The corridor outside Potions Class felt even more suffocating than the Dungeon itself.
Harry Potter trudged forward with heavy steps, his shoulders slumped like a Muggle who had just realized his wallet was gone. The strap of his bag dug into his shoulder, and Magical Drafts and Potions seemed to weigh a thousand pounds. It wasn't just the textbook inside—it carried the full oppressive weight of Professor Snape's malice.
"I don't understand. I really don't," Harry burst out, frustration sharpening his voice as he walked beside Ron and Hermione. "He said I have no sense of timing just because my valerian boiled to mush? The book clearly says to boil it for ten minutes! I didn't go a second over!"
"Snape's just a miserable old bat," Ron said immediately, fully aligned with Harry's indignation. "Does he even need a reason to pick on you? I bet even if your potion looked exactly like that Riddle girl's, he'd still say you were breathing too loudly and dock points from Gryffindor."
Hermione walked quietly on Harry's other side, clutching her books against her chest. Her brow was furrowed in thought.
"Actually… Harry," she said carefully, lowering her voice, "the book says to simmer over a low flame for ten minutes. It doesn't say to boil it at full heat."
Harry frowned.
"I followed the time exactly!"
"Yes, but the temperature matters," Hermione insisted gently. "Valerian root is delicate. If the heat is too high, the fibers begin to break down after about seven minutes. That ruins the medicinal properties."
Not far behind them, Tamara Riddle heard every word.
Stupid.
She didn't bother hiding her disdain.
The fibrous structure of valerian root was notoriously fragile. Boiling it violently for ten minutes was culinary behavior, not potion brewing. Were they trying to make soup?
She moved past them without a glance, her Slytherin robes whispering against the stone floor. The trio's noisy complaints were beneath her notice.
She had always found a certain satisfaction in observing the so-called savior's incompetence.
Just as she turned toward the corridor leading to the Library—
[Ding! Detected that the savior is currently in a period of academic confusion.]
The notification echoed crisply in her mind.
Tamara stiffened.
[Daily Quest Triggered: The Invisible Tutor.]
[Quest Description: Harry Potter is the future hope of the Wizarding World (though current performance may suggest otherwise). As an erudite and talented Slytherin, it is your responsibility to correct his academic misconceptions.]
[Quest Requirement: Help Harry Potter understand the true reason for his potion failure.]
[Reward: Wisdom +3.]
[Failure Penalty: Publicly address Harry as 'Sister Potter.']
Tamara nearly tripped over her own feet.
She was speechless.
"I refuse," she hissed internally. "You expect me to teach the person who killed me once? Walk him step-by-step through potion theory? Absolutely not."
[Host, please remain calm. The system does not require step-by-step instruction.]
The system's tone was disturbingly patient.
[Any method is acceptable. Anonymous guidance is permitted. Even writing a note and delivering it discreetly will fulfill the requirement—provided he understands.]
Tamara folded her arms.
[Furthermore, prolonged scolding sessions from Professor Snape waste valuable class time. Reducing Potter's incompetence may increase your own learning efficiency.]
That gave her pause.
Snape's lectures directed at Potter did drag on unnecessarily.
She disliked inefficiency.
"…One note," Tamara decided at last, narrowing her eyes as she watched the trio enter the Library ahead. "One anonymous note. He will never know who wrote it."
Inside the Library, the atmosphere was hushed and solemn.
Harry dropped heavily into a chair at an empty table. He opened Magical Drafts and Potions and glared at the page detailing the Forgetfulness Potion.
"I still think he's targeting me," Harry muttered darkly. "There's nothing about heat here."
Hermione had already gone to retrieve supplementary texts from the shelves. Ron, evidently exhausted by intellectual effort, had set up a Wizard's Chess board and was playing against himself.
Three rows away, concealed by towering bookshelves, Tamara took a seat in a secluded corner.
She tore a small square from a piece of parchment, dipped her quill in ink, and wrote swiftly:
"Valerian roots contain heat-sensitive fibers and must be reduced to a simmer just before the water reaches a full boil. Excessive heat collapses the fibers, releasing bitter inhibitors that cloud the potion and reduce its efficacy. This is common sense, you idiot."
She examined the sentence.
Concise. Accurate. Educational.
The insult was optional—but satisfying.
Now came the issue of delivery.
She had no intention of approaching him directly. That would be beneath her—and risk exposure.
She observed the scene through the gaps between shelves.
Harry was slumped over his book. Hermione remained absent. Ron was contemplating whether to sacrifice his own rook.
Ideal.
Using magic inside the Library risked attracting Madam Pince's attention. Tamara preferred precision without spectacle.
She stood, pretending to exchange a book. As she passed behind the row of shelves lining the back of Harry's table, she flicked her fingers.
The folded parchment flew like a perfectly weighted dart.
It slipped through the narrow gap between shelves, tracing a silent arc through the air.
Plip.
A soft sound.
The note landed directly atop the page discussing valerian root.
Harry jumped.
"What was that?"
He looked around sharply. No one nearby had moved.
"Did something fall from the ceiling?" he muttered.
He picked up the parchment and unfolded it.
His expression shifted as he read.
Confusion… concentration… realization.
"Fibers… simmer…" he murmured.
His eyes widened.
"So that's it. That's why it turns cloudy."
He stared at the line again.
Snape hadn't mentioned any of this explicitly.
"Who gave me this?"
Harry stood abruptly, scanning the Library.
It was quiet. A few Ravenclaw students studied in the distance. No one seemed suspicious.
Except—
A dark green figure turning a corner at the far end of the aisle.
The elegant stride. The smooth cascade of black hair.
"Riddle?" Harry whispered.
"What Riddle?" Ron asked, looking up. "You see that she-devil?"
"Shh!" Harry sat down quickly.
He looked again at the handwriting. It was carefully printed—deliberately neutral.
But the ink.
Deep green. Almost black. With a faint silvery sheen.
In their first Charms class, Tamara had used the same distinctive ink. Ron had joked that it looked like diluted poison.
Harry lifted the parchment slightly.
There was a faint scent.
Not dust. Not parchment.
Something colder.
Like cedar in winter.
He remembered that scent.
His heartbeat quickened.
"It's her," he thought.
He looked at the final line again.
This is common sense, you idiot.
His lips curved—just slightly.
She could have ignored him. Let him fail. Let Snape humiliate him repeatedly.
But she hadn't.
She had corