Chapter 204: The Ingenious Use of a Worm's Tail
Tamara cursed inwardly, pivoting on her heel to head back down into the damp chill of the Dungeons.
However, just as her leather shoes clicked against the stone corner leading toward the Slytherin Common Room, a frantic, shrill series of squeaks echoed up from the dark stairwell.
Tamara's footsteps faltered. She paused, her dark eyes narrowing at the shadows.
A second later, a remarkably fat rat—distinctly missing a single toe on its front paw—came tumbling and scrambling down the stone steps. It bounced and skidded like a furry, panicked bowling ball.
Hot on its heels were two streaks of predatory lightning, one ginger and one pitch-black, radiating absolute murderous intent.
The first was Hermione Granger's massive, bowlegged beast of a cat with obvious Kneazle blood, Crookshanks.
The second was Tamara's own black cat, Bella, who had evidently slipped out of her cage yet again at some unknown time.
"Meow—!"
Bella unleashed a feral, ear-piercing yowl. Her sleek black silhouette blurred through the dim corridor, her razor-sharp claws swiping down with merciless precision.
"Squeak!!!"
Peter Pettigrew let out a blood-curdling shriek that sounded entirely too human.
His furry back was ripped open. A deep, gruesome gash parted his flesh, nearly exposing the bone beneath. A few vivid drops of crimson splattered against the freezing dungeon floor.
The cowardly rat was utterly terrified out of his wits. The sheer panic was so intense that the magic maintaining his Animagus transformation teetered dangerously on the brink of collapse.
He scrambled forward in a blind, desperate frenzy, only to crash headlong into the polished toe of a black leather shoe.
Peter stiffly craned his little neck upward.
The moment his beady eyes met Tamara's condescending, pitch-black gaze, the familiar, suffocating pressure of the Dark Lord slammed down upon his soul like a collapsing mountain.
Every single hair on Peter's body stood on end. He went completely rigid, locking up like a literal corpse at Tamara's feet. He did not even dare to twitch his tongue to lick the agonizing wound on his back.
"Scabbers! No—!"
A cry of absolute horror tore through the corridor.
Ron Weasley came barreling down the stairs, his chest heaving as he gasped for breath.
When his frantic eyes landed on his pet rat lying in a pathetic pool of its own blood, flanked by the school's most terrifying Slytherin girl and her ferocious black feline, all the color drained from Ron's freckled face.
He shoved roughly past Crookshanks, who was currently sitting back and casually licking the blood from his ginger paws. Ron dropped to his knees, his hands trembling as he carefully cupped the stiff, bleeding form of Scabbers. Tears of genuine heartache pricked at the corners of his eyes.
"I knew it! I knew this monster cat was a murderer! And your black beast too!"
Ron's eyes were bloodshot as he whipped his head up, glaring at Tamara with raw, unfiltered fury.
"I was going to take Scabbers to Hogsmeade today! I was going to buy him treats! Look at him! He's been scratched half to death—how am I supposed to take him anywhere now?!"
Staring down at the furious, red-faced Gryffindor, Tamara felt absolutely no anger. Instead, a deeply inscrutable, chillingly amused smile curled at the corners of her mouth.
'Well, well,'she thought, dark amusement dripping through her mind.'Searching far and wide for iron shoes, only to find them without any effort at all.'
"I am so incredibly sorry, Weasley."
Tamara's spoken voice was a masterclass in deception. It was soft, breathy, and laced with the perfect, delicate touch of remorse. Beneath the surface, she covertly triggered her Harmless passive skill. A subtle, warm aura washed over her, softening her sharp features into a portrait of innocent regret.
She leaned forward slightly, her dark hair cascading over her shoulder as she looked with gentle pity at the shivering rat nestled in Ron's palms.
"I happen to be unable to visit Hogsmeade today. So, as compensation for my pet's dreadful behavior..."
She paused, letting her eyelashes flutter.
"If you don't mind, why not let me help you take care of your rat while you are gone?"
The words hung in the chilly dungeon air.
Ron froze, utterly derailed by the sudden, sweet offer.
Meanwhile, the rat named Scabbers felt his tiny, frantic heart literally stop beating for a full second.
Ron's eyes widened. He looked warily at Tamara's angelic face, then shot a nervous glance down at the black cat sitting at her feet, whose tail was still lashing with eager bloodlust.
"Don't joke around!" Ron sputtered, his grip tightening protectively. "Your cat almost tore Scabbers in half just a second ago! What if it eats him the moment I leave?!"
"Oh, you really don't need to worry about that."
Tamara smiled warmly. She slowly extended a pale, slender hand, the movement graceful and deliberate, until her open palm came to a steady stop mere inches from Peter Pettigrew's twitching nose.
"She wouldn't dare."
