Chapter 55: The Snow Hasn't Melted Yet
The Hogwarts Express dragged the boisterous, sugar-fueled student body back to the Scottish Highlands, officially ending the Christmas holidays. For Tamara Riddle, the return to the castle also brought a rather pathetic display from Draco Malfoy.
Deep within the dungeons, the Slytherin common room was bathed in the eerie, emerald glow of the Black Lake. Draco stood before Tamara's favorite armchair by the crackling fireplace. His shoulders slumped, his platinum blonde head hanging so low his chin nearly touched his chest. He looked exactly like a scolded crup.
"I'm sorry, Tamara." The boy's voice was a miserable squeak, entirely stripped of the Malfoy heir's usual haughty drawl. "I tried. I really did. But my father... he warded the underground drawing room. Made it a strictly restricted area. Even I can't get past the door. He said the Ministry of Magic has been conducting heavy raids lately, so certain... heirlooms... had to be locked down." He swallowed hard. "That diary... I couldn't get it."
Tamara reclined against the plush green velvet, her pale fingers idly spinning her holly wood wand. The firelight danced across her dark eyes. Internally, she sneered. Of course you failed, you useless little peacock.
But she felt no real sting of disappointment. It was a Horcrux, after all. A piece of her own soul. Even if Lucius Malfoy remained blissfully ignorant of its true, terrifying nature, the diary reeked of Dark Magic. Naturally, the slippery aristocrat would keep it under maximum security during Ministry sweeps. Expecting an eleven-year-old boy to bypass Lucius's paranoid wards was, admittedly, a tactical overreach.
"It is quite alright, Draco," Tamara said. Her tone was smooth, laced with a perfectly measured dose of gentle tolerance. "You did your absolute best. Besides, had you actually managed to slip away with it, your father would have immediately noticed the breach."
She rose from her armchair, the dark fabric of her robes whispering against the stone floor. Closing the distance between them, she reached out and delicately adjusted his slightly crooked silver-and-green tie.
"Do not fret," she murmured, her voice dropping to a soft, hypnotic cadence. "That item isn't going anywhere. One day, I shall visit Malfoy Manor personally. And when that time comes, I am quite certain Uncle Lucius will be more than happy to present it to me as a small gift."
Or I will peel his mind apart and take it from his screaming hands, she added silently.
Draco blinked, the tension bleeding out of his rigid posture. A heavy sigh of relief escaped his lips, and that familiar, sickeningly bright spark of hero-worship reignited in his pale eyes. "Of course! My father will absolutely adore you!"
Tamara offered a flawless, angelic smile. "Of course he will."
By the following afternoon, the Scottish winter proved it had no intention of retreating. The snow blanketing the Hogwarts grounds remained knee-deep, thick and blindingly white under the pale sun.
Perhaps to mourn the end of their vacation, or simply to burn off a lethal excess of sugar and energy, the Weasley twins had taken it upon themselves to incite absolute chaos in the courtyard. They dubbed their creation the 'First Annual Hogwarts All-School Free-For-All Snowball Fight Championship'.
"The rules are incredibly simple!" Fred Weasley bellowed, balancing precariously atop a snow-capped boulder, using his wand like a conductor's baton. "As long as you are still standing, you win! Gryffindor takes no prisoners!"
"For glory!" George roared from a nearby snowdrift, already packing a massive sphere of ice. "And to avoid being buried alive!"
The courtyard instantly devolved into a warzone. Scarlet, yellow, and blue scarves blurred together as Gryffindors, Hufflepuffs, and Ravenclaws hurled packed snow at anything that moved. Even a few unfortunate Slytherins, who had only stepped outside to sneer at the spectacle, found themselves caught in the crossfire, frantically throwing icy clumps back at their attackers.
Tamara lingered in the shadows of the stone viaduct, her dark eyes tracking the flying projectiles with absolute disdain. Look at them. A pack of over-energized, brainless macaques.
"Childish," she muttered to the empty air. Pulling her heavy winter cloak tighter around her shoulders to ward off the biting wind, she pivoted on her heel, fully intending to retreat to the quiet warmth of the library.
A sharp, jeering voice cut through the cheerful roaring of the crowd, freezing her in her tracks.
"Stand up, Longbottom! Is this all you've got?"
"Don't shrink on the ground like a flobberworm! You're a Gryffindor! Show some actual courage!"
