A/N: We're back, baybeeeee!

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October 31, 1998 - Hallow's Masquerade

The chill of late October settled over the wizarding world, mist curling through the streets like ghostly fingers. It was Halloween, but the festivities of old were hollow echoes, drowned beneath the weight of fear. Gone were the cheerful children in charmed costumes, the floating pumpkins and laughter that once filled the air. Now, the holiday was little more than another night under the Dark Lord's reign.

And somewhere in the shadows, The Cassowary prowled.

Andrael's training had long since left the realm of dodging hexes and dueling in controlled chambers. Bellatrix's tests were no longer games. Now, she was out in the field, alone.

She hunted.

Tracked down fugitives who thought they could escape the Dark Lord's grasp. Collected bounties, made examples of those who resisted. She had stood in doorways, silhouetted against flickering torchlight, demanding fealty from trembling wizards. Her voice carried weight, her presence, unmistakable. If words did not work, pain did. A casual Crucio to make her intent clear. No one refused her twice.

She had become a name whispered in fear.

The Cassowary.

Her cloak was her shield, hood pulled low. She was quite imposing, despite her slight figure. She no longer showed her face, but those who had known her before—former classmates, former music shop patrons, those who had escaped her wrath—knew. There were no other Cassowaries in the wizarding world. Andrael had let the name stick as a mockery, a reminder.

That way, it was easier to pretend it was simply a role, a part that she played a part to survive. But with every passing day, with every mission completed, the line between act and reality blurred.

She was the Dark Lord's sword. She reported to Bellatrix every morning. She was branded with the serpent and the skull. She had sworn to serve.

And tonight, on Halloween… there was finally a respite from the missions. A break before another test. A lull in the chaos she wrought across Britain.

The Malfoys were hosting a Halloween Ball, an evening of cold grandeur and whispered allegiances, where the elite of the new order would gather beneath glittering chandeliers and dark enchantments. The Dark Lord himself would preside over the festivities, a silent reminder of who truly ruled.

Normally, Andrael wouldn't have been allowed at such an event. Halfbloods did not mingle among the Dark Lord's chosen. But living under the Malfoy roof afforded her special privileges, and Bellatrix had made it clear—she would attend.

The theme was a masquerade, though no one would dare fully obscure their identity. Masks were an accessory, not a disguise. People dressed in elegant finery, draped in silks and velvets, their outward poise barely concealing the fear and ambition that dictated their lives.

Andrael had found a gown of muted grey, the fabric shifting like layered feathers with each movement. A darker grey cape hung over her shoulders, hooded, its hem brushing the floor.

Tonight, she had embraced the irony.

She had now literally become The Cassowary.

Seated before the mirror, she stared at her own reflection. The face staring back at her was... unfamiliar. Her cheeks were still gaunt, her face thinner and angular than she remembered. She looked down at the cool wood in her hands. The mask stared back at her, the hollow eyes empty and unfeeling. The feathers—grey and dark, layered like the real bird's plumage—curved over the high cheekbones of the porcelain façade. The hood of her cape framed it, making her appear even more like some spectral creature of the night.

Andrael turned her head slightly, tilting the mask in the candlelight.

The face beneath it was hers. And yet, it was not.

She had donned many disguises over the past month, slipping through wizarding Britain like a phantom. She had become a figure of fear, a whisper in the dark, a blade in Bellatrix's hand. But tonight… Tonight, the mask was not for intimidation. It was for spectacle. A different kind of performance.

A ball.

She could hardly remember the last time she had attended one... Perhaps, France? Watching Ungaku spin her mother across the floor? In another life, she might have enjoyed it. She had been raised to know the steps of waltzes, to speak in measured tones, to glide across a floor with poise. But that was a distant memory, irrelevant now.

There was a knock at her door.

"Cassowary," a voice drawled.

Draco.

He had been tasked with escorting her this evening, something neither of them were looking forward to.

She crossed the room, throwing open the door.

Draco stood in the hallway, dressed in deep green robes embroidered with silver thread. His mask, a sleek dragon motif, covered the upper half of his face, its carved scales catching the light. (She'd seen the first task of the triwizard tournament. Andrael did NOT trust dragons.) He held himself stiffly, his posture taut with discomfort. Andrael couldn't blame him.

