"Spells are simply expressions of your will—they exist to strengthen your belief. If you truly believe the incantation you speak will manifest, then it amplifies your spellcasting. If German works, why shouldn't English?"
Fred furrowed his brow, considering this for a moment.
"I honestly don't know. I've tried, but it's as if... as if wizards only have one true name. Spells only have one true name too. Call them by another language, and they simply don't recognize you..."
Lys felt somewhat puzzled. Could magic really be understood this way? But regarding Fred's performance and explanation, she could only say it seemed... probably... perhaps logically sound... maybe...
"In Germany, they mock my English. In Britain, they mock my German. But without incantations, my spells become utterly bizarre. That's why I desperately want to master nonverbal magic—then no one could mock me. Just one look, Lys! Crack! Enemy down. Heh heh..."
Hearing Fred's dry chuckle, Lys drew a sharp breath and changed the subject. This was something she couldn't solve for now... Perhaps once they reached Hogwarts, Professor Flitwick could help him. She was still inexperienced, after all.
She remembered that during her fourth year, while her offensive spells packed considerable punch, her theoretical understanding was roughly on par with Fred's—all instinct and luck.
The truth was, average wizards' abilities were limited. At least half the students at any magical school graduated without mastering even a handful of advanced spells, let alone nonverbal or wandless magic.
Fred was already performing admirably. He simply needed time.
Besides, his true talents and interests lay in Potions and Care of Magical Creatures.
Lys flicked away a small spider that had crawled onto the back of her hand, then turned to Fred, steering the conversation elsewhere.
"Let's visit Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes later."
Little Fly had been startled by the Dark Lord earlier, and she'd been shaken as well. They both needed to unwind.
At her words, Fred immediately sprang up from beneath the tree.
He raised his wand, vanishing every blade of grass and speck of dirt from their robes with practiced efficiency, then eagerly pulled Lys—who was still lying on the ground—to her feet by the arm.
"Quickly! Right now! I've wanted to go ever since I arrived in Britain, but I spent all my money on the journey. I'm still underage—you'll still give me pocket money, won't you, Lys?"
Actually, Fred had wanted to visit during their last trip to Diagon Alley, but Lys had been feeling truly unwell then, so he hadn't mentioned it. Later, to keep her mind at ease, he'd avoided leaving her sight or moving about freely.
Sensing Fred's excitement, Lys felt considerably more relaxed herself.
Lys's mood remained fairly good until she saw the Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes storefront. But the garishly yellow-and-purple poster plastered across the large display window made her face freeze instantly.
Lys stood rooted to the spot, her lips moving soundlessly. Fred could vaguely make out the word "constipated" from her mouth movements.
Puzzled, he looked up at the poster that had captured Lys's attention and sucked in a sharp breath himself.
Someone truly had nerves of steel and a death wish...
Why worry about the mysterious man?
You should worry about the Constipated One.
Fred ran a hand over his face, confirming that Lys's human transfiguration was still stable, then pulled her into the shop.
Lys remained in shock. They'd arrested even the ice cream vendor—how was this shop completely problem-free and still operating?!
Had Bellatrix been too busy with killing and threatening lately?
Didn't she have time to check on Diagon Alley?!
Lys stood at the entrance, staring at the bustling crowd inside. She kept expecting someone to suddenly shout: "How dare you! Insulting my Lord—you all deserve death!"
She tossed Fred a small bag of gold coins and told him to hurry up and buy whatever he wanted so they could leave quickly.
Fred browsed and selected items inside with great enthusiasm, but he still calculated the money in his hand carefully, spending only a small portion. Facing Lys's puzzled look, he explained that he'd noticed Gringotts security had become exponentially stricter recently—withdrawing money now required extensive inspections. To avoid trouble, there was no need to spend too much of their cash on hand for recreational purchases.
"What's left will cover my expenses at Hogwarts. Oh, right—when it's time for Hogsmeade visits, you'll need to sign the permission form, but I'm worried the owls won't be able to find you."
Lys gripped the small trinkets Fred handed her, stuffing them absently into her robes while listening to his arrangements. She signed a Hogsmeade permission slip and told him to keep it safe.
