A/N: IF YOU SKIP AUTHOR'S NOTES, READ THIS ONE. This chapter contains major themes of SA and attempted R***. It is gritty, it is emotional, it contains my attempt to put down on paper the feelings surrounding SA. No means No. Social cues should be enough for that. Andrael is lucky enough that her fight/flight/freeze response landed on what it does, but that experiences like that stick with us. Read at your own discretion. I have included skip lines for the most sensitive parts. (~~~~~) A summary of the chapter is also included at the end.
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August 10, 1998 - Eyes of the Snake
Andrael had been spending a very unfortunate amount of time at Malfoy Manor. Though it had been built to be a Slytherin's paradise, she had quickly grown to despise the place and the orders she received every time she was summoned there.
After her incident with Travers, it appeared that she had been reassigned, working with Death Eaters she didn't quite know. In her time so far, she had burned homes to the ground, tortured more Mudbloods, and cast the Avada six more times. Nine people were dead at her hands.
With every summons, it became easier and easier to turn the emotions off.
There had been a Ministry defector, a former Auror who had gone to ground. The squad found him in a farmhouse, surrounded by wards that crumbled under their sheer numbers. He fought well, but numbers won over skill. The first Cruciatus did not come from Andrael, but the second did. And the third. And the fourth. He begged, and she listened. She listened until there was nothing left to hear. Rabastan Lestrange gave her a pleased nod. He was much more willing to foster her talent than Travers, likely having lived with his sister-in-law for so long…
She hadn't slept soundly that night.
The air was thick with ash and screams. A village in the North had harbored muggleborns and given them shelter. For that, the entire place was erased. Andrael remembered standing before a house with a thatched roof, watching flames lick up its sides like a hungry beast. A woman and her husband were trapped inside, pounding on the doors. A single Reductor Curse could have freed them.
Andrael turned away.
There was a man with a name she never learned. He had been caught stealing supplies from a Death Eater-controlled outpost. Andrael was ordered to make an example of him.
She did.
Rabastan watched, arms folded, his expression unreadable. He had stopped praising her. She did not need it.
She remembered the voices inside and outside of her head, echoing.
"Monster. You are a monster."
"...just another halfblood attack dog."
"You do not need to forcibly shatter your innocence with violence..."
"It was Cassowary, of course…"
"Freak."
"Your turn."
Andrael looked down at the boy—no older than sixteen—who had been dragged in front of them. A Snatcher squad had caught him trying to escape the country. Rabastan handed her the reins without hesitation.
Andrael crouched in front of the boy, her wand tapping against her thigh. He sobbed, choked, tried to speak, to reason.
She did not let him.
"Crucio."
He screamed until his voice broke.
Her ninth kill was a quiet one. She was a wandless woman in Knockturn Alley, hidden behind a stack of crates. She thought she had escaped them.
Andrael's wand pressed to the base of her skull. She whispered the words.
The body fell with a soft thud.
Back in the Hog's Head, she cleaned her wand every night. She scrubbed the blood from her robes. She sat in the dim candlelight of her rented room, staring at her own reflection.
Aberforth Dumbledore never asked where she went at night.
She didn't have an answer.
And then came the nightmares, people screaming, fires burning, the sound of a woman crying, Andrael not the saviour, but laughing at the center, loud and cruel like Bellatrix Lestrange…
Andrael had permanent rings around her eyes. She looked as if she had been punched. Her skin was paler than usual, her face was gaunt, she had lost weight.
She had only been at this a month.
She no longer feared some Order Member killing her with a well-timed curse.
There… there was nothing more to do.
The meeting room in Malfoy Manor was dimly lit, a grand space of cold opulence. Heavy drapes muffled the outside world, and a long, polished table stretched between them, its surface reflecting the flickering candlelight. Andrael stood at attention, hands clasped behind her back as she finished her report. Her voice was steady, clinical.
"She didn't fight," Andrael concluded. "She thought she had gotten away. Quick and clean."
Rabastan Lestrange lounged in a high-backed chair, dressed in fine, dark robes, his long fingers drumming lazily against the armrest. His eyes—black and gleaming like obsidian—studied her with something between amusement and calculation.
