After leaving, Lys went to Lucius's study. Regarding the Basilisk materials, they couldn't be sold immediately.
This Basilisk had caused quite a stir at Hogwarts, nearly costing Dumbledore his headmaster position.
Though not publicly announced, these wizards' nerves remained rather sensitive.
While discussing these matters, Lys drafted a simple contract, though without specific amounts filled in.
Lucius accused Lys of demanding the moon. Lys countered that these processed materials would be priceless and without market comparison.
"Unique resources should bring sufficient benefits." Lys smiled at Lucius's disapproving expression.
Lucius didn't dare say more—after all, they were Lys's materials, and he still wanted a slice of the pie.
But he didn't know Lys was merely bluffing. Her insensitivity to numbers hadn't improved one jot over the years, though she'd mastered price ranges well enough, so...
Not knowing what the pure profit would be? Start the bidding high, then.
"I can't take anymore. I'm absolutely knackered from these past days. I need rest first. Don't call me for dinner. As for specific profit-sharing, I'll have Father write to you."
Lucius set down the contract and summoned Fifi, instructing her to prepare milk, bread, and other foods that wouldn't cause discomfort even if eaten before sleep.
Minutes after Lys departed, Narcissa pushed through the door. "Those two children truly need managing. Look at their dark circles—Draco's body hasn't even recovered. He needs proper rest."
Lucius patted Narcissa's hand soothingly. "Cissy, my schoolmate values her family tremendously. She'll lecture her brother, and Draco will listen."
"A powerful sister, an advanced potioneer mother, and possibly the last Black heir—having Draco befriend him brings no harm. Besides, Draco genuinely needs a suitable friend. The Goyle boy simply won't do."
Though Narcissa's expression suggested disagreement, she squeezed Lucius's hand in return.
Lys jolted awake at midnight, inexplicably anxious.
Rubbing her aching shoulders with effort, she checked the time.
One o'clock... bloody starving...
She sat up, adjusted her gloves, grabbed her wand, and headed for the kitchen. Malfoy Manor's kitchen was oddly positioned—probably for banquet convenience, it had two entrances.
As Lys approached, she caught a whiff of something foul—blood, stench, and goat musk.
Yawning, she cast a weather charm around herself before entering. Her half-awake mind assumed house-elf Fifi was preparing tomorrow's ingredients.
So when she witnessed the scene inside, confusion struck her.
Fifi stood atop the counter, tears streaming from apple-sized eyes, trembling hands clutching an enormous throat-slit goat.
Lys heard blood dripping and a sharp, rasping voice urging:
"Faster! Not enough—still not enough, damn it."
Yet Lys saw the floor remained spotlessly clean without a trace of blood.
"Sob sob sob, I'll find enough sacrifices—you mustn't harm young master and young guest!" Fifi's sobbing voice made Lys's tired eyes widen.
Harm whom?!
Lys glanced toward the source of that strange voice. Draco sat slumped against the counter base, vacant-eyed, clutching a book.
Friedm lay curled nearby on the floor, gripping Draco's arm whilst snoring—though his snores came in broken gasps, as if he couldn't breathe and struggled to wake.
Drawing a sharp breath, Lys immediately wrapped the book in magical force, yanking it violently into her grasp.
Though Draco gripped it desperately, after being dragged a foot he lost hold. The instant the book left his hands, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed unconscious.
Lys gripped the book with her thin dragonhide-gloved left hand, pressing her right hand's wand directly against the cover.
"What the bloody hell are you?! Lumos!"
Lys's magic crashed against the pitch-black tome, releasing its full reek of fish and decay. Even through her weather charm, the stench reached her.
When light flooded the room, Fifi beheld the honored guest with bloodshot eyes and that wicked thing bound in her hand—the evil that had threatened her young master's safety!
"Wicked thing!" Fifi hurled aside the goat carcass and shrieked.
Dragging both children away by their ankles, she continued her shrill cries: "The wicked thing's finally gone! I must tell master! Wicked thing!"
Hauling the two boys, Fifi vanished with a sharp crack.
Under the light, Lys finally saw clearly—it was that bloody diary!
Her hand trembled as she flung it onto the counter, wand immediately pressed against it.
The diary burst open with a rustle, words rapidly materializing across the pages: 'You cannot harm me—not unless you don't care about those two little boys!'
Lys's head jerked violently.
Her wand nearly pierced between the pages.
"What d'you want?" Lys's voice came hoarse, carrying post-sleep nasality, though the chill within rang crystal clear.
'Blood, flesh, strength, soul! And I shall reward you with unprecedented power and status!'
'Aid my success, and both Malfoy and Black shall receive their due!'
Lys wanted to laugh. In your bloody dreams.
"I wasn't planning to bother with you, but you had to court death." Lys pressed her wand tip against the book, unmoved by the constantly shifting text.
"You were chums with Abraxas?" Lys's tone dripped mockery. "Then d'you know you ordered your followers to murder him with the most revolting disease?"
"Black? They're all dead—those who aren't are rotting in Azkaban. My brother's surname is Lam!"
"You won't mistreat their families? Not slaughtering their descendants today counts as bloody generous?"
The diary's text suddenly stuttered. Lys kept her wand tip pressed firmly against it, not daring to relax for an instant. The Fiendfyre on her wand stirred restlessly.
She was calculating—if she destroyed 'it' outright, would her brother suffer consequences?
And what method could eliminate 'it' without leaving her fingerprints...
During her contemplation, curiosity struck: "You could've been far more powerful, but you chose to bugger about with souls. D'you regret it?"
Watching elegant script materialize bit by bit across the parchment.
Lys scoffed, using her teeth to grip her left glove and yank it free, shaking her head to fling it aside.
"Bollocks. You paid more than you gained. Trapped in a sodding book—what manner of immortality is that?"
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