Through the thick emerald mist that swirled around them, Igor Karkaroff stumbled blindly, his desperate flight robbed of all direction and purpose.
Within the suffocating fog, Igor's voice cracked as he pleaded with his pursuer—begging, bargaining, promising anything for mercy.
But how could such mercy exist? His words couldn't even penetrate the magical shroud that trapped them both.
Weeks of terror and flight had hollowed Igor's cheeks and eye sockets, transforming him into something resembling a cornered rat. Which, in many ways, he was.
In his desperation to gauge whether Lys might spare him, Igor had made a fatal miscalculation. Among his emotional appeals, he'd mentioned her years at Durmstrang...
Lys knew her traveling identity hadn't been perfectly concealed—but only two or three people possessed that knowledge. Without connecting evidence, no one would think to link those activities to her current self.
Cold sweat beaded across her forehead as the implications crashed over her.
The premise was no connecting evidence...
Igor knew. He actually knew.
He'd gambled everything on this knowledge—and lost the moment he opened his mouth.
Originally, Lys had planned to maintain appearances, exchange a few more spells to make this look like a proper duel. But now...
Outside the mist, Cleaver caught fragments—something about wanted posters and Siberia—before magical thunder drowned out everything else.
Flying debris whistled past his face as he ducked for cover.
Within that emerald shroud, sickly green light flashed once.
For one terrifying instant, Lys felt her soul settle into profound peace and satisfaction. The realization horrified her so completely she struck herself across the face.
The violent shock caused her concentration to waver, and the concealing mist dissipated by half.
For protecting secrets, for venting helplessness—I felt comfort in killing. Satisfaction in murder.
She could do extreme things when necessary. Could be ruthless for survival, for protecting what mattered. The relief that came from eliminating threats—that she could barely accept.
But this twisted satisfaction? This hunger?
It felt like scratching a festering wound until it bled—the momentary relief masking deeper corruption. And underneath her horror lurked something worse: anticipation. A craving for the next time.
Guilt and hunger warred within her. She was dying of thirst, but only poison remained to drink.
In the thinning mist, she withdrew half a bottle of Soul-Stabilizing Potion and drained it. Instead of the usual soothing calm, she experienced only hollow disappointment—like a drug that no longer worked.
After examining Karkaroff's corpse and ensuring no traces connected to her remained, Lys lifted the body and emerged from the dissipating fog.
Cleaver clutched his bleeding arm where her stray hex had caught him. "Bloody hell! What was all that noise for? Move—German Aurors are coming!"
He shook his head, ears ringing from the magical cacophony. Spotting approaching figures in the distance, he cursed and raised his wand, firing the Dark Mark above a nearby cottage.
"Dump the body. I'll tell the Dark Lord you completed the mission properly."
What should have been a subtle, intimidating assassination—something to enhance both their reputations—had devolved into a chaotic retreat.
Madwoman, Cleaver thought bitterly. Just killing someone, but she nearly severed my arm with the collateral damage.
He didn't dare voice these complaints. The look in her eyes reminded him too much of Bellatrix—as if Cruciatus and Avada Kedavra might follow any perceived slight.
"We're leaving. Now."
Before Disapparating, Lys took one final look at the cottage now marked with their calling card.
Igor... Karkaroff...
Cleaver emerged from Voldemort's private chamber, squinting against sunlight that seemed unnaturally bright after the oppressive darkness within.
He recalled the Dark Lord's assessment of the red-haired Black during his report:
"If her mind functioned even marginally better, my dear Cleaver, there would once again be a place for the Black family at my side. Such a waste..."
Touching his freshly healed arm, Cleaver's thoughts turned calculating. He sought out Bellatrix, sensing opportunity.
Something felt wrong about this particular Black. With the Malfoys fallen from grace, new alliances needed forging...
After another Death Eater gathering, Narcissa accompanied Draco before retreating to her study, staring bleakly at ledgers showing more expenses than income.
Igor Karkaroff was dead. His family had ignored him in life but now made a show of accepting the German Ministry's conclusions, posting a token reward for information.
Narcissa understood the implications: foreign powers were choosing sides. Her international contracts were becoming liabilities rather than assets.
Strangely, this brought relief. Every foreign correspondence required such careful consideration—any misplaced word could become ammunition for rivals claiming Malfoy disloyalty.
The family was being circled by scavengers, waiting for weakness.
She glanced at the family portrait on Lucius's desk, and her momentary relief evaporated.
Meanwhile, Lys inspected the manor's dungeons with growing unease.
She emerged frowning while Peter Pettigrew cast Silencing Charms over the cells, muttering complaints.
The prisoners were a mixed lot—Ollivander cowered in one corner, which made strategic sense. But why the ice cream vendor? Did Voldemort require artisanal frozen treats?
Her suspicions about exaggerated mission reports seemed confirmed. None of the truly dangerous prisoners she'd feared were present.
The manor's descent into lawless chaos—serving as refuge for any Death Eater or dark wizard seeking sanctuary—made her increasingly uncomfortable. This was no place for Fred.
She approached Narcissa carefully, hinting at her concerns.
"Senior, Fred can't even fly his broomstick at the manor..."
Fred was passionate about flying—he'd ridden his broom for portions of his journey from Germany. Confining him felt cruel.
Narcissa arranged a convenient assignment: negotiating with neutral families of questionable value.
"Whether you succeed or fail with them doesn't matter," Narcissa said, maintaining her aristocratic bearing despite obvious strain. "Just... be careful."
Lys cast diagnostic charms on her senior, noting the exhaustion Narcissa tried to hide. "You need rest and proper medication. You look terrible."
Narcissa managed a wan smile, accepting the document Lys offered.
"What's this?"
Lys shifted uncomfortably. "I don't know Draco's assignment, but it seems unpleasant. I wanted you to tell him not to involve Fred at school. If my brother approaches him first..."
She stopped, shaking her head. "Forget I mentioned it."
Straightening her shoulders, she left without finishing the thought.
Narcissa studied the document—and the substantial monetary figures attached. Her expression grew complex as she silently accepted both the money and its implications.
The Malfoys hadn't fallen that far... yet.
But her acceptance meant she understood: Voldemort's attention was more than any child should bear.
Especially when that attention came with impossible demands.
Kill Dumbledore...
Asking a schoolboy to murder the most powerful wizard alive.
As Lys's footsteps faded, Narcissa's spine bent under invisible weight before she forced herself upright again.
Some burdens couldn't be shared, no matter how desperately one wished otherwise.
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━
📚 BOOK COMPLETED ON PATREON!📚
This story has reached its conclusion on my Patreon!
🔥 Full story available now
💎 Exclusive bonus content & early access to new books
👉 Join my Patreon community today!
[✨patreon.com/DarkGolds]
━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━