Chapter 242: Not Ashamed to Ask Questions
The stone corridor of the Defense Against the Dark Arts wing felt entirely too long. Tamara Riddle walked with measured, perfectly poised steps, her fingers wrapped around a steaming goblet that radiated a stench so vile it practically burned the hairs inside her nose. With every click of her polished shoes against the flagstones, the urge to murder Severus Snape grew exponentially.
The heavy, bitter reek of fermented aconite and whatever other garbage the greasy bat had brewed into this Wolfsbane Potion threatened to drill directly into her skull. She kept her face an impassive mask of aristocratic grace, even as she mentally subjected Snape to the Cruciatus Curse for the four hundredth time.
Finally, she halted before the heavy oak door of the professor's office.
She raised a hand, fully intending to shove the wood aside, dump this wretched concoction on the nearest desk, and leave. But before her knuckles could even graze the grain, a desperate shout echoed from within.
"Expecto Patronum!"
A blinding flash of silver-white brilliance erupted through the crack beneath the door. Tamara's dark eyes narrowed. She lowered her hand, instead nudging the door open just a fraction to peer inside the dim office.
Harry Potter stood in the center of the room. His knuckles were bone-white around his yew wand, his chest heaving with ragged, violent gasps. Sweat plastered his messy dark hair to his forehead, but his vivid green eyes burned with a startling, unmatched ferocity.
No corporeal animal burst from the tip of his wand. Instead, a massive, aggressive tidal wave of pure silver energy exploded outward. It surged across the room, carrying a reckless, almost violent desire to protect. The sheer kinetic force of the light slammed directly into a hooded, rotting figure—a Boggart disguised as a Dementor—and blasted it backward until it crashed violently into the old wardrobe in the corner.
"Excellent, Harry! This is simply incredible!"
Remus Lupin stood near the wall, his scarred face alight with genuine wonder. He flicked his wand, slamming the wardrobe doors shut and locking them with a sharp click.
The professor turned back, studying the thick silver mist still swirling like a localized storm system in the confined office. He praised the boy without hesitation. "Though it hasn't formed a physical entity yet, this raw power is already more than enough to drive away a real Dementor! However..."
Lupin's warm smile faded into a slight, thoughtful frown. As an experienced Defense Against the Dark Arts master, his senses were sharp. He stepped closer to the dissipating mist. "Harry, the Patronus Charm is fundamentally a pure defensive magic. But the energy you just released... it carried a very strong, almost dangerous level of aggressiveness."
He looked at the boy, his amber eyes gentle but probing. "What exact memory were you focusing on just now?"
Harry flinched. His grip on the yew wand tightened so hard his hand shook.
What in Merlin's name was he supposed to say? Was he supposed to look his professor in the eye and confess that his mind had been entirely consumed by the searing, furious, utterly captivating fire in Tamara Riddle's dark eyes?
A furious blush threatened to creep up Harry's neck. He let out a loud, incredibly guilty cough and immediately averted his gaze, staring intensely at the floorboards.
"...It's nothing, Professor," Harry mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. "Just some... very ordinary things."
Before Harry could invent a more convincing lie, the heavy oak door swung wide open.
Tamara stood on the threshold. Her face was a portrait of icy perfection, her hands delicately holding the goblet of foul-smelling liquid. Her pitch-black eyes swept over the room, lingering coldly on the two wizards and the fading silver mist that still clung to the air.
Without a word, she glided straight toward Lupin's desk. She set the goblet down with a sharp, heavy thud that echoed in the quiet room.
"Professor Snape sent me to deliver this," Tamara said. Her voice was entirely devoid of warmth, dripping with a thinly veiled disgust that she didn't even bother to hide.
[Ding! Side quest completed!]
[Reward issued: Life +5. Current Life: 47.]
[Spell unlocked: Muffliato!]
The System's obnoxiously cheerful chime echoed in her skull. Tamara let out a slow, silent breath. The irritating spike of murderous rage in her chest finally subsided just a fraction. At least the humiliating errand had yielded a decent reward.
She turned on her heel, fully intending to sweep out of this office and escape the suffocating, nauseating aura of pure white magic. But as she moved, her gaze snagged on the last wisps of silver light clinging to the tip of Harry's wand.
The Patronus Charm.
