Chapter 104: Comfort
The firelight in the hearth burned a sickly, ghostly green, casting long, somber shadows across Severus Snape's sallow face. The Dungeons were freezing, the walls lined with glass jars containing suspended, eerie specimens that seemed to watch the room's occupants. Tamara stood quietly before the heavy oak desk. Her hands rested neatly over one another, her posture impeccably elegant, the very picture of a model student.
"Miss Riddle." Snape sat in his high-backed chair. His long fingers steepled beneath his chin, his deep, obsidian eyes boring into the girl before him. "I just gave you a perfect way out in front of the entire class." A pause. "But that does not mean I am so old and senile that I cannot see it was an extremely precise accident."
Tamara lowered her eyelashes, offering no argument. Before this fiercely protective Head of House, a calculated silence earned far more trust than a flimsy excuse.
"Slytherins never fear using power, Riddle." Snape stood, his black robes billowing slightly as he rounded the desk to approach her. "However." He dropped his voice, the silken tone carrying the sharp edge of a stern warning. "A Slytherin should learn to solve problems in the shadows, rather than acting like a rampaging mountain troll, smashing things about in public."
He looked down at her from his considerable height. "Hogwarts has more than just me as a Professor. Dumbledore's eyes are everywhere. I do not wish for my excellent student to bring unnecessary trouble upon herself because of a foolish spat. Do you understand?"
Tamara tilted her chin up, meeting his piercing gaze. Within her pitch-black eyes, there was no trace of panic at being exposed. There was only a calm, bottomless depth—a stillness so deep it made a faint, unbidden tremor brush against Snape's own guarded mind.
"I understand, Professor." She bowed her head a fraction, her tone submissive, dripping with aristocratic grace. "Next time, I will make the accident look... more like an accident."
Snape stared at her for a long moment before a cold, breathy snort escaped his nose. He reached into his robes and pushed a small crystal phial of shimmering Invigoration Draught across the desk. He did not slam it, but the glass clinked sharply against the wood.
"Since the play is over, stop wandering around the Castle looking so miserable that a stray gust of wind could knock you over." His black eyes swept over her pale face. "Take it, and leave my office."
Tamara nodded, offering a gentle, grateful smile. "Thank you, Professor."
The heavy wooden door clicked shut behind her. The instant she stepped into the damp corridor of the Dungeons, the submissive softness at the corners of her mouth vanished. A cold, satisfied sneer twisted her lips.
'A clever dog not only knows how to protect its master, but also knows to bark a warning to keep the master out of traps.'She evaluated the interaction with dark amusement.'Severus, you truly surprise me more and more.'
The night stretched on, heavy and suffocating. Up on the second-floor corridor, only a handful of torches flickered feebly against the damp stone walls, casting erratic, dancing shadows. Harry Potter dragged his feet, his worn sneakers scuffing the floorboards as he trudged toward Gryffindor Tower.
A moment of recklessness always demanded a price. Flying a Ford Anglia into the Whomping Willow hadn't gotten him expelled, but the punishment was agonizing in its own right. He had just endured four grueling hours of detention in Gilderoy Lockhart's office, forced to address envelopes for hundreds of glossy fan letters. His hand cramped, and his lungs felt coated in the sickeningly sweet, cloying lilac perfume Lockhart practically bathed in.
The corridor was deathly silent.
Then, a voice drilled directly into his skull.
"...Come... let me rip you..."
Harry's sneakers squeaked to a violent halt. The blood drained from his face, leaving his skin ice-cold.
"Who's there?" he gasped, his voice cracking in terror. He spun around, his wand half-drawn.
The corridor was entirely empty. Dust motes drifted lazily through the dim torchlight.
"...Let me tear you... let me kill you..."
The hissing echo returned. It was cold, raspy, and carried the phantom, suffocating stench of old blood. It wasn't drifting through the open air. It was vibrating through the solid stone walls.
Harry slammed his back against the cold masonry, his chest heaving. He could hear the heavy, slithering friction moving rapidly through the plumbing hidden behind the stone.
Was he dreaming? Had the exhaustion finally broken his mind? In a castle saturated with ancient magic, hearing voices no one else could hear was a terrible omen. Even in the Wizarding World, auditory hallucinations were the first step toward a total mental breakdown.
His breathing grew shallow and frantic. His knees shook. Just as he braced himself to sprint blindly toward the staircases, a slender figure stepped out from the shadows of the intersecting corridor.
Black robes cut a sharp, elegant arc through the dim light. Tamara Riddle stood there, perfectly still.
Harry lunged forward a half-step, desperate for a lifeline, but a crushing weight of despair immediately slammed into his chest. Tamara looked entirely unbothered. Her face was a mask of serene indifference. She hadn't heard a thing.
He really was losing his mind.
But beneath that pristine, calm exterior, Tamara's mind was a storm of conflicting emotions.
