Once Lys had recovered enough to manage basic self-care, she became desperate to send Fred away.
Even with her brother doing everything possible to protect himself, this place remained a death trap waiting to spring.
She had never imagined that after the Dark Lord's return, Fred would somehow find his way here...
Lys understood her fatal weakness with crystalline clarity: her resistance to mental magic was abysmal, a consequence of both natural limitations and the peculiar nature of her soul. It was her greatest vulnerability—and potentially her death sentence.
As Narcissa had explained, her senior had summoned Healers to treat her condition, but their diagnosis proved grimly accurate: Lys could never cooperate with treatment. She would never lower her mental defenses, not even in delirium. Survival instinct ran too deep. She knew that if even the smallest fragment of the Dark Lord's secrets leaked from her memories, it would trigger a massacre.
If Fred hadn't traveled across continents with medicine clutched in his desperate hands, if he'd simply thrown the potions at her and fled after recognizing the danger—she would have become a genuine, drooling imbecile.
A real idiot. Not pretending. Not strategic. Just... gone.
So while Fred's arrival filled her with fierce joy—someone had chosen her, had risked everything to care for her—the more precious something became, the more carefully it needed to be hidden.
When someone finally won this war, she would have a home to return to.
Packing their belongings while absently offering Fred another glass of milk, Lys studied her brother's persistently small stature with growing concern.
She transferred sensitive items from Fred's bag to her own, thinking: Draco's grown nearly as tall as Lucius, so why does my brother still look like he's twelve?
Fred eyed the milk with weary resignation, waving his hands in protest. "Lys, I really can't drink any more—I just finished a whole glass!"
Lys paused, processing this information with visible effort, then regretfully drained the milk herself.
"Right then. Grab your trunk—I'll escort you to the pub and send you home properly. Though I'm genuinely curious how you managed to find your way to Britain when your magic is so rudimentary and you can't even Apparate."
"Where's my wand?" Lys spun in confused circles, searching.
"On your wrist holster. I'm fifteen now, Lys." Fred's voice carried quiet pride. "When you were fifteen, you were already protecting our family. Now it's my turn."
He shouldered his satchel and followed her down the stairs through a secluded side corridor. "If I were strong enough, I could protect you properly all the time."
"Fred, strength isn't enough—not unless you're the strongest. When you're forced to choose, what you pay and what you lose will hurt just as much regardless."
Lys tugged his collar, pulling the hood over his distinctive hair. "Thank Merlin you came when you did. Another month and I genuinely would have become a vegetable. Now we just need to—"
Rounding the concealed corner, Lys dropped into a sharp bow while simultaneously clamping her hand over Gabon's mouth. "My Lord!"
Fred fumbled with his oversized hood, mouth half-open to speak, before the words died in his throat. A beat later, he managed: "Good afternoon, Dark Lord."
"How... touching... this display of... familial devotion." Voldemort sat facing the gallery of Malfoy ancestral portraits, his back to them both, voice dripping lazy mockery.
"Tell me—do you harbor resentment? That I chose not to heal you personally?"
The word 'resentment' hit Lys like a Cruciatus Curse. Her mind, barely functional on the best of days, began shutting down entirely.
She'd only recovered enough for basic self-care. This level of stress sent her thoughts scattering like startled birds.
Fred glanced at his sister—saw her mouth working soundlessly—and nudged her elbow gently.
The gesture only increased her panic. August heat made sweat bead along her hairline.
When no answer came, Voldemort rotated his chair with theatrical slowness. His serpentine gaze fell upon Fred, who was still trying to prod his sister into speech, while Lys remained frozen in mute terror.
He laughed—a sound like breaking glass in a tomb.
The laugh made every hair on Fred's neck stand rigid. Even Bellatrix hadn't inspired this level of primal fear.
"Honored sir," Fred managed, his voice steadier than he felt, "that you tolerate my sister serving you in her... current condition, while continuing to provide sanctuary, is already more grace than we deserve."
Lys's jaw finally unlocked.
Gabon abandoned his struggles, shrinking deeper into Lys's cloak as Nagini emerged from the shadows. The massive serpent's scales looked dull without Lys's regular care, but her size dwarfed Gabon by a factor of five.
Voldemort studied the black-haired, gray-eyed boy with predatory interest, summoning Nagini with a gesture and stroking her head with deceptive gentleness.
He recalled recent scenes witnessed through his familiar's eyes—this child addressing the red-haired Black as 'sister' during conversations with Draco. How... unexpected. The Black bloodline harbored another male heir after all.