With a sigh, she tied her mask in place, adjusting the hood of her cape before stepping out. She nodded once at him. "Nice costume."

Draco blinked, clearly thrown by the casual remark. "You as well," he muttered after a pause, though his tone was wary.

He turned sharply, leading the way down the corridors, and Andrael fell into step beside him. The air between them was thick, weighted with unspoken things. Between the two of them, she was still the only killer.

"How have you been?" she asked, the small talk stiff and forced.

Draco scoffed. "Oh, just splendid." His tone was bitter, but then he exhaled and shook his head. "Fine. As fine as one can be."

Andrael hummed in acknowledgment. "Any familiar faces attending?"

He glanced at her, clearly debating whether to answer. "A few," he finally said. "Notts. Greengrasses. Bulstrodes. Pansy." A pause. "Zabini will probably show up, it's a party, after all."

Andrael filed the names away. She had had limited contact with the remnants of Slytherin's upper echelon, none of them getting their hands dirty like she was.

"Should be a lovely evening," she murmured dryly.

Draco huffed. "Oh yes. A delight."

They continued down the corridor, making their way toward the ballroom where the true spectacle awaited them.

The grand doors to the ballroom swung open, and a sharp voice rang out.

"Scion Draco Abraxas Malfoy and Andrael Cassowary."

A hush fell over the room, but only for a moment before the hum of conversation resumed. Andrael barely registered the reaction, stepping forward with Draco as they descended the marble staircase. The room glittered with the soft glow of floating candelabras, their light reflecting off the gilded edges of the Malfoy ballroom. The air smelled of spiced wine and expensive perfume, but beneath it, Andrael swore she could taste tension—tight-lipped smiles, wary glances, a gathering of predators dressed in silk.

Then, a familiar cackling laughter.

Bellatrix stood near the base of the stairs, dark eyes glinting with cruel amusement as she took them in. "Oh look," she drawled, smirking wide. "Isn't this a sight? My dear nephew, arm in arm with my little bird." Her head tilted as she looked Draco up and down. "How precious."

Andrael tensed, but Draco visibly paled, his grip on the railing tightening. Andrael might have spent the last two months barely avoiding Bellatrix's killing curses, but Draco had been raised under the weight of her shadow. And he was afraid.

Bellatrix's smirk deepened, sensing it. She turned her attention to Andrael. "What's wrong, birdy? Not going to bite?"

Andrael merely dipped her head in an exaggerated nod. "I didn't realise you wished me to perform for you tonight."

Bellatrix laughed, a delighted cackle, but Andrael could see the flicker of approval in her eyes. She didn't rise to the bait, but she didn't cower, either.

Then, without another word, Draco practically bolted, coming to stand by his mother's side. Narcissa followed his gaze towards them, and simply sighed, whispering something in his ear.

Coward.

Yet in the same thought, Andrael couldn't say she blamed him.

She cast her gaze over the room, taking in the masked guests, the pockets of whispered conversation, the undercurrent of paranoia that came with every gathering of this nature. Her eyes landed on a familiar blonde figure—Daphne Greengrass, standing near the refreshments table, swirling a glass of wine idly between her fingers.

Her dress was a gorgeous kaleidoscope of green and white, made to look like vines of white lilies.

Andrael made her way over, unhurried but deliberate.

"Scion Greengrass," she greeted smoothly as she reached her.

Daphne glanced up, cool blue eyes locking onto hers. For a brief moment, surprise flickered across her face, but she masked it well. "Cassowary." She took a sip of her wine. "You're the last person I expected to see tonight."

Andrael shrugged. "Believe me when I say this wasn't by choice."

Daphne huffed out a quiet breath, something almost like a laugh, but there was no real humor in it.

For a moment, they stood there in silence, watching the glittering world move around them. Andrael didn't say it. Daphne didn't either. But they were both thinking it.

I miss Hogwarts.

"Been holding up alright?" Andrael finally asked, her voice low.

Daphne exhaled slowly, turning her gaze toward the swirling wine in her glass. "Busy," she admitted. "My father and I have been tightening our hold on the supply chains. Strengthening them. Ensuring that if the Order tries to cut us off, we won't fall."