"Quick and clean," he echoed. "Efficient. Almost merciful." The way he said the last word made it sound like a joke. A sharp, unpleasant smile curled his lips. "Perhaps I misjudged you, Andrael. I was under the impression you had a bit more… flair."
Andrael did not react. She had learned, quickly, that reactions only fed him.
"Still," Rabastan continued, tilting his head as though considering a puzzle. "I suppose there is something to be said for restraint. It's almost admirable—a soldier who knows when to hold back." A pause. Then, with the smooth precision of a knife sliding between ribs, he added, "Or perhaps that's just the halfblood in you."
Andrael met his gaze without flinching. She let the insult pass over her like mist. To call him out would be more trouble than it was worth. Rabastan was a Lestrange, and Lestranges were untouchable—until they weren't.
She exhaled, slow. "I'll try to be more creative next time."
Rabastan's smirk widened, and he leaned forward, voice dropping to a purr.
"Oh, do. You're a Death Eater now, Andrael. A little art in your work wouldn't go amiss."
The dismissal in his tone was clear. She nodded once, then turned on her heel and left, ignoring the eyes that followed her. Everyone was always watching.
The small storeroom reeked of spilled liquor and acrid smoke, the air thick with sweat and unwashed robes. The ceiling was low, oppressive, making the gathered Death Eaters and mercenaries seem more like a pack of caged animals than soldiers of the Dark Lord.
Crates of contraband lined the walls, some filled with potions, others with illicit ingredients or stolen weapons—wand fragments, daggers, even a pile of bloodied manacles. Andrael leaned against the doorway for a moment, taking it all in. It was filth.
Narcissa Malfoy would loathe this. Even now, Andrael could picture her gliding through the grand halls above, nose wrinkling at the stink bleeding through the floors. Lucius, too, must be seething—his ancestral home had become a fortress of war, crawling with the unwashed masses of his Lord's growing army.
She should have returned to the Hog's Head, but it wasn't worth the trip. The Dark Lord had ordered all forces to assemble at nightfall. Whatever it was about, it was big. No one would risk missing it.
The storeroom was more crowded than usual.
A group of Snatchers occupied the corner, playing cards over a crate, mugs of something sharp-smelling in their fists. They were laughing raucously, coins and a wand clattering over the wood as one of them won a hand. Scabior was there, grinning like a wolf, his long fingers dragging the winnings toward him.
To her left, a group of marked Death Eaters muttered among themselves—young, restless, spoiling for action. One of them, Vessik, was tracing his Dark Mark with a fingernail, as if eager for it to burn.
A few turned as she entered, sizing her up. The reaction was always the same these days. Dismissal if they didn't know her. Respect edged with unease if they did.
She ignored them all and moved further into the room. She would wait.
Andrael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching the room with careful detachment. She wasn't drunk, unlike most of the others crammed into this pit, and she wasn't bored, though she let them believe she was. She was waiting.
The moment she saw him approaching, she forced herself to stay loose. Jasper Selwyn.
This confrontation… it was inevitable.
From the moment she had made her promise atop that Willow Tree, she knew she would have to meet the one man who had a chance of recognising her again.
He moved differently than the rest, not swaggering, not prowling, but gliding, like he belonged. His Death Eater status was already solidified. He didn't need to prove himself the way so many of the others did. He had been there the night the Dark Lord sealed his victory, when the prophecy fell into their hands and the boy who should have been their downfall died screaming.
Andrael didn't know if he recognized her. She had been younger then. Quieter. Unremarkable. A tie charmed Hufflepuff yellow amidst flaming curtains…
Now, she was none of those things.
"You're the one they whisper about."
(~~~~~) skip
Selwyn's voice was silk-wrapped steel. He didn't bother with a greeting. Just an assessment, a statement of fact.
Andrael arched a brow. "They whisper?" she mused, keeping her tone light. "I didn't think our kind whispered."
Selwyn smiled—slow, deliberate. He leaned one shoulder against the wall beside her, far too close for comfort. Her skin crawled. "Only when something interesting happens."
Andrael exhaled through her nose, tilting her head as if considering it. "And what's so interesting about me?"
