slow breath and pushed her glass away.
Avery Manor awaited.
Aberforth took the glass from her without a word, wiping it down with his grimy rag. His sharp blue eyes flicked over her, taking in the set of her shoulders, the way she adjusted her cloak, the quiet tension in her jaw. He didn't like her—he didn't much like anyone these days—but he hated her less than most of the filth that passed through his doors.
Andrael was predictable. She never caused trouble, never drank more than a glass, and she always, always paid upfront. That alone made her worth tolerating.
She pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, preparing to leave. Aberforth watched her, leaning against the bar, arms folded across his chest. "Where you off to?" he asked gruffly.
Andrael turned her gaze to him, and for a fleeting moment, something passed between them—an understanding, perhaps. She smiled, but it was thin, detached. "An appointment," she said lightly. "One I've no choice but to keep."
Her words didn't match her eyes.
Aberforth held her gaze for a long moment, then huffed, shaking his head. He didn't press her. It was best not to know.
"Try not to get yourself killed," he muttered, turning back to his work. It was a common enough turn of phrase these days, but she could sense a part of him meant it.
Andrael chuckled softly, the sound dry as dust. "No promises."
And with that, she stepped out onto the lane, disapparating with a crack.
The last sliver of sun bled away behind the trees, leaving only the ghostly light of the rising moon. Andrael stood among the crowd of hooded figures, saying nothing, watching everything. The air hummed with tension, a quiet but palpable weight pressing down on the gathered hopefuls.
They were overwhelmingly men—young and old, some standing stiff-backed with the confidence of those who had nothing to fear, others shifting anxiously, hands tightening around their wands. A few whispered to one another, hushed voices barely carrying over the sound of boots crunching against the gravel path. Andrael caught glimpses of nervous glances, of men steeling themselves, of bravado layered over terror.
The torches flickered in the distance, bobbing closer, and a foul stench drifted on the wind—damp fur, sweat, and something more coppery, more alive. Then, with a low growl, a skulking figure emerged.
Fenrir Greyback.
His presence swallowed the night whole. The werewolf was broad, thickly muscled, his heavy fur-lined cloak doing little to mask the way his body tensed, coiled, like a beast ready to pounce. Yellowed teeth flashed in the firelight as he grinned, the kind of smile that belonged to a predator toying with its prey. His eyes, feral and gleaming, swept over the gathered initiates, lingering on some, dismissing others.
Behind him came his entourage: Snatchers. Low-level bounty hunters, their ranks filled with the cruel, the desperate, and the bloodthirsty. Andrael caught murmurs—Scabior, Vessik, Jonesy, Blythe. Names she filed away for later, faces she barely acknowledged beyond memorization.
She didn't care for them. They didn't matter.
Greyback's gaze skimmed over her, lingering a moment longer than she liked, but he moved on, his interest drifting elsewhere. That was fine. That was good. She was just another hopeful recruit.
The rumors about him were plentiful. He liked children, that much was well-known. But he was also said to love brutalizing women, tearing them apart before the full moon could claim him entirely. Andrael had no intention of drawing his attention, nor of becoming something for him to entertain himself with.
She stood, silent, motionless, wand gripped tight in her fingers, her expression unreadable.
Scabior barked summons, and they fell into line. There were perhaps twenty hopefuls in all, Andrael ending up sixth from the front.
The procession moved in eerie synchrony, boots echoing against the stone path as they followed the Snatchers up toward the looming silhouette of Avery Manor. The house—no, the fortress—was ancient, its towering walls of dark stone carved with centuries of history. It bore the unmistakable weight of lineage, of power, of a family that had once been noble and still considered themselves so.
They passed through iron-wrought gates, their bars etched with a slithering motif of serpents and daggers, the sigil of the Avery bloodline. The path wound over a blackened moat, the water beneath still as glass, disturbed only by the occasional ripple of something unseen moving below the surface.
Ahead, a pair of massive wooden doors loomed. They swung open without a touch, an invisible force commanding them apart.
Inside, the air was thick with magic.
The chamber they were led into was vast, its vaulted ceilings stretching impossibly high, the walls carved with friezes of serpents winding through jagged swords. The torches burned with unnatural green flames, casting flickering shadows that danced across the cold stone floor. The atmosphere crackled, charged with anticipation, with fear, with something older than all of them.