On the way back to the reading room, Lys remained relatively quiet, lost in thoughts about the "Constipated One," while Fred munched his way through a bag of chestnuts roasted by miniature dragon models.
When it came time for Hogwarts to begin, Draco didn't come to travel with Fred to school. Fred was somewhat disappointed.
In the end, it was Lys who saw Fred off to catch the train.
Fred was entering Hogwarts as a Durmstrang transfer student, having been squeezed in by several school governors.
He mixed in among a group of first-years, following new student tradition by taking the boats after leaving the train, then walking the winding path toward Hogwarts' magnificent castle.
Under the enthusiastic observation of numerous students and ghosts, he underwent the Sorting ceremony.
The Sorting Hat on Fred's head hesitated for over two minutes. "Oh my, this is difficult... tsk, contradictory... how did it become even more contradictory..."
"Hufflepuff... Hufflepuff... Hufflepuff..."
Finally, after Fred had muttered "Hufflepuff" countless times in his mind, the tattered hat said, "Very well, you do possess some qualities that align with Hufflepuff, but I'm still hesitating... however..."
"Hufflepuff... Hufflepuff... Hufflepuff!"
"HUFFLEPUFF!"
After deliberating even longer than during their session in the headmaster's office, the old hat finally announced Fred's house assignment.
Breathing a sigh of relief, Fred returned the hat and bowed slightly to Professor McGonagall.
Doing his best to ignore Professor Snape's disapproving gaze from the staff table, Fred took his seat at the Hufflepuff table, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. Fortunately, Professor Snape soon left the Great Hall for unknown business.
Though the group Lys called "little badgers" seemed somewhat wary, they still made room for Fred among the fifth-years and regarded him with curious eyes.
Originally, Fred had wanted to enter sixth year, but lacking O.W.L.S. results and having failed to pass all the placement tests, he could only attend fifth year according to his actual age...
He'd already studied this material last year... well... some of it... partially.
But Fred felt it was quite good, actually. Lys had said Dumbledore definitely knew she was a Death Eater, yet still allowed him into the school—that was already quite generous. How could he expect to avoid sharing classes with the Boy Who Lived?
But glancing toward the Slytherin table, Fred thought he might be overthinking things.
Half a row—yes, half a row—see that?
All children of Death Eater families... The other row and a half weren't, but none seemed to oppose the Dark Lord either...
Lost in these thoughts, Fred was still distracted when Dumbledore announced the feast's beginning. Looking at the pumpkin juice before him, Fred awkwardly tapped the table with his wand. "One pitcher of milk, please. Thank you."
He'd promised Lys—drink more milk, grow taller...
Though more likely it was because pumpkin juice was truly...
Outside, Lys was officially assigned "persuasion" duties but actually slipped away to the much more desolate Knockturn Alley. Using her previous connections and intelligence from Lucius, she secured some channels and identities, then brought several profitable contracts from opportunistic foreigners to Narcissa.
"I can't do this—Father isn't here and I can't calculate these figures. Senior, please look them over and sign by tonight."
Lys leaned against the sofa in what had been Lucius's study, rubbing her forehead as she probed carefully. "I've noticed far fewer people coming and going from Malfoy Manor lately. Some operation underway?"
Narcissa habitually collected the contracts.
Ever since several Death Eaters had attempted to target the Malfoy family and her junior had intervened to stop them, she seemed to have misunderstood something, constantly bringing back trade contracts...
She wanted to tell her junior that the Malfoys weren't in the dire straits she imagined, but faced with Stalys's knowing expression, she remained silent.
Narcissa looked at Lys and offered a brief explanation. "The Ministry raided and searched the manor two days ago, so the Dark Lord has relocated several small meetings with some Death Eaters twice now."
Since Lys had eliminated Karkaroff's associates, the Dark Lord no longer paid her much attention. Aside from collective meetings, she was no longer required to attend smaller gatherings.
"Draco's letter mentioned your brother was sorted into Hufflepuff?"
Seeing Lys nod, Narcissa considered her words carefully.
"Then let him make some friends. The Dark Lord will need a batch of neutral families to pledge allegiance voluntarily. Having contributions and leverage gives one the qualifications to... stand in this group."
Just thinking about this made Lys's head throb. She forced herself not to show her displeasure, understanding what Narcissa meant to convey, but...
