A/N: Major trigger warning. SA, attempted r-, murder, torture.

July 19, 1998 - Unforgivable Actions

Andrael was torn from a restless sleep by a searing, blinding pain that burned through her very bones. The Dark Mark, the vile brand that had claimed her, pulsed in agony, drawing her from the comfort of sleep into the nightmare that had become her reality. Her breath caught, the pain flaring hot and unforgiving as her body writhed in response. She gritted her teeth, holding back the groan that wanted to escape her lips. She suspected it would never get easier.

She reached out instinctively, fingers brushing the cold, smooth surface of her Death Eater mask on the bedside table. The mask—her constant companion in this life—felt as much a part of her now as the dark magic pulsing through her veins.

Her hand lingered on it for a moment, hesitant, before she slid the mask onto her face, the cold material molding to her skin.

She had been instructed to wear a black cloak to her first assignment, but instead she chose grey. It was subtle, but it reminded her she was still a living, breathing, free human. Not a monster.

Tapping the Dark Mark with one trembling finger, Andrael could feel the magic twisting around her like a serpent. A sickening lurch gripped her gut, and with a breathless gasp, the world around her warped and shifted, bending and stretching unnaturally. The nausea was immediate, her stomach twisting painfully as she was violently pulled through the folds of space and time. Her surroundings flashed in an unsettling blur before the spinning stopped. She was in a small, unfamiliar town—cold and desolate in the dead of night.

She barely had time to steady herself before she saw them—three other Death Eaters, each of them appearing as if conjured from the very shadows themselves. Her eyes narrowed at the sight of them, a familiar disdain bubbling up from the depths of her chest.

A tall man stepped forward, removing his mask, and gesturing for them to do the same. The face made her hand twitch, wanting to grab for her wand. Though he hadn't been at the Marking ceremony, the face was burned into her memory. Eryx Travers had fought her a year ago at Hogwarts, crushed by a door at the hands of her blasting curse.

He looked at her for a minute, confused. Was it recognition?

"...a girl." He spat. "What's next, a fucking goblin?" Oh. Well, that was better than him recognising her.

She affixed with a deadly glare, and he slowly looked away.

Travers stepped forward, clearing his throat. His voice rang out, commanding and final. "We're here for a simple raid. A house. Mudbloods suspected of hiding in that filthy nest." He gestured toward a nearby building, barely visible in the dim light. "No mercy. The Dark Lord has granted us complete freedom. Do whatever you must. No one is to be spared."

The words were sharp, final. But it wasn't the mission that made her stomach churn, it was the men around her. She recognized two of them, fellow recruits, like her. She knew despite the beating, they were eager, almost thrilled by the violence they were about to unleash. They saw it as a game, a test of their power.

It sickened her.

Andrael held her gaze steady, refusing to let her disgust show. She clenched her fists, forcing her pulse to calm as her heart raced with anger and revulsion. This wasn't her fight. Not like this.

Travers glanced back at her, his eyes flicking briefly over her grey cloak, but he said nothing. He was more interested in the mission, in the promise of blood and fear that came with it. She'd never be like them. She couldn't be. She wouldn't be. (She already was.)

Masks back on, the five of them swept through the town, robes fluttering behind them. The streets were deserted, but Andrael knew if they hadn't been, they would be now.

The house was a small, unassuming cottage surrounded by azalea bushes. The back end of the property gave way to fence and field, the crescent moon shining down across the country side. She inhaled, enjoying the last five seconds of peace she would have for ages.

The door to the house burst open with a splintering crack, and the Death Eaters poured inside, their wands blazing with the raw energy of their dark magic. The walls seemed to tremble as the sound of curses echoed through the small, dimly lit rooms.

An older couple—frail, their faces weathered with age—immediately sprang into action, moving with surprising speed. The woman fired a jinx at the nearest Death Eater, while her husband raised his wand to counter a stunning spell. They were more battle-hardened than anyone had expected, their faces hard with a quiet resolve. It only took a few moments, a few clumsy spells, but the Death Eaters were efficient. One of them finally managed to bind them both in chains, the dark ropes twisting around their limbs, rendering them immobile.

Travers' voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Basement, now."

With a forceful wave of his wand, he directed them to the lower level, and the Death Eaters surged forward, a wave of dark energy and malicious intent.

They descended the stairs to the basement, and Andrael felt a wave of cold, oppressive air wash over her. The sight before her froze her for a moment: three young women—trembling, pale, and wide-eyed—cowered in the dim light of the cramped, underground room. They were chained, too, shackles biting into their wrists and ankles as they sat huddled together, fear written clearly on their faces.