No one spoke.
No one could speak.
The moment they crossed the threshold, their voices were stolen from them, a wordless enchantment settling over the gathered initiates. Some stiffened, wide-eyed in alarm, others barely flinched—either they had expected it, or they had long since learned to mask their fear.
Andrael took in the room, her gaze sweeping across every detail. The carvings, the placement of the torches, the weight of the silence.
This was not just a ceremony.
This was a test.
An ornate dais loomed before them, lined with high-backed chairs where the highest-ranking Death Eaters sat in watchful silence. Their dark robes pooled around them, their eyes glinting with cruel amusement—or, for some, simple disinterest. But at the very center stood something far more imposing than any of them.
The throne.
It was not just a chair; it was a monument, jagged and imposing, wrought of dark iron and adorned with carved serpents slithering up its arms. Empty. The absence of the Dark Lord made it all the more suffocating.
To its right, Lord Avery stood from a chair nearly as grand, rolling back his left sleeve with casual arrogance, baring the Dark Mark burned into his pale skin. He was an attractive enough man, until one saw his eyes. The cruelty and mirth in them gave Andrael the desire to punch him.
He surveyed them, clearly enjoying the honour of the host. His expression was one of pride, but also expectation, as though he had already judged them and was only waiting to be proven right.
When he spoke, his voice carried effortlessly across the chamber. He was not a man who needed to shout to be heard. He did not demand attention. It was simply given.
"The Dark Lord's service is not a right. It is not granted to the weak, nor to the timid, nor to those who hesitate when the time comes to act."
His voice was steady, cold, unhurried. The kind of voice that commanded without needing to bark orders.
"You stand here tonight because you have asked for something. You have asked to be counted among the Dark Lord's chosen. But a request is not enough. Words are wind. Intentions are worthless."
He looked over them all now, gaze flickering across every face, weighing them, assessing them.
"The Dark Lord does not place his Mark upon the untested. He does not waste his power on those who have not earned it. You stand here not to receive his favor, but to prove that you are worthy of it."
His lips curled, not in amusement, but in something far sharper.
"If you are here for glory, for power, for safety—if you think the Mark is a shield that will keep you from harm—" his voice lowered, deadly soft, "then you are a fool."
The room seemed to constrict. The torches flickered.
"The Dark Lord has no need for cowards. No use for burdens. Only the strong stand beside him. Only the ruthless. Only those willing to bleed for his cause…" The reverence was unmistakable. "Yes. It is an honour to bleed for him, an honour to make others bleed for him. He is greatness."
He lifted his hand and clapped twice, the sharp crack of it ringing through the chamber.
The doors at the far end of the chamber groaned open once more, and Snatchers dragged two figures forward.
A young man. A young woman.
No—a boy and a girl.
They were barely older than Andrael. No more than twenty. They were dirty, disheveled, and their faces were streaked with sweat and tears. Their hands were bound, but that hadn't stopped them from struggling; bruises already blossomed across their arms and faces, their lips split, their clothes torn.
The moment they saw the gathered recruits, they wailed.
The boy choked on a sob, panic-ridden eyes darting across the room, searching for mercy where there was none. The girl screamed something unintelligible, a plea, but it was swallowed by the low, rolling laughter that rippled through the gathered men.
Lord Avery turned back to them, smiling thinly.
"You have one minute each."
That was all he said. He did not need to say anything more.
The men surged forward, queuing violently.
They were eager. Some shouted insults, their voices hoarse with vitriol. Others lunged at the prisoners, slapping, shoving, dragging them to their knees. They leered at the girl, whispering things that made her eyes squeeze shut. They beat the boy, kicking him, snapping his head to the side with well-placed strikes.
It was disgusting.
Pathetic.
They were uncreative, predictable, boring. There was no skill in what they did, only crude violence, a mindless, frothing desire to prove something—what, exactly, Andrael could not say.
The few that used their wands used bludgeoning charms, cutting charms, ineffective little things, wielded with an amateurish bloodlust.
She did not push forward with the rest of them. She did not jostle for position, nor did she sneer and spit like the others. Instead, she stood still, silent, watching.