Selwyn studied her, dragging his eyes over her face, down the line of her arm, her posture, as if he could unmake her with his gaze alone. It was an assessment, but it was something else too. Something she had seen before in men who thought they were entitled to anything they wanted.
"You've risen fast," he murmured. "You've made people nervous."
Andrael smiled like a blade catching the light. "Good."
That only seemed to amuse him. "What I don't understand," he continued, "is how you managed it. Filthy little halfblood, no connections, no name worth mentioning. And yet—" He gestured vaguely, as if the answer should be obvious. As if she owed him an explanation.
Andrael pretended to consider. "What can I say?" she murmured. "Some of us don't need a name to make one."
Selwyn laughed under his breath. It wasn't mocking, nor was it warm. It was the kind of laugh that said he was still deciding what to do with her. He wanted her, that much was obvious. As if she was something for the taking.
"And yet," he said, after a pause, "it does make one wonder." His voice dipped lower, turning conspiratorial. "Where exactly did you come from, Andrael Cassowary?"
A test. A trap. That was what her brain immediately thought. But was Jasper Selwyn really intelligent enough to lay a trap for her? Perhaps she was reading into things. Andrael felt the weight of his attention, felt it like a vice closing around her throat. Either way, she couldn't afford hesitation or carelessness. She held his gaze and let her lips curve into something just shy of cruel.
"I came from the same place as you," she murmured. "A world that rewards those who take."
Selwyn's eyes flickered, something like approval glinting in them.
"Is that so?" he murmured, and for the first time, he touched her—just his fingers, brushing the inside of her wrist as he reached for where her Dark Mark was.
For the first time, she flinched, jerking her hand out of his reach.
A mistake. A small one, but he noticed.
Anger flickered in his eyes, quick and sharp like a struck match—then gone, smothered beneath something else. Amusement, calculation. He shifted, stepping in closer, boxing her in.
Andrael forced herself to stay still.
The room was crowded, thick with smoke and noise, but suddenly it felt too quiet. No one was watching, no one cared. Even if they did, what would they do? Selwyn was a name. A legacy. A war hero in their twisted ranks. And she was nothing.
She had survived too much to be afraid of a man like this.
And yet, something about this moment felt different.
It was an old fear. A familiar, creeping thing, like walking home alone at night and knowing someone was behind you. The kind of fear muggle women carried in their pockets alongside keys and pepper spray.
Her body knew it before her mind did.
Andrael exhaled sharply, cutting through the tension with a voice like cold steel. "What do you want, Selwyn?"
His smirk deepened. "Isn't it obvious?"
She let her eyes flick over him, slow and deliberate, before landing back on his face. "Unfortunately."
He laughed softly, a mockery of warmth. "I think you're misunderstanding me."
"I'm not." Her voice was flat. Final. She wanted him to understand that.
Selwyn tilted his head, gaze dark with undisguised amusement. "You're sharp," he mused. "I like that."
"I don't care what you like."
That caught him off guard. A flicker of irritation crossed his face before smoothing over. "No need to play coy," he murmured, brushing a finger over her sleeve, the ghost of a touch—but a touch nonetheless. She seethed. "We're on the same side, aren't we?"
She stepped back. He stepped forward.
Her heartbeat spiked. Not from attraction, not from anything remotely close to it. Just rage. Cold, biting rage.
"I'm not interested." The words were clipped, sharp. A warning.
Selwyn only smiled. "You're not thinking clearly."
Something inside her snapped.
Before she had even made the decision, her wand was in her hand. Before he could smirk, before he could dismiss her, before he could say something slick and smug and sickening, she blasted him.
A flash of light. A thud as his body slammed into a crate.
Silence.
Smoke curled between them as he groaned, pushing himself up, stunned. Around them, conversations faltered. Heads turned.
Andrael didn't lower her wand.
Selwyn stared at her, shock bleeding into fury.
"You—"
"Stay away from me." Her voice was low, even. Not a threat, not a plea. A command.
For a long, stretching moment, neither of them moved.
Then Selwyn laughed. A slow, quiet chuckle. He wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and smirked up at her, something almost admiring in his expression.
"Oh, I like you," he murmured. "This is going to be fun."