Tamara kept her gaze fixed on Ron, maintaining her sweet, apologetic facade. Yet, the suffocating, invisible pressure radiating from her skin—a terror only Peter could feel—was like a jagged blade pressed firmly against the rat's throat.
"And besides..."
Tamara's voice dropped a fraction of an octave. To Ron, it sounded soothing. To Peter, it was hair-raising, dripping with lethal intent.
"I think... Scabbers would be very happy to be cared for by me. Wouldn't he?"
Peter's soul was screaming in pure agony.
He knew. He felt it in the very marrow of his bones. If he dared to retreat even a single millimeter from that pale hand, this great Dark Lord would absolutely ensure he begged for death in a manner ten thousand times more agonizing than the Cruciatus Curse.
Under Ron's utterly incredulous gaze, the rat that had been paralyzed with sheer terror just moments before began to move. Dragging its bleeding, mutilated back, Scabbers slowly, resolutely crawled out of Ron's protective grip and onto Tamara's cold, waiting palm.
The rat then lowered its body, humbly pressing its trembling head tightly against the gaps between Tamara's pale fingers, as if performing some ancient, solemn ritual of absolute submission.
"Merlin's beard..."
Ron watched the scene unfold, completely dumbfounded. He rubbed his eyes, unable to process the betrayal. Scabbers, a rat that even he—its owner of several years—could rarely soothe, had just willingly crawled into the hand of the scariest Slytherin girl in school?
Washed over by the continuous, soothing waves of Tamara's Harmless passive skill, the heavy wariness in Ron's chest rapidly dissolved.
He scratched his messy red hair, looking at Tamara's seemingly sincere, kind expression, and finally let out a defeated sigh.
"Alright... I guess, since he's willing to go to you himself."
Ron stood up, dusting off his knees, though he still offered a few reluctant instructions.
"Then you have to take really good care of Scabbers for me! I'll come pick him up the second I get back from Hogsmeade!"
"Don't worry, Weasley."
Tamara smiled beautifully. The warmth, however, did not even remotely reach her pitch-black eyes. Her slender fingers shifted, pinching firmly onto the scruff of Peter Pettigrew's neck.
"I will," she enunciated, every single syllable dripping with hidden malice, "take very good care of him."
The moment Ron's lanky figure disappeared around the distant corner of the corridor, the hypocritical, apologetic sweetness vanished from Tamara's face as if it had never existed.
A layer of absolute frost instantly refroze within her dark eyes.
She slowly lowered her gaze, glaring coldly at the black cat by her feet. Bella was still pacing excitedly, her tail held high in victory, waiting for praise.
"Get back to the Dungeons," Tamara commanded, her voice devoid of any warmth. "Do not come out again without my explicit order."
Bella paused, letting out a soft purr as she tried to lean in for a fawning rub against Tamara's ankle. But the moment the feline caught the impatient, warning glare in her master's eyes, she shrank her neck back in fright. Without another sound, the cat bolted down the stairs toward the basement like a streak of black lightning.
Dead silence reclaimed the stone corridor.
Tamara turned her head, slowly lifting the rat suspended in her palm.
Her two slender fingers pinched Peter Pettigrew's scruff with a vice-like grip, holding him out at arm's length as if she were dangling a piece of foul-smelling, rotting trash.
Suspended in mid-air, Peter's furry body shook violently, trembling like a dead leaf caught in a bitter autumn wind. The gruesome gash on his back continued to seep warm blood, matting his fur, yet he did not dare to let out even the softest whimper of pain.
"Why are you shaking, Wormtail?"
A cruel, chilling smile curled on Tamara's lips. Her voice was barely a whisper, yet it made Peter feel as though he had been plunged into a freezing lake. "There is no need to rush. Our time to catch up is still very, very long..."
She tilted her head, her eyes gleaming with sadistic anticipation. "But before that, I suppose I must find a quiet, hidden, and entirely undisturbed place. Somewhere I can properly appreciate your loyalty over these past twelve years."
Tamara strolled leisurely through the empty corridors of the castle, her footsteps echoing softly against the stone. She held the violently shivering rat in one hand, her brilliant mind already calculating the most suitable location for an interrogation.
The vast majority of students from the third year and above had eagerly flooded into the village today, leaving Hogwarts exceptionally, blissfully quiet.
However, as she glided past a corridor on the third floor, the faint, strained incantation of a spell drifted out from the ajar door of an empty classroom.
"Expecto Patronum—!"
Tamara's footsteps paused.
She approached the heavy oak door soundlessly, her dark eyes peering through the narrow gap with cold, calculating interest.
Inside stood the Boy-Who-Lived. The great savior of the wizarding world, who had been forced to stay behind at school simply because he lacked a guardian's signature on a piece of parchment.
Harry Potter gripped his wand so tightly his knuckles were white, his face contorted in desperate concentration. Yet, only a pathetic, thin wisp of silver vapor sprayed from the wooden tip.