Tamara paused, her gaze snapping toward the far edge of the courtyard. There, half-buried in a snowdrift, was Neville Longbottom. The round-faced boy was curled into a tight, trembling ball, his arms wrapped protectively over his head. Three older Gryffindor boys loomed over him, mercilessly pelting him with hard, icy snowballs at point-blank range.
"Be brave, Neville!" the tallest boy shouted, winding up his arm to launch another icy sphere directly at the boy's ear. "You only learn to fight back by taking a few hits! Stop acting like a pathetic coward!"
Neville merely whimpered, his shoulders shaking with quiet, miserable sobs. He didn't even attempt to reach for his wand.
Useless lump of flesh, Tamara sneered inwardly. If you act like prey, do not act surprised when the wolves bite.
She had zero interest in playing savior to a Gryffindor weakling. She took another step toward the castle doors. But the parasitic entity residing in her soul had other plans.
[Ding! Detected a weak classmate being subjected to unfair treatment.]
[Triggered Daily Quest: True Courage.]
[Quest Description: Courage does not stem from trampling on the weak. Certain Gryffindors seem to suffer from a severe misunderstanding of what it means to be brave. Please step forward and correct their flawed ideology!]
[Quest Reward: Courage +2, Neville Longbottom's favorability increased.]
[Quest Penalty: Mandatory partnership with Neville Longbottom in the next Potions Class.]
Tamara's jaw locked. A vein pulsed faintly at her temple. Partnering with Longbottom in Potions? The boy melted cauldrons just by looking at them. She had no desire to be blown into the castle rafters because of his sheer incompetence.
"...What an absolute bother," she breathed out, a puff of white mist escaping her lips. Resigning herself to her fate, she slid her holly wand from her sleeve and marched out into the blinding snow.
"Stop."
Her voice did not rise to a shout, yet the cold, razor-sharp command sliced cleanly through the roaring chaos of the battlefield.
The three Gryffindor bullies froze, lowering their arms to glare at the intruder. Seeing a petite, first-year Slytherin girl standing before them, their faces twisted into ugly sneers.
"Well, if it isn't Riddle," the tallest boy mocked, dusting snow from his gloves. "What's the matter? Does a little snake want to interfere in Gryffindor family business?"
"I assure you, I have less than zero interest in your pathetic family matters," Tamara replied, her tone dripping with aristocratic boredom.
She glided past the older boys, entirely ignoring the fact that they towered over her by a full head. Stopping beside the snowdrift, she reached down, gripped Neville's thick winter robes, and hauled him upward with surprising strength.
"Stand straight, Longbottom," she commanded, her voice dropping to a dangerous, quiet register. "Tears are a luxury. Never show them to the vermin trying to break you."
Neville sniffled violently, scrubbing his frozen, red face with his knitted sleeve. Though his knees still knocked together, he forced his spine straight, drawing a shaky breath.
"Ha! Listen to the big talk!" The lead Gryffindor flushed an angry, mottled red, clearly provoked by her utter lack of respect. "Since you want to play the hero so badly, snake, taste this!"
He slashed his wand through the air. A massive cluster of packed snowballs levitated from the ground, hurtling straight toward Tamara's face like a barrage of cannonballs.
Tamara did not even blink. She merely raised her holly wand, her wrist executing a flawless, elegant rotation.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
The spell that left her lips was no ordinary first-year charm. It was the exact high-precision, multi-target manipulation technique she had previously weaponized in the Charms Club. The System might have locked away her Dark Arts, restricting her arsenal to schoolyard magic, but it could never restrict her raw, monstrous talent. In the hands of the Dark Lord, even the most basic first-year incantation mutated into a devastating, high-level technique.
The incoming barrage slammed into an invisible wall, freezing perfectly in mid-air just a meter from her nose.
Silence rippled outward from their corner of the courtyard. Then, under the shocked, widening eyes of the Gryffindors, the snow around them seemed to draw breath. It was no longer just loose powder. Pulled by the overwhelming gravity of Tamara's magic, the snowbanks twisted, compressing and hardening into dozens—then hundreds—of dense, icy spheres.
"Since you are so deeply fond of this particular training method..." Tamara's lips curved into a breathtakingly gentle smile. Bathed in the pale winter sunlight, she looked like an absolute angel. Yet, the aura bleeding off her carried a bone-chilling, murderous frost. "...I shall happily fulfill your wish."
