Fred leaned over curiously, poking at the people in the photos:
"These are in color! Why don't they move? Muggle photos?"
Lys glanced over: "Yes, those are Muggle photos. That's not important—what matters is their fireworks bloom to roughly... hmm... sixty to ninety feet in diameter, all colorful. Can you manage it?"
This figure drew gasps from everyone.
Only Hermione continued trying to explain that Muggles were developing rapidly now, that wizards should observe more and broaden their horizons.
Though no one was really listening.
Actually, if not for worrying that Malfoy and those conservative nobles would throw fits, Lys had planned to purchase directly from Muggles—convenient, quick, large quantities with more variety.
Among the Muggle-born people she'd rescued, many had become Lys's employees. Now understanding Muggle affairs only required having her staff take her on outings.
Compared to ordinary wizards, she understood Muggles quite well now.
Of course, only relatively. Lys still received multiple warnings from various Ministries of Magic for casting magic before Muggles and revealing wizarding identity through words and actions, even unintentionally.
George examined the photos, saying this would be challenging but they'd attempt it.
Fred declared that if unsuccessful, they'd eat the failed fireworks.
Lys smiled, indicating the twins shouldn't feel pressured.
Then, leaving a bag of Galleons as deposit, she took her brother—who was clutching a cage of Pygmy Puffs—back to the reading room for the night.
After Lys left, Hermione Weasley, feeling she'd overlooked something, looked up at the magical fireworks on the ceiling with growing surprise.
She patted her husband—she thought she knew who'd killed the Death Eater that had chased the three of them everywhere that year...
The next day, crawling from the reading room bedroom, Lys wanted to go home. Going out without Gabon always felt like something was missing—she kept unconsciously hunching her shoulders.
But Frey's words outside the door, toothbrush in mouth, reminded Lys of her trip's most important purpose.
"Sis, are we taking those remains back to Germany?"
"Oh, right, Regulus is still here..."
Lys put away her towel, yawned, fell silent briefly, then grabbed the bedside bag and went to the Ministry of Magic to corner Harry Potter.
She'd assumed that if Harry Potter inherited the Black ancestral home, he'd know where the Black family cemetery was.
After all, having received someone's inheritance, logically the beneficiary should help manage certain things.
But she was shocked to discover Harry Potter didn't know!
He didn't know!?
Though considering who could be buried in the Black family cemetery... and remembering that stupid dog's attitude toward family, it seemed somewhat normal for his godson little Potter not to manage things.
Lys stood there clutching Regulus, falling into contemplation.
But this... not knowing where the Black family cemetery was... how to bury Regulus?
Just find some valley and bury him?
Ask where the Dark Lord was buried and bury him alongside?
Lys stood there blocking the doorway, rubbing her fingertips, genuinely thinking this was a good idea from the bottom of her heart...
Potter, blocked at the Auror office entrance unable to enter or exit, felt awkward. He spoke up, interrupting Lys's self-absorbed daze:
"Though I don't know, I think Kreacher would know."
"Kreacher?" Lys's mind turned before remembering: "Oh right, the Black family house-elf."
After so many years, Lys stepped into the Black ancestral home again—it remained dimly lit and oppressively dark.
Potter, inviting Lys and Frey inside, explained he hardly lived here, so he'd maintained Kreacher's preferred decorations and style.
But Lys couldn't accept this. She waved her wand, pulling open the house's curtains, replacing candles on lamp stands with magical flames, and plopped onto the living room sofa.
She surveyed the surroundings somewhat smugly: "Heh, Walburga probably never imagined the Black legacy she desperately controlled would ultimately be inherited by a half-blood Gryffindor, eh?"
Potter, watching the comfortable Lys, didn't know what to say, only calling Kreacher's name to summon the elf.
"Kreacher was making pan-fried..." The elf was quite old—the hair in his ears had turned white. He bowed, attempting to curtsy while awkwardly angling away from directly facing Potter, the entire elf radiating strange deference.
But compared to its attitude, Lys focused more on a locket hanging from its chest.
She stared intently at that locket, her wand between her fingers twitching in certain patterns, her lips moving slightly.
"Hearing the summons, Kreacher comes to see what... what..." The old elf looked up, staring strangely at Lys and Frey, who kept glancing at portraits.
"Kreacher still remembers his mistress once invited her... the old master's bloodline, yes, the Black left outside unable to return..."
After finally confirming the locket was just fake decoration, Lys relaxed, impatiently interrupting Kreacher:
"Enough, Kreacher. We're not unable to return—we're unwilling to return."
Realizing talking about this with an elf absolutely loyal to the family would be strange, Lys quickly brought up business.
Pointing at the bag beside her, Lys said: "I brought back Regulus's remains, but your master doesn't know where the Black family..."
Before Lys could finish, crying like bullfrog croaking echoed throughout the Black ancestral home.
Lys stood up impatiently, "...cemetery is. Now he's home, I should go home too, so..."
Lys looked at little Potter, who was staring wide-eyed at the bag on the sofa:
"Goodbye, little Potter."
Kreacher's crying was so loud it made Lys's brain ache. She pulled Frey, who'd been staring dazedly at a portrait, and left.
Leaving Harry Potter to face the remains on the sofa and Kreacher wailing with snot streaming down helplessly.
Stepping out the Black family door, Lys looked back at the portrait Frey had been staring at since entering, unable to suppress laughter.
That laughter actually sounded genuine amid Kreacher's earth-shaking sobs and mysteriously appearing shrill curses.
It was a Black with three parts resemblance to Frey—currently trying in his portrait to cover his few remaining hairs over his scalp to hide his baldness...
Sitting on the back of Frey's broomstick, Lys pressed her forehead against Frey's shoulder, mockingly laughing at her brother.
"No wonder you've loved pulling people's hair since birth, having such affection for hair~ Afraid that when you go bald, we'll still have hair?"
Embarrassed and angry, Frey manipulated the latest Apollo broomstick from the Flying Broomstick company, spinning at high speed twice, then quickly begged for mercy.
Because Lys had grabbed his hair...
Using her armored left hand...
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