Of course she heard it. As the true, undisputed heir of Salazar Slytherin, the hissing syllables registered in her ears a hundred times more clearly than they did in Harry's.
That was her little pet. The beautiful, elegant Basilisk that had slumbered in the deep dark for fifty years was finally awake, stretching its massive coils and hunting through the castle's ancient pipes. She inhaled slowly, catching the faint, foul wind of a dark creature bleeding through the cracks in the stone. A flash of pure, indiscernible fanaticism ignited in her dark eyes.
Then, she turned her head. Her gaze landed on the pale, trembling savior plastered against the wall, and her excellent mood evaporated into thin air.
'Can't even handle the sound of a single snake moving about,'Tamara sneered internally, her lip curling in absolute disgust.'To think that a fragment of my great, noble soul is actually forced to reside within such a pathetic, sniveling vessel...'
She adjusted her robes and took a step forward, fully intending to sweep past this miserable creature and leave him to his panic attack.
However.
[Ding! Detected that Harry Potter is in a state of extreme self-doubt and mental panic!]
[As a Model of Virtue at Hogwarts, you cannot let a classmate collapse alone in the dark!]
[Task: Please confess the bond between you to Harry Potter. Tell him there is a Basilisk in the walls, that you are both Parselmouths, and reveal the truth of your soul connection. Use sincerity to dispel his fear!]
[Reward: Life +2]
Tamara's foot froze mid-step. Her polished shoe hovered inches above the stone floor.
She repeated the word in her mind, entirely certain the system had glitched.
Confess?
Tell that filthy, wretched Scarhead that he was a living Horcrux? A fleshy, walking container for a piece of her magnificent soul?
'You might as well strike me down with lightning right now,' Tamara snarled through gritted teeth, her mental voice dripping with venom.
[Warning! Detected that the host refuses to execute the core confession task!]
[Punishment Program initiated: Since you are unwilling to express sincerity with words, then use physical contact to convey warmth!]
[Punishment content: Please immediately walk to Harry Potter, cup his cheeks with both hands, look directly into his eyes, give him a reassuring hug, and gently praise his bravery.]
[Countdown: 5, 4...]
Tamara's vision literally went black at the edges. A ringing sound filled her ears. She could feel the system's artificial presence humming in her brain, radiating a distinct, sickening aura of schadenfreude.
This was worse than the lightning. This was infinitely more humiliating and disgusting than being electrocuted in front of a classroom full of dunderheads.
But the glowing red numbers ticking down in her mind left no room for negotiation. If she refused, heaven only knew what grotesque, mortifying display this hellish entity would force her body to perform next.
'...Damn you to the deepest pits.'
Tamara took a slow, measured breath. She forced her facial muscles—which were currently twitching with the overwhelming urge to cast a Killing Curse—into a smooth, expressionless mask of cool indifference.
She marched straight toward Harry.
Seeing the usually aloof Slytherin striding directly at him with such intense, focused momentum, Harry felt a wave of pressure so heavy he instinctively shrank back against the wall.
"Tamara... I..." Harry stammered, his voice trembling. He pointed a shaking finger at the solid stone. "Inside the walls... there's a voice. It's saying it wants to kill..."
He looked up and down the empty, shadowed corridor. His green eyes were wide, swimming with despair and helplessness. His voice dropped to a pathetic whisper. "But there's clearly nothing here... no one else can hear it... Am I... am I going crazy?"
Tamara stared at his crumbling, fragile state. She didn't even need Legilimency to read him. This foolish Gryffindor's psychological defenses were so pathetically weak she could see straight through to his pathetic core.
"...Shut up."
She closed the distance between them in two long strides. Before Harry could blink, she reached out. Her pale, ice-cold hands moved with rigid, mechanical stiffness, clamping firmly onto both sides of his face, instantly cutting off his spiral of self-loathing.
Harry froze. It was as if he had been struck point-blank by the Petrificus Totalus curse. His eyes bulged slightly, and his brain simply ceased all function.
Tamara's fingers were freezing, and her grip was entirely devoid of gentleness. She squeezed his jaw hard enough to send a dull ache radiating through his bones. But she was close. Dangerously close. Harry could suddenly smell the crisp, cool fragrance clinging to her dark robes—a sharp, clean scent of crushed bitter herbs and soap pods.
At that exact moment, the lightning bolt scar on his forehead flared. It usually burned with a warning sting of impending danger whenever she was near, but now, the system ruthlessly hijacked his nervous system. The stinging pain forcibly twisted, melting into a strange, intoxicating rush of euphoria.
This sudden, bizarre wave of pleasure made Harry's pulse skyrocket. Caught in a chaotic crossfire of extreme panic and sudden, unnatural peace, a highly specific, overwhelming emotion hijacked his mind.
"Look at me."
Tamara commanded, her voice a frigid whisper as she actively suppressed the burning desire to twist her hands and snap his neck.