She flicked her wand with the vicious snap of a whip.
Swoosh! Swoosh! Swoosh!
The suspended snowballs hardened into solid ice bullets and launched forward. They filled the sky, a localized hailstorm of pain that perfectly bypassed Neville, raining absolute destruction down upon the three Gryffindor bullies.
"Ah! My eye! It hurts!"
"Merlin's beard! What is she doing?!"
The older boys shrieked, throwing their arms over their heads as the relentless barrage battered their shoulders, backs, and faces. They broke formation instantly, scurrying backward through the deep snow like terrified rats, entirely stripped of their previous bravado.
The surrounding students stopped their own skirmishes, staring in stunned silence. The visual was staggering: a petite first-year girl standing calmly in the center of the storm, her wand conducting the very wind and snow like a maestro of winter.
"Slytherin!" Tamara's voice rang out, carrying across the frozen grounds. "What are you standing around for? Are we truly going to let these Gryffindor brutes think we are afraid of a little cold?"
The scattered Slytherin students blinked, snapping out of their daze. A feral, collective cheer erupted from the green-and-silver ranks.
"Charge! For Slytherin!" Draco Malfoy shrieked, his earlier depression entirely forgotten as he sprinted forward, a massive snowball in each hand. Crabbe, Goyle, and the rest of the house surged past Tamara like a tidal wave.
The chaotic free-for-all instantly mutated into a highly organized, one-sided slaughter. With Tamara standing at the rear, providing devastatingly precise artillery support with her Levitation Charm, and Draco leading the infantry charge, the disorganized alliance of Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, and Ravenclaw stood no chance. Within ten minutes, the opposing houses were buried, battered, and utterly routed, forced to wave a white handkerchief in humiliating surrender.
When the icy dust finally settled, Tamara stood atop a conquered snowbank. Her dark cloak billowed dramatically in the winter wind, her wand resting casually against her thigh. Her expression was a mask of utter indifference. Scattered across the trampled snow at her feet lay the groaning, snow-covered bodies of her defeated upperclassmen.
Neville stood a few paces behind her, staring at her small, imposing silhouette. A strange, fierce light—one he had never possessed before—ignited in his pale eyes.
This was the second time Tamara Riddle had saved him. The first time, she had healed his broken wrist during flying lessons. Now, she had ruthlessly defended his dignity.
The loud, boisterous brand of 'courage' championed by his fellow Gryffindors had always left him feeling suffocated and inadequate. But Tamara's brand of power? It was cold, silent, and overwhelmingly absolute. It offered a terrifying, impenetrable shield right when he needed it most. To a boy who had spent his entire life being trampled, that kind of strength was intoxicating.
"Thank you, Tamara," Neville whispered, finally scraping together enough nerve to speak. He clutched his robes, his voice trembling with a new kind of desperation. "If... if the Sorting Hat had put me in Slytherin too... would I not be bullied anymore?"
Tamara turned her head, a flicker of genuine surprise crossing her aristocratic features. She studied the round-faced, clumsy boy. Beneath the tear tracks and the dirt, she saw it. The raw, desperate longing in his eyes. The obvious yearning for power.
"A house color does not determine whether you are prey, Longbottom," she said softly, her voice carrying the dark, hypnotic weight of a true Lord. "In this world, the weak exist to be ground beneath the heels of the strong. Instead of praying for the mercy of others, you must forge yourself into a weapon."
Neville nodded slowly, absorbing the brutal philosophy as if it were gospel. He didn't fully comprehend the darkness in her words, nor did he understand why someone as terrifyingly strong as Tamara had chosen to protect him rather than crush him. He only knew he wanted to follow her.
[Ding! Quest completed: True Courage.]
[Reward: Courage +2.]
[Current Courage: 16.]
[Detected that Neville Longbottom's admiration for you has broken through the threshold, developing a 'Follower' tendency.]
Favorability spikes just from throwing a few snowballs. Gryffindor loyalty is truly cheap, Tamara mused, pulling up the transparent blue interface in her mind. She studied the glowing metrics next to Neville's name, her pale fingers thoughtfully tracing her jawline.
If I can harvest fiercely loyal subordinates simply by playing the benevolent protector... then what on earth was I wasting all that energy casting the Cruciatus Curse for in my past life?
[It simply means you lacked an understanding of sustainable exploitation, Host!] the System chimed in, its voice dripping with perky, patronizing cheer.
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