The next day, Lys woke up lying in a compartment of an abandoned dungeon. Her whole body ached, she was cold, and Crunch was sprawled over her head while she hugged the chatty suit of armor in her arms.
Dragging the suit of armor along as it chattered incessantly, Lys cast a Lumos spell on it, making it gleam brilliantly smooth. Finally, it stopped complaining about her scratching its visor.
After putting it back in its place, Lys adjusted her robes. She muttered to herself, "Hopefully, I'll be more alert next time," patting her head for having dropped her defenses during the attack. She then glanced at the blister on her side where the curse had hit—a large, angry welt.
This kind of injury wasn't like an open wound that could be quickly healed with a spell. For blisters like this, applying ointment was the fastest way to recover.
Holding her head, Lys returned to the dormitory to change into a shirt before heading to the hospital wing. "Madam Pomfrey? Are you there? I need some burn ointment!"
She noticed two students lying unconscious on the beds nearby while Madam Pomfrey was feeding them potions. "Oh, child, how have you managed to land yourself in the hospital wing again?" Madam Pomfrey complained in exasperation. "Have you been drinking? Good heavens, I'll have to speak with your Head of House. How on earth do students get their hands on alcohol at school?"
Lys clicked her tongue but held back the retort, "That alcohol was given to me by our Head of House to shut me up."
"Spell damage? Have you been fighting again?" Madam Pomfrey asked after examining her.
Feigning a thoughtful frown, Lys replied, "I don't remember, Madam." She couldn't be bothered to explain.
After taking the ointment, Madam Pomfrey's nagging followed Lys all the way out of the hospital wing.
"Even after exams, you shouldn't indulge yourself like this. Excessive drinking is terrible for your health. Hey! Stalys! Are you even listening?"
"Yes, yes, Madam Pomfrey," Lys replied cheerfully, clutching her ointment as she bid farewell to the caring matron.
As for the drinking, Lys reflected on it. Aside from the soreness from sleeping on a stone floor, she actually felt pretty good.
That relaxed feeling after drinking—she had never felt so at ease before. No wonder her mother loved drinking so much, whether she was happy or upset, she'd always want to relax with a drink.
But then again, her mother drank half a bottle at a time, not two bottles mixed together like Lys did.
Back in the dormitory, Lys took a bath to wash off the sour smell of alcohol. Drying her hair, she sat on the floor, leaning against the bedframe, and stretched out her arms. Was she really unafraid now? She had even stretched out her left arm for others to see.
Lowering her arm, Lys's thoughts drifted. Before the holidays, there would be a career consultation session where teachers would advise students based on their outstanding subjects. Although the final OWLs results weren't out yet, the teachers had a general idea of the students' performance during the exams.
Each subject teacher would provide guidance, explaining what careers the subject could lead to after graduation, highlighting the top positions in those fields, or recommending research institutes based on the student's personality.
Lys hadn't given it much thought before, but if her mother allowed it, she'd like to work at St. Mungo's. St. Mungo's was the largest—and only—hospital in the British wizarding world.
She was fascinated by healing spells, peculiar injuries, and the anatomy mentioned in Muggle books—hidden layers of fat, blood vessels, tendons, muscles, diaphragms, nerves, bones, and organs.
If what her father said was true, that she could find something she loved and excel at, she hoped it would be related to this field.
Snape, Ernie, Madam Pomfrey, Hagrid... These were the only people in her five years at Hogwarts who had shown her any kindness.
But everyone had someone they cared about more. Their attention wouldn't linger on her, just like how Snape looked at Lily Evans or how Hagrid doted on his little creatures.
Yet, when she had healed the Hippogriff and other magical creatures from third year until now, the various pupils gazing at her, Hagrid's delighted and grateful expression...
Lys shook her now-dry hair. Or maybe Curse Damage would be fine too—though she wondered if the hospital and families would approve of using Dark Magic for treatment.
The thought made Lys smile faintly. She stood up, pulled a dark red hair tie from her shelf, and cast a spell to neatly tie her hair.
Lying on the common room sofa with her notes, Lys began to feel uncertain again.
Most Slytherin students, after graduation, inherited family businesses or pursued political careers. Even those without inheritance rights, like second sons and daughters, would receive enough money to find jobs or forge their own paths.
But with the wizarding world becoming increasingly divided—one side seeking dominance, the other resisting—the tug-of-war had pushed Slytherins out of any normal positions.
Nearly all newly graduated Slytherins had joined the Dark Lord's ranks. Even if they weren't officially Death Eaters, they contributed significantly to his cause.
It couldn't be helped. Power, status, glory, pure-blood pride, victory, and profit—these were values deeply ingrained in generations of Slytherins. Those uninterested in these ideals wouldn't have been sorted into Slytherin in the first place. Even some Ravenclaws were tempted to join.
Would she have the chance to do what she loved?
The image of the crystal ball resurfaced in her mind.
Shaking her head, she reminded herself there were still two years until graduation. Perhaps the war would be over by then. She wasn't a real Seer, after all...
Irritated by the various gazes in the common room, Lys grabbed her notes and went to find Hagrid. With over half a month until the holidays, she thought she might refine the materials for her mother's gift this year.
Pouting, Lys listened to the elderly Care of Magical Creatures professor, Kettleburn, rasping in his hoarse, aged voice beside her.
"Diricawls are feed, not test subjects for your experiments. Even if they are, shouldn't you dispose of the poisoned ones? You didn't, and now my Bowtruckles, Augureys, and Billywigs are all poisoned!"
Lys stealthily rolled her eyes at Hagrid. When she was treating that Thestral, she hadn't bothered with such things—that was Hagrid's responsibility. Watching Hagrid clasp his large hands over his belly, shaking with laughter and winking at her, Lys reluctantly accepted the blame.
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