"Smart," Andrael murmured.

Daphne gave a short, tired nod. "It has to be." She glanced at Andrael again, searching. "And you? I hear people are terrified of you."

Andrael smirked faintly, though there was no real amusement behind it. "That's the idea."

Daphne's lips pressed into a thin line. "Right." A pause. "Do you—" She hesitated, lowering her voice. "Do you even like what they're making you do?"

Andrael's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass. The Cassowary did not answer questions like that. But Andrael?

Andrael wanted to say—No. Of course not. This isn't who I wanted to be. This isn't what I wanted my life to become.

Instead, she took a slow sip of her drink.

"Does it matter?"

"Humour me."

"I could think of quite a few things I'd rather be doing," she admitted lightly. "But serving in this capacity… the things I've seen, the things I've done… I've been told it's quite an honour."

Daphne raised an eyebrow, hearing the unspoken words that went along with what she said.

Andrael leaned back against the wall, swirling the drink she had plucked from the table in front of her like Daphne had, but not actually taking a sip. And yet, the girl in front of her couldn't resist.

"So, what's it like living with Malfoy?" Daphne asked, raising an eyebrow as if she were genuinely curious. "I imagine it's... fascinating."

Andrael snorted, the dry sound escaping her lips before she could stop it. "Fascinating? If you count watching a blonde ponce trying to avoid eye contact and acting like I'm going to hex him for breathing, then yeah, it's fascinating." She rolled her eyes dramatically. "He's an idiot."

Daphne laughed, the tension easing between them as she leaned back. "I can only imagine."

Andrael glanced at her with a smirk. "It's a shame really. He's finally shut up."

They shared a brief, quiet chuckle, but Andrael could tell Daphne wasn't completely amused. Beneath the laugh, there was something else—maybe an understanding of why Malfoy was so skittish around her. And Andrael couldn't help but notice that the girl didn't quite blame him either. She didn't say it outright, but it was there, hanging in the air between them.

Before the silence could drag on too long, a pair of heels clicked across the tiles, and Millicent Bulstrode stepped in, her presence as commanding as ever. Her dress was simple, but the material reminded Andrael of a graceful butterfly.

Andrael had never expected to say the words graceful and Millicent in the same sentence, but she looked good.

Millicent didn't need to say a word to fill the space. Her relief alone was palpable, and the moment she saw Andrael and Daphne, she looked like she could finally breathe.

"Come here often?" Millicent joked. Her usual bravado was a little lighter tonight, as if the weight of the day had been too much.

"Well, I actually live here now." Andrael smiled, her eyes softening. She hadn't realized how much she'd come to enjoy their company until this moment. The easy, no-pressure conversation. The sense of safety in their presence. It felt like a rare thing, especially now.

"Good to see you, Millie," Daphne greeted her warmly, the teasing tone gone. Andrael just nodded, a brief but genuine flicker of a smile crossing her face.

Millicent pulled up her sleeve absentmindedly, fixing her mask, and that's when Andrael noticed the ribbon wrapped around her wrist, the pink colour too bright and too happy for her usual persona.

"Wait," Daphne said, leaning in. "What's this?"

Millicent's eyes flickered for a moment, then she let out a breath, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "It's nothing. Well, nothing new."

Andrael raised an eyebrow, feeling the air shift a little. "You're wearing a ribbon. Which means... you're actually officially tied up now?"

Millicent hesitated for just a second before nodding. "Yeah. Betrothal's finalized. Not… Not much of a choice there."

Andrael's stomach clenched as she realized exactly what that meant. Daphne seemed to notice the shift too, her expression tightening as she studied Millicent.

"You really didn't want this, did you?" Daphne asked, voice soft but cutting through the tension.

Millicent's face flickered with something—anger, frustration, maybe resignation—before it quickly morphed into something more neutral. "What difference does it make? My family expects it. Amycus expects it. Nothing new."

Daphne's eyes narrowed, but it was Andrael who spoke next. "F*cking Amycus Carrow." she muttered, the word like poison on her tongue. "You're better than both of us. I genuinely don't know how you stand him… He's…" She trailed off, not wanting to make her feel worse.

"The man's a walking pile of filth." Daphne was blunt.

