Chapter 249: Caught Off Guard
Early spring had finally touched Hogsmeade Village. Though the biting highland air still carried a lingering chill, the thick snow piled beneath the slanted slate eaves had begun to thaw, falling in a steady, rhythmic drip-drip against the cobblestones. Beneath the frost, the faint, earthy fragrance of damp soil and awakening roots drifted through the streets.
To Tamara Riddle, the bustling storefronts held absolutely zero appeal. The cloying scent of spun sugar wafting from Honeydukes and the raucous explosions echoing from Zonko's Joke Shop were nothing more than breeding grounds for loud, obnoxious children. Taking advantage of the chaotic surge as a massive crowd of Hogwarts students poured into the shops, she slipped away. Her dark robes blended into the shadows as she quietly abandoned the main thoroughfare, turning down a secluded, snow-dusted alleyway.
Even after gathering sufficient intelligence, the great Dark Lord required absolute certainty. She needed to personally confirm whether that sniveling, cowardly rat, Wormtail, had truly dared to betray her.
Tamara halted in the shadow of a towering oak. Her crimson eyes darted around, ensuring the alley was completely deserted. Satisfied, she closed her eyes. She drew her focus inward, sinking her consciousness into the abyssal depths of her magic, reaching out to touch the vile, serpentine brand she had once seared directly into Peter Pettigrew's pathetic soul.
Through that dark, parasitic tether, she could bypass all physical distance and carve her commands directly into the forefront of his mind.
'Come find me, Wormtail...' Tamara commanded silently, her mental voice dripping with venomous authority.
Yet, the very second her magical tendril brushed against the phantom mark, a violent, jagged resistance violently repelled her probe.
Tamara snapped her eyes open. A deep, furious crease formed between her brows.
The connection was still there—she could feel the faint, pulsing existence of the Dark Mark—but it was suffocated beneath a thick, impenetrable barrier of magic. A magic that felt sickeningly familiar. It connected with the exact same dark, rotting frequency as her own soul.
It was a blatant usurpation. A slave who rightfully belonged to her had their master-servant permissions forcibly overwritten by another version of herself.
Undoubtedly, it was the work of the twenty-year-old Lord Voldemort—the arrogant, fragmented soul residing within Ravenclaw's Diadem.
"Heh..." A cold, humorless scoff escaped her lips.
She had already deduced Peter's treacherous shift in loyalty. Yet, having the wretched reality shoved directly into her face was an entirely different matter. For a Dark Lord who had reigned supreme, demanding absolute subservience from her Death Eaters, this blatant defiance sparked a raging inferno of displeasure in her chest.
'Those who dare to betray me so openly...'she thought, her delicate fingers curling into fists.'...are truly rare in this world. And they always die screaming.'
Since the elegant path of a secret, mental summons was blocked, she would simply have to resort to more direct, brutal methods.
Tamara smoothed down her wind-ruffled Slytherin scarf, masking her murderous intent behind an expression of placid indifference, and pivoted on her heel. She marched straight toward the Three Broomsticks at the bustling center of the village.
She pushed open the heavy, brass-handled oak doors. Instantly, a suffocating wave of heat washed over her face, carrying the heavy, mingling scents of burning pine logs, spilled Butterbeer, and roasted meats. The pub was a chaotic sea of noise, packed shoulder-to-shoulder with chattering patrons. Tamara's gaze swept over the rabble with practiced efficiency, cutting through the haze until she locked onto a tiny figure perched in a remote, dimly lit corner near the hearth.
As one of the faculty chaperones assigned to herd the students through Hogsmeade today, Professor Flitwick was clearly not enjoying a leisurely weekend.
The sticky round table in front of him was buried under a mountain of crumpled parchment, every inch covered in frantic, complex runic deductions. He clutched a tall glass of his favorite cherry syrup soda—complete with a ridiculous little paper umbrella—taking absentminded sips. Every few seconds, he would scowl at his notes, dip his quill, and furiously scribble down another failed equation.
