Having lost track of Lys, that peculiar Death Eater, the Order of the Phoenix members who had arrived as reinforcements wore expressions of barely concealed frustration. The first Death Eater they'd faced alone after Dumbledore had given chase had simply... vanished into thin air.
Someone muttered a complaint under their breath before reluctantly returning to position.
After the grueling task of extinguishing those unnatural black flames—flames that seemed to devour light itself—the team dispersed with military efficiency. Some secured the captured Malfoy and his fellow Death Eaters in the main hall, while others dealt with the bewildered young wizards who had somehow found their way from Hogwarts to the Ministry's depths.
"Right then, Miss Lovegood," an Order member said with strained patience, "I can now tell you with absolute certainty that the Ministry doesn't house any Aquavirius Maggots. What's in this room is merely a collection of rather disgusting, slimy brains, and now—"
"She helped us," Luna interrupted softly, one hand pressed to the back of her head.
"What?!"
"That lady helped us—the Death Eater, I mean. Some sort of detection charm, or perhaps a healing spell." Luna's voice carried that peculiar dreamy quality that made others question her grip on reality.
The Order member's face cycled through bewilderment, then settled on anger. He began examining Luna's head with professional concern.
Forced to bow her head, Luna gazed down at the partially charred brains scattered across the floor. She raised one finger with characteristic earnestness: "The Death Eater lady had terribly thick Wrackspurts clouding her mind. Perhaps a Crumple-Horned Snorkack horn might help, or maybe riding a Dirigible Plum. Though I suspect she wouldn't care for soup made from freshwater Plimpies."
"Merlin's beard... Tonks, get over here! This child's injured her brain somehow, but I can't detect anything wrong!"
"I can't leave now! I'm halfway through binding these Death Eaters... Remus? Could you take a look?"
Lupin had been standing motionless by a doorway, the acrid stench of leaked brain fluid filling his nostrils. His consciousness seemed to snap back from the abyss of grief to the immediate crisis.
"Yes, of course."
He raised his wand, casting two diagnostic charms at Luna's head with practiced precision.
"Professor Lupin, how lovely to see you again," Luna said, still maintaining her awkward bow.
"Though I believe others might be more severely injured than I am. You have quite as many Wrackspurts as that kind Death Eater lady. You should rest..."
Lupin frowned. "What kind Death Eater?"
Order of the Phoenix Headquarters: Grimmauld Place
Lupin sat hunched in the kitchen's perpetual gloom, lost in memories, when the familiar sound of crunching biscuits reached his ears.
"Don't steal biscuits, Sirius," he murmured automatically. "The crumbs will drive Molly mad, and she'll—"
The words died in his throat. Sirius was gone—murdered by his own cousin in that cursed Department of Mysteries.
He lifted his gaze toward the doorway where light spilled in. Dumbledore stood there, setting down a stack of hastily scrawled reports, his lined face etched with worry. The headmaster seemed surprised to find someone else in the shadows.
"Forgive me for disturbing your solitude, my dear boy. Events unfolded so rapidly, I—"
"Headmaster!" Lupin jerked away from the light, cutting off whatever consolation Dumbledore might offer. "I understand. I'm simply—"
He dropped his gaze, as if searching beneath the table for a large black dog that might bound out to startle them both. But there was only empty space and dust motes dancing in the weak light.
"Based on Miss Lovegood's description," Lupin said, desperately steering the conversation away from grief, "I believe I know our escaped Death Eater's identity."
A ghost of a smile tugged at his scarred features—not from joy, but from the bitter irony of memory.
"The witch should be Starliss Black."
Unbidden, he remembered Sirius's incredulous reaction years ago: "Remus! She's actually a girl! Bloody hell!" The black-haired youth had paced circles around his dormitory, confusion nipping at his heels like an overeager puppy. "Regulus is gone—they say he's dead. I've seen Mother's letters... I must be losing my mind, but I keep thinking that child Starliss might be Regulus's..."
Lupin's expression twisted into something between laughter and tears.
Dumbledore sighed, recognizing the dangerous territory of Sirius-shaped grief. "Starliss, yes. I understand, Remus."
The headmaster studied Lupin's hunched form with paternal concern. "Harry awaits me at Hogwarts, so might I ask you to handle matters here? Sometimes being among others helps prevent us from drowning in loss."
Lupin nodded mutely. After Dumbledore departed, he buried his face in his hands as phantom voices echoed through his memory:
"This is just a furry little problem, Moony. Don't let it consume you."
"Look, Dumbledore chose you for prefect, not us troublemakers."
"I've run away from home. You lot are all I have now."
"You're my friend—forever Prongs, Padfoot, and Moony! You wouldn't dock points from James and me, would you? Evans would murder him!"
"If I die someday, never let them hang my portrait here. I refuse to be trapped in this house again—trapped in this surname..."
A tremendous crash echoed from the sitting room as something heavy toppled over. Mrs. Black's portrait erupted into her familiar shrieking:
"FILTH! BLOOD TRAITOR! HALF-BREED! My noble house shall never suffer your contamination!"
Lupin strained to hear that beloved voice shouting back: "Shut up, you horrible old hag!"
But silence answered the portrait's venom—only Tonks's weak apologies drifting through the door.
Rage surged through Lupin's chest like molten metal. He burst from the kitchen and roared at the writhing portrait:
"Your blood traitor is DEAD! He'll never return to this wretched house he despised! Now—" He drew a shuddering breath. "Shut up, you horrible old hag, I said SHUT UP!"
Together, he and Tonks wrenched the heavy curtains across Walburga Black's snarling visage.
Neither noticed the moment of stunned bewilderment that flickered across the painted features before the darkness claimed them—as if some buried memory had stirred at news of her son's death, only to be crushed again by the portrait's magical limitations.
