Chapter 241: Two Possibilities
The echoes of her voice faded into the damp stone walls of the dungeon. Tamara stood perfectly still, a dark, hungry expectation swirling deep within her pitch-black eyes.
She waited.
All it would take was a single flinch. A twitch of the jaw, a flash of pain, a spark of rage over that miserable Mudblood—anything to confirm his betrayal. The moment she had her proof, the moment she reclaimed her full, glorious power... she would make him suffer. She swore to herself that she would hold him under the Cruciatus Curse until his mind fractured, then violently rip through his hypocritical cerebral cortex with Legilimency, leaving him begging for a death she would deny him.
Yet, the anticipated loss of control never materialized.
At the mocking, malicious jab of 'special preference,' the Potions Master's sallow face did stiffen—but only for a fraction of a second. As one of the world's foremost masters of Occlumency, he locked away the violent turmoil in his eyes before it could even fully form.
He did not lash out. He did not roar. Instead, a cold dread, far more absolute than mere anger, crawled up his spine like frost over glass. The way this thirteen-year-old girl held herself with such absolute, condescending authority. Her cruel, twisted delight in dissecting the vulnerabilities of others. The suffocating weight of her rhetoric.
It was identical. She was a flawless mirror of the Dark Lord.
Pushing her any further was suicide. Snape shifted his strategy in a heartbeat. To prevent the situation from spiraling into a bloodbath, he needed to slip back into the familiar, heavy mantle of a loyal Death Eater.
"You misunderstand, Miss Riddle." His voice dropped back into its slow, silken, emotionless drawl. "Only a foolish, reckless Gryffindor serves as the perfect shield to deflect the Headmaster's pervasive suspicions."
He lowered his dark eyes, bowing his head just enough to simulate reverence, as if swearing fealty to the terrifying shadow of the past that loomed over them both.
"My awe... my pursuit of truly great power... has never wavered. But within the walls of this castle, if one wishes to study magic deemed taboo by the old fool, a moderate amount of camouflage is strictly necessary."
Tamara narrowed her eyes, a crimson glint catching the dim dungeon light. It was an airtight excuse. While the jagged thorn of suspicion remained lodged in her chest, the sheer subservience of his tone stroked her colossal ego. At least for the moment, this former servant still remembered his place. He still knew exactly who the true master of this cruel magical world was.
Still, she had no intention of letting him off the hook so easily.
She stepped closer, the heels of her shoes clicking sharply against the stone floor. Tilting her chin up, she offered him a look of dark, playful mockery. "Professor, did you keep me behind after class solely to discuss such trivial matters?" Her voice dropped to a sweet, dangerous whisper. "Don't you... want my help?"
Snape caught that fleeting, unnatural flash of crimson. Beneath the heavy wool of his sleeves, a sheen of cold sweat coated his palms. He kept his posture rigid, his face an unreadable mask.
He needed to test her boundaries. He needed to know her true purpose. If she truly was the Dark Lord reborn, why had she saved Harry Potter's life repeatedly? Why did she exhaust herself playing the role of the perfect, angelic, helpful top student for the entire school to see? Just how far was she willing to go to maintain this absurd charade?
Snape knew the Dark Lord's core better than most. He knew the man's absolute, visceral disgust for half-breeds. He knew his instinctive contempt for filthy werewolves.
Taking two slow steps back, Snape raised a long, pale finger and pointed toward the simmering cauldron in the corner of his office. Thick, pungent fumes of Wolfsbane Potion curled into the damp air.
"Since Miss Riddle understands the necessity of moderate camouflage, and possesses an extraordinary talent far beyond her peers..." Snape murmured, a subtle, razor-sharp provocation laced through his silky tone. "Then, to cement this helpful, perfect image of yours into the minds of the faculty, and to completely eradicate Dumbledore's lingering doubts... I happen to have the ideal task for you."
He held her gaze, his black eyes boring into hers, enunciating every single syllable with heavy emphasis.
"Complete the final three brewing stages of this potion. Once finished, you will deliver it, personally, to the Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor's office. I imagine our poor... werewolf professor... will be quite overwhelmed by the selfless kindness of such an outstanding Slytherin student."
Tamara stared at the bubbling cauldron, the heavy, bitter stench of aconite assaulting her nose. The moment that filthy word left Snape's mouth, the smug satisfaction she had felt from his earlier display of loyalty vanished. Her mood plummeted into an abyss of pure, murderous rage.