His usual crew had regrouped, flanking him. Every eye in the room had turned to watch.
Andrael cracked her neck.
"You're a halfblood whore. You're nothing. Powerless. Pathetic. What you want means nothing. What I want means everything. I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to enjoy it."
The men behind him laughed. Perhaps this was commonplace…? Perhaps that was why there were no other women in this room?
But it didn't matter, because Andrael was not taking this shit.
Selwyn lunged.
Andrael was already moving.
Her wand cut through the air, sending a hex straight for his face—he dodged, quick, but not quick enough. The spell clipped his shoulder, sending him stumbling.
The room erupted.
(~~~~~) resume
His cronies surged forward, a pack of jackals, snarling, laughing, ready to drag her down.
She almost welcomed them.
Andrael ducked as a burly Death Eater swung at her, stepping into his space and driving her elbow into his throat. He choked, staggering back, and she flicked her wand upward—Expulso. The force sent him crashing into a stack of crates.
Another grabbed her from behind. She wrenched free, twisting in his grip, slamming her head back into his nose. The crunch was satisfying.
A third man went for her legs. Andrael let him. She fell with him, twisting midair—Incendio. A jet of flame seared across his arm, and he shrieked, rolling away.
She had counted four men, but there had been five. A mistake.
The last man caught her from the side, driving his fist into her ribs. Andrael hit the floor hard, tasting blood. He loomed over her, sneering, going for her wand—
She kicked up. Hard.
He crumpled, groaning.
The others were down.
Only Selwyn was left standing.
Andrael rose.
The Snatchers in the corner had started placing bets. Coins exchanged hands. None were on her.
Selwyn wiped at his mouth, staring.
Something dark curled behind his expression. His arrogance was still there, but it was warping. Twisting into something else.
Andrael barely had time to register it before he was moving again.
He was fast. But she was faster.
Their wands clashed, spell for spell, but Selwyn had lost his composure. His precision was slipping, his magic erratic, fueled by rage and humiliation. She sidestepped a curse, her wand a blur of motion.
"Incarcerous."
His body snapped rigid as inky black chains wrapped around him. He toppled, slamming against the cold stone floor. Bound. Helpless.
But she wasn't finished.
Her rage was making the restraints sear with heat, singing Selwyn's robes.
Andrael stepped closer. Slowly. Deliberately.
Her wand rose.
And for the first time, she didn't hesitate.
"Crucio."
Selwyn screamed.
Andrael felt nothing.
Not the usual discomfort, not the expected shame.
Nothing at all.
He deserved this.
The room watched, silent now. The Snatchers, the Death Eaters, the ones who had laughed at her expense. Some looked intrigued, others indifferent. No one moved to stop her.
She let the curse linger. Let him feel it. Let him understand.
Then she released it.
Selwyn panted on the ground, eyes wild with hate, but he didn't speak.
Andrael lowered her wand. Her heart was steady. Her voice was calm.
"What I want means everything." Her voice carried.
She looked down at him for a moment, and cursed him again.
His screams almost made her feel good, the rush of power making her smile.
"Enough."
The Dark Lord swept into the rooms, Bellatrix Lestrange on his heels. The Lestrange brothers followed behind in the shadows, wands at the ready.
Andrael dropped the curse immediately, as the Death Eaters fell to their knees. That familiar overwhelming aura enveloped the room, sending stabs of fear into the eyes of the men around her.
He waved his wand, and Andrael's chains melted away from Selwyn like they were nothing. That simple motion terrified her. Those chains had been built from power and rage, her strongest emotions swept aside effortlessly.
He truly was incomparable.
Andrael knew she should kneel, but couldn't bring herself to move from her position, wand pointing downwards. She stood resolute, shoulders tight.
"What is the meaning of this?" He addressed Selwyn first, who was whimpering on the floor, attempting to get his wits back about him.
"Answer me!" Patience had never been the Dark Lord's forte as he cast the Cruciatus Curse himself.
"I- I! It was- n-nothing!"
"Crucio." Perhaps he just enjoyed the screams of his loyal followers, governing by fear.
The Dark Lord whirled around to face Andrael, robes whipping dramatically.