Harry swallowed hard, his gaze automatically locking onto those bottomless, pitch-black eyes. The sheer depth of her stare acted like a heavy anchor, instantly soothing the frantic storm in his mind.
He thought she was looking into his soul. In reality, Tamara was intensely scrutinizing his pupils, wondering if her noble, pristine soul fragment had already been irreversibly contaminated by soaking in this idiot's brain fluid.
They stood there, locked in a staring contest in the dim, drafty corridor for three agonizing seconds.
Then, under Harry's utterly incredulous gaze, Tamara released his jaw. She leaned forward, her posture rigid, and wrapped her arms around him.
It was, without a doubt, the most perfunctory, hostile embrace in the history of human interaction. Tamara's body was as stiff as a petrified wooden board. She refused to let her chin touch his shoulder, keeping her head angled away. She loosely looped her arms around his torso and delivered two flat, mechanical pats to his shoulder blades.
Smack. Smack.
The sound was as dry and crisp as someone beating the dust out of an old rug.
Yet, against all logic, Harry felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of warmth flood his chest.
"You are not crazy, Potter."
Tamara stepped back exactly half a pace, instantly putting distance between them. Her voice was as cold as the black waters of the Great Lake in December, but to Harry's desperate ears, it rang like a choir of angels.
His pupils contracted sharply. "You... you heard it too?"
"Not only did I hear it, I also know exactly what it is."
Tamara crossed her arms over her chest, looking down her nose at him as she smoothly unspooled the flawless, fabricated lie she had constructed in the last ten seconds.
"But that is not a language, Potter. Those are the lingering side effects left behind by dark magic."
"Side effects?" Harry repeated, utterly stunned.
"Yes." Tamara narrowed her eyes, her tone dripping with absolute, unquestionable authority. "The Dark Lord is extremely... evil. And highly aggressive." She practically had to force the words through her teeth, her pride screaming in protest.
"A few months ago, down in that chamber where the Philosopher's Stone was kept, he not only tried to kill us, but his curse-laden magic contaminated our very perceptions."
She watched the dull panic in Harry's green eyes slowly give way to a spark of understanding. Her gaze drifted up to the jagged scar on his forehead as she hammered the final nails into her brilliant theory.
"The sheer malice he emitted touched the residual soul wounds within you—and within me—from when we both previously confronted the Dark Lord."
"You are very brave, Potter."
Tamara recited the final, mandatory line of her system script with the emotional inflection of a stone gargoyle.
"So, put away that stupid look. Stop doubting yourself and thinking you are some sort of monster. It is not your fault. Those are Honorary Wounds from our fight against evil. Do not allow yourself to be intimidated by them."
A draft swept through the corridor, causing the torches to flare brightly.
Harry stood rooted to the spot, entirely dazed.
He stared at the girl standing before him. She was always so aloof, always so untouchable and powerful. Yet here she was, sharing his darkest secret. The suffocating fear and crushing self-doubt that had plagued him all evening were washed away in a single, violent tide of intense emotion.
So that was it!
He wasn't a freak! He wasn't going mad!
It was because they had both faced Voldemort. Because they both shared that harrowing, near-death experience, they possessed this unique, terrifying resonance!
In Harry's mind, no one else could ever truly comprehend the sheer terror of facing Voldemort. Ron and Hermione were his best friends, but they hadn't felt that soul-tearing agony. They hadn't stood in the fire.
But Tamara understood.
She didn't just understand; she actively shared the exact same torment!
That brief, slightly stiff, but undeniably real hug was like a blinding beam of light piercing straight through the heavy, isolated darkness of his heart. In a school increasingly filled with whispers, suspicion, and misunderstanding...
Tamara Riddle was the only person in the entire world who could truly understand him. She accepted him on a deep, soulful level. She was his truest confidante.
"Thank you, Tamara..."
Harry's voice cracked, thick with unshed emotion. The way he looked at her had completely transformed. The initial awe and slight intimidation had melted away, replaced by a deep, unshakable foundation of dependence and absolute trust.
"I will. I won't be afraid anymore."
[Ding! Punishment execution complete. The target's negative emotions have been cleared, and a Mental Dependency on the host has been generated.]
[Current life: 19]
Hearing the system's cheerful chime, Tamara let out a vicious, mocking sneer in the privacy of her own mind.
'Stupid Gryffindor.'
A few vague, ambiguous lies and a trivial, forced scrap of physical contact were all it took to make the great savior of the Wizarding World look at her like she was his personal deity.
"Go back to sleep, Potter."
Harry nodded eagerly, a renewed, fierce light shining in his bright green eyes. "Okay. Goodnight, Tamara."
Tamara turned on her heel, her black robes flaring. She didn't spare him a single backward glance as she swept around the corner, melting into the shadows of the corridor.
As she walked away, she silently added one final thought.
'Enjoy this fake warmth to your heart's content, you absolute fool.'
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