It was a magic born exclusively of pure happiness, hope, and the desire to protect. By its very nature, it was the absolute antithesis to the Dark Arts—arts fueled by malice, pain, and the exquisite desire to kill.
Back in the Room of Requirement, after she had ruthlessly devoured a fragment of her own remnant soul from Ravenclaw's Diadem, Tamara's magical core and soul had undergone a massive sublimation. Riding that high, she had actually managed to cast the Patronus Charm.
But there was a glaring flaw. It had been nothing more than a dense cloud of silver mist. No matter how much raw power she poured into the incantation, she could not force the magic to condense into a true, corporeal entity.
And now, seeing that her destined nemesis could erupt with such staggering, albeit formless, energy, the dark, twisting serpent of competitive pride reared its head in Tamara's chest.
She absolutely refused to accept a reality where a bumbling idiot like Potter managed to summon a corporeal Patronus before she did.
Worse still, the school year was already halfway over. If she didn't complete the System's related quest soon, it would expire. The greatest Dark Lord in history did not miss out on power, and she certainly did not forfeit rewards that rightfully belonged to her.
Tamara halted her graceful exit.
Asking a filthy, nauseating half-breed werewolf for magical advice made her skin crawl. Her instincts screamed in revulsion. But when it came to the pursuit of absolute power, Lord Voldemort had always known exactly when to lower her head.
"Professor Lupin."
Tamara turned back to face the room. Though she was technically asking for guidance, her chin was tilted upward, her tone carrying the haughty, untouchable cadence of a queen addressing a peasant.
"If a witch or wizard is already capable of summoning the white mist of a Patronus, what is the precise mechanism required to force it to condense into a true physical entity?"
The question hung in the air.
Harry blinked, utterly stunned. Lupin looked equally blindsided. In the werewolf's mind, a Slytherin like Tamara Riddle—someone who practically radiated a quiet, dangerous intensity—was a student Hogwarts should simply be grateful wasn't practicing the Unforgivable Curses in the dungeons. He clearly hadn't expected her to be privately researching advanced, high-level light magic, let alone progressing so rapidly.
"You are already able to summon the mist?" Lupin asked, a flash of genuine astonishment crossing his scarred features.
Quickly recovering his professional composure, he tucked his wand away and offered a serious, encouraging nod. "The form of a Patronus is intimately connected to the caster's inner landscape, Miss Riddle. If you don't mind, could you demonstrate your current casting state for me? Perhaps I can observe your magical flow and help identify why it refuses to take shape."
Tamara's jaw locked. The muscles in her elegant neck pulled taut.
A demonstration? He wanted her to perform a flawed, half-finished spell that couldn't even form a proper animal—and he wanted her to do it in front of this wretched Savior?
It was an unthinkable humiliation. She was Lord Voldemort. She was perfect. She was invincible. Whether she was holding court in the Slytherin common room or walking the halls of Hogwarts, the only thing she ever displayed was effortless, absolute supremacy. Lowering herself to ask a question was already a monumental concession. Allowing Potter to witness her fail?
Absolutely impossible.
Her pitch-black eyes swept over Harry with a chilling, dismissive coldness before snapping back to Lupin. She rejected the proposal without a second of hesitation.
"There is no need for a practical demonstration, Professor Lupin."
She raised her chin a fraction higher, her voice settling into a calm, clinical, and supremely confident rhythm. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with my magical output or my pronunciation of the incantation. When I cast the spell, a massive volume of silver mist surges from the wand tip. It is dense enough to completely envelop the caster."
A delicate frown marred her perfect features, her tone bleeding a hint of genuine irritation. "However, no matter how much raw magical power I inject into the spell, the mist merely lingers. It stubbornly refuses to condense into any sort of animal entity capable of offense or defense."
Lupin listened intently to her precise, analytical description. A deep, calculating curiosity sparked in his amber eyes. Having personally witnessed Tamara ruthlessly dismantle a Boggart, the professor had long harbored a quiet concern regarding this brilliant girl's psychological state.
"To summon such a vast amount of mist proves your magical core is exceptionally powerful, and that you have indeed tapped into a well of extremely potent emotion," Lupin noted, his voice growing serious and quiet. "Miss Riddle, if I may ask... what specific kind of memory are you holding in your mind when you attempt the charm?"