She, the greatest Dark Lord in history, was expected to pinch her nose and brew medicine for a rabid, flea-bitten half-beast?! And then deliver it to his door like some pathetic, groveling house-elf?!
This damned Severus! He actually dared to use her own disguise as a weapon to humiliate her!
Her jaw locked. A dark, hysterical laugh bubbled in the back of her throat. She was going to refuse. She was going to draw her wand, shatter that cauldron, and teach this insolent subordinate a lesson in agony he would never forget.
But before she could even part her lips to curse him—
[Ding! Triggering Side Quest: Mandatory Causality!]
The Virtue System's perky, sickeningly cheerful voice chimed inside her skull with impeccable, infuriating timing.
[Quest Description: Every action has a reaction, host! Back in the day, you totally enabled your naughty subordinate, the werewolf Fenrir Greyback, to brutally bite young Remus Lupin. Oops! This heavy karmic burden requires you to make amends through practical, loving action!]
[Objective: Please brew the Wolfsbane Potion with utmost diligence and deliver it to him personally with a smile!]
[Quest Reward: Life +5.]
[Reward Spell: Muffliato.]
[Penalty for Failure: During tomorrow's breakfast in the Great Hall, you will stand on the Gryffindor table and deliver a loud, tearful, passionate speech titled: "Werewolves Are Also Our Broken-Winged Angels!"]
Snape watched the girl's delicate features freeze. He had absolutely no idea what kind of apocalyptic war was currently raging inside her mind. Under the Potions Master's hawkish scrutiny, the girl's flawless, angelic facade finally seemed to crack. The sheer weight of the humiliation was too much. It was breaking her.
Beneath the heavy folds of his black robes, Snape's muscles coiled tight. His long fingers silently slipped up his sleeve, wrapping around the smooth wood of his wand.
He waited.
He waited for the mask to shatter into a thousand pieces. He waited for the Dark Lord's signature, explosive rage to tear through the room, proving once and for all that she could never lower herself to serve a filthy half-breed.
And yet.
The suffocating silence stretched on, heavy and thick. Then, miraculously, Tamara's face—which had been twitching with barely suppressed violent resistance—smoothed out completely.
The thought of standing in the Great Hall, weeping over 'broken-winged angels' in front of Dumbledore and hundreds of gawking students, was a fate worse than death. To avoid that apocalyptic social execution, the great, dignified Dark Lord violently swallowed a surge of killing intent potent enough to level the entire dungeon.
She took a slow, deep breath. The icy void in her dark eyes vanished, replaced by a smile so intensely, artificially sweet it made the hair on the back of Snape's neck stand up.
"Since this is for the sake of the big picture..." Tamara offered a polite, graceful bow. She was grinding her back teeth so hard she nearly cracked them as she forced the words out. "As you wish, Professor Snape."
Without another word, she turned on her heel and marched directly toward the bubbling cauldron of Wolfsbane Potion. Her posture was rigid, her back radiating the grim, absolute calm of a martyr walking to the gallows.
Snape stood frozen, watching that slender back as she quietly began preparing the ingredients for the foul-smelling brew. The double agent's highly trained mind immediately fractured into two entirely different deductions.
The first possibility: he was dead wrong.
Tamara Riddle was not the reincarnation of the Dark Lord. She was exactly what she appeared to be—a Slytherin student with terrifying talent and a sharp tongue, but one who possessed a genuinely respectful and helpful heart. Her compliance just now was born of a sincere desire to aid her sick Defense professor. If that were the truth, then all was well. This entire exchange was nothing more than a strict Potions Master disciplining an arrogant student.
Snape swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. A much deeper, colder dread surged in his black eyes.
But what if it was the second possibility?
What if Tamara truly was the Dark Lord? A monster who utterly despised werewolves with every fiber of his being. If that were true... then her performance just now was nothing short of terrifying. Faced with such a blatant, degrading insult, this girl had actually swallowed her immense pride. She had suppressed her murderous nature, flashed a flawless, sweet smile, and obediently turned to do the work of a servant.
The dim firelight of the dungeon flickered, stretching Snape's pitch-black shadow tall and distorted against the cold stone walls. He raised a hand, suddenly feeling very tired, and pressed his fingers against his throbbing temples. He stared at the small figure working diligently in front of the cauldron.
"I hope the facts prove..." Snape whispered to the empty shadows, his voice barely audible over the bubbling potion. "...that this was merely a ridiculous misjudgment on my part."
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