She said her goodbyes and left.
Back in the reading room, she sat in the corner that had once belonged exclusively to her, gazing at the spot where she'd once hidden the Thomas family's trunk.
She suddenly realized that whenever she resigned herself to fate, she inevitably discovered things she absolutely could not tolerate in her current situation.
She raised the wine bottle in her hand, looking at the wall corner that had become silver and pockmarked from her magical corruption years ago.
The Dark Lord...
He stood upon corpses, stood upon her fears.
He didn't treat his followers well, controlling and influencing the family that sheltered her.
He created Horcruxes—more than one—a genuine madman.
Now he'd set his sights on her brother. He despised anything that didn't exist according to his will.
So not just herself—her Freedom would also lose the freedom to be himself...
Lys took another gulp of wine.
All the direct male heirs of the Black family were dead. All dead.
What remained was Fred, this Black bastard boy...
Lys had calculated that if Fred changed his surname back to Black and gained recognition through true name magic, his inheritance rights to the Black family would absolutely supersede those of that stupid dog's godson—little Potter.
Lys remembered Regulus's marking ceremony.
She looked at her left forearm, wrapped in protective bracers.
Closing her eyes, she actually felt grateful her father was a werewolf—otherwise, the Dark Lord would probably have dug him up by now to serve as decorative window dressing, wouldn't he?
Given Father's tendency to crumble under pressure...
Swallowing the wine in her mouth, Lys felt as lost as she had before her first mission as a Death Eater.
She'd tried so hard. When her magical abilities weren't enough, she'd trained her magical application. She'd worked tirelessly to find support for her family. After discovering some of her ideas were pure wishful thinking, she'd played the fool and kept her head down... Yet she still couldn't see any hope.
The Dark Lord hadn't failed to notice her—he simply held her in contempt.
Contempt for her worthless self.
But he'd definitely discovered some value in Fred as the last Black heir.
The thought alone filled Lys with sorrow.
Imagining Fred someday being forced to do the same things she did made Lys cover her face with her hands.
She wouldn't allow it.
She wasn't a particularly good person. She'd killed as an accomplice to evil, killed for her own grudges... But she wanted a peaceful life, wanted someone to help her when she was in trouble.
She could distinguish between rules others wanted to impose on her and the world's true rules.
So while she had her own principles, she also lived within the world's actual rules.
Because of this, she'd also helped others survive, and when facing disputes where the other party was wrong, she hadn't always sought to destroy them completely. Based on this alone, no one could definitively say Lys was a bad person.
She felt somewhat helpless. With things having developed to this point, what exactly should she do...
While vanishing the wine bottles on the floor with her wand, Lys looked at the magical implement in her hand and remembered her childhood troubles.
Turning spellcasting objects silver had once been her greatest worry.
Now, thinking back, it was just... just...
Never mind. Lys still didn't know why things turned silver.
She drained the last bottle of wine, scrubbed her face, and sent a letter to Noah and Senna.
Riding her liquid courage, she also wrote a congratulatory card to Menilqued Karkaroff, celebrating his new son.
An entity with ambiguous allegiances—who knew when such a thing might prove useful? Just a card, just an attitude.
After all, the Karkaroff family knew she was responsible but hadn't issued a warrant for her arrest...
Holding the congratulatory card, Lys remembered Regulus speaking to her at the Malfoy celebration for having a son.
His family was gone. The entire bloodline extinct.
Lys slammed the table suddenly, but only secretly dispatched Cerebold to deliver the letters.
Just like over a decade ago, Lys knew that until the Dark Lord died, she had to bow her head.
In the Dark Lord's eyes, people had only two choices: serve or die.
She'd heard about it—details of some battles between the Dark Lord and Dumbledore at the Ministry had leaked. Even though that boy called the Chosen One, Potter, had been within reach, the Dark Lord still hadn't managed to harm him, and many of his followers hadn't made it back.
But Dumbledore's condition didn't seem particularly good either. In photographs from events like Wizengamot sessions and international conferences, he appeared much older, always seeming somewhat weary.
The Dark Lord's years without a body might have prevented his magical power from growing, but Dumbledore had genuinely begun to weaken.
As one waned and the other waxed, darkness was beginning to spill over the boundaries.
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