"And you…" He paused. "What is your name, girl?"
"Andrael Cassowary, My Lord." Now she bowed, bending at the waist.
"What is the meaning of this, Andrael Cassowary?" She hated her name in his voice, hated the threat behind his words, hated the fear that settled inside of her, hated the urge to shiver.
"Selwyn meant to have his way with me, My Lord. When he didn't listen to my warning, I made good on my threats. The others… they tried to interfere, in a rather muggle way, I might add. I dealt with them as well."
Andrael had long thought about how she would speak to the Dark Lord when he called upon her directly. She fought to hide the tremble in her voice, mixing the perfect amount of deference with confidence. She had watched him torture his followers for their snivelling, for begging, and that had never been Andrael's strong suit. So she had decided to take the opposite approach, presenting the facts in a logical manner, consequences be damned.
Red eyes bored into her skull. She could feel the weight of his gaze as she tilted her head up to meet it. She needed to show him she was confident, she was strong, she was willing—
Pain ripped through her skull like claws raking down bone. Rumours had always said that the Dark Lord was a powerful Legilimens, but this… this was hell.
(~~~~~) skip
She reeled, vision flickering, but her body stayed upright—barely. Her wand remained gripped in her fist. The others in the room faded to shadows, a blur at the edges of her perception, as he invaded her mind.
Voldemort did not ask for permission.
He took.
The scene replayed itself in her mind's eye, but it wasn't hers anymore—it was his, reshaped by his will, dragged forward from her memories in excruciating detail.
The flicker of Selwyn's smirk.
The way he had touched her wrist.
The words he had spoken.
I'm going to fuck you, and you're going to enjoy it.
Andrael's stomach turned, but she gritted her teeth, forcing her focus singularly on the fight. She could feel his presence digging deeper, raking through her thoughts like jagged glass. Her Occlumency wasn't strong enough to keep him out, but she could at least—
She clenched her mental defences like a vice. She forced herself to relive the duel.
Selwyn lunging.
The fists.
The spells.
The blood.
Focus.
The jeering of the men. The smell of sweat and alcohol. The sharp snap of ribs breaking under her own curses.
Focus.
Voldemort would take what he wanted, but she would not give him more than that.
Pain lanced through her temple. She gasped, nearly staggering, his presence twisting through her mind like a knife in soft flesh. He was prying further, searching for more.
No.
Her control cracked.
The image of another room, another place, almost surfaced—her hand tightening around her wand, the stolen information in her trunk, the things she wasn't supposed to know—
NO.
She latched onto rage, onto violence, onto Selwyn's screams under the Cruciatus Curse.
(~~~~~) resume
And then, just as suddenly as it began, Voldemort let go.
Andrael staggered, head spinning, breath ragged. The room slammed back into focus around her, her knees nearly buckling beneath her.
The Dark Lord stood before her, gaze unreadable, his crimson eyes burning like embers in the dimly lit room.
Andrael clenched her jaw. She swallowed the taste of blood in her mouth. And then she dropped to one knee, bowing her head low in deference.
"You did not lie."
"I would never deceive you, My Lord. I am not arrogant enough to think I would succeed." Was that last bit too much? No, she had tempered the words enough.
The silence made her second guess herself, the stone floor starting to blur in the singular intensity of her gaze. She dared not look back up into those eyes. She would not be able to Occlude much longer. She needed to distract him from her betrayal so she didn't get killed before she had even begun.
The Dark Lord's laughter slithered through the room, slow and deliberate, the sound of something unnatural, something wrong. It was applause without warmth, amusement without joy. He clapped his hands, his long fingers moving in a mockery of appreciation.
"You remind me," he mused, "of another girl who once swore herself to me."
Andrael remained still, her pulse hammering beneath her skin. She did not ask who. She did not need to. There were very few girls that had sworn themselves to the Dark Lord.
Voldemort's crimson gaze raked over her, considering, weighing, deciding. Then, he turned his head slightly, his lips curling in something that might have resembled a smile if it were on another man.
"Bellatrix."
A ripple went through the gathered Death Eaters.
