Friday morning arrived swiftly.
The underground dungeon classroom at Hogwarts was steeped in a cold, damp chill. The air carried the scent of stone soaked in centuries of moisture, mingled with crushed herbs, preservatives, and faint sulfur. Glass jars lined the shadowed walls, each containing unsettling animal specimens suspended in murky liquid. Under the dim candlelight, their distorted shapes cast grotesque shadows that danced along the ceiling.
For most students—particularly those from Gryffindor—this classroom was a waking nightmare.
But for Tamara Riddle, the atmosphere was unexpectedly comforting.
Compared to the earthy scent of the greenhouses or the biting wind atop the Astronomy Tower, this air felt familiar. Familiar and grounding. The scent of brewing ingredients and quiet calculation stirred something deep within her memory.
Potions had once been one of her greatest strengths.
And this dungeon had been the domain of her most loyal servant.
Severus Snape.
"It brings back memories," Tamara thought.
She sat in the front row, slender fingers brushing thoughtfully along the cold rim of her cauldron. The metal felt reassuring beneath her touch.
In the memories of her previous life, Snape had been the Death Eater who never betrayed her—at least not until the very end. He had endured humiliation, suspicion, and unbearable pressure while working beside Dumbledore, all to provide her with vital intelligence.
Even though she had ultimately killed him over the ownership of the Elder Wand…
That did not diminish her appreciation for his brilliance.
"Since I have returned," she mused inwardly, a faint smile touching her lips, "you should return as well. This time, I will grant you a higher status."
Bang!
The heavy dungeon door was thrown open with force.
A tall figure swept into the room, black robes billowing dramatically behind him like the wings of a great bat. His hair hung greasy and unkempt around his pale, sallow face.
Severus Snape.
He did not need to shout for silence. His very presence commanded it. A suffocating gloom settled over the room the moment he entered.
Without preamble, he picked up the roll book and began calling names.
Even in the simple act of reading, his voice carried a low, resonant menace, like silk drawn over steel.
"Harry Potter."
Snape paused slightly.
"Oh, yes," he said softly. "Harry Potter. Our new… celebrity."
A ripple of snickers spread from Draco Malfoy and the other Slytherins. Snape did not glance in their direction, but neither did he silence them.
Tamara observed with cool detachment.
So he still despised Potter. Good.
That meant his stance had not changed.
"Tamara Riddle."
This time, the pause was more subtle—but Tamara heard it clearly.
Snape's head lifted. From beneath the curtain of black hair, his dark eyes locked onto hers.
The look he gave her was layered and complex.
Scrutiny.
Disdain.
And beneath both—something else.
Apprehension.
Tamara did not look away.
Instead, she raised her chin slightly and offered him a composed, almost approving smile—the sort a Dark Lord might bestow upon a competent subordinate.
"Present, Professor."
Her voice was calm. Steady. And laced with the faintest, almost imperceptible intimacy.
Snape's pupils contracted sharply.
As though burned, he broke eye contact and returned to the roll book. His pace quickened.
After finishing attendance, he stepped forward and began his introduction.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making."
His voice was barely above a whisper, yet every word carried clearly across the dungeon.
"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
His eyes drifted across the room.
"I do not expect you to truly understand the beauty of a softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes… or the delicate power that flows through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses."
His tone darkened.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper on death—if you are not as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Silence reigned.
Hermione Granger leaned forward eagerly, determined to prove she was not a dunderhead.
Tamara, by contrast, leaned back in her chair, nostalgia flickering in her eyes.
Yes. This was Severus Snape.
Arrogant. Brilliant. Theatrical.
Even when addressing a room of children, his rhetoric was precise and cutting.
"Potter!"
The word cracked like a whip.
"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze. He glanced at Ron, who looked equally confused. Hermione's hand shot into the air so quickly it nearly struck the ceiling.
"I don't know, sir," Harry admitted.
Snape curled his lip.
"Tut, tut. Fame clearly is not everything."
He stepped closer.
"If I asked you to fetch me a bezoar, where would you look?"
Hermione's arm stretched even higher. Harry shook his head again.
"I don't know, sir."
"I assume you have not opened a single book before arriving at this school, have you, Potter?"
