Tamara stepped into the narrow, sweltering hut, instantly assaulted by a chaotic blend of smells—smoke, damp earth, animal fur, and something faintly burnt. Hams and pheasants dangled from the ceiling beams, swaying slightly in the thick air. In one corner lay a heap of ragged blankets that looked as though they had not been washed in decades.
"Woof!"
Before she could locate a remotely acceptable place to stand, a massive black boarhound lunged from the shadows.
It was Fang.
The dog barreled toward her with alarming enthusiasm, planting his enormous front paws squarely on her shoulders. A broad, glistening tongue emerged, poised to deliver what was undoubtedly an affectionate—but utterly revolting—lick across her face.
"Down, Fang!" Hagrid roared.
Tamara froze.
That was drool.
Dog drool.
She could see it glistening at the edge of his mouth. The thought of even the faintest trace of that sticky substance touching her skin made her stomach churn. Her sanity teetered on the brink. For a fleeting, dangerously tempting second, she considered casting a spell to launch the beast into the rafters.
But the system panel flickered in her vision.
[Hagrid Favorability: Cold]
With monumental restraint, she suppressed the impulse.
Tilting her head just enough to avoid the advancing tongue, she extended a single elegant finger and pressed it against Fang's forehead. To an observer, it might have appeared to be a gentle caress. In truth, it was a calculated shove.
"What a… lively creature," she managed through clenched teeth. "You've raised him remarkably well."
Hagrid tugged Fang away. At her compliment, his stern expression softened, the suspicion in his eyes easing ever so slightly.
"Sit down, everyone, sit."
He bustled about, pouring tea into cups that looked only marginally clean. Then he set down a large plate of objects that resembled geological samples more than food.
"These are rock cakes," Hagrid announced proudly. "Fresh out o' the oven. Best eaten while they're hot."
Harry and Ron visibly paled.
Clearly, they were veterans of this culinary experience.
"Thanks, Hagrid," Harry said, picking one up. He pretended to bite into it, though in reality he seemed to be cautiously testing its structural integrity with his teeth.
Tamara examined the brown lumps with thinly veiled suspicion.
[Task Progress Prompt: Please express goodwill by accepting the host's hospitality.]
She inhaled slowly.
With controlled elegance, she reached forward. Her long, pale fingers closed around a rock cake.
The moment it entered her mouth, she felt as though her molars were being subjected to a medieval torture device.
The system chimed in helpfully:
[Don't worry, host. I've temporarily doubled the hardness of your teeth. You're essentially a hyena now.]
"Crunch."
The sound was alarmingly loud.
To any onlooker, she appeared to bite through the rock cake effortlessly, as though it were a delicate biscuit.
"The flavor…" she said smoothly, chewing with perfect poise, "…is quite unique."
In truth, it tasted like compressed, century-old flour sacks infused with vague regret.
"It has a… rustic earthiness."
Hagrid's eyes shone.
"I knew you'd appreciate it!" he exclaimed, beaming. "Harry and the others never really eat 'em proper. But this is good, solid food!"
The atmosphere eased at last. The stiffness in the air dissipated like steam from the kettle.
Hagrid hesitated, glancing at Tamara. Something troubled flickered behind his eyes.
"Er… Miss Riddle," he began awkwardly. "You said it was just coincidence, but… have you heard anything at school? About what happened fifty years ago?"
Harry and Ron exchanged puzzled looks, clearly unaware of what he meant.
Here it comes.
Tamara placed the half-eaten rock cake delicately on the plate. She withdrew a handkerchief and dabbed the corner of her lips with precise refinement.
"Are you referring to the student who died in the second-floor bathroom?"
She lifted her gaze, meeting Hagrid's evasive eyes directly.
In that instant, she summoned the spirit of a Best Actress.
A carefully measured blend of regret and quiet sympathy softened her expression.
"The professors rarely speak of it," she said gently. "But I have read some old school records."
Her tone was steady—earnest, even.
"I learned that a student received a Special Award for Services to the School for catching the person responsible for opening the Chamber of Secrets."
Hagrid's large hands tightened around the edge of the table. His shoulders hunched slightly.
"But…" she continued, her voice shifting just enough to signal doubt.
"When I read those records, something felt… off."
Hagrid's head snapped up.
"The student who was expelled," she said thoughtfully, "had no history of attacking classmates. In fact, from what I gathered, he was known for his fondness for magical creatures."
Her gaze remained fixed on him, soft yet unyielding.
"And the student credited with catching the culprit—while academically brilliant—seemed to possess an ambition that bordered on ruthless. The kind that might sacrifice fairness for glory."
Silence enveloped the hut.
"I cannot believe," she said quietly, "that someone who genuinely loves animals could commit such a crime."
She paused, allowing the words to sink in.
"On the contrary, I feel the verdict back then was… hasty. Perhaps even unjust."
Internally, Tamara nearly recoiled at herself.
The hypocrisy was nauseating.
The frame-up had been flawless. A masterpiece of manipulation. There had never been a more elegant piece of slander.
And yet here she was, delivering the opposite narrative with saintly conviction.
Hagrid stared at her, stunned.
His lips trembled.
His eyes reddened.
For fifty years—half a century—no one except Dumbledore had spoken words like these to him.
And certainly not a Slytherin bearing the name Riddle.
"You… you really think that?" he asked hoarsely.
"Intuition, Mr. Hagrid," she replied with a small, composed smile.
Gone was her usual sharp arrogance. In its place lay something warm, reassuring.
"I trust my instincts. You are a good man. And I believe Hogwarts owes you an apology."
The dam broke.
A tremendous sob tore from Hagrid's chest. He buried his face in a grimy tablecloth, weeping like an enormous, heartbroken child.
"No one… no one's ever said that before…"
Harry and Ron gaped at the scene, then looked at Tamara with open admiration.
Even she was mildly surprised by the magnitude of the reaction.
[Ding! Task completed: Debt of History.]
[Hagrid Favorability: Friendly.]
[Evaluation: Though it was all lies, you provided solace to a lonely heart. Such is the art of language.]
Tamara observed the sobbing giant and sighed inwardly.
"Please, don't cry."
She rose to her feet. Though revulsion prickled at her skin, she reached out and gently patted his massive, trembling arm.
"Misunderstandings can persist for decades," she said softly. "But clarity, even late, is still worthwhile."
She glanced toward the window. The sky had darkened considerably.
"And the tea was lovely," she added briskly. "But we should return to the castle. We still have assignments to complete."
If she remained any longer, she feared she might suffocate—either from sentimentality or from rock cake fragments lodged fatally in her throat.
Hagrid insisted on escorting them to the castle gates.
"Come by anytime, Tamara!" he called, waving enthusiastically, his eyes still red and swollen. "Next time I'll make treacle fudge!"
"Of course, Hagrid," she replied with impeccable politeness.
They passed through the heavy oak doors of the castle. The moment they shut, blocking the view from outside, the smile vanished from her face as though erased.
Without hesitation, she cast a Scouring Charm on her shoulder where Hagrid had touched her, then on the sleeve Fang had slobbered on.
"Tamara," Harry said, still awed, "what you said back there was incredible. I've never seen Hagrid so moved."
"Indeed," she replied coolly, inspecting her now-pristine robes.
A faint, nearly imperceptible sneer curved her lips.
Making a sentimental giant cry had required far less effort than surviving that rock cake.
Tears were simple.
People were predictable.
And words—when wielded correctly—were sharper than any blade.
She smoothed her sleeve one final time.
Yes.
Lying through one's teeth was a small price to pay for progress.
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