Bellatrix Lestrange stepped forward, her dark eyes alight with a feral, burning hunger. The air around her shimmered with barely restrained magic, her very presence crackling like embers at the edges of a wildfire. She was crazy, and everyone knew it.
"Yes, My Lord," she purred, her eyes shining with fanatic reverence.
"I have a present for you."
"My Lord's kindness knows no bounds."
"It is a reward for your loyalty, my dear." He said coldly, as she bowed deeper than previously thought possible for any human.
Voldemort gestured toward Andrael with a slow, measured flick of his fingers. "She is yours. A toy for you to play with. A little something for you to amuse yourself with."
Bellatrix inhaled sharply, a sound like a lover receiving her heart's desires. She turned, predatory, thrilled.
"You spoil me," she said, practically beaming.
"Do not kill her," the Dark Lord continued, his voice sharp, absolute. "I want to see what she could… become. Train her. Make me a sword."
Bellatrix laughed. High and delighted and mad.
"Oh, what fun~"
Andrael did not flinch. She did not react. But her stomach curled, ice pooling in her gut.
"And what do you think of that, Cassowary?" He said her name mockingly.
"It is a great honour, My Lord, to be trained by one you think so highly of." She looked up at him, slowly and deliberately. "I will not waste your gift."
This was an opportunity for her, too.
Bellatrix hummed, tilting her head as she stepped closer, her dark curls swaying with the movement.
"Oh, she knows how to play, doesn't she?" Bellatrix murmured, dragging her fingers along Andrael's cheek, the touch deceptively soft. Mocking. "What a well-behaved little thing."
Andrael didn't flinch, didn't move, but felt the weight of Bellatrix's gaze. The way her eyes devoured, assessing her not as a person, but as a project. A weapon to be forged.
"I will not waste your gift," she had said. And she meant it.
The Dark Lord watched, his lip curling in faint amusement, his interest already waning. He had handed her to Bellatrix like one might pass a blade to a trusted assassin—casually, knowing it would cut.
Andrael's mind raced. This was an opportunity. Bellatrix was unhinged, yes, but she was also powerful. She had spent years at the Dark Lord's side, learning his ways, drinking in his every word like gospel. If Andrael was to navigate the treacherous waters of this new life, who better to learn from than the most dangerous woman in his service?
Bellatrix's nails traced a slow, deliberate path down her cheek before she withdrew her hand, her smile widening. "Oh, yes. I think I shall enjoy this."
Andrael met her gaze, steady. She was not foolish enough to challenge Bellatrix, but she would not let herself be seen as weak, either.
"I look forward to it, Madame Lestrange," she said smoothly.
Bellatrix grinned, eyes glittering with delight. "Oh, you have manners. How rare in such… company."
Behind her, the gathered Death Eaters chuckled darkly. Some smirked, others murmured, but none dared interfere. This was Bellatrix's game now.
Voldemort waved a hand, dismissing them all as though they were nothing more than pests buzzing around his feet. "See that she learns, Bellatrix."
Bellatrix bowed her head low, reverent. "Of course, My Lord. You will have your sword."
He turned to the room, crimson eyes watching his weak little Death Eaters.
"Why are you all here… let's see. Simply put, you waste your time on filth," he said, his voice smooth yet sharp, each syllable slicing through the air. "The Snatchers and the Ministry hounds will clean the streets of the muggleborn scum. Let them crawl through the mud for their prey."
He stepped forward, gaze sweeping across his gathered forces like a blade at their throats.
"There are greater threats that remain. Defiers." His voice dripped with contempt. "The last remnants of this so-called Order of the Phoenix scuttle in the shadows, clinging to their dying cause like rats in a burning house. Aurors who should be dead have disappeared. Rebels fester beneath your very noses."
His words settled like poison in the room, sinking into every soul present.
"You will find them," he commanded, his tone low, insidious. "You will hunt them. You will drag them into the light and burn away the last embers of their pathetic hope. I want names. I want locations. I want every hidden corner of this wretched isle overturned until there is nowhere left for them to hide."
His gaze sharpened, flicking from face to face. "Do not fail me."
A ripple of fear passed through the ranks.
"Go," he said finally, his voice carrying the weight of dismissal. "And do not return empty-handed."
