Chapter 247: Overestimating One's Strength
The heavy oak doors of the Hospital Wing stood slightly ajar, spilling a thin sliver of warm, golden light across the cold stone floor. Tamara melted effortlessly into the deep shadows of the corridor, her breathing shallow, her dark eyes fixed on that narrow gap. She tilted her head, catching the hushed, urgent voices drifting from within.
"Mr. Potter, I shall ask you once more." Professor McGonagall's voice clipped through the quiet ward. It was stern, laced with her usual strict cadence, yet beneath the sharp edges lay a heavy, unmistakable current of worry. "Who exactly sent you this Firebolt?"
A heavy silence stretched. Then, Harry's voice rang out, stubborn and firm.
"I don't know, Professor. There was nothing written on the packaging. It just suddenly appeared by my bedside."
Liar.
Tamara's lips curled in the darkness. Potter was lying through his teeth. Even after nearly plummeting to a messy, splattered death, the famous Savior of the Wizarding World didn't hesitate to spin falsehoods right to the faces of his beloved Hogwarts professors. Even to Dumbledore.
Deep within the recesses of her mind, the great Dark Lord let out a cold, delighted sneer. How utterly amusing. It seemed that even the golden boy, the flawless little hero personally cultivated by Dumbledore to radiate sickening moral brilliance, would eagerly embrace deception the moment his personal desires and petty favoritism were threatened. Hypocrites, the lot of them.
"In that case, Minerva, let us not pressure Harry any further for now." Dumbledore's voice drifted through the crack in the door—gentle, soothing, yet carrying an absolute, unquestionable authority. "He has had quite a fright today."
"I shall take the broom back to my office, then!" Professor Flitwick's high-pitched squeak immediately followed. "I will subject it to the strictest curse-breaking procedures. We must examine it thoroughly to see if any traces of Dark Magic residue linger on the handle or the twigs."
A shuffle of footsteps signaled their approach. Tamara instantly smoothed her expression into a mask of polite concern. The heavy doors swung wide open, and the professors filed out into the corridor.
Dumbledore, leading the group, paused the moment his piercing blue eyes landed on the dark-haired girl waiting by the entrance.
"Ah, Miss Riddle."
The ancient headmaster offered a slight nod. Behind his half-moon spectacles, his gaze held a perfectly measured blend of relief and solemn gravity. "I have been looking for an opportunity to express my gratitude to you. In such a critical moment today, your Levitation Charm was exceptionally timely and precise. It is entirely thanks to your quick thinking that Harry is safe and sound."
Faced with the earnest praise of her oldest, most hated rival, Tamara sneered coldly in the dark abyss of her mind.
Safe and sound? I wish he had shattered every bone in his pathetic body.
If it hadn't been for that blasted, cheerful System threatening to banish her soul to the eternal void of Limbo, she would have personally cast a spell to accelerate Potter's fall. She would have gladly followed it up with two consecutive rounds of Avada Kedavra just to ensure the brat stayed dead.
But outwardly? Tamara dipped her head, her posture the very picture of proper, humble grace.
"You flatter me, Professor Dumbledore," she said softly, her voice laced with just the right amount of shy deference. "It was merely a basic Levitation Charm. Anyone would have done the same in that terrifying situation."
Riding the momentum of the old fool's praise, Tamara smoothly steered the conversation toward her true objective. She allowed a flicker of deep, appropriate worry to surface in her dark eyes, shifting her gaze to the magnificent Firebolt clutched in Professor Flitwick's hands. Her tone dripped with such earnest sincerity that not even a saint could find fault with it.
"However... I must confess, I just happened to overhear your conversation," she murmured, wringing her hands slightly. "Since the culprit lurking in the shadows is so dangerous that even Harry nearly fell victim to them, I truly cannot stand by with a clear conscience."
She looked down at the diminutive Charms master. "If needed, I very much hope to assist Professor Flitwick in examining this broom."
She paused, letting a touch of fierce determination bleed into her gentle facade. "Even if it is merely to act as your assistant and perform the most basic magical screenings... I only wish to do my part in rooting out this dangerous individual."
Professor Flitwick's deeply furrowed brow instantly smoothed out. His squeaky voice pitched even higher, betraying his uncontainable joy and academic admiration.
"Oh, Miss Riddle! Your talent for Charms is always astonishing. Having your brilliant mind to assist me will undoubtedly make the process twice as efficient!"
The tiny professor, ever passionate about magical research, immediately began making arrangements as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"It just so happens that tomorrow is the Hogsmeade weekend visit, and it is my turn to chaperone the students. I plan to settle down and slowly study the magical circuits woven into this broom while enjoying a glass of cherry syrup and soda." He beamed up at her. "Miss Riddle, if you have the time to visit the village tomorrow, you can come find me directly at the pub. We can unravel those cunning curse-layerings together!"