He was carefully trying to dismantle the lethal curse placed upon that confiscated Firebolt.
Tamara approached with the graceful, unhurried steps of a perfect model student.
"Professor Flitwick," Tamara greeted, her voice a flawless imitation of polite, academic curiosity. "Have you made any new progress regarding the malicious magic residue on that Firebolt?"
"Oh! Miss Riddle!" Flitwick jumped slightly, peering over a stack of notes. Upon recognizing his absolute favorite prodigy, his wrinkled face broke into a beaming, relieved smile. He frantically waved his short arms, gesturing for her to take the empty chair opposite him. "Please, sit, sit! Come take a look at this absolute mess. The nested logic of the curse is incredibly cunning—the caster actually managed to disguise the trigger mechanism within the broom's original braking charms!"
The two instantly plunged into a rigorous, high-speed academic dissection.
While Tamara leaned over the table, her sharp mind rapidly unraveling the amateurish runic circuits Peter had cobbled together, the pub's famously hospitable landlady approached. Madam Rosmerta balanced a silver tray on her hip. With a warm, matronly smile, she slid a tall, frosted glass directly in front of the Slytherin girl. The liquid inside fizzed with pale pink bubbles, releasing a sweet, tantalizing aroma of crushed summer fruits.
"Seeing you two working your brains to the bone on a weekend, this 'Inspiration Special' is on the house," Rosmerta chimed, wiping down the edge of their table with a rag. "Drinking something sweet helps keep the mind sharp, dear!" The landlady offered Tamara a warm, conspiratorial wink before bustling off to serve a rowdy table of Hagrid-sized patrons.
Staring down at the sudden appearance of this unidentified, bubbling concoction, Tamara's deeply ingrained Dark Lord instincts flared. A sharp spike of paranoia pierced her mind. She narrowed her eyes at the pink foam, her hands remaining flat on the table. She didn't dare reach for it. In her past life, blindly consuming a beverage handed over by a smiling stranger was a guaranteed one-way ticket to an agonizing death by poison.
Noticing her rigid posture and suspicious glare, Professor Flitwick chuckled. He set down his dripping quill and offered a gentle, encouraging nod.
"Go on, give it a try, Miss Riddle. Madam Rosmerta's mixology skills are quite famous around here. This particular fruit blend is wonderful for relieving mental fatigue." He tapped his temple knowingly. "Many Ravenclaw students practically live on the stuff while reviewing their lessons."
Given the Charms Master's casual endorsement, Tamara's lethal paranoia dialed back a fraction., her brilliant mind was already itching to return to the flawed magical equations scrawled across the parchment.
Without breaking eye contact with the runic diagrams, she blindly reached out, picked up the frosted glass, and took a generous sip without any guard.
It was overwhelmingly sweet, followed by a sharp, tart kick. The heavy flavors of crushed apples and candied cherries masked everything else. It tasted exactly like a harmless, sugary fruit punch.
Over the next thirty minutes of rapid-fire, high-intensity academic exchange, Tamara systematically and flawlessly dismantled the pathetic curse Wormtail had left behind. Caught up in the rhythm of proving her intellectual superiority, she absentmindedly sipped from the glass, unknowingly draining the entire pink concoction down to the ice cubes.
"So, if we sever this specific arithmantic node right here, the curse's core will be entirely starved of its power source!" Flitwick clapped his hands together, his eyes shining with awe. "Miss Riddle, your deductive reasoning is nothing short of brilliant!"
"It is merely... basic... runic... deduction..."
Tamara prepared to accept the praise with her signature brand of humble nonchalance. But the words dragged. She stopped dead halfway through the sentence, her jaw going slack.
The great Dark Lord suddenly registered a highly alarming, alien sensation blooming within her chest. Her tongue felt thick and heavy, as if someone had hit her with a localized Jelly-Brain Jinx. The crisp, aristocratic syllables she usually commanded had melted into a soft, airy, and utterly humiliating drawl.
