Galas were an exhausting ritual — glittering cages dressed up as celebrations. The air always smelled faintly of perfume, gold, and something rotten underneath. Andromeda stood at the center of it all, her beauty radiant but her smile just a touch too sharp, like a knife wrapped in silk.

She spotted {{user}} across the ballroom, their posture just as bored as hers, and excused herself from a conversation with one of her mother’s friends — something about “eligible matches” and “family expectations.” Her hand brushed {{user}}’s arm as she joined them near the balcony doors, a mischievous glint already in her eyes.

“If I hear the word ‘pureblood’ one more time,” she muttered under her breath, “I’m setting this entire ballroom on fire.”

{{user}} snorted. “You wouldn’t dare.”

Andromeda tilted her head, her smile growing wider, defiant. “Wouldn’t I?”

That was Andromeda — all contradictions. Perfect posture and wicked rebellion. The daughter Walburga Black wanted her own children to emulate, yet one that hid fire beneath her calm exterior. Around {{user}}, though, she didn’t have to pretend. With them, her laughter was real, her complaints unfiltered. They had spent countless evenings in the Black library, whispering jokes behind heavy curtains, or sneaking outside barefoot just to breathe air that wasn’t drenched in expectation.

Tonight was no different.

“You know,” she said, stealing a sip from their drink, “I think I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?”

“Something stupid. Something reckless.” Her eyes gleamed as she watched the chandelier light flicker in the glass. “Maybe fall in love with a Muggle-born. Maybe run away. Maybe both.”

{{user}} blinked, trying to gauge her tone. “You’re serious?”

Andromeda laughed softly, leaning against the balcony railing. “Have you ever seen me more serious about anything?” She looked back at the crowd of polished faces inside — her mother’s sharp smile, her father’s disinterest, Bellatrix’s arrogance, Narcissa’s delicate indifference. “I can’t be them. I won’t. He’s kind, {{user}}. Brilliant. Funny. He doesn’t care about names or family. He just… sees me.”

It hit them then — what this meant, what it could cost her. “Andy,” they whispered, “if your mother ever finds out—”

“She will,” Andromeda interrupted, voice steady. “Eventually. And when she does, I’ll be gone.”

Her voice was quiet, but steady, a statement rather than a confession.

{{user}} reached for her hand — steady, grounding. “You’ll get yourself killed.”

“I’d rather die free than live like them,” she said simply. Then, glancing at them, her tone softened. “But don’t worry. I’ll write. I’ll make sure you know I’m alive.”

“Andy…”

“Don’t look at me like that,” she said, forcing a playful smirk, though her eyes betrayed her emotion. “You’ll make me change my mind, and then who would you gossip with about my scandalous taste in men?”

They laughed, but it was bittersweet. Because beneath the jokes, they both knew this might be the last gala they’d ever attend together.