Let them get it out of their system. Let them think this is about who can yell the loudest, hit the hardest.
She waited for them to finish before she made her move.
Andrael stepped forward, her footfalls measured and deliberate, the chamber stretching wide before her. The muggleborns flinched, eyes darting between her and the others who had come before her. She was the last.
She did not move like the others.
Andrael let her gaze sweep the room, her Sight flickering over the gathered monsters. The junior Death Eaters stood in their corner like they were watching a game, their marks still fresh, their masks still shiny in their hands. Crabbe and Goyle, standing like empty husks, waited for someone to give them direction. Theodore was impassive as always, though his fingers twitched at his sides. And Draco was watching her. Did he suspect who the last hooded figure was, small in stature? Did he remember her promise to be here?
On the dais, Lucius Malfoy sat like a statue, his chin resting on his hand, looking utterly unimpressed. Beside him, Yaxley, Rookwood, Dolohov—wolves among the sheep. And there, on the edge of the thrones, was Thorfinn Rowle. He did not look bored.
Andrael tilted her head slightly, considering him. The man who had come to her shop, who had handed her that lyre, who had watched her with curiosity rather than contempt. She had wondered, at the time, if he had seen something in her. If he had known what was coming.
It didn't matter.
Half the old guard hadn't even shown up. The Lestranges, Mulciber, MacNair—absent. The Carrows and Snape were presumably still up at the castle.
They had seen this ceremony before, more times than they could count. Perhaps they found no thrill in it anymore. Perhaps they simply expected most of them to die before they were useful.
Just another day in paradise.
Andrael turned her attention back to the muggleborns. They had stopped crying, too exhausted to sob. The boy, slumped forward, barely conscious. The girl, trembling but silent. She met Andrael's gaze, wordlessly pleading, searching for something in her face.
She removed her hood, slow and deliberate, the light touching her dark curls for the first time.
The girl flinched, before she began again, begging, pleading.
Did they see her as an ally? Why, that was almost amusing.
A twitch of her wand and the room was silent once more, their words stolen from their lips.
She crouched down so she was at eye level to the muggleborns. She wanted to apologise for what she was about to do. Except, that wasn't an option.
Andrael said nothing. Instead, she smiled.
She watched them as she straightened, watched their faces freeze as they realised that she was the real threat among the men. There were only thirty seconds left to her time, half of it already gone.
"You care for her," she said to the boy. "So watch her suffer."
"Crucio."
The silencing charm was banished, screams of agony echoing off the walls of the chamber. The boy sobbed, begging for her to stop, to hurt him instead.
She stopped after a while, the girl convulsing with the aftereffects of the curse.
"Would you like me to hurt her again, or were you serious?" She said to the boy, her voice callous.
"...yes. I'll do anything-!"
"As you wish."
And she tortured him too.
She let the curse go at precisely a minute, stalking back into line, her head held high.
Andrael stood in line, her hands steady at her sides, her breathing controlled, but she could hear it—the murmurs. From the dais, from the recruits. Even the ones who had howled and jeered at the muggleborns now edged away from her, stealing wary glances like she was something fouler than them all. A monster among monsters.
She didn't react.
Lord Avery's voice rang out, breathless and adoring, cutting through the tension. "Kneel for your Lord."
As one, the room obeyed.
And then—he entered.
It wasn't the sound of his footsteps or the rustle of his robes that announced him, nor even the hush that fell over the chamber. It was his presence.
A wave of something cold and wrong swept over her, curling through the air like a silent, unseen thing, pressing against her ribs, forcing her breath shallower, sharper. The torches flickered, their light warped.
She had felt power before. She had felt the weight of Snape's magic, the brutal presence of Amycus in the classroom, the sheer destructive force of an Unforgivable cast with real intent. But this—this was different.
Andrael forced herself to keep her gaze low, though every part of her screamed to run. To flee. The man who had slaughtered entire bloodlines, who had remade Britain in his image, whose name was enough to send grown men into terrified silence.
He was here.
And he was looking at them.
The power in the room thickened. It slithered between them, unseen but tangible, brushing against her skin like a whisper of something ancient. It was not a presence one could steel themselves against. It was the inevitability of death itself.