Worse, her razor-sharp mind was slowing down. Her thoughts felt like thick molasses, sluggish and uncoordinated. A strange, burning heat crept up her neck, settling firmly into her cheeks.
Her hazy crimson eyes dropped, locking onto the empty glass resting near her elbow. Staring at the last few drops of pink residue clinging to the bottom, her dulled senses finally pierced through the cloying syrup. Beneath the cherry and apple, she detected the unmistakable, sharp burn of fermented spirits.
There was alcohol in this blasted juice?!
'HOW DARE THEY POISON ME!' the great Dark Lord roared within the confines of her melting mind.
In reality, the alcohol content of Rosmerta's "Inspiration Special" was pitifully low—barely registering above a standard pint of Butterbeer. But Lord Voldemort had spent a lifetime despising anything that clouded the mind or compromised rational thought. She almost never drank. Combined with the fact that Tamara Riddle's current, fragile teenage body possessed zero physical tolerance for liquor, the result was catastrophic.
She was completely, utterly drunk.
The terrifying sensation of losing absolute control over her own motor functions sparked a violent surge of inexplicable irritation and panic.
It was only then that Professor Flitwick looked up from his victorious parchment. His triumphant smile faltered as he finally noticed the glassy-eyed, flushed state of his star pupil.
"Miss Riddle? Are... are you feeling quite alright?" Flitwick asked, his voice laced with genuine concern.
"I... I am perfectly sober, Professor."
Tamara fought a grueling war against her own tongue, struggling to force out every single syllable with crisp precision. She tilted her chin upward, desperately attempting to project her usual aura of cold, inviolable majesty.
However, the forced, wobbly posture, combined with her flushed cheeks and breathy, slurred tone, completely shattered any illusion of intimidation. She looked less like a Dark Lord and more like a dizzy fairy.
Realizing her dignity was rapidly hemorrhaging, Tamara braced her hands against the table and shoved herself upright. The room immediately spun.
"The atmosphere in this establishment... is entirely too murky. I must step outside to... to conduct an inspection of the localized temperature."
Having delivered what her alcohol-soaked brain considered a flawlessly logical excuse, Tamara turned. Under Flitwick's thoroughly bewildered and highly concerned gaze, the Slytherin queen marched toward the exit, her normally graceful strides reduced to a stiff, wobbly stagger.
The heavy doors slammed shut behind her. The biting, icy spring wind of Hogsmeade slapped violently against her burning cheeks. Rather than clearing her head, the sudden temperature drop only made her chaotic brain spin faster.
"Damn it all to hell..." Tamara hissed, aggressively rubbing her throbbing temples.
She needed a subordinate to fetch her a sobering potion. Immediately.
"Draco... where in Merlin's name did that useless, strutting Malfoy peacock wander off to..." she mumbled aloud. She squinted against the glaring sunlight, her blurry vision sweeping the crowded street for any sign of that obnoxious, slicked-back platinum blonde hair.
Stumbling blindly around a cobblestone corner, Tamara walked face-first into a solid wall of heavy wool robes. The kinetic recoil of the impact sent her center of gravity plummeting backward.
"Whoa there, careful now, little snake!"
Before she could crack her skull against the icy pavement, two long arms shot out from opposite sides, firmly hooking under her armpits and hauling the teetering Slytherin queen back to her feet.
Tamara snarled, violently thrashing her shoulders to shake off their filthy, unauthorized grip. She snapped her head up to glare at her attackers.
Swimming into her unfocused vision were two identical, freckled faces, both crowned with a blinding, obnoxious shock of bright red hair.
The Weasley twins. Gryffindor's resident menaces.
"Well, well, look who we caught?" Fred Weasley leaned down, bending at the waist with exaggerated theatricality. He squinted, carefully scrutinizing the usually terrifying Slytherin who was currently swaying like a sapling in a hurricane. "Is that our beloved Dark Queen, Miss Riddle?"
"Mate, look at her eyes. She looks like she just downed an entire jar of Amortentia at Honeydukes," George Weasley chimed in from her right, a wicked, teasing grin splitting his face. "Or... wait. Is she actually drunk?"
