Chapter 251: Going with the Flow
The stale air inside the cramped booth seemed to freeze solid.
Draco Malfoy stared blankly at the utterly absurd scene unfolding before him, his aristocratic mind racing at breakneck speed as he desperately searched for a rational, strategic explanation for this bizarre sight.
Was this a calculated move? Could it be that Tamara was attempting to dismantle Gryffindor's influence from the inside out? Or perhaps she had her eye on the Weasley family's deeply rooted connections within the Ministry of Magic, planning to use these two buffoons as a stepping stone?
Just as Draco's head spun with increasingly elaborate, terrifying conspiracy theories...
"Hey. I'm talking to you."
Tamara muttered, her voice dripping with petulant dissatisfaction.
She hopped off the edge of the worn leather sofa in two uncoordinated steps, staggered a couple of paces toward Draco at the doorway, and then extended a slender, pale finger. With a clumsy lack of coordination, she poked the silver Slytherin crest pinned to Draco's chest.
As Tamara closed the distance, Draco completely froze.
He didn't smell the suffocating, ozone-heavy aura of dark magic that usually clung to her. He didn't feel that crushing, bone-deep pressure that demanded absolute submission.
Instead, the sweet, sticky scent of green apples, crushed cherries, and a distinct, sharp underlying note of alcohol drifted into his senses, carried by her warm, uneven breath.
Draco looked down at the girl who was now swaying within arm's reach.
At this moment, that flawless face—which usually wore a mask of aristocratic mockery and chilling indifference—was scrunched up in a trace of inexplicable, childish annoyance. Those icy, fathomless black eyes had completely lost their sharp focus. She blinked sluggishly, her brow furrowing as if she were exerting a monumental effort just to force her vision to converge on Draco's pale face.
In an instant, all the terrifying filters of "grand strategy" and "machiavellian conspiracies" shattered in Draco's mind, dissipating entirely along with that fruity scent of liquor.
She wasn't plotting the downfall of magical Britain. She was just drunk.
An absurd yet incredibly powerful sense of dissonance hit Draco like a Bludger to the chest.
For the longest time, Tamara Riddle had existed as a high-and-mighty deity in his heart—an entity even more terrifying and absolute than his own father. He admired her, revered her, feared her, and on most days, didn't even dare to look her directly in the eye lest she read his mind and find him wanting.
But right now, looking at this swaying girl pointing a wobbly finger at his chest and making slurred, unreasonable threats, the suffocating terror in Draco's chest vanished in the strangest way.
In its place bloomed a vivid, grounding sense of reality.
It turned out she was also human.
This miraculous discovery didn't make the young Malfoy heir feel as though his faith was collapsing. Instead, it allowed a strange, warm emotion to spread rapidly through the depths of his chest.
For a Malfoy, who had been carefully taught from childhood to focus on self-preservation above all else, following a cold, flawless deity who might treat him as disposable cannon fodder at any given moment was an oppressive, suffocating gamble. A deity didn't need to be understood; a deity only needed to be feared.
Compared to an illusory, terrifying totem that always remained high above the clouds, demanding only that he kneel in blind worship... Draco suddenly felt that following a living, breathing person made him feel infinitely more secure.
Fear might only yield humble, trembling submission, but this subtle bond—born of reality and unexpected flaws—could give rise to true, unshakeable loyalty.
"Malfoy, are you deaf..." Tamara frowned irritably, her words slurring together as dizziness washed over her.
Although her brilliant mind was currently submerged in a chaotic, spinning fog, she still kept her back rigidly straight, stubbornly trying to maintain her high-and-mighty, untouchable aura even as she swayed on her feet.
For the first time, Draco didn't bow his head in immediate, terrified apology.
He merely sighed helplessly in his heart.
"I heard you, Tamara."
Draco reached out, gently but firmly supporting Tamara's arm. He steadied her swaying frame and carefully led her back to the section of the sofa that hadn't been stepped on, easing her down into the cushions.
