The next day she stood at the podium shaking her head, incredulously lamenting to the students before her:
"Never changed! From first year until now! Even if we'd sent your family house-elves here back then, they should look like proper wizards by now!"
Gripping her wand in her left hand, Lys fanned out several papers in her right—a comparison between her students' first-year and fourth-year essays.
There was virtually no difference...
"I've repeated countless times—magic is simply an application of power. Where you apply it and what effects you achieve depend entirely upon your own abilities. Look here—harm, destruction, harm..."
Lys shook the papers in her hand and slammed them onto the desk of a front-row student.
"What is this? Is harm the only way power manifests in your minds?"
"I don't recall the professor on leave teaching you solely how to use magic for destruction and harm!"
Lys's fury, amplified by her magical pressure, pressed down upon the students below, making it difficult for them to lift their heads.
She snapped her fingers. Four or five papers marked "Outstanding" rose into the air, floating gracefully to their owners.
Another snap, and the "Acceptable" papers also returned to another group of students.
Audible sighs of relief could be heard. Lys cast a cold glance in that direction, then levitated the final few papers.
"If you truly cannot imagine any use for magic beyond causing harm, then what difference is there between you and a troll clutching a knife?"
Lys's German remained slow and deliberate, the sarcastic meaning drawn out to its fullest as it reached those students' ears.
Since the old professor had taken sick leave, Lys, as teaching assistant, had been shouldering this class. But clearly, Lys's state since splitting her soul wasn't particularly suited to teaching.
Her students often felt tremendous pressure from her coldness, though this was perfectly normal at Durmstrang. The educational philosophy here carried an air of cold severity and dominance, especially after Igor Karkaroff had taken office.
However, surprisingly, some students rather fancied Lys because she resolved conflicts between students without bias. Her methods revealed pragmatism and opportunity beyond simple notions of right and wrong.
When dealing with students from different social classes, she wouldn't stubbornly take sides and invite more vicious targeting, but neither would she turn a blind eye.
The detention room wouldn't be merely a pitch-black chamber like most other teachers employed—there would be proper lighting, warm blankets, and books.
But for those who genuinely transgressed, she showed no mercy whatsoever.
Time passed swiftly. Lys listened to colleagues praising her brother in the faculty lounge, smiled rarely, then turned around with her expression immediately cooling.
In just two or three months—six fights!
Good lad—he'd better have genuinely been wronged!
Listening to Friedm's explanations, Lys simply offered three cool words:
"Well fought."
Then she patted his head and promised to buy him an autographed poster of Quidditch star Lynch.
Only after Friedm bounced out of her office did Lys direct her quill to write two letters to Lucius Malfoy.
Business with several families need no longer continue.
Lys revealed the photograph on her desk, picking it up and stroking it gently.
This was a family portrait of four, taken before Dad's attack—Noah had even borrowed someone's magical camera for the occasion.
In the photograph, Noah embraced Senna, turning his head left and right with joyful laughter. The then-plumper Lys wore that old dragonhide coat, hands tucked in her pockets, eyebrow arched as she watched Friedm, who couldn't reach the camera lens and was careening about on a child's broomstick.
Someone actually claimed Friedm was her child? How long had this ridiculous rumour been lying dormant?
Lys almost questioned those people's intelligence. Could they only believe what they wished to believe?
Absurdly, quite a few people believed it.
Six fights—three because of this nonsense, two more because Friedm's habit of mixing English with his German earned him mockery as a "bloody Brit," and once because he'd overheard someone speaking ill of Lys...
Since they looked down upon Brits and looked down upon her, why bother conducting business with her at all?
Lys hadn't merely instructed Lucius to give them the cold shoulder—she'd also withheld the supplies meant for them.
A fortnight later, Lys deliberately timed a visit to Lucius's estate, perfectly positioned to stride past those two German noble families who'd come grovelling to salvage their business arrangements.
"Senior Lucius!" Her intentionally ostentatious greeting immediately soured their expressions.
Having failed to achieve their objective only to discover they'd been thoroughly outmanoeuvred by some young upstart—and one under Karkaroff's protection, no less, whom they couldn't dare retaliate against! Their faces grew thunderous as they huffed away in defeat.
Lys settled in the reception room, extracting another cooperation contract from her waist pouch. The profits were more than acceptable.
More crucially, it opened a maritime channel for the Malfoys. But Lys noticed Lucius studying the contract didn't appear particularly pleased.
"Senior?"
"Hmm?" Lucius seemed rather distracted, clearly not having heard Lys's previous words. He replied absently:
"Christmas is only days away. I'm somewhat hesitant about the banquet arrangements. What were you saying just now?"
Lys observed Lucius's hair and complexion—clearly overdosed on Sleekeazy's Hair Potion. "Is there anything I might help with?"
Lucius, about to shake his head, hesitated. "Something's gone missing from my collection room. I discovered afterwards that Draco had taken it, but..."
Lys simply sat watching Lucius, waiting for him to continue.
Lucius appeared rather weary. "I can't explain the specifics clearly. If it's convenient, might you come during Christmas? I'll arrange for Draco to return home beforehand. I'd asked Severus to keep an eye on Draco previously, but he seems to have other pressing matters."
Lys set down her teacup, considered for a moment, but couldn't resist asking: "Busy with what?"
Lucius shook his head. "I'm not certain. In any case, he does appear rather exhausted."
Lys suddenly recalled something. "Isn't the Potter boy supposed to attend Hogwarts this year as well?"
"Last year, actually. He and Draco are in the same year." Lucius relaxed somewhat and began chatting more freely with Lys.
As their conversation progressed, Lucius released a weary sigh.
"Recently, certain... incidents have occurred at Hogwarts. That's precisely why I'm rather concerned about Draco. What he took..."
Lucius cast an almost imperceptible glance at Lys. "What he removed was from my Dark Arts collection, and now Hogwarts buzzes with talk of the Heir of Slytherin."
"It so happens I have other proposals in hand. I still maintain that incoming students should undergo proper screening..."
Lucius watched as Lys slowly lifted her gaze from the teacup before her to meet his eyes, and prudently swallowed the remainder of his schemes.
"Ah, very well! Very well! Junior... I shan't say more, I shan't say more. In any case, Draco remains in your capable hands, yes?"
Lys nodded. "I understand. I'll come round in two days' time. Friedm was still quite taken with your white peacocks—you wouldn't mind if I brought him along?"
"Always most welcome," Lucius replied. The last Black male heir—should his junior ever change her mind, this would represent another rising star in Britain's upper echelons. Of course he welcomed such a prospect.
Lys returned her attention to her teacup. This Earl Grey was decidedly too sweet.
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