Millicent flinched at the mention of his name, her fingers twitching slightly as if she wanted to rip the ribbon from her wrist. "You think I don't know? The bastard can't… can't keep his hands to himself. I hate it."

Andrael could hear the rawness in Millicent's voice, a mixture of disgust and resentment so deep that it burned through her words. And she knew exactly what it meant. Amycus wanted a wife who could be manipulated, a younger body for whatever sick satisfaction he could wring out of it. It was obvious. And Andrael felt that same disgust gnaw at her insides.

"He won't be here tonight, will he…?"

"No. The Hogwarts staff are all remaining at the castle… Astoria and some of the other students were given permission to attend, though." Millicent gave a shuddering, relieved laugh.

"So, when's the wedding?" Daphne asked, the concern clear in her voice, and when Millicent answered, her voice hung heavy with something like false cheer.

"Next summer," she said with a forced smile. "Big ceremony. Big event. All the important people."

And that was when the weight of it all came crashing down on them.

Daphne's face softened, and she leaned forward, wrapping her arms around Millicent in a rare show of affection. The gesture was unexpected but welcomed, and Andrael found herself strangely moved.

Millicent's usual bravado faded, and she pulled away from Daphne's embrace, her smile weaker now. "I'll be fine," she said, but it was clear she wasn't.

Andrael looked at the two of them, the bond they shared more solid than anything else in the room. For a fleeting moment, she was jealous of them. They still had each other, and Andrael had… no one. But just as quickly, she realised how counterproductive that was. It wasn't like she could change her heritage now. She could still be their best halfblood friend from a distance, the fighter they needed.

"Whatever happens," she said quietly. "If you need help, I will help you. I don't care what you need me to do, consider it done."

Millicent gave her a sharp look, her lips curling into a tight smile. "You speak of dangerous things, Cassowary."

"In case you haven't noticed, I've become rather dangerous, myself."

"Sure. I've heard the rumours."

"Keep it in mind. Please. I don't want to see–" Andrael stopped herself. "I don't want you to have any regrets," she said, picking her words carefully.

Millicent nodded quietly.

What she really meant was please, let me save you. Let me take you out of this world. Let me protect you so you don't have to endure the memories of your back pressed into a set of barrels, a hand creeping lower still.

Andrael knew all too well that the whims of men were dangerous.

She still avoided the Malfoy dungeons in the basement, the place where the Dark Lord had chosen her from.

The band struck up a waltz, the guests moving towards the dance floor. Daphne and Millicent were both quickly paired off, leaving Andrael standing alone.

It was a perfect metaphor, she thought to herself.

The room buzzed with muted laughter and the clink of glasses, but Andrael felt detached from it all, her gaze lingering on her two friends being swept away into the dance. Daphne, ever the picture of grace, was gliding across the floor in the arms of her doting father, their movements elegant and practiced. Millicent, too, was pulled away—though more reluctantly, her face showing only a small hint of discomfort as Theodore Nott guided her through the waltz.

They were the ones in the spotlight, the ones who would be admired and courted. And then there was Andrael—always the shadow in the corner, never worthy of attention, not in this world of glimmering purity and elegance. She wasn't foolish enough to hope for an invitation to join the dance floor. No one would dare ask her, the filthy halfblood, and even if they did, she wouldn't have wanted to move among the pomp and formalities of it all.

Her fingers drummed softly on the rim of her glass, staring at the orchestra across the room. The music was good, but it lacked something. The violin, especially, was far too mechanical, its notes stiff and unfeeling, the principal violinist fumbling where Andrael would have flourished. It wasn't that she wanted to be the center of attention. It was simply that, in this space, she couldn't help but notice how much better she could do. If only she could pick up a violin and let her fingers move fluidly across the strings.

But the thought of her violin stilled her breath. She hadn't played in so long. The mere thought of it stirred memories she wasn't ready to face. It wasn't the instrument itself—it was the way it reminded her of him.

Akira Ungaku.

She closed her eyes for a brief moment, suppressing the gnawing ache deep within her. He had probably heard about The Cassowary by now. He had probably heard about what she'd done.