A part of her had wondered if he would feel different up close. If he would seem more human.
He didn't.
Her hands clenched against the fabric of her cloak, her forehead nearly touching the floor. Breathe. Don't shake. Don't move. Don't dare let him see the fear sinking into your bones.
Andrael had told herself she was ready for this.
She wasn't.
The Dark Lord laughed.
The sound was unnatural, hollow, stretched too thin over something vast and bottomless. It slithered through the chamber, curling around their spines, setting their nerves alight with something primal. It did not belong in this world, not truly.
Andrael remained perfectly still.
A sudden shuffle of movement. Someone—one of the recruits—jerked upright, staggering backward.
A mistake.
He turned, legs trembling beneath him, the fight-or-flight instinct finally choosing for him. Flight. He barely made it a step before—
"Avada Kedavra."
The spell was spoken with boredom. A flick of the Dark Lord's wand, casual, disinterested, like one might wave away a gnat.
A thump. A body hitting the stone floor.
Andrael did not look. She did not flinch.
Avery did not acknowledge the death beyond a flicker of satisfaction. He stepped forward, his voice brimming with reverence, devotion. "My Lord, it is an honour beyond words to—"
The Dark Lord lifted a hand. Silence.
Avery obeyed at once, snapping his mouth shut.
A pause. And then—
"Rise."
The command rippled through the room, and as one, they obeyed.
And then the oaths began.
The Dark Lord's voice coiled through the chamber, smooth as glass, sharp as a blade. His words were velvet and venom, binding, inescapable.
"Will you fight for me?"
"I swear."
"Will you kill for me?"
"I swear."
"Will you serve me with every fiber of your being?"
"I swear."
Each vow built upon the last, twisting tighter and tighter, the promises growing darker, more perverse. Would they betray their own? Would they burn the world if he commanded it? Would they lay down their lives without hesitation?
"I swear."
The words came as easily as breath, smooth and unshaken. Andrael's voice joined the chorus, blending seamlessly.
Inside, she was empty.
This was what she had chosen.
This was what she had become.
The room was silent except for the faint shuffle of bodies, the low hum of anticipation. Andrael stood among the remaining recruits, the weight of her decision pressing down on her. The Dark Lord's presence was suffocating, his form a pale wraith at the front of the chamber. His gaze scanned over them—those who were still worthy, those who had survived the tests, the trials.
With a voice that sliced through the air, he commanded, "Kneel and prepare to take the mark."
They did. Every one of them, in sync, dropping to the cold stone floor, their knees cracking against it with the sound of obedience. Andrael followed suit, her heart pounding in her chest, her breath shallow, but she didn't dare hesitate. Not now. Not when she had come this far.
The Dark Lord's voice came again, high and cruel. "Hold up your forearms."
They complied instantly, arms shaking under the weight of what was to come. The row of recruits stretched out before him, like cattle waiting for slaughter. His bony fingers stretched into the air, ghostly and long, as he began his slow, methodical walk down the line, grasping the first man's arm with a chilling, deliberate slowness.
His wand flicked, and his chant low and cruel, full of ancient malice, echoed through the chamber. It was a twisted Latin incantation, full of venom and wrath.
The first man screamed.
It was a scream that would haunt Andrael for the rest of her life. His body arched, every muscle seizing with agony. His skin bubbled, burnt from the Dark Lord's touch, the Dark Mark searing into him like molten iron. He begged, pleaded—mercy, please, but the Dark Lord was unyielding.
"Mercy?" The Dark Lord hissed, his grip tightening on the man's arm. "Weakling."
A flick of his wand, and the man's cries turned into tortured wails as he was pushed past his limits. And still, the Dark Lord did not relent, his magic twisting, bending, breaking. It was a lesson. For the weak—there would be no place here. Only the strong could survive.
The line moved on, the Dark Lord's hands like iron as he branded each one in turn, his fury rising with each weakling he tortured. Some he abandoned mid-way, leaving them writhing on the cold stone, barely alive. After a moment, those he deemed weakest were killed—no mercy, no second chance.
And then, finally, he reached her.
"Your arm."
The words a rasp on his tongue, sent a chill down her spine.