"Sit down first."
After settling the volatile girl—who looked like she might spout more dangerous, treasonous statements at any second—Draco snapped his head around. He glared fiercely at the Weasley twins, who were currently biting their lips and clutching their stomachs, desperately stifling their laughter.
"Shut up, Weasley! Wipe those stupid looks off your faces!" Draco hissed, his aristocratic drawl returning with a vengeance.
Then, he skillfully pivoted toward the stairs, leaning over the railing to shout down into the noisy pub. "Madam Rosmerta! One Sobering Potion! Put it on the Malfoy tab!"
In less than a minute, a small vial emitting a pungent, aggressively bitter smell was rushed up to the booth.
"Drink this, Tamara," Draco said softly, uncorking the vial and guiding the rim to her lips. "You'll feel much better after drinking it."
For Tamara, who internally loathed losing even a fraction of her absolute reason, her body reacted on instinct. The moment the sharp, medicinal scent hit her nose, she opened her mouth and downed the bitter draught in one smooth motion.
The potion took effect with terrifying speed.
Only three seconds passed.
The comical, absurd atmosphere that had filled the cramped booth seemed to have its pause button forcefully pressed.
The unnatural, rosy flush on Tamara's cheeks faded at a visible rate, rapidly returning to that heatless, porcelain pallor. Her slightly lowered head slowly rose. When those pitch-black eyes swept over the room once more, all the blurriness, sluggishness, and childish annoyance had been completely eradicated.
In its place was a bottomless, suffocating coldness.
The crushing pressure belonging to the Dark Lord slammed back into this thirteen-year-old body. The temperature in the booth seemed to plummet below freezing.
Fred and George, who had been standing nearby trying to suppress their snickers, shivered perceptibly.
They exchanged a quick, nervous glance, their playful grins instantly vanishing. The aura radiating from the girl sitting before them had undergone a terrifying, fundamental transformation in the blink of an eye.
The Tamara who had just been poking chests and slurring her words now looked like a truly awakened ancient serpent, staring down at them with a bone-chilling, predatory gaze.
Inside her mind, the memories of what had just transpired under the influence of alcohol replayed with agonizing clarity.
The greatest Dark Lord of the century had just experienced a catastrophic, humiliating social death.
Tamara's pale fingers, hidden deep within the folds of her sleeves, twitched slightly. She was half a second away from drawing her wand and blasting a high-powered Memory Charm into the minds of the three idiots who had just witnessed her entire history of shame.
But that violent urge only circled in her mind for a fleeting moment before she ruthlessly suppressed it.
On one hand, she had already very conspicuously conjured a massive, bubble-blowing gummy snake in the crowded lobby downstairs. There were simply too many witnesses, and a localized Memory Charm up here wouldn't be enough to clean up the sprawling mess she had made.
On the other hand... Tamara slightly shifted her pitch-black eyes, her brilliant mind already calculating the angles.
Although these two Gryffindor pests were incredibly annoying, since they had foolishly delivered themselves right to her doorstep, she might as well go with the flow and use them as highly effective, disposable free labor.
In such an agonizingly awkward moment, Tamara's innate, obsessive desire for absolute control over every situation wouldn't allow her to show even a microscopic fraction of stage fright.
As long as I am not embarrassed, it is the others who will be embarrassed.
"Since you just solemnly swore your loyalty, I shall tentatively treat this as a decision made after careful consideration."
Tamara naturally played along with the mistake, her voice smooth as glass. Her tone was deadpan, carrying a heavy hint of matter-of-fact coldness, acting as if the person who had just been slurring their words and stumbling around wasn't her at all.
The twins swallowed hard. George let out a dry, nervous laugh. "Uh... Riddle, we just thought this little role-playing game was very..."
"I am not playing games with you, Weasley."
Tamara cut him off smoothly, her pitch-black eyes flashing with a dangerous, lethal glint.
"I don't care if it's out of a boring prankster's mindset or some other trivial reason. Since you've accepted this identity, now is the time to prove your value."