She had barely been able to stomach the idea of going near his shop the last time she visited Diagon Alley. The guilt had twisted her insides, paralyzing her to the point where she'd avoided it completely.

Andrael could still remember every laugh line of his face, kind yet sharp, the way he had looked at her when she played. He had always believed in her, saw potential in her when no one else did.

But now?

Andrael felt a sharp pang of regret, bitterness rising in her throat. He likely hated her now, maybe even feared her. She wasn't the same person she'd been when he had given her her first violin, eager and hopeful.

That girl had died, somewhere along the way, buried beneath the weight of her choices and the mark that now seared her wrist.

She had made herself scarce for a reason tonight, slipping into the periphery of the gathering as she always did. The longer she stayed here, the more she felt like an intruder. The woman she had been—the one who revelled in music, in art, in quiet moments with people who saw her as a person—was slipping away, piece by piece.

She cast one last glance at Daphne, now spinning effortlessly with Blaise, and Millicent, caught in Marcus Flint's arms, her face betraying a flicker of hesitation before she forced a smile. They were the ones still holding on to the illusion of normalcy, of happiness.

And Andrael? She was the one who had sacrificed everything for this life, for this world she could never truly belong to. She was the one who would never know that kind of peace again.

But it wasn't just the memories of Ungaku that haunted her. It was the knowledge that she didn't even know who she was anymore. Was she still Andrael? Was there even a person left underneath all the hate, the violence, the constant weight of her Dark Mark? Would she ever be anything else but the instrument of destruction that Voldemort had forged her to be?

She shoved the thoughts away, focusing on the music again, the strings of the orchestra twisting around her like a tangible thing. But even the melody couldn't drown out the heavy silence inside her, the gnawing fear that she was too far gone to be saved.

As the music swirled and the dancers continued their rhythmic movements, Andrael stayed rooted in place, hidden behind a mask of indifference. She wasn't sure if she was running from them or from herself.

"You look worse than usual," Pansy Parkinson said, appearing next to her with her characteristic bluntness, her dark eyes narrowing in a mixture of curiosity and judgment. Her kitsune-style dress was attracting many a male gaze, yet the ice queen appeared oblivious.

Andrael glanced at her, arching a brow in amusement. "I'm thrilled to hear that," she retorted, her tone dry, though it wasn't venomous. With Pansy, it was always a game. An exchange of sharp words, the kind that only people who truly understood each other could have.

Andrael would like to think the two of them finally understood each other.

"I guess I shouldn't be surprised, though. You always manage to look like someone who just crawled out of a grave."

"I feel like it," Andrael muttered under her breath, a hint of darkness creeping into her voice despite her best efforts to mask it. She quickly swallowed it back down, putting on her usual detached expression. "But I suppose that's better than pretending to enjoy the night."

Pansy tilted her head slightly, lips quirking up in amusement. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're too good for this little charade."

Andrael snorted, not in the mood to be anything other than sarcastic. "I'm certainly too good for pretending to enjoy being ignored."

Pansy's eyes flicked over to Daphne and Millicent on the dance floor, then back to Andrael. "Would it kill you to smile? You look like the last person anyone would think of asking to dance."

Andrael shrugged but didn't argue. The thought of being forced into that kind of closeness, pretending to be part of the glittering mask of society, made her stomach twist. Maybe being overlooked was preferable.

"No one dares. Don't even pretend like you don't know that."

"True." Pansy let out a soft laugh. "But that's their loss, isn't it?"

"Right," Andrael replied sarcastically, though there was a flicker of something almost amused in her eyes. Was that… a compliment?

They both fell into a brief silence, watching as the couples danced and the night continued without them. Then, after a moment, Pansy spoke again, her voice quieter this time, more serious.

"I'm worried about them." she murmured, her gaze following Andrael's to the two girls across the room. There was a touch of genuine concern in Pansy's voice, despite her usual air of cynicism.

Andrael hesitated, but only for a second. "What do you mean?"

Pansy sighed, folding her arms over her chest. "You know exactly what I mean. You're not blind. You see how they are, right? How Daphne's so... perfect but completely terrified of what will happen when the music stops. How Millicent tries to act like everything's fine, but you can see it in her eyes. I swear, I've never seen her look so trapped."