Laughter erupted from the Slytherins.
Tamara watched Harry's reddening face with quiet satisfaction.
"Well done, Severus," she thought. "Even now, you know where to strike."
Snape's gaze swept across the room, deliberately ignoring Hermione's frantic gestures. His eyes settled on Tamara.
"Miss Riddle."
There was tension in his voice.
"Perhaps you can enlighten these… illustrious classmates?"
He did not want to say that surname. She could hear it in the way his jaw tightened.
Few in the wizarding world knew that Lord Voldemort had once been Tom Riddle.
But Severus Snape knew.
And ever since seeing that name on his class list, he had scarcely slept.
Tamara rose gracefully.
She did not rush. She did not recite mechanically.
Instead, she spoke in a slow, deliberate cadence eerily reminiscent of Snape's own.
"Powdered root of asphodel combined with an infusion of wormwood produces a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death, Professor."
Her eyes met his.
"As for a bezoar, it is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat. It possesses strong antidotal properties and can save the life of someone who has ingested poison."
She paused briefly.
"And monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant. Both are forms of aconite."
Perfect.
Precise.
Delivered with calm superiority.
It was a tone Snape knew well.
The tone that once filled the head of the table at Death Eater meetings.
His face drained further of color.
For a fleeting moment, the dungeon seemed colder.
"…Correct," he said at last, the word forced through clenched teeth. "Five points to Slytherin."
He turned abruptly, robes snapping behind him.
"Copy that down. All of it."
Tamara sat, satisfied.
She could feel his unease.
"He recognizes it," she thought smugly. "He senses something."
Was he afraid?
Or secretly exhilarated that his master might have returned?
Either way, she enjoyed it.
The lesson moved on to brewing the Cure for Boils in pairs.
Tamara was partnered with Draco Malfoy.
Under her direction, Draco eagerly followed instructions, measuring and chopping while she controlled the crucial timing and heat. Their potion settled into a perfect shade of luminous blue, pink steam rising delicately from the surface.
Across the room, chaos erupted.
Neville Longbottom had somehow melted Seamus Finnigan's cauldron. Scalding potion splashed everywhere, burning holes through shoes and fabric. Neville's arms erupted in painful red boils.
"Idiot!" Snape thundered, vanishing the mess with a sharp flick of his wand. "You were meant to remove the cauldron from the fire before adding the porcupine quills!"
He rounded on Harry suddenly.
"Why did you not tell him, Potter? Do you imagine his incompetence makes you look superior? Gryffindor will lose one point."
Harry's fists clenched, fury flashing in his eyes, but Ron restrained him.
Blatant favoritism.
Tamara, however, saw it differently.
"He is willing to fabricate an excuse simply to undermine the so-called savior," she thought approvingly.
She bottled her flawless potion, glancing at Snape as he berated Neville.
"You still despise Gryffindor."
"Excellent."
The bell rang at last.
Students hurried from the dungeon.
Tamara lingered briefly near the doorway, glancing back once at the closed door.
She was in better spirits than when she had arrived.
Barrow had already proven useful.
Now, she believed she had gained another ally within the school.
Snape might be volatile. Bitter. Unstable.
But loyalty endured.
"As long as you hate Potter," she murmured inwardly, "we stand on the same side."
She stepped into the corridor, confidence gleaming in her eyes.
No matter what form she wore, Severus Snape would recognize her soul.
And once he did, he would return to her.
Behind the closed dungeon door, Severus Snape sat heavily in his chair.
The classroom was empty now.
His usual cold composure had fractured.
His black eyes, normally unreadable, were filled with something raw and terrible.
Fear.
His hand trembled as he gripped his left forearm, fingers pressing into the Dark Mark beneath his sleeve. The skin did not burn.
But his soul felt as though it had been set ablaze.
"That voice…"
He stared at the empty seat Tamara had occupied.
That tone.
That cadence.
It was not imitation.
It was memory.
"Lily…" he whispered hoarsely.
"If you could see this…"
His throat tightened.
He closed his eyes briefly, anguish and dread twisting together inside him.
"That soul… has returned."
And this time, he did not know which side he stood on.
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