Inside the chamber, Voldemort muttered to himself in tones too low and distorted to decipher clearly.
The portrait before him depicted a man with pale golden hair, lips curved in a knowing smile that suggested countless hidden schemes. He wore robes of silver and green, slender fingers gripping an ornate serpent-headed cane with aristocratic ease.
Abraxas Malfoy—the man who had lifted Tom Riddle from obscurity and set him on the path to power.
Years ago, the curse-induced illness Voldemort had orchestrated reached its final stages, making it impossible for Abraxas to endure the magical drain required for portrait creation. In his pride, he had refused to accept such a diminished version of himself being preserved for eternity.
So now Voldemort faced only an ordinary painting—no conversation, no counsel, not even the slightest movement. Just pigment and canvas, as lifeless as its subject.
"Abu, you see how right I was," he whispered to the static image. "If you hadn't obstructed me, hadn't defied my commands, we could have achieved this years ago. Perhaps you would have lived to witness our triumph..." His voice carried mock regret. "No matter. Though your son lacks your brilliance entirely, he compensates with superior obedience. Yes, I shall endeavor to preserve his... existence."
The three outside caught only fragments through the heavy door.
When Voldemort's voice emerged clearly, it carried the weight of absolute command: "Go then, Draco. Atone for your father's failures. Demonstrate the Malfoy family's true worth."
Fred drew a shaky breath, not daring to meet Draco's stricken gaze. He squeezed the boy's shoulder twice before guiding the stumbling Lys away from that cursed chamber.
Back in their room, Fred cast two clumsy but effective privacy charms before attempting to speak: "Lys, do you know Occlumency—mmph!"
Lys's hand clamped over his mouth a beat too late, her instincts finally catching up. She'd recognized the danger the moment she saw him casting detection wards.
Shaking her head, she released him and summoned Fifi with her wand, taking deep, steadying breaths.
Only after the house-elf confirmed Voldemort's departure—and Nagini's absence, meaning no feeding duties—did Lys dismiss her and signal Fred to continue.
"I know Occlumency," Fred said quietly. "The Dark Lord used Legilimency on me. I kept my head down and managed to hide some things. He asked about Mother..."
Lys's head snapped toward him with violent intensity, her voice emerging as a harsh rasp: "What did you show him?"
"Mother drinking herself into tremors and exploding cauldrons. You threatening those Potioneer Association officials." Fred's expression was peculiar. "Without me saying a word, he looked at me with utter disgust and said... 'Truly similar inferiority.' Then he moved on to other questions."
Lys's face cycled through disgust, relief, and barely contained fury. "What else?" she croaked.
Her face flushed red, sweat beading along her hairline despite the cool air.
Fred spoke while gently settling her on the bed's edge: "Don't panic, Lys. He didn't probe much deeper—just asked how I planned to return to Germany. Before I could answer, he arranged for me to attend school with Draco."
What Fred omitted: Voldemort had also inquired about his full name and age, plus some muttered comment about the Black surname that Fred hadn't quite caught.
He knew his sister's volatile relationship with their family name. Better to wait until she'd stabilized before adding that particular stress.
The newspaper he grabbed offered no cheerful distractions—just headlines screaming of disappearances, Dark Marks, and Ministry corruption. He stood there awkwardly, holding useless newsprint.
"Did I cause you trouble?" he asked softly.
"Never. I'm the one who dragged you into this nightmare." Lys's voice was muffled behind her hands. "But Hogwarts is perfect, actually. Dumbledore is there. If anyone in this war still makes him hesitate, it's Albus Dumbledore."
Her exhaustion was bone-deep, mind struggling against the fog of incomplete recovery. "Try for Hufflepuff, if you can manage it."
Fred waited until after Lys had taken her evening dose and slept fitfully before mentioning Voldemort's interest in their Black heritage.
Surprisingly, she received this news with relative calm—even producing an ornate ring bearing the family crest. Fred recognized the exquisite goblin craftsmanship immediately, the raised letters spelling out their ancient motto:
Toujours Pur
Lys slipped from bed, securing the ring beneath her cloak while clearing her throat roughly: "I should have anticipated this. He'll need a more aristocratic class of supporters soon—window dressing for his grand resurrection."
