November at Hogwarts ushered in a bitter, unforgiving winter.
The mountains surrounding the castle faded into cold gray-blue silhouettes, and each morning a fragile sheet of ice sealed the surface of the Black Lake. The wind that swept across the grounds carried a damp chill that seeped through robes and settled deep into the bones.
For most students, descending into the dungeons for Potions class during this season felt like a sentence rather than a lesson.
The dungeon corridors were perpetually cold and clammy, the stone walls slick with moisture. The air smelled of herbs, metal, and simmering concoctions. And presiding over this subterranean misery was a professor even sharper than the winter wind—Severus Snape.
Snape still made a habit of targeting Harry from time to time, as though it were a private indulgence. Whether Harry answered correctly or not was almost irrelevant; Snape could always find something lacking, something inadequate, something worthy of mockery.
In Tamara's eyes, however, this behavior meant something entirely different.
Today was no exception.
"Potter," Snape drawled, his voice cutting through the dungeon like a blade. "Tell me the properties of crushed moonstone when added to a stabilizing draught."
Harry hesitated—but only briefly. He managed a competent answer, clear and accurate enough.
"Barely correct," Snape replied with a snort, sounding almost disappointed that he could not deduct points. "But your answer, like your potion, lacks spirit. Sit down."
His black robes swirled behind him like enormous bat wings as he pivoted and stalked toward the front of the classroom.
When he stopped beside Tamara Riddle's cauldron, however, the oppressive aura around him shifted—subtly, but unmistakably.
Tamara was slicing daisy roots with elegant precision. The silver knife flashed rhythmically under the torchlight. Her movements flowed like water—controlled, unhurried, exact. Even the number of times she stirred her potion seemed calculated down to the smallest fraction.
Within her cauldron, the purple liquid released steady, symmetrical spirals of steam. The surface shimmered with perfect consistency.
It was, by every objective measure, flawless.
Snape stood there for a long moment, scrutinizing the potion. Even he, notorious for finding fault where none existed, could not identify a single flaw.
"…Perfect."
The word seemed to cost him something.
"Pure coloration. Appropriate viscosity," he continued dryly. "Five points to Slytherin."
"Thank you, Professor."
Tamara inclined her head slightly. Her smile was polite—refined, distant—and for reasons Snape could not quite articulate, it unsettled him.
His lip twitched faintly before he turned back toward the lectern.
It was in that brief moment of movement that Tamara noticed something.
Snape's left leg trembled—just barely—when he shifted his weight. His brow furrowed for a split second, a flicker of pain he tried desperately to suppress. Beneath the layered scent of crushed herbs and potion fumes lingered something else.
Blood.
Faint, but distinct.
The unmistakable scent of a fresh laceration.
Tamara's knife paused mid-slice. A thoughtful glimmer surfaced in her dark eyes.
So the rumors were true.
On Halloween night, when that incompetent Quirrell released the troll to create chaos, someone had attempted to breach the chamber guarding the Philosopher's Stone. According to whispers, something—or someone—had been injured by the monstrous three-headed dog stationed there.
Cerberus.
Tamara's mind worked swiftly.
Of course.
This loyal Potions Master must have gone to secure the Stone. To steal it, perhaps. To offer it to the "main soul."
Her lips curved faintly.
Foolish.
Was it truly worth risking one's life for a master who had already lost his body? A remnant clinging to existence through rage and obsession?
What touching loyalty.
What tragic waste.
The bell rang sharply, shattering the dungeon's heavy stillness. Students scrambled to gather their belongings, eager to escape the cold and Snape's oppressive presence.
"Potter. Stay behind and clean the classroom."
Harry stiffened but said nothing. Snape turned away, already preparing to retreat to his office to tend to his wound.
"Professor."
The voice was calm—cool as winter steel.
Snape froze.
Slowly, he turned.
Tamara Riddle remained standing by the lectern, books gathered neatly in her arms. Her pitch-black eyes regarded him in silence.
That gaze.
It was far too familiar.
Calm. Measured. Assessing.
It reminded him of someone he had once knelt before.
"Miss Riddle," Snape said cautiously. His hand slipped into his sleeve, fingers curling around his wand. "Is there something you require?"
"Your leg appears to be troubling you."
She spoke plainly, without hesitation, her eyes lowering briefly to the hem of his robes.
Snape's pupils contracted.
How?
How could she know?
"I have no idea what you're implying," he replied, his tone turning colder, edged with warning. "If you have nothing further—"
"Cerberus's fangs carry a cursed toxin," Tamara interrupted softly. "Standard healing charms are insufficient."
She stepped closer, lowering her voice to a near whisper.
"If I were you, Professor, I would add powdered unicorn horn to the Essence of Dittany. It accelerates regeneration and neutralizes residual curse traces."
Silence.
Snape stared at her, his face draining of color.
She knew.
Not only that he was injured—but what had injured him.
A cold sensation crawled up his spine.
How much did this eleven-year-old girl truly understand?
"You are working very hard, Professor," Tamara continued.
There was something in her eyes.
Admiration.
Snape frowned, unsettled. "Explain yourself."
"To take such a risk," she said evenly, "even at the cost of personal injury."
His heartbeat quickened.
"What do you think you know?"
Tamara blinked, feigning innocence.
"I only mean that an injury like that must have been sustained for a significant purpose."
Then her tone shifted—subtle, almost sympathetic.
"But some purposes," she added quietly, "may not be worthy of such sacrifice."
Her gaze lingered on him—pitying, almost.
The implication struck him like ice water.
Did she believe—
No.
Surely not.
She couldn't possibly think—
Tamara gave a graceful bow.
"Please take care of your health, Professor. Hogwarts still requires talents such as yours."
With that, she turned and left the dungeon.
Snape remained motionless.
The torches flickered against the stone walls. The air felt colder than before.
He gripped the edge of the lectern, knuckles whitening.
What had she meant?
Did she suspect him?
Was she warning him?
Testing him?
Threatening him?
Or worse—was she aligned with the Dark Lord and measuring his loyalty?
His wound throbbed sharply, pain pulsing up his leg in time with his racing thoughts.
The sensation was suffocating.
Like being observed by a coiled serpent.
"Damn… Riddle," he muttered under his breath.
Meanwhile, Tamara ascended the dungeon stairs, entirely satisfied.
Her steps were light.
Her plan, she believed, had progressed beautifully.
First, demonstrate concern. Let him perceive the difference between indifference and appreciation. Let him compare the distant, powerless "main soul" with her tangible support.
Loyalty was not only forged through fear.
It could also be redirected through gratitude.
When the moment was right, she would extend her hand again—this time openly.
A capable subordinate like Severus Snape should not be wasted on a fading shadow of the past.
In her mind, she had offered him salvation.
In his mind, she had unveiled a veiled threat.
Each believed they had understood the other perfectly.
In reality, the gulf between their interpretations was vast—wider than the English Channel.
And neither realized just how profound that misunderstanding truly was.
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