Then, with a swirl of dark robes and a whisper of air that seemed to pull at their very souls, he was gone. The Dark Lord left, sweeping from the room like a storm receding, his presence lingering even in his absence.
Bellatrix turned back to Andrael, her grin sharp enough to slice.
"Come, pet," she crooned, wrapping an arm around Andrael's shoulders in something that could have been mistaken for camaraderie, if not for the way her fingers dug in. "We have so much work to do."
Andrael let herself be led.
She had gained a mentor. A tormentor.
And, most importantly, a key.
Narcissa did not look away from the window as they entered the drawing room, the delicate porcelain cup poised between her fingers, a picture of effortless refinement. The scent of tea and aged wood filled the air, a stark contrast to the tension that followed Bellatrix wherever she went.
Andrael kept to the threshold, lingering in the shadows as Bellatrix strode forward, her heels clicking sharply against the polished floor.
"Cissy, we must prepare a room," Bella said, her voice lilting with false pleasantry, though the command was clear.
Narcissa took a slow sip of her tea. "Why?"
A single, cold word. It was not spoken out of defiance but out of disinterest, as if the matter of Bellatrix's whims had long become an irritation, a buzzing insect too inconsequential to swat. Only then did she turn her gaze toward Andrael, regarding her with cool detachment.
"This is Andrael Cassowary. She will be staying with us."
"I know who she is," Narcissa said, her voice smooth as silk, but utterly devoid of warmth. "Draco speaks of her. One of Severus's little strays." Her lips curved faintly, something like disdain. "A halfblood."
Andrael remained silent, watching them both with a glint of amusement hidden beneath her passive expression. She had no illusions about where she stood in this house.
Bellatrix tsked, stepping further into the room, placing herself between Andrael and her sister like a cat presenting a freshly caught bird. "Oh, but she's more than that now. The Dark Lord has taken a liking to her." She tilted her head, grinning wickedly. "He's gifted her to me, Cissy."
At that, Narcissa's expression flickered—just for a moment. A tightness around her mouth, a brief press of her fingers against the delicate rim of her cup before she lowered it to its saucer with a soft clink.
"And what, precisely, do you intend to do with your… gift?" she asked, her voice light, but edged with quiet skepticism.
Bellatrix turned, her sharp eyes gleaming as she traced a slow hand across Andrael's cheek. Andrael did not flinch, though her muscles coiled beneath her skin.
"I will make her into a sword," Bellatrix purred. "Something worthy of our Lord."
Narcissa exhaled through her nose, barely concealing her distaste. "A sword," she murmured. "How poetic."
She turned her attention back to the window, as if the matter was already settled. "I'll have a room prepared." A pause. "But don't make a mess, Bella."
Bellatrix laughed, delighted, while Andrael merely inclined her head in silent acceptance.
"Harkey." An elf was summoned. "Prepare a room in the wing my sister is staying in."
Harkey bowed low, its ears touching the ground. "It will be done, Missy Malfoy," it murmured, before popping out of existence as quickly as it came.
"Cissy, darling. You worry too much."
"You give me cause, Bella."
"Do I really?" She paused, tapping her chin in thought. "I would never let anything hurt you. So why else do you worry?"
Narcissa Malfoy just smiled placidly. "I'm expected to discuss a few important matters with Lucius."
Bellatrix frowned, recognising the dismissal for what it was.
"You're no fun."
The woman spun on her heel, taking Andrael with her.
Bellatrix's grip was iron around Andrael's wrist as she pulled her through the winding halls of Malfoy Manor, her stride swift and unrelenting. The tapestries and gilded sconces blurred past them, the manor's quiet elegance at stark odds with Bellatrix's wild energy.
"You will train with me every day," Bellatrix declared, not slowing, not looking back. "There will be no leniency, no mercy. I will carve weakness out of you with my bare hands if I must."
Andrael had no illusions about what this meant. Bellatrix would break her apart and remake her in the image she saw fit—if Andrael let her.
"I understand," Andrael said simply.
Bellatrix laughed, the sound sharp, reverberating off the cold stone walls. "Oh, I know you do, little Cassowary. I saw it in your eyes down there." Her fingers flexed, nails pressing just short of breaking skin. "You don't fear pain, do you?"
