Stepping out of the second-hand shop reeking of mildew and something suspiciously like dead rats, Tamara did not hurry toward Ollivanders to purchase a wand.
Her priorities were far more immediate.
As someone who had once stood at the pinnacle of the wizarding world, she absolutely refused to continue parading around in a poorly fitted, tattered burlap excuse for a dress that made her resemble a house-elf that had lost its master.
Her destination was clear.
Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions.
When she pushed open the door, a delicate chime rang overhead. The interior was spacious and well-lit, with tall mirrors lining the walls and bolts of fine fabric stacked neatly on polished shelves. The faint scent of lavender mingled with the crisp aroma of newly pressed cloth. It was clean. Orderly. Refined.
Acceptable.
A squat, plump witch dressed in mauve robes hurried forward with a welcoming smile.
"Buying your Hogwarts school uniform, dear?" Madam Malkin asked warmly, without so much as a flicker of disdain at Tamara's current appearance.
"Indeed, Madam."
Tamara inclined her head slightly. Even in rags, her movements were precise and elegant. She opened her coin purse—now pleasantly heavy—and counted out ten Galleons, placing them on the counter with deliberate care.
"In addition to the standard Hogwarts uniform," she said smoothly, "I require the finest daily robe you possess. Silk. Dark green."
She paused, her tone sharpening just a fraction.
"And I would appreciate it if you would dispose of this… regrettable garment. I intend to change immediately."
Madam Malkin blinked, then beamed. "Of course, dear! Step into the back room. There's a young gentleman being fitted now—you may stand on the stool beside him."
Tamara walked toward the fitting area.
There, standing rigidly on a footstool while a tape measure fluttered about him like an overexcited fairy, was a pale boy with slicked-back platinum hair and sharp grey eyes.
Draco Malfoy.
For a brief moment, Tamara studied him. The resemblance to Lucius Malfoy was unmistakable—perhaps seventy percent, though softened by youth and untested arrogance.
Lucius.
Though limited in brilliance, he had at least been loyal.
Tamara wondered, fleetingly, how the Malfoy family had fared after her… demise.
She stepped onto the stool beside Draco without comment. Madam Malkin slipped a measuring robe over her shoulders.
Draco turned his head slightly, examining her with open curiosity.
"Going to Hogwarts too?" he drawled.
"Mhm," Tamara replied calmly, eyes fixed straight ahead.
"My father's next door buying my books and my cauldron," Draco continued, apparently undeterred by her cool tone. "He'll be here in a moment."
Silence.
He filled it enthusiastically.
"After that, I'm making him take me to look at racing brooms. I don't see why first-years aren't allowed their own. It's ridiculous."
He puffed slightly with pride.
"I'll just get my father to buy me one and find a way to smuggle it in."
Tamara remained impassive.
"Do you play Quidditch?" Draco asked. "Father says I'm a natural-born Seeker."
At last, she turned her head.
Her gaze held no envy. No excitement. No admiration.
It was the detached observation one might grant a noisy parrot.
"Quidditch?" she echoed softly, her voice smooth as silk. "It is… a pleasant pastime for those with surplus energy and nowhere more meaningful to direct it."
Draco blinked.
"That's not what I meant," he said, frowning. "You don't like Quidditch? What do you even like, then? Don't tell me it's Gobstones."
"I prefer," Tamara said evenly, "to explore the deeper mysteries of magic itself."
Her chin lifted slightly as the tape measure circled her shoulders.
"No matter how high one flies," she continued, "it remains acrobatics on a broomstick. Mastery of magic—that is the true mark of a wizard's noble worth."
Draco opened his mouth, then closed it again.
The girl beside him had arrived in threadbare clothing. Yet now, standing in a half-fitted robe, she carried herself with an effortless authority that outshone any pure-blood daughter he had met at formal dinners.
He changed tactics.
"What House do you think you'll be in?"
A smug expression returned to his face.
"I already know I'll be in Slytherin. My whole family has been Slytherin. I don't even need the Sorting Hat to tell me."
"Slytherin," Tamara said.
She did not say it with hope.
She stated it as one might state gravity.
Draco's eyes brightened.
"Oh? Then you must be pure-blood too. What's your surname?"
A critical question.
Once, the Dark Lord had despised her own impure blood. That shame had burned fiercely—until she silenced the source of it permanently.
Blood had ceased to matter.
Power was what endured.
A faint curl touched Tamara's lips.
"You are rather loud, Mr. Malfoy," she said crisply.
He stiffened.
"Only parvenus flaunt their wealth and cling so desperately to bloodlines."
"Parvenu?!" Draco's face flushed crimson. "My family is part of the Sacred Twenty-Eight!"
"An illustrious lineage," Tamara replied calmly, "is the glory of your ancestors. It is not your personal shield."
Her voice never rose, yet each word struck with precise clarity.
"The moment you repeat 'my father' in every sentence, you confess your own inadequacy."
Draco stared at her.
"A true Slytherin," she continued, "does not bark from the shadow of their parents."
The tape measure froze midair.
Madam Malkin stared at the two eleven-year-olds in stunned silence.
Draco Malfoy—speechless.
No one had ever addressed him like this. Not at school. Not among family friends. Certainly not a stranger.
Yet under that steady gaze, he felt an inexplicable urge to lower his eyes.
It was worse than being scolded by his father.
Lucius's anger was loud.
This was quiet—and far more oppressive.
At last, Madam Malkin cleared her throat.
"That will do, dear. Your fitting is complete."
She clapped her hands briskly.
"I'll fetch your school uniform. Just a moment."
She hurried out, leaving them alone.
Tamara stepped down from her stool and turned toward the mirror.
The dark green silk robe draped flawlessly across her shoulders, the color rich and deep—almost serpentine in its sheen.
Yes.
This was appropriate.
She turned back to Draco, who remained frozen on his stool.
"Look at me," she said.
He did.
Without hesitation.
Tamara stepped closer. With a single finger, she tilted his chin upward.
The gesture was subtle. Controlled. Almost gentle.
It sent a shiver down his spine.
"Hide your desires," she murmured. "Your pride. Your impatience."
"Boasting about what you have not yet achieved makes you transparent."
Her finger pressed lightly beneath his chin.
"Even a troll could read you."
Draco held his breath.
He felt… small.
Not insulted.
Measured.
And found lacking.
"When you speak of future glories as if they are already yours," Tamara continued softly, "you reveal your hunger. And hunger invites predators."
Her hand withdrew.
"Learn silence, Draco Malfoy."
His name sounded like a verdict.
"Only when you master restraint will others truly listen when you choose to speak."
She turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Draco remained on the stool, cheeks burning.
His heart pounded violently.
He touched the collar she had straightened.
For the first time in his young life, he questioned whether pride alone was enough.
Outside the shop, Tamara adjusted the bags in her hands.
A faint voice chimed in her mind.
Quest Complete: Noble Upbringing.
Charm +2 acquired.
Malfoy Family favorability unlocked. Current favorability: 10/100.
Her lips curved slightly.
Children were astonishingly easy to guide.
Or manipulate.
She stepped into the sunlight of Diagon Alley, dark green silk catching the light like polished emerald.
The game had begun.
And this time—
She intended to play it perfectly.