Under normal circumstances, the mere utterance of such insolent mockery would prompt Tamara to spend the next week calculating exactly how to bypass her Virtue System's punishment protocols just to show these undisciplined blood-traitors the true meaning of cruelty.
But today, under the brutal, dual assault of cheap fruit alcohol and freezing wind, her brilliant, loophole-seeking mind had completely shut down.
Floating within the soup of her chaotic consciousness, only one rigid, frustrating fact remained anchored: her blasted System's defense mechanisms were currently locking down her curse permissions.
Since she couldn't simply draw her wand and blast these two reckless Gryffindors into bloody mist, the great Dark Lord settled for the next best weapon in her arsenal. She would annihilate them with her superior, cutting intellect.
"Silence... you insolent, red-haired weasels..."
Tamara planted her boots apart, desperately trying to stop the street from tilting. She raised a pale, trembling index finger, pointing it aggressively at Fred's nose. Then, her gaze drifted sideways, landing on George. A deep, deeply troubled look of confusion washed over her flushed face.
"Why..." she slurred, her brow knitting together. "...are there two identical Weasleys?"
She tilted her head, staring at them as if trying to decipher a highly complex, deeply offensive Arithmancy equation. Her lip curled in absolute disgust.
"Are you... breeding? Or did some idiot secretly abuse the Doubling Charm on you?" She scoffed, waving her hand dismissively. "What an absolute, tragic waste of magic!"
The twins froze. For three solid seconds, Fred and George just stared at her, utterly stunned by the sheer absurdity of the accusation.
Then, they broke. Both boys erupted into a howling, unrestrained fit of laughter that echoed down the alleyway.
"Merlin's beard! She really is completely hammered!" Fred wheezed, clutching his stomach as he doubled over. "George, mate, did you hear that? She said we're breeding!"
"That is, without a doubt, the absolute best joke I've heard all term!" George wiped a tear of mirth from his eye. Leaning in close, he flashed a brilliant, challenging grin. "Well then, oh great and terrible Miss Riddle, since you're convinced we're copies, why don't you try to guess which one of us is the original?"
The sheer, unadulterated disrespect in his tone acted like a spark to dry kindling. The ancient, supreme arrogance buried deep within Voldemort's soul flared to life.
"How dare you address me in such a tone..."
Tamara lunged forward. With a shocking burst of uncoordinated speed, her hands shot out, her pale fingers violently twisting into the thick fabric of both twins' collars. With a furious grunt, she yanked the two tall Gryffindors downward, forcing them to stoop to her eye level.
"And how dare you... keep shaking... in my presence!"
Thanks to her severe vertigo, the two redheads appeared to be constantly swaying back and forth, making her nausea spike dangerously.
"Cease this ridiculous vibrating immediately!" she commanded, her breath ghosting over their faces. "And then... you will go fetch me a sobering potion! Or... or I swear upon my magic, I will stick your skulls together! I will permanently transfigure you into a two-headed Troll!"
Had she delivered this threat in her usual, deadpan, icy whisper, the twins might have actually felt a shiver of genuine fear. But right now? Staring at a pint-sized Slytherin whose cheeks were burning crimson, who was swaying on her feet, and who was pouting furiously while trying to sound demonic? The warning carried absolutely zero lethality.
Fred and George exchanged a bright, highly excited look over her head. They were absolutely in love with this glitching, unhinged version of the Slytherin little snake.
"As you command, oh fearsome Master of the Conjoining Curse," Fred agreed smoothly. He raised both hands in a dramatic, mocking gesture of surrender, his shoulders shaking as he fought back another laugh. "But, just before you doom us to life as a two-headed Troll..."
George moved in perfect synchronization, smoothly detaching her grip from his collar and firmly looping his arm through hers to keep her upright.
"...We've decided to cast a terrible, evil magic upon you first," George finished with a wicked grin. "We are forcibly escorting you to Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop to drown you in hot tea until you sober up!"
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