Andrael remained silent. That wasn't entirely true. But she knew better than to lie.
They turned a corner sharply, Bellatrix yanking her forward. "I know you from somewhere." A statement, not a question.
Andrael met her gaze, calculating. "I worked in a music shop in Diagon."
For a second, Bellatrix was silent. Then she threw her head back and laughed, delighted, her whole body shaking with mirth.
"Last summer, then." she repeated, dragging Andrael closer, leaning in as if examining her anew. "Oh, what a marvelous little thing. And here I thought you were just another familiar face."
Her grin widened, predatory. "But I knew, even back then, you'd find your way here." She lifted a hand, stroking a stray lock of Andrael's hair almost fondly.
Bellatrix's eyes gleamed with amusement. "Oh, we are going to have fun, you and I."
"...meaning you're going to have fun torturing me." Andrael raised a single eyebrow, wondering if the woman would admit it, or Crucio her right here.
Thankfully, Bellatrix laughed, spinning around in a circle, and throwing open a door.
"Your new… home."
Andrael stepped inside hesitantly, her breath caught somewhere between awe and revulsion. The room was vast—larger than any space she had ever been allowed to call her own. The four-poster bed was draped in deep emerald silk, its carved wooden frame polished to a shine. A vanity stood against the wall, its gilded mirror reflecting the chandelier's soft glow. Plush armchairs sat by a grand fireplace, the scent of cedarwood lingering in the air.
It was opulent. Luxurious. A far cry from the creaky bed at the Hog's Head, from the tiny flat she had once called home above the music shop. Even Hogwarts, with its enchanted ceilings and hidden passageways, had never felt this… excessive.
And yet, it wasn't hers. Nothing in this room belonged to her. Nothing anywhere did anymore.
She turned, feeling Bellatrix's gaze burning into her, watching, waiting, drinking in her every reaction. Andrael schooled her expression into something neutral. "Generous accommodations."
Bellatrix grinned. "Oh, but of course. House Malfoy gives only the finest."
Andrael fought the urge to shiver. The room suddenly felt too large, too much, the air thick and cloying. Bellatrix filled every corner, an oppressive presence, pressing down on her like a vice. Andrael needed space.
She forced herself to bow her head, just slightly. "It's… a great privilege."
Bellatrix let out a pleased hum, stepping toward the doorway. "Get some rest, little Cassowary. We begin at dawn."
The door shut behind her with a click.
Silence.
Andrael stood there, motionless, staring at the pristine, untouched room. It should have felt like a sanctuary, a moment of reprieve from the chaos, from the endless fight for survival.
Instead, it felt like a prison. A beautiful, well-furnished cage.
She moved to the bed on unsteady legs, sinking down onto the silk sheets. Her fingers clenched the fabric, her breath coming in short, shallow bursts.
Everything had been taken from her. Her freedom. Her name. Her choices.
A sob built in her throat, clawing its way up, desperate to escape. But when she tried to cry, nothing came. No tears, no relief. Just a hollow, aching emptiness.
She pressed a hand to her face, trembling, and let the silence consume her.
...
TLDR: Andrael refelcts on more terribles things she's done as a Death Eater. After the conflict with Travers, she's been transferred to the Malfoy section of the forces. Rabastan debriefs her from a mission. She is dismissed, but the Dark Lord has requested an assembly of all death eaters. Andrael waits with the rest and is approached by Selwyn, the Death Eater that overheard the prophecy with her. She is afraid he'll recognizes her but makes a pass at her, assuming she'll fall in line because he's a halfblood. Andrael whoops his ass and the asses of his cronies, and has him under the cruciatus when the Dark Lord comes in. Pissed at the in-fighting, he uses legilimency on Andrael to confirm the series of events. He sees her cold detached strength and is begrudgingly impressed. As a halfblood himself, he sees her use, and gifts her like a present to Bellatrix Lestrange to train up. Translation: make her into a psychopath, because as someone I made into a psychopath, you know what you're doing. Bellatrix drags her upstairs to Narcissa, and a room is prepared for Andrael who will be staying in Malfoy Manor and training with Bellatrix for the forseeable future.