Standing opposite the boy was Remus Lupin. The ragged professor stood guard before a battered, rattling wooden crate.
As the lid of the box was thrown open, the temperature in the room plummeted. A Dementor—or rather, a Boggart mimicking one—glided out slowly. It carried with it a suffocating, freezing aura of death and absolute despair.
Almost the exact second the cloaked monster drifted closer, the fear in Harry's bright green eyes magnified infinitely. His entire body began to convulse with violent tremors. His expression twisted into pure agony, his eyes rolling back slightly as he was clearly dragged down into some horrific, hallucinatory memory.
"Riddikulus!"
Lupin barked the incantation, immediately slashing his wand through the air. The spell struck the Boggart, forcing the creature back into the confines of the wooden box with a loud crack. Lupin slammed the lid shut, then quickly stepped forward, shoving a large chunk of chocolate into Harry's trembling hands. The professor patted the boy's shoulder, his scarred face etched with deep worry.
Standing silently in the shadows outside the door, Tamara watched the entire ridiculous display. An undisguised look of deep contempt and mockery rose in her dark eyes.
'This is the savior the wizarding world places all its high hopes upon?' she sneered internally.
Facing a fake Dementor—a mere imitation born from a Boggart—and he was actually scared to the point of collapsing onto the floor, completely and utterly defenseless.
What she found even more laughable, however, was the so-called Patronus Charm itself.
True Dark Wizards never needed to rely on such disgusting, sentimental happy memories to protect themselves. They ruled the darkness with absolute, crushing power. They did not repel monsters; they made all monsters kneel at their feet in abject terror.
But mockery aside, as her gaze drifted away from the panting Harry Potter, Tamara's expression gradually darkened.
She had to admit a frustrating truth. While she thoroughly despised this brand of light magic, the swarm of real Dementors currently stationed outside the Hogwarts gates presented a significant, irritating obstacle for her present circumstances.
Restricted by this fragile, physical shell, Tamara simply could not release the pure, overwhelming dark pressure required to forcibly subjugate and recruit those soul-sucking monsters as she had so easily done in her past life.
, with a soul overflowing with boundless ambition, cruelty, and a thirst for slaughter, it was physically impossible for her to cast a Patronus Charm fueled by love and peace.
Yet, she desperately needed to leave the confines of the castle right now.
Tamara withdrew her contemptuous gaze from the classroom and refocused her attention on the shivering, bleeding rat clutched in her hand.
Interrogating an Animagus inside Hogwarts Castle still carried far too many risks. Albus Dumbledore's eyes and ears were everywhere—in the portraits, the ghosts, the very walls. She needed a completely hidden sanctuary devoid of the old fool's surveillance. A place that wouldn't even register on that wretched Marauder's Map.
Deep within the Forbidden Forest was the only logical choice.
However, on the singular path leading into the treeline of the Forbidden Forest, those damned Dementor guards were currently wandering, hungry and restless.
Just as Tamara's brow furrowed in annoyance, pondering how she might safely cross the blockade, her gaze carelessly dropped to the rat in her hand. Peter looked as though he was on the verge of fainting from blood loss and sheer terror.
An epiphany struck her.
Dementors possessed no physical vision. They hunted entirely by sensing human emotions and feasting upon souls.
Although they thrived on consuming happiness, for those starving, wretched monsters stationed in the cold, any fresh, terrified human soul would be more than enough to trigger a frantic, mindless feeding frenzy.
And wasn't Peter Pettigrew a ready-made, absolutely perfect piece of bait?
If she encountered a blockade at the forest's edge, she could simply hurl him into the darkness to draw their fire. With a feast like Wormtail thrashing on the ground, Tamara wouldn't have to worry about the Dementors focusing their hollow attention on her at all.
"It seems your use to me is much greater than I initially imagined, Wormtail," Tamara whispered softly, declaring his fate to the empty corridor.
A breathtakingly cruel smile curled on her pale lips.
"I think those hungry guards at the edge of the Forbidden Forest will be very, very happy to pounce on this little afternoon tea... thereby clearing a lovely path just for me."
[Akarin's Note:
Enjoying the story? Dropping a quick review, comment, or Power Stone means the world to me and keeps these daily updates flowing!
Want to read 50 chapters ahead or just want to help keep a shameless translator alive? (My livelihood actually depends on this, haha 😭). You can support me directly here:
(P.S. Just remove the brackets and replace the [.] with a regular dot . to use the links!)
✨ Patreon (50 Advanced Chapters): patreon[.]com/AkarinTL
☕ Ko-fi (Support / Sponsor): ko-fi[.]com/AkarinTL
🔗 All My Links: linktr[.]ee/AkarinTL
Thank you so much for reading and keeping this project alive!]