"Mudbloods."

Andrael internally sighed, all her regrets hardening to stone. She couldn't save them, and the faster she accepted that, the better off she would be.

The Death Eaters moved swiftly, unrelenting, their eyes gleaming with excitement at the success of their raid. The women were dragged roughly from the basement, their chains scraping against the stone steps as they were herded back into the living room.

The older couple were still there, bound and silent, their faces pale but resolute. The Death Eaters took their places around the room, their wands still drawn, hungry for the terror they'd soon inflict.

Travers stood at the front, his eyes scanning over the hostages with satisfaction. "You've been caught, you filthy blood traitors," he sneered, his voice low and venomous. "The Dark Lord wills us to see to it that you're punished for your disobedience."

He removed his mask, and the three young women flinched, the shackles around their limbs rattling as they shrank back into the corner. Death Eaters only removed their masks when their victims wouldn't live to tell others about their faces.

They moved in a circle around them, closing in, the gleam of sadistic pleasure in their eyes as they prepared to extract their payment for the raid.

Andrael could feel the burning presence of the Dark Mark on her forearm.

The room was filled with a sinister energy, crackling in the air as the Death Eaters moved in on the older couple. The woman screamed as a curse burned through her chest, while her husband writhed at her side, gasping for air.

The other recruits stood by, nervously watching as Travers coached them through the motions.

"The Cruciatus," he barked, watching the first recruit hesitate before casting the curse.

"Good, good." He helped the three men channel their rage, smiling proudly at the hungry look in their eyes. One after the other they went, casting likely, their first Unforgivables.

The older woman's voice cracked in pain, but it was nothing compared to what was coming next. Travers' eyes gleamed with amusement, his gaze flicking to Andrael, still standing a few paces away, watching intently.

With a low chuckle, he turned to her, clearly expecting a repeat of the others' initial failures. "What's the matter, little girl? Think you can handle it?" His tone dripped with mockery.

The others shifted uncomfortably, but no one dared to speak. They all knew.

Andrael didn't flinch. Her eyes locked with his, and she gave a small, knowing smirk. No more words were needed. Without breaking eye contact, she raised her wand and whispered the incantation.

"Crucio."

The woman's scream escalated, a jagged, raw wail as the pain overwhelmed her. Her body jerked violently, but Andrael didn't blink, didn't look away. The man on the floor beside her joined in the agony, his shrieks mixing with hers. The sound filled the room, deep and agonizing, and yet Andrael's gaze remained unyielding, her smirk a sharp contrast to the suffering unfolding before her.

Travers took a step back instinctively, his amusement faltering as he realized he hadn't expected this. The intensity radiating from her was palpable, and it wasn't the cold indifference of the other recruits. It was something else entirely—a calm control, a power that seemed to vibrate through the air.

Andrael's hand tightened around her wand, her eyes never leaving Travers's, her lips curling ever so slightly as she let the curse linger, drawing it out for a moment longer than necessary.

Finally, she flicked her wand, and the curse released, the couple collapsing into the floor, gasping for breath but broken beyond repair.

The room fell silent, a brief pause that lingered in the heavy air.

Travers's smirk disappeared as he looked down at the wreckage of the older couple. With a flick of his wand, he killed them both, a swift, painless death compared to the torment they'd just endured.

"Avada Kedavra."

His voice was cold, a shadow of his former arrogance. "You fucking ruined my fun, bitch."

"Did I, now?" She asked quietly. A maddening smirk split her face. "That's such a shame. My apologies for ruining your… fun."

He scoffed, turning his attention away from her. The three young women, trembling in their chains, were no match for the Death Eaters who loomed over them. Travers paced in front of them, barking questions at them one by one.

"Are you the only Mudbloods here?" he demanded. "Do you know where the others are hiding?"

Each answer was met with an immediate curse, a crackling bolt of pain that sent them writhing on the floor. Andrael stood at the back, her gaze steady as she watched the women struggle to answer, her eyes flicking between their faces. It was clear to her—these women didn't know anything more. They were just frightened, innocent, caught in a world that had no place for them.

As the questioning continued, each failed answer was followed by another round of torture. Travers and the recruits seemed to take pleasure in it, laughing as the women screamed, their bodies twitching and spasming with the force of each curse.

"Crucio."

"Talk, you fucking bitch!"

"I know you know something!"

But then, things took a darker turn.

"Are you sure you don't know where the others are?" Travers sneered, moving toward the women again. "What's the matter, mudblood? Can't tell us where to find your filthy kind?"