She coughed, wincing. "Come on. Let's get your school shopping finished early. My throat's killing me. Maybe we can find ice cream afterward." Her tone aimed for lightness but missed entirely. "Relax, Fred. I just never imagined I'd be forever trapped by the Black name."
But Fred heard the bitter resentment threading through her hoarse words like poison through honey.
Lys draped an oversized hooded cloak around him, and suddenly she was thinking of Regulus—another young Black male caught in Voldemort's web, another brilliant boy destroyed by family legacy.
She bent to study Fred's face: "How exactly do you know Occlumency?"
"Uh..." Fred shifted uncomfortably. "Mother said my temper would cause you problems, so she gave me Magic for Anger Management. It recommended Occlumency combined with something called olanzapine tablets for optimal results. Since none of us knew what those were, I just practiced the mental magic."
He shrugged. "I don't think I learned it properly, but it seems to work."
Lys stared at her brother's earnest expression, mouth working soundlessly. A book from Mother...
She thought of her own treasured copy of Herpo's tales—pirated, bizarre, completely unreliable, yet treated as gospel for years before she'd passed it to Fred.
She remembered her own sporadic Occlumency practice spanning two or three years.
Here was a boy who could turn roast meat to charcoal with a Warming Charm, yet somehow mastered advanced mental magic in mere weeks.
Does he have talent or not? The question made her head throb worse.
Through gritted teeth, she managed: "Fred, except for materials and potions texts, judge Mother's book recommendations very carefully."
At Flourish and Blotts, Lys discovered Narcissa had provided Gilderoy Lockhart's fraudulent guide to Memory Charms—a revelation that defied comprehension.
Senior Narcissa couldn't possibly be that naive... could she? She wouldn't dismiss my brother with useless rubbish... There must be something I'm missing.
Lys rubbed her temples as familiar pain spiked behind her eyes. She'd hidden from Fred last night to drink an extra dose of Forgetfulness Potion—anything to speed her mental recovery.
"Do I need to align myself with Draco at Hogwarts?" Fred asked while browsing textbooks.
Her hand stilled against her forehead. "Your choice entirely. It won't affect my situation."
"I'll keep some distance then. Draco's too frightened—not thinking clearly. That's dangerous for everyone."
When they reached Florean Fortescue's ice cream parlor, they found only an empty shell. Scorch marks from hexes scarred the entrance, debris scattered inside like broken teeth.
Neighboring shopkeepers refused to discuss what had happened. A patrolling Auror noticed Lys standing with a child before the ruined storefront and approached with forced cheer:
"Fortescue's missing, I'm afraid. We're investigating, but rest assured—you'll be enjoying his ice cream again soon."
Lys glanced back once before turning away. "I understand. Thank you."
As they departed, she caught the Auror's voice behind them: "Hey, Tonks! I just saw a witch who looked exactly like our old senior, but I heard she was teaching at Durmstrang... You don't believe me? Look, she's right—where'd she go?"
Lys hurried Fred into Potage's Cauldron Shop, even considering a pure gold cauldron before he refused.
"Lys, those are purely decorative. Aside from negligible enhancement to Glory Potions, they're useless. Dad secretly bought Mother one during your travels—she mocked him for months. Eventually it became my Pygmy Puff's nest."
Fred chattered while expertly selecting practical equipment, especially potion bottles. Beyond standard crystal vials, they purchased two sets of premium amethyst long-necks that cost nearly half of Lys's remaining Galleons.
At Madam Malkin's, Lys insisted on both school robes and formal dress robes—allowing Fred to choose one style while mandating a conventional backup.
"You don't have to wear it, but you need to own it."
The shopping spree provided temporary relief from her churning thoughts. They returned to the manor laden with packages and cautious optimism.
At midnight, when Lys attempted to double her potion dose again, she found her path blocked.
Fred had stuffed all the vials inside his pillow, clutching it against his stomach like armor.
Unless she hexed her own brother unconscious, there was no way to retrieve the medicine without waking him.
Lys studied his curled sleeping form and sighed softly, closing the door to return to her own chamber.
Inside, Fred patted his pillow with satisfaction before relaxing into genuine sleep.
Mother was right—Lys drinks potions too carelessly. Gorging when motivated, hiding them when stubborn.
Definitely needs supervision.
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