She held out her wrist, her throat dry, barely managing to meet his eyes. They were as red as Gryffindor rubies, but as cold as ice.
"My Lord." She gasped, instinctively tightening her occlumency shields at his proximity.
The Dark Lord's hand closed around her arm, cold fingers burning into her skin. He spoke the incantation aloud, wand glowing red hot as he pressed it to her skin. And then—the pain.
It was like a fire started inside her, consuming her from the inside out, twisting through her veins. Her vision blurred, the world around her slipping away as the magic cut through her, searing her flesh. Every nerve screamed in agony, but she held it in, clamping down on her breath.
A strangled whimper escaped her lips, but she quickly swallowed it. She gritted her teeth so hard she felt the crack of bone, the pressure unbearable. Every inch of her body screamed to escape, but there was no reprieve, no mercy. The Dark Mark burned into her wrist like a brand, marking her forever.
The magic surged, stronger, deeper, until she thought she might shatter. She could taste the bitterness of the Dark Lord's power in her mouth, feel it in the marrow of her bones.
She wasn't just branded. She was his.
When he finally finished, her arm hung limp at her side, the searing pain still coursing through her. But the worst was yet to come. He wasn't done with her yet.
"You don't break," the Dark Lord said, his voice venomous. His grip tightened again, and Andrael's body went rigid, the pain magnified as he twisted his magic, just for the satisfaction of her suffering.
This wasn't the Cruciatus. This was simply the power of his magic, the Dark Lord making the Mark hurt more than it had any right to.
When would she be done with horrid peoples' stupid tests?
Her vision swam as the pain intensified, but she did not scream. She would not give him that. She would not break.
When he finally released her, she barely registered it, her head spinning, her body trembling from the aftershocks. She was branded, marked—her life was no longer hers.
Only eleven of the twenty initiates remained standing, the rest dead or broken on the floor. The room was deathly still as Voldemort's chilling laugh echoed one last time. His presence loomed even after he had swept out, disappearing into the shadows, leaving only silence in his wake.
The Snatchers moved quickly, ushering the recruits out of the manor. Andrael stumbled as they herded them like cattle, her arm still throbbing with the burning pain of the Dark Mark, as if a fire had been seared into her very soul. Her body screamed for rest, but there was no time for that. Not now.
When she finally apparated back to Hogsmeade, she reappeared in a dark, empty alleyway, hidden from prying eyes. The moment she was out of view, the full force of the agony hit her, crashing over her like a wave. She gagged, fighting the bile rising in her throat, tears stinging her eyes despite the cold detachment she tried to maintain. She fought it, swallowed the scream that threatened to tear from her chest, but it was a battle she couldn't win.
Her breath came in ragged gasps, her body trembling violently. Death, she thought, might have been kinder. The pain was unbearable, a constant reminder of what she had just signed herself into. But no—she wasn't dead yet. And as much as she wanted to collapse, to let the pain consume her, she couldn't. Not yet.
She tugged down her sleeve, hiding the mark from view as much as possible.
Steeling herself, Andrael pushed forward, her steps sharp and deliberate as she made her way into the Hog's Head. She needed to bury the weakness before anyone saw it.
Aberforth was there, already standing behind the bar. His eyes flicked to her the moment she entered, and he saw it—the pale, ashen face, the pain hidden behind forced calm.
Without a word, he poured her the strongest drink he had, sliding the glass over to her with the same unflinching calm that had been his trademark for years. She took it without hesitation, the burn of the liquor momentarily distracting her from the storm raging inside her.
"Drink it. It'll help," Aberforth muttered, his voice low but steady.
She didn't answer, only took another long swallow, letting the heat of the alcohol settle deep in her stomach. It didn't fix the pain, but it quieted the edges of it, dulled the rawness enough for her to breathe again.
She slammed the empty glass on the counter, motioning with her good arm for a refill.
Aberforth raised an eyebrow but didn't comment.
She emptied the second glass quickly, staring off into space.
He brought her a third, which she also accepted. The soul-crushing guilt was finally starting to fade, the faces of the two young muggleborns buried in her mind.
She set the glass down, her hands shaking only slightly now, her face once again an unreadable mask of cold, detached control.
What the hell had she done?
What the hell had she been thinking?
What the hell had she signed up for?