His words dripped with contempt, and the recruits joined in, calling the women every vile name in the book, their cruel laughter filling the room.

"Bitch."

"Filthy wh-re."

They begged for death, and the Death Eaters wouldn't give it to them.

Travers smiled and stepped forward, leering down at the women. "Maybe they just need to be... taught a lesson." He raised his wand, the threat clear in his eyes. He grasped one of the woman's faces, who stared up at him, petrified.

"Watch and learn, boys." He shoved the woman against the wall, kissing her. She struggled. Her friends screamed. The other men laughed.

Apparently, this is what they had really signed up for.

"Stop struggling. I bet you want this, to be loved by a pureblood."

Andrael's blood boiled. She could hear their words, see the lust in their eyes, and the way they were about to turn their depravity on the women.

Before anyone could move, Andrael stepped forward, her hand snapping out to grab her wand. "Enough."

She didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to.

The Death Eaters turned, some surprised, others smirking, thinking they could intimidate her. Travers's face twisted with annoyance, his hand around the woman's throat.

"What the hell are you doing?" he barked, taking a step toward her. "These women are nothing. They have no value. We're putting them in their fucking places. They should be lucky we're even paying attention to them, that they're not so far gone—"

"I said enough," Andrael repeated, her voice colder than ice.

She didn't wait for Travers to respond. Her wand moved with a fluid motion, the words already on her tongue. "Avada Kedavra."

The first woman crumpled to the floor in a heap, her body twitching before going still.

The others froze, their eyes wide. Travers's face darkened with rage, his hand gripping his wand tightly as he tried to process what had just happened. But Andrael didn't give him a chance.

"Avada Kedavra."

The second woman fell, his face a mask of shock as she collapsed onto the cold stone floor.

Andrael's gaze never wavered from Travers. The third woman barely had time to register what was happening before she cast the curse again. "Avada Kedavra."

And just like that, she was gone, sagging in Traver's filthy grasp, a hint of relief in her eyes. Three bodies lay in front of her, their lives snuffed out in an instant.

There was a long pause. Travers's face twisted into a grimace, his fury so palpable it could almost be felt in the air. His wand hand shook as he glared at Andrael.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snarled, still stiff with anger. "They were mine to handle, not yours!"

Andrael's gaze was unflinching. "They knew nothing. You were wasting time."

Travers took a step toward her, his lips curling into a snarl. "It wasn't your call to make."

Without warning, he aimed his wand at her. "Crucio!"

The spell was fast, but Andrael was faster. She flicked her wrist, and the curse was deflected harmlessly to the side, dissipating with a loud crack.

The room went deathly quiet.

Andrael's eyes locked with his, her gaze unwavering, every inch of her radiating power, calm, and cold. "Don't mess with me," she said, her voice low, dangerous, and filled with finality.

Travers froze, his wand still raised, but the tension in the room was so thick, it could've been cut with a knife.

He looked at her—really looked at her—and the cold fury in her expression made him hesitate. She was not the weak girl he had thought she was.

"You're not in charge here," he muttered under his breath, but the edge of his words was gone.

Andrael didn't need to say another word.

Back at Avery Manor, the group entered the dimly lit meeting room, the air thick with the aftertaste of blood and adrenaline. Travers stood at attention in front of Lord Avery, delivering his verbal report with practiced precision.

The two men were clearly friends, Avery commiserating with Travers for having been stuck with recruits. But as he spoke, Andrael noticed the subtle shift in his words—how the mention of her actions seemed to vanish, erased from the recounting of the mission.

There was no mention of how she had killed the women with a mere flick of her wand, no acknowledgment of how she had taken control of the situation. It was as if she had been a silent observer instead of the executioner. Travers's eyes flicked to her once, his face tight with anger, but he said nothing. Instead, he spoke only of the mudbloods, the capture, the interrogation. How they had been eradicated at the conclusion.

When Travers finished, Lord Avery nodded approvingly. "You may take your leave, Eryx. I can have Scabior deal with them from here."

He nodded once, pushing past them on his way out. "Freak," Travers sneered under his breath, his eyes narrowed. "Halfblood."

Andrael remained silent, her expression unreadable. She met his gaze without flinching, letting the venom slide off her like water. She didn't need to defend herself. She had proven herself on the mission. Let them think what they wanted. She was beyond them now.

"Come soldiers. Now that you have lived through your fist mission, there will be many more to come."

She turned to Lord Avery as he sent them outside, confusion flashing across her face. "Soldiers?" The word was short. Simple.

She was apprehensive.

