Friedm said Hogwarts needed to hold a ball for Christmas.
"I haven't got a dance partner, Lys! Draco introduced me to two girls, but I daren't touch their hands. They're always chattering away—it's so bloody strange!"
"Lys~~ Could you be my dance partner?"
Looking at Friedm's pitiful face peering through the tent gap, Lys sighed. She herself had scarcely touched boys' hands. Boys' hands... the already-dead Regulus didn't count.
Her own brother was even worse now—afraid to touch girls' hands...
Didn't fancy chattering girls? No wonder he'd gotten on so brilliantly with Lulu before...
Lys mused as she emerged from the tent's sitting area, folding her arms and looking down at Friedm.
So bloody short!
"How do we dance?"
"I can take Ageing Potion—about six drops should do it?"
Seeing Lys nod, Friedm pumped his fist excitedly. "Brilliant, Lys! Leave the dress robes to me!"
The day before the ball.
Lys surveyed Friedm, who'd consumed ten drops of Ageing Potion and still stood roughly five inches shorter than her. "Right, stop drinking that. Any more and you'll sprout a beard."
But Friedm was nearly in tears. "But Lys, I'm shorter than you! Is this all I'll ever grow?"
"This isn't short. Besides, Ageing Potion develops based on your current physical condition—meaning if your health deteriorates later, you might end up even shorter."
Lys studied her unfamiliar brother—devastatingly handsome yet wearing a childish expression—and couldn't resist winding him up.
"Bloody hell!!"
Friedm's eyes were already glistening with unshed tears.
"Ha! Alright, alright. You should be about five-eleven now. Though you're not as tall as me," Lys unconsciously straightened, "this isn't short anymore. Where's my dress robe? Let's have a look!"
Lys lifted the dark green silk square-necked garment adorned with silver pendants, disdainfully spreading its skirts—then discovered with delight that it was actually trousers!
Both legs were extraordinarily wide, creating the perfect illusion of a skirt.
Lys instantly felt this ensemble suited her taste perfectly.
But...
"Friedm, what in Merlin's name are you wearing?"
Staring at Friedm emerging from his room in dress robes of bizarre color coordination, Lys momentarily wondered where he'd acquired such ghastly attire.
Friedm guiltily covered his chest, then his sleeves—but how could that possibly hide anything...
When the ball commenced and Friedm appeared in the Great Hall wearing his mysterious monstrosity whilst escorting his imperious sister, many were genuinely stunned.
Lys's hair wasn't particularly long. When pinned up, strands of the charred hair previously burned by the Goblet of Fire escaped in wisps, fragmented like smoke curling beside her elongated eyes, creating an indescribable allure.
The only imperfection was her jewelry—a massive amber pendant suspended from a silver chain at her collarbone.
Long green silk gloves adorned both hands, reaching her elbows and meticulously concealing... something.
Two rings graced her left glove, whilst a string of grey beads encircled her wrist.
Though the jewelry wasn't coordinated, the color palette achieved mysterious harmony, radiating casual elegance.
But that wasn't the bloody point. The point was: what was the situation with the bloke beside her dressed in garish yellow and vivid purple with enormous lace sections across his chest and cuffs? Even devastatingly handsome, that wasn't how one dressed!
Draco, who'd planned to approach for conversation, maintained considerable distance from Friedm. Friedm's outfit was truly...
Beyond salvage...
After the champions performed the opening dance, Friedm courteously invited Lys to join him.
During the turns, Lys struggled somewhat with balance, but Friedm gripped her right hand firmly. His broad shoulders supported both Lys and Crunch, helping her strike every beat flawlessly.
The trouser legs, so perfectly resembling a skirt's hem, created an illusion of freedom as they swayed. Lys listened to the slow, melancholy melody and confided to Friedm:
"I'm genuinely happy. I've never danced wearing a skirt before. The first time I formally wore one was celebrating my Outstanding marks on important exams—that's Excellent... Friedm, I tormented myself ages over those bloody circles... yes, ages... But after that day, I scarcely wore skirts again."
Lys murmured softly:
"Back then I believed I'd have a... normal family, normal future—like my classmates used to boast about."
Back then she'd thought she could finally live with her parents the life her classmates had enjoyed since childhood. But what happened?
"I swallowed so much humiliation. I thought I glimpsed fertile shores ahead... I even considered my future—Healer, perhaps Auror..."
As the music intensified, Lys reflected on how that single moment had saved her family from catastrophic ruin, yet simultaneously thrust her surname into the spotlight for those eager to witness the Black family's downfall—trapping her in this endless state of anxiety.
"Friedm, I crave freedom too. It's not that I despise skirts, but every time I wear one, it's never pleasant..."
"Just like now."
Lys suddenly yanked the thick, club-like wand from Friedm's waist and viciously struck Moody's face as he danced a two-step with the Astronomy professor nearby, sending him crashing to the ground.
"Alastor Moody! If you can't bloody well control that magical eye, gouge it out and pocket it instead of letting it spin circles round me!"
The blue magical eye, dislodged by the savage blow, bounced and clattered across the floor before rolling into oblivion.
Silence rippled outward from Lys and Friedm.
The Astronomy professor gasped, covering her mouth—though she too harbored slight reservations about Moody's magical eye.
She'd heard Moody complimenting Potter's invisible socks, but...
This was rather excessive!
"Whether I fulfill my duties is none of your bloody business. Keep your gaze where it belongs..."
Brandishing Friedm's wand, Lys glared at Moody sprawled on the ground, clumsily attempting to rise with his wooden leg whilst muttering curses, and threatened:
"Otherwise, fancy having that eyeball stomped to pieces?"
Everything erupted too suddenly. Friedm was equally startled, but clutching Crunch, he positioned himself at Lys's side.
"The sight of you sickens me, Moody."
That mangled leg, those burn scars—that was her first coerced act of violence, and it had spiraled unstoppably from there.
Regardless of whether he too was a victim, how much of the blood that stained her skirt that year belonged to him?
She'd helped save his very life!
And now he dared target her brother, spy on her secrets!
How bloody dare he!
The stage music paused, then resumed.
Under Dumbledore's mediation and Igor Karkaroff's evasive gaze, Lys clasped Friedm's hand and continued dancing.
But a considerable space remained perpetually empty around Lys.
The surrounding students seemed genuinely concerned she might swing her wand again and flatten someone else.
Only Draco, guiding his dance partner, spun closer, winked conspiratorially at Friedm, then twirled away with obvious delight.
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