"It would be my absolute honor, Professor Flitwick."
Tamara bowed her head respectfully, concealing the sharp glint of satisfaction that flashed in the depths of her dark eyes. Perfect. When she went to Hogsmeade tomorrow, she would now have a perfectly legitimate, school-sanctioned excuse to get up close and personal with the Dark Magic residue clinging to that broomstick.
With their plans set, the professors hurried down the corridor, the Firebolt secured tightly in Flitwick's grasp. Dumbledore lingered for a fraction of a second longer. He cast a long, meaningful look at Tamara over his half-moon spectacles, his gaze seeming to weigh her very soul. But he said nothing, turning with a swish of his robes and departing in silence.
Tamara stood perfectly still until the very last silhouette disappeared around the corner. Only then did she shed her sickeningly sweet mask of submissiveness. Her spine straightened, her expression cooling into a mask of aristocratic indifference as she pushed the door open and stepped into the Hospital Wing.
To ensure Madam Pomfrey or any lingering eavesdroppers wouldn't catch a single syllable of the upcoming conversation, Tamara pushed the heavy door shut behind her. With a flick of her wrist, her holly wand slid smoothly from her sleeve into her palm. She traced a covert, elegant arc through the air.
Silent casting.
Muffliato.
An invisible magical barrier descended instantly, settling over the space around Harry's bed with a faint, buzzing hum, completely isolating their voices from the rest of the ward.
The moment Harry spotted her from his hospital bed, his dull green eyes instantly lit up. But the relief was fleeting. As if terrified Tamara might jump to the wrong conclusion, he immediately leaned forward, his voice dropping into an urgent, desperate whisper.
"Tamara! I know you must be furious, but this definitely wasn't Sirius's doing! He couldn't have—"
"Don't get overly excited, Potter," Tamara interrupted, her tone flat and utterly devoid of warmth.
She strode over to his bedside, picking up a glass of pumpkin juice from a nearby tray and setting it deliberately onto his nightstand. Then, she reached deep into her robe pocket. Her fingers brushed against the cold glass of the detection mirror. She pulled out the now-cooled artifact and tossed it casually onto the blankets covering Harry's lap.
"I know it wasn't him, of course."
Harry stared at the mirror, blinking in utter bewilderment.
Tamara looked down at him, her expression perfectly calm as she spun her web of lies. "Before the match, when I was passing by your changing room, this broken mirror Black gave me began burning up. It kept getting hotter and hotter."
She let the silence stretch for a heartbeat, ensuring he hung onto her every word. "Clearly... it sensed intense, pure malice. A massive fluctuation of Dark Magic."
Tamara locked her dark, bottomless eyes onto Harry's bright green ones, effortlessly pinning the blame squarely onto an invisible culprit. "I suspect that was the exact moment someone took advantage of the pre-match chaos to tamper with your broom."
Harry sat stunned, the breath catching in his throat.
His brain raced, rapidly connecting the dots back to the bizarre scene outside the changing room right before the Quidditch match. He remembered how pale Tamara had looked. He remembered how stiffly she had been clutching her chest pocket, her knuckles white, her speech clipped and carrying an unusual, breathless tension.
So that was why.
A wave of sudden clarity washed over Harry, forcefully sweeping away the unrealistic, foolish fantasies that had briefly clouded his mind earlier. Tamara's reaction back then had indeed seemed overly nervous—almost guilty, as if she had been caught doing something terrible.
But now, Harry understood the truth. She hadn't been acting guilty at all; she had simply discovered the culprit lurking in the shadows near the changing room! If he hadn't suddenly thrown the door open and interrupted her focus, she might have been able to catch the dark wizard right then and there.
"Sorry. I didn't know..." Harry lowered his head, a heavy flush of guilt creeping up his neck. "I shouldn't have disturbed you."
But a second later, his head snapped back up, his eyes widening as a new thought struck him.
"Wait! If the culprit was near the changing room back then, they must have left some clues behind! Footprints, or residual traces of Dark Magic!"
Harry spoke in a rush of feverish excitement, completely forgetting the fact that he had just narrowly escaped a gruesome death from several hundred feet in the air. Completely ignoring the deep, aching bruises mottling his body from the fall, he threw back the crisp white hospital covers, swinging his legs over the edge to jump out of bed.
"Lie back down, Potter."
Tamara didn't even raise her voice. She simply reached out a pale hand and pressed it flat against Harry's shoulder. With a single, unceremonious shove, she pushed the over-enthusiastic fool—who didn't even have the leg strength to stand steadily yet—hard against the mattress.
She leaned over him, her dark eyes glinting with a cold, mocking light.
"Stop thinking about things that are entirely beyond your depth."
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