Lord Avery's laughter echoed in the silence of the manor halls. "Why… you didn't think Our Lord would stop with Britain, did you?" he said, his voice low and ominous.

Andrael's fingers twitched. Surely he wouldn't be so stupid to fight now, not with so much unrest here at home…

No. Voldemort was too smart for that.

"Eventually, once the rebel filth is eradicated from our Britannia, we will push east. The mainland will fall to us. When that day comes, The Dark Lord wishes to be ready." Avery said.

And there it was.

Well… crap.

The moment the rebels were squashed, world war began. That was just… lovely.

How long could the Order of the Phoenix distract them?

Scabior came for them then, skulking in the shadows. He licked his lips, looking not so subtly at Andrael. She resisted the urge to blast him right then and there, her skin crawling. Head held high, she followed anyway. He herded the recruits out of the manor with an almost detached efficiency, as if the night's horrors were just another task to complete.

With a flick of her wand, she disappeared with a soft crack, the familiar pull of Apparition taking her back to Hogsmeade. She didn't think about where she was going, didn't care about the quiet streets of the village or the isolation of the alley she found herself in. It was the same place, the same hole in her chest. Only this time, it felt deeper. This time, there was no escaping the rawness of it.

The Hog's Head was as dingy as ever when she entered, the familiar smells of whiskey and something unidentifiable hitting her nose. Aberforth was there, tending the bar as always, a few locals nursing drinks in the corner. It was a quiet night, and for that, Andrael was thankful. She walked up to the bar, not looking at him, just pulling herself onto a stool.

"I'll take a drink," she said, her voice more hollow than she'd intended.

Aberforth didn't ask questions. He knew when to speak, when to stay quiet. He set down a glass for her, but she barely glanced at it before reaching for it. She twisted the glass in her hand, the amber liquid swirling. The burn didn't feel as welcome tonight, but she threw it back anyway, the harsh liquid settling like fire in her chest.

She didn't drink much after that first sip. Andrael just didn't have the stomach for it tonight. The grimy glass sitting in front of her, seemed to mock her. Her eyes flicked down to her own wand resting against the bar, its polished wood smooth beneath her fingertips. It had killed those women. Three of them. Three lives.

She didn't know their names.

But it didn't matter. They were just casualties in the war. Another task for the Dark Lord's army. The same as the Death Eaters before her, who had killed and tortured without hesitation. She had joined them willingly, hadn't she?

But tonight, something inside her had shifted. Again. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the wand again, the familiar weight of it a reminder of her magic, her power. She stared at the dark wood. The only thing that had made her strong. The only thing that had given her purpose.

We did what we had to, the Rational part of her brain said. Unforgivables be damned, we did what we had to.

I'm scared of us. Morality admitted finally.

Killing them stopped them from being assaulted, from being r-ped. Rational murmured. We have reasons for our actions other than bigotry, other than the desire to cause pain.

But that wasn't what the moral part of her brain meant, and Andrael knew it.

The Dark Lord wants to create a dynasty, an empire the sun will never set on, Slytherin mused. Admirable. Ambitious.

Deplorable.

We're part of it.

She couldn't even focus on that.

Andrael stared at her reflection in the grimy surface of the bar. Her eyes were dull, no light in them—just the cold, hard mask of someone who had done unspeakable things. She hadn't been broken, not yet. Maybe that was the most terrifying part. There was no frantic rush of guilt. There was only emptiness, and a strange, sickening calm.

Three lives. Three people, and she had ended them with a flick of her wrist. The Avada Kedavra had slipped off her tongue so naturally, so easily. There had been no hesitation. No second thought. They'd begged for reprieve, cried, cowered. She had silenced them without remorse, without mercy.

She should feel more. She should feel torn apart, lost in the agony of her own actions.

But she wasn't.

Her chest didn't ache. Her stomach didn't churn with regret. No. She was alive, and that was enough. She'd followed orders. She'd done what was expected of her. She had become what they had made her. And tomorrow, if the Dark Lord wanted her to do it all again, she would. Without a second thought. Without hesitation.

The thought should have made her sick. But instead, it just felt like the only truth left.

Andrael leaned her elbows against the bar, her fingers curling around the rim of the untouched glass. Her gaze flickered down to her forearm, the dark mark just below her sleeve. She felt nothing but a cold, empty certainty. She wasn't broken. Not yet.

She swallowed the lump in her throat, but the emptiness stayed. And it would stay. Because she had crossed a line now. A line that couldn't be uncrossed.

And she was still here. Still breathing. Still capable of doing it all again, without question.