"They're both terrified, aren't they?" Andrael murmured, half to herself.

"Yeah," Pansy replied softly, her eyes darkening as she stared after Millicent. "But what else can they do? It's not like we have a choice, is it? Not with what's coming for us. All of us."

Andrael nodded, though she didn't respond immediately. She knew the feeling all too well. The way their futures were already written for them. How it didn't matter whether they fought it or not. There was no escaping this life, this world.

Finally, Pansy spoke again, voice quieter now. "What happens when they get caught up in all of this? In... that?" She gestured vaguely to the center of the room, where couples danced, dozens of Dark Marks hidden under sleeves.

Andrael looked at her for a long moment before sighing. "That's the question, isn't it?" She pushed herself off the bar, her expression darkening. "I don't know. But I'm damn well going to make sure they don't end up like me."

"You and me both," Pansy muttered, her gaze still fixed on Millicent.

The song slowed to a stop, the last chord echoing.

Pansy straightened.

"Well, I'm off."

"Just like that?"

"I promised Blaise the next dance, which I'm quickly regretting… odds are he's just going to flirt with me the whole damn time…"

Andrael chuckled.

"Oh, and if you want some ammunition for that idiot Draco, look who he's dancing with. That's easily his fifth song with her tonight…"

Andrael saw him smiling down down at none other than Astoria Greengrass. His face was softer than she had seen it in months. Was he… laughing? Draco Malfoy remembered how to laugh?

"Daphne is going to be pissed."

Pansy flounced away to meet Blaise, leaving nothing but the echo of her laughter behind.

The ballroom's chatter continued on for a flurry of songs, quieting only as Lord Voldemort arrived, his presence suffocating the air around him. He swept into the room like a dark storm, his long robes trailing behind him with an eerie grace. His white skin gleamed beneath the chandelier lights, and his red eyes scanned the room with a detached, almost calculating gaze. The room immediately fell silent as the Dark Lord made his way toward the center of the room, where a raised platform awaited him.

When he spoke, his voice was cold, measured, but carried with it an undeniable power. He wasn't one to waste time with pleasantries, not when his presence alone was enough to command attention.

"To our hosts, Lucius and Narcissa," he began, his voice echoing through the grand hall, "You have graciously provided us with this evening, and we honour you with our presence. But let us not forget that the world we build does not yet have the luxury to be won through dances and idle chatter. It must first be forged through our strength, discipline, and unwavering loyalty."

He paused, allowing his words to settle in the air. Every eye in the room was fixed on him, their faces a mixture of awe, fear, and reverence. He continued.

"Our cause is one of righteousness. We have been cast aside, dismissed as threats by those too weak to understand our vision. But we will see this through. We will not falter. For the mudbloods, the traitors, the half-breeds—they will fall. And we will rise, ever higher, until there is no one left to challenge our reign. For we are not just rulers of Britain. We will eradicate the weakness from this planet. And we will rebuild it with our magic in our image. Remember this as you enjoy your Hallow's Eve…"

The room remained silent, his words hanging in the air long after he had finished speaking. There was no applause, no cheer. Only an eerie sense of compliance.

Voldemort took a long breath, as if savoring the control he exerted over the room, before slowly stepping down from the platform. The guests continued to stare at him with reverence, fear and awe blending in their eyes.

And then, as though he were no longer the Dark Lord for a moment, but a man who sought to enjoy the evening like anyone else, he turned to Bellatrix Lestrange. With a cold but practiced smile, he extended his hand toward her. Bellatrix's eyes lit up in delighted anticipation. She practically skipped over to him, her adoration for him so obvious it seemed almost painful to watch.

Voldemort took her hand, leading her to the dance floor, where they moved with a strange sort of grace, Bellatrix's face a mask of absolute devotion. She smiled at him with a look of absolute worship, completely blind to the cold, disinterested expression Voldemort wore. His gaze, even as he held her close, remained distant and unfazed, as though the woman in his arms was nothing more than another pawn in his grand game. It was a dance for her, but for him? Just another means of appeasing her, of keeping her on his side, satisfied, and distracted from the reality that he saw no one as anything more than a tool to be used and discarded.