Before the curtains sealed completely, one final curse escaped: "Blood traitor who stained the Black honor..."
After her escape from the Ministry, Lys had Apparated to a small copse behind Malfoy Manor, where she wandered like a lost spirit for two full days before the terrified house-elf Fifi discovered her.
Narcissa, meanwhile, was drowning in crisis management. With Lucius captured red-handed by Dumbledore himself—witnessed by dozens in the Department of Mysteries—there could be no legal maneuvering, no bribes or political favors. Her husband was bound for Azkaban, and even the Dementors' defection offered little hope.
The letters she'd sent to former allies went largely unanswered. When replies did come, they were masterpieces of evasion—polite expressions of helplessness wrapped in careful boundary-setting.
Everything was spiraling beyond her control.
Without direct orders, Fifi had no choice but to install Lys in her previous guest quarters. The house-elf lived in terror of the sharp questioning and incoherent shouting that echoed from the room—memories of bloody, dark magic-tainted teeth still haunted its dreams. It took to magically delivering food rather than risk direct contact.
Only when the Dark Lord's fury began to ebb did Narcissa notice Starliss—a ghostly figure trailing behind Nagini, her face swollen, muttering endlessly about "Gabon getting too thin."
The Dark Lord's rage had indeed cooled, particularly after reading the Daily Prophet's recent reports. That helpless bulletin had been a trumpet call, signaling the resumption of his grand work. Rules would bend to his will once more, and the coming darkness filled his soul with anticipation.
But when he saw Lys's condition after the meeting, displeasure flickered across his serpentine features. Her absence from the gathering reeked of shirking duty—something he would not tolerate from any servant, regardless of their current usefulness.
After Cruciatus failed to produce coherent responses, he employed Legilimency. The chaotic jumble of memories racing through her mind at impossible speeds nearly made even the Dark Lord dizzy.
His lips pressed into a thin line of distaste. This subordinate's mind was thoroughly shattered.
"She's a Black, isn't she?" he said finally, lowering his wand. "Let her remain. Death Eaters who serve faithfully deserve protection even when their usefulness ends. The Dark Lord remembers all contributions."
Before departing, he restored her swollen features with a casual gesture. That young face, those familiar gray eyes... they stirred memories of Abraxas and Walburga, of brilliant games played against worthy opponents.
Looking at this red-haired Black, the Dark Lord felt an uncharacteristic flutter of sentiment—quickly crushed by irritation at his current crop of followers.
Narcissa, having dealt with the remaining Death Eaters, found herself staring at Starliss with barely controlled exasperation. How many times had this happened now? If circumstances were different, she'd gladly send a commendation letter to whatever healer had diagnosed brain damage—along with a patient!
She'd consulted experts from St. Mungo's and Knockturn Alley, but their verdict was unanimous: "Her defenses are impenetrable. She's either unwilling or unable to cooperate with treatment. Any external intervention will only worsen her condition."
"If you don't want her mind reduced to that of a newborn," one had warned, "she must heal herself."
With no alternatives, Narcissa locked Lys in the guest room and tried unsuccessfully to locate the snake she kept mentioning. The house-elf couldn't penetrate whatever protections Lys had placed on her study.
After instructing Fifi to monitor their damaged guest, Narcissa turned her attention to more pressing matters. The Dark Lord's anger was rising again, and she had a family name to protect—the Malfoys she'd married into, the legacy destined for her son.
The Blacks were already lost. She couldn't let the Malfoys follow them into oblivion.
Draco stood in his family's apothecary shop on Diagon Alley, pale features drawn with exhaustion. Blue veins showed through the translucent skin of his hands as he gripped inventory reports, the weight of responsibility aging him beyond his years.
He was collecting material samples and accounts for his mother when an unexpected figure appeared. After a quick glance at the deserted street, he pulled the visitor into the shop's back room.
"Fred! What brings you here?"
Draco's expression tightened with apprehension. He dreaded the inevitable questions about Lys—questions he had no idea how to answer.
"My letters to sister have gone unanswered for weeks," Fred explained, worry creasing his young features. "Cerebold—our family owl—is practically molting from stress. I had to come see what's wrong."
"Why didn't you ask in your letters to me?" Draco's voice carried a note of reproach. "I could have consulted with Mother."
"I wasn't sure if correspondence was safe. German magical newspapers paint a grim picture of events here—even the Daily Prophet exports are heavily censored now. I thought it best to come in person."
What Fred didn't voice was his deeper concern: Lys might be unable to obtain Soul Stabilizer, and without it... The fewer people who knew about that particular dependency, the better. Even Lulu and her mother remained ignorant of Lys's condition.
"Do you know where my sister is? I checked the old house, but only found Gabon there—and judging by his condition, she hasn't been home in ages."
Draco's gaze skittered away like a startled animal. His current home felt utterly unsuitable for this friend whose thoughts ran counter to pure-blood ideology. The Dark Lord's frequent presence made everything infinitely more dangerous.
If Lys recovered and discovered he'd exposed Fred to such peril...
The memory of the sitting room's perpetual reek of blood, those gray eyes so unlike his parents', sent a chill down his spine.
Fred caught the evasion immediately. "She's in serious trouble, isn't she? Something she can't handle alone?"
"I... it's not exactly that..."
"Draco." Fred's voice carried quiet certainty. "You know where my sister is."
After a moment's hesitation, looking at this friend who'd taken curses meant for him despite their height difference, Draco nodded reluctantly.
"But..."
"Just tell me where she is. That's all I need."
With visible reluctance, Draco began explaining Lys's current condition—the shattered mind, the incoherent rambling, the dangerous sanctuary of Malfoy Manor where the Dark Lord himself held court.
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