She issued the command in an unquestionable, aristocratic tone that brokered no argument.
"Go get something for me."
She leaned back slightly, her gaze locking onto the twins. "The Marauder's Map, which I'm sure you are intimately familiar with, was confiscated a few days ago by the new Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor—Remus Lupin."
"Since you claim to be such unmatched experts in pranks..." Tamara narrowed her eyes slightly, the temperature dropping another degree. "Then find a way to infiltrate Lupin's office and steal that map back for me."
After all, she had absolutely no desire to face that filthy werewolf right now. Letting these two Gryffindors—who were already frequent visitors to the staff offices for their endless detentions—do the dirty work was the most reliable, hands-off plan available.
But upon hearing this specific task, Fred and George hesitated for once.
They looked at each other, and Fred scratched the back of his neck, his usual bravado faltering.
"Um... Riddle, it's not that we don't dare to go, it's just..."
"It's just that Professor Lupin already looks like he's had a really hard life," George added from the side, his tone revealing that simple, infuriatingly naive Gryffindor-style sympathy. "The patches on his robes are even more numerous than our Ron's, and he looks sickly all day. Are we sure we want to mess with him?"
Hearing this pathetic excuse, Tamara sneered in her heart.
These Gryffindors. No matter how rebellious and chaotic they usually appeared, they always had this boring, weak sense of boundaries and bleeding-heart sympathy etched deep into their bones.
"Save your overflowing sympathy, Weasley," Tamara said, her voice dripping with aristocratic disdain. "I have no interest in messing with a pauper who can't even get enough to eat."
"I only want that map. As for how you acquire it, that is entirely your business."
Having received this assurance, the twins immediately exchanged a knowing, mischievous look. The hesitation vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
For this pair of Gryffindors who practically breathed chaos, today was shaping up to be the most entertaining event they had encountered all term. Since they had already witnessed such an incredibly exciting scene, paying a small price in labor seemed like no loss at all.
"You've got a deal, Your Majesty!" Fred declared, instantly returning to his improper, grinning self as he offered a mock salute.
"Mission accepted!"
Ten-odd minutes later.
The crisp, early spring breeze swept through the streets of Hogsmeade Village, stirring the damp scent of earth and melting frost.
Tamara and Draco walked side-by-side along the winding dirt path leading back toward the towering silhouette of Hogwarts castle.
A fully sober Tamara had completely returned to her cold, calculating self. She walked a half-step ahead, her brilliant mind already racing with complex plans on how to catch Peter Pettigrew—who was currently hiding in the shadows—without alerting Dumbledore, the moment she got her hands on the Marauder's Map.
Just then, Tamara keenly noticed that Draco, walking quietly behind her, was watching her profile with a faint, lingering gaze.
"Did you see that, Draco?"
Tamara suddenly stopped. She spoke coldly, her gaze fixed straight ahead, deliberately crafting a perfect, strategic excuse for the humiliating farce that had just occurred in the tea house.
"Even a crude and somewhat stupid pawn like a Weasley, when placed in the exact right position, is by no means useless."
She tilted her chin up slightly, her tone carrying the weight of a seasoned commander. "A truly qualified master of the board must learn to use all available resources, rather than letting so-called prejudice blind their eyes to potential tools."
Draco stopped a pace behind her. He looked at the thin, perfectly straight back of the girl in front of him, and nodded submissively.
"You're absolutely right, Tamara."
The young master Malfoy's tone was still brimming with the utmost reverence.
But then, Draco reached up and touched the back of his neck somewhat unnaturally. When he spoke again, his voice carried an unmatched, subtle sense of relaxation.
"Though, I must say, the quality control at the Three Broomsticks is simply a disaster these days. Actually disguising low-grade alcohol as fruit juice..."
Draco looked up at her back and muttered softly, smoothly and cleverly shifting the entirety of the blame onto the pub's poor management.
"We should never touch such low-class, commoner drinks again."
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