Andrael watched this, feeling something gnawing at her chest. She couldn't quite place what it was—perhaps frustration, perhaps even annoyance on Bellatrix's behalf—but it lingered. She felt as if she could see through the layers of illusion that Bellatrix herself was blind to.

And then, as the Dark Lord danced with his devoted follower, he glanced across the room, his sharp, red eyes catching Andrael's for a brief moment.

There was no warmth, no affection. Just a cold acknowledgement. A nod of approval, perhaps, a silent recognition of her presence, but nothing more.

It was as if his gaze saw through her, through everyone around him. He didn't care about them, not really. He didn't need to.

But in that single moment, Andrael felt it—how much she loathed this man. How much she hated how easy it was for him to manipulate everyone around him, to make them bend to his will, all while staying unfeeling, detached.

He was so... unfeeling.

Yet she knew there was at least one Legilimens among them, so she buried the feeling.

So she watched him dance with Bellatrix, who looked up at him as if she could see no flaw, no coldness. There was a flicker of something in her chest, a silent vow to never let herself become like that. To never let someone like Voldemort turn her into a puppet for his game.

The night had stretched on for what seemed like hours, but finally, the ball was over. Guests had filtered out, leaving the house in near silence.

House elves bustled through the halls, quietly clearing away the remains of the feast, their movements swift and practiced as they made the mansion spotless again.

Andrael found herself wandering the upstairs hallway, a slight sense of detachment hanging over her. The night's events had already started to blur, but the weight of it lingered like a shadow, pressing on her thoughts. She wasn't sure if it was exhaustion or something deeper gnawing at her, but her steps felt heavier as she walked.

Draco materialised, walking from the other direction. He was alone, looking much less composed than usual, and for a moment, Andrael couldn't resist. The opportunity for mischief was too tempting to ignore.

"Oh, Draco," she said, her tone teasing, her eyes glinting with amusement. "I didn't realize you were so taken with Astoria Malfoy. How many dances was it? Seven? Eight?"

Draco's eyes snapped to her, his face instantly hardening. His jaw clenched, and his posture straightened as if he were preparing to launch into a tirade.

"What do you want, Andrael?" His voice was low, tight with frustration. "Can't you just leave me alone for once?"

"For once? I hardly get to talk to you. You avoid me like the plague."

"Oh for–! And you don't think that's intentional?"

Andrael raised an eyebrow, intrigued. She couldn't resist the urge to poke at him a little more.

"Why?" she asked, her voice dripping with feigned innocence. "What's wrong with little old me? You're always so serious, Draco. You need to let loose once in a while."

"Stop, Andrael."

"Stop what?"

"We're not friends."

"We almost were, once."

Draco's eyes narrowed, and his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "Do you want to know why we'll never be friends? It's because you're a bloody monster, Andrael. A murderer. Just like Aunt Bella. A leech on our household. A stain on our good name. Impure. A halfblood. You don't belong here. You never did."

The words stung more than Andrael would admit, though she didn't let it show. Instead, she stood there, letting him unleash his anger, her expression cold and unreadable. It was easier this way. Let him say what he needed to say. They would both be better for it.

"You think you're so much better than me," Draco spat, his fists clenched at his sides. "You don't belong. You never will. You're nothing but a tool for the Dark Lord. You're nothing but filth."

She took it all in, the bitterness, the contempt, and let it wash over her like a wave.

When Draco finally seemed to run out of steam, Andrael spoke, her voice calm, cold, and ruthless.

"You're right," she said softly. "Everything you say about me is true. Perhaps justified, even. I'm rather self-aware to recognise what I've become, Draco. I'd have to be oblivious to not see it. Yet everything you hate about me? In the eyes of the people that matter? It just makes me better than you." She let the words hang in the air for a beat, her tone unwavering, before she turned away from him, her expression as blank as ever.

"Oh… and a murderer?" She laughed. "I'm not the one that needed my mommy and godfather to bail me out on my first mission. At least I can say I've cast the Avada Kedavra. What's going to happen when there's no one left to cast it for you?"

Without a glance back, she continued down the hallway, her steps deliberate and measured, each one echoing off the marble floors. She didn't need to say anything more to him. It wasn't worth it.

Not after she'd already hit him where it hurt most.

She really was a terrible person, wasn't she?