He'd intended to observe longer...
His finger traced patterns on Nagini's skull while he considered possibilities. Then, decision made: "Fetch Draco."
His attention shifted to Fred. "You remain."
Understanding the dismissal, Lys took an involuntary step forward—wanting to refuse, to shield her brother—but ultimately obeyed.
Voldemort accepted nothing less than absolute submission. Anything that caused his servants to hesitate faced immediate destruction.
Including the servants themselves.
She couldn't defeat him. Not yet. Perhaps not ever.
Obedience offered better odds than defiance, however slim the margin.
Even knowing this, Lys's departure was wooden, mechanical. Voldemort's soft laughter followed her retreat.
The red-haired Black and her pathetic philosophy, he mused. Only the weak constantly balance sacrifice against loss—how tediously naive.
Yet her desperate need to remove her brother sparked genuine irritation.
Considering her touching devotion to family, perhaps he should indulge their desire for togetherness? As any considerate master would?
Leave? Like the elder Black's strategy of raising two sons with different loyalties, maintaining options?
Leave? Carrying intelligence about his plans to Germany, to Karkaroff?
No. His return must be announced from a position of absolute strength, reclaiming the support of those arrogant international purebloods.
Then, step by methodical step, he would close his fist around them all. Time was his greatest ally.
For now, his servants should demonstrate proper gratitude for his tolerance.
Many Death Eaters remained trapped in Azkaban—now defenseless without its Dementor guards. During this transitional period, only those who proved truly valuable deserved places at his side.
The moment Lys left Voldemort's sight, she summoned the nearest house-elf. "Fetch your young master immediately. The Dark Lord requires him."
With creatures capable of instantaneous travel throughout the manor, she wouldn't waste precious seconds running errands. Every moment Fred spent alone with Voldemort made her soul writhe.
She crept back, straining to overhear their conversation, but distance and Voldemort's habitual whisper made eavesdropping impossible. Fred's responses were equally muted—he wouldn't dare raise his voice.
At least Nagini remained calm. That was... something.
Draco appeared within minutes, face pale with barely controlled terror. Lys studied him briefly, reminding herself: Don't blame the child. Don't blame yourself.
Fred's presence here made this confrontation inevitable. She'd feared precisely this scenario—why else the desperate urgency to send him away?
Sometimes she wondered if their father's legendary bad luck was hereditary. Why else would she be the only one ambushed by those Department of Mysteries brains?
Though, she reflected grimly, at least I wasn't the Death Eater whose brain was physically reverted to infancy during the Ministry battle. Some perspectives are relative.
Leading Draco back, she risked a glance at the scene. Fred looked shaken but unharmed. Voldemort maintained his previous position, eyes still closed in apparent meditation.
"Arrange for your little friend to attend Hogwarts as well. The Malfoy family's... connections... should make this simple enough."
Voldemort's tone carried cutting mockery. "If that threadbare Sorting Hat places him in Slytherin, you'll have a useful assistant for your assigned task. Following your father's example—how fortunate."
His smile was a blade wrapped in silk. "At minimum, he appears marginally more intelligent than Lucius's previous collaborator."
He extended the hand stroking Nagini, waggling one pale finger while tilting his head to peer down at Fred. "Should he land elsewhere, I trust that by graduation he'll prove capable of assisting your... intellectually limited sister?"
Voldemort glanced upward as if the ambient light had grown bothersome. A casual gesture dimmed every source of illumination by half, draping the chamber in oppressive shadow.
In the resulting chiaroscuro, his voice took on hypnotic cadences:
"The Dark Lord shows infinite patience with promising youth. You represent the future—the foundation upon which glory shall reclaim its rightful pinnacle..."
Lys, forced to cycle through her memories without respite for a month, closed her eyes as she bowed her head. She couldn't risk letting hatred show.
She'd heard Voldemort speak those exact words to at least three others: Regulus Black, Barty Crouch Jr., and that poor boy from St. Mungo's.
To her ears, the phrase was a death sentence wrapped in false promise.
My Friedrich...
A careless wand movement rotated Voldemort's chair away from them. "You may go. I have matters to discuss with Abraxas's portrait."
Fred tugged Lys's sleeve, guiding her through the proper respectful bow before they retreated with Draco from the portrait gallery.
Draco shuddered, remembering the task recently assigned to him. For several heartbeats, none of them spoke.
The trap had sprung shut around them all.
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