Tamara felt a violent surge of revulsion. She despised questions that attempted to dissect her inner mind. But if she wanted to crack the underlying logic of this infuriating light magic, she had to play along.
She kept her expression blank, offering an obscure, sanitized truth. "Self-sublimation. And the... deep sense of achievement derived from mastering absolute power."
Rather than looking impressed, the lines on Lupin's forehead deepened.
"I see..."
He let out a soft, heavy sigh. Meeting Tamara's bottomless, dark gaze, the professor pointed out the fatal flaw with surgical precision.
"Miss Riddle, if you wish to successfully cast a corporeal Patronus, relying solely on the thrill of achievement or the satisfaction of power is simply not enough."
He looked down at his own hands, his voice softening into a gentle, melancholic timbre. "The Patronus is a magic of pure defense. It requires emotions that are deeply rooted in the very fabric of the soul. Beyond mere happiness or triumph, it requires compassion. It requires hope. And..." Lupin paused, looking back up at her. "...it requires love."
He spoke the word with a quiet reverence. "That genuine, selfless love—the kind that is willing to burn itself out to protect something else—is the structural core that allows the Patronus to condense into a physical form."
The moment that grating, pathetic word left Lupin's mouth, Tamara's perfectly sculpted brows drew together in a sharp scowl.
Love.
She would admit that since her rebirth into this infuriating body, she had experienced a few strange, unfamiliar emotional fluctuations. But she absolutely refused to categorize whatever that sickness was as love. The greatest Dark Lord of the age would rather swallow broken glass than admit that such a nauseating, weak emotion was the key to unlocking her magic.
Her brilliant, twisted mind immediately formulated a far more acceptable conclusion.
The problem wasn't a lack of emotion. The problem was her incomplete soul!
It was all the fault of that damned thief who had stolen half of her soul fragment from the Diadem. Because her soul was fractured, the 'happiness'she channeled simply wasn't pure enough to form a solid shape. Yes, that was it. Once she hunted down that rat and made her soul whole again, she would easily summon a corporeal Patronus. She wouldn't need a single drop of that vomit-inducing'love' Lupin was prattling on about.
"I stand corrected, Professor Lupin," Tamara said, offering a shallow, flawlessly polite bow.
But as she straightened up, the facade slipped just enough to reveal the terrifying predator beneath. A conceited, freezing light flashed in the depths of her black eyes. She raised her chin, her voice ringing with absolute, unquestionable arrogance.
"However, I firmly believe that even without this so-called 'love' you speak of... one can still bend the magic to their will and condense a physical Patronus."
Without waiting for a response, Tamara spun on her heel and swept out of the office, completely ignoring Lupin's stunned silence.
The heavy oak door slammed shut with a merciless thud.
The sound snapped Harry out of his trance. He didn't even bother to grab his books from the desk. "Sorry, Professor Lupin, I just remembered I have somewhere to be, I have to go!"
Before the professor could even open his mouth, Harry was already sprinting out the door, his trainers skidding on the stone floor as he chased after the retreating Slytherin.
Down the corridor, Tamara was striding purposefully toward the Dungeons. Her mind was already spinning a dozen different, agonizing ways to drag that dead rat out of hiding and complete her fragmented soul.
"Tamara!"
Harry's breathless, hurried shout echoed down the hall.
Tamara's polished shoes ground to a halt.
Had this been a few days ago, she would have immediately spun around, spat out a stream of venomous sarcasm, thoroughly humiliated him to tank his damned favorability, and walked away. But after several infuriating days of experimentation, she had come to a desperate, horrifying realization: no matter how viciously cold she was to the Savior, his favorability rating stubbornly remained at a dangerously high level.
She slowly turned her head, her dark eyes radiating an exhaustion that bordered on sheer speechlessness.
"...What now, Potter?"
Harry jogged up to her, panting slightly. When she didn't immediately hurl an insult at his face, he let out a secret, relieved breath.
"That... well, actually, I'm not entirely sure what Professor Lupin meant by 'love' either," Harry admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. He looked up at Tamara, his emerald green eyes shining with a nervous but sincere expectation.
"My Patronus didn't form a real shape just now, either. Since you're also practicing the charm, and we both seem to have hit the exact same bottleneck..."
Harry took a deep breath, summoning every ounce of Gryffindor courage he possessed to finally voice the thought that had been burning in his mind.
"Perhaps... we could practice together?"
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