But several days later, the searing pain in her arm made Lys clench her teeth—she could no longer remain quiet.
She stormed into Snape's office, desperate to confide in someone.
"Severus! I said he wouldn't die, but I don't know when he'll return. Now it's becoming clearer and clearer... Who's there!" Lys waved her hand, magic directly yanking the person outside the door into view.
Seeing the figure who stumbled forth was Friedm clutching Crunch, Lys's tone remained harsh: "Return to the tent and wait for me!"
Observing Friedm's nod, Lys's expression softened marginally. "Mind you avoid Moody on the way."
Watching Friedm's retreating figure, Snape inquired: "So what do you intend? I hadn't expected you to panic like Igor."
"Igor... has been abandoned by Karkaroff—at least according to my latest intelligence. So he's got no choice but to panic. Regardless of whether he surrendered those names for self-preservation or under someone's orders, now that he's been cast aside, his betrayal of the Dark Lord stands confirmed. Keep your distance."
Snape observed Starlys unconsciously fidgeting with her arm guards repeatedly. Upon hearing her warning, he offered thanks after a moment's silence.
"His impression of you wasn't particularly deep back then. Perhaps you needn't fear so intensely—after all, you're relatively secure under Karkaroff."
"Relatively secure? Needn't fear so intensely?" Lys fixed Snape with a penetrating stare.
"The Dark Lord's weapons were never merely his unparalleled power—but fear itself. Why don't I resist? Why don't I dare utter a single 'no'? Those houses where the Dark Mark was raised, those families slaughtered in demonstrations and massacres—that's what terrifies me."
"And I've discovered Karkaroff is utterly unreliable. If circumstances demand it, perhaps I'll be the next Igor."
"Severus, we are friends, aren't we..."
Ultimately, Lys departed amid Snape's silence.
Returning to her tent and finding Friedm quietly hugging Crunch whilst curled in a corner, Lys remained silent momentarily.
After confirming her composure, Lys spoke: "Friedm, if you wish to know something, simply ask. Don't lurk in corners randomly—regardless of the matter. I wasn't alone in that room just now—this could provoke unnecessary misunderstandings."
"Lys, Voldemort... I mean, what manner of being is this You-Know-Who they speak of? Why can you calmly collect Gellert Grindelwald's newspaper clippings yet cannot bear hearing that person's name?"
Lys accepted Crunch into her embrace, seemingly finding comfort. She paced two circles around the tent's sitting area, casting multiple isolation and repelling charms outside.
After two more agitated circuits, she faced Friedm: "They're fundamentally different. One relies on ideology to seduce hearts; the other employs fear to control them."
She swayed slightly, repeating with elaboration: "No, they're different—truly different. One relies on ideology to seduce hearts. That's ancient history, and due to various cover-ups, I know only those phrases sung by admirers and a few shallow laments. The other represents my genuine past—being gripped by terror. You consider Grindelwald more frightening because you were raised in Germany."
"That's not right either..." Lys completed another circle, extracting a potion from her pocket for a small sip. "Tomorrow I'll borrow something to show you what I've witnessed. You'll understand then. Now sleep."
Friedm hadn't anticipated such an intense reaction from Lys. This name—treated as taboo by his sister for nearly two years—intrigued him even more.
The following day in Hogwarts' headmaster's office, Lys borrowed the Pensieve that had once filled her with dread from Dumbledore, learning memory extraction under his guidance.
"Now then, please exercise extreme caution. I shan't return until approximately noon. Should you require assistance, have the portraits locate me." Dumbledore glanced at peculiar silver instruments continuously spouting steam across his desk, delivered his instructions, and departed, closing the door behind him.
Friedm stood before the desk, watching Lys gradually extract memories and deposit them into the stone basin.
"Friedm, some mistakes I must commit knowingly."
Lys noticed the wall portraits of former headmasters inclining their ears, yet spoke regardless:
"These are my memories. Not everything, but if after viewing them you can still call me Lys, I'll be genuinely delighted. Proceed."
Lys's memory-placement technique appeared somewhat flawed. When Friedm lowered his head and plunged into those recollections, the initial scene was a blinding green light erupting from that curved blackthorn wand Lys had long since concealed—claiming a woman's life.
Then came newspaper reports. Initially he couldn't grasp their significance, but quickly noticed the dates—papers from over a decade past.
Glancing up, he discovered Lys—his sister's childhood form carrying the not-yet-corpulent Crunch, wearing obviously threadbare robes whilst collecting newspapers in the Slytherin common room.
He looked down again. The crystal-clear newspapers reported the Dark Lord's massacres and demonstrations, obituaries and wanted notices.
Then the Diagon Alley massacre unfolded. He witnessed his sister caught in the chaos, rescuing their mother under those circumstances—bodies littering the ground, faces blurred beyond recognition.
He saw Black's threats.
He witnessed the Dark Lord's cruelty as he stood arrogantly proclaiming over corpses.
And his power—matching Dumbledore in battle without disadvantage.
Plus that dress Lys had mentioned at the ball... dripping with blood from the dead.
Fragmented memory pieces carried consistent mockery of Lys Black's surname and werewolf father, lingering on words from the much younger-appearing Uncle Lucius:
"Someone submitted your name" and "To exploit your heritage against Black and Malfoy."
And an unknown speaker's phrase: "Only death or submission."
Then came their injured mother weeping whilst cradling their bleeding father, speaking soundlessly. He saw tiny Lys—small as a dumpling—hysterically crying whilst shielding something, gazing toward a burning mountaintop house. Friedm felt confused.
But soon he witnessed a similar scene. The masked Lys concealed two children and killed the woman from the memory's opening. The burning house seemed to merge with the mountaintop structure.
Then mocking words from a masked figure: "Lord doesn't seem to have mentioned sending you abroad? Where precisely are you planning to escort your father? Perhaps Lucius would gladly pay substantial Galleons for this intelligence~"
What followed was repetition.
Newspaper obituaries.
Dreadful news from others' lips.
House remains burned to ruins and Dark Marks.
"He betrayed Lord—his entire family perished."
"Her failure to escape was her reward."
"Amusing how he refused to bow—so his family lost all their heads."
Those anonymous figures—masked or unmasked—mockingly boasted of evil deeds and killings, progressing from bows and salutes to kneeling prostration, then kissing robe hems whilst trembling before that powerful black-robed wizard.
Friedm recognized several—all prominent figures from various magical newspapers.
Plus wizards from different nations and regions collaborating with those robe-hem kissers.
Wizards worldwide revealed hidden support for Voldemort.
Power, interests, safety, suspicion—weaving a vast web tightly shrouding everyone.
Binding themselves. Binding all.
Wands raised under coercive stares—more fell beneath Lys's curved blackthorn.
Even this occurred because of that phrase "Lucius, she follows you first"—granting her marginally more respite than others.
Friedm also discovered that whilst still in their mother's womb, due to suspicion from someone named Barty Crouch, they'd seized their mother and subjected her to Cruciatus.
He also witnessed Lys collapsed in a luxurious chamber—Lys convulsing on the floor from sustained Cruciatus Curses.
He longed to embrace his Lys.
But couldn't touch her.
Among Voldemort memories, most contained corpses, obituaries, terrible news, and Cruciatus Curses—alongside Lys's body gradually weakening then abruptly swelling.
However, Lys's Grindelwald memories held only others saying "The Paris fire killed many" and several photographs...
Plus—
"Because I don't fight from hatred. We seek only freedom—freedom to be ourselves..."
Friedm stood motionless, muttering "Freedom, freedom's master, freedom Friedm."
He stepped forward, seemingly searching for something within Lys's memories.
But felt his collar constrict—his entire form yanking backward as he emerged from those fermenting memory fragments.
"This isn't even everything?"
Lys blinked.
"Mm."
"Is he returning?"
"I don't know, Friedm, but I believe so."
"Lys..."
Lys adopted her gentlest expression whilst regarding Friedm.
"Do you reckon I'm so short because I endured Cruciatus whilst in the womb?"
"Er?... What?"
Lys's expression froze as she patted Friedm's head.
She collected her memories and departed Dumbledore's office with the sniffling Friedm.
"Though saying this seems rather inappropriate—like speaking ill of mother—but Friedm, I suspect you're short more likely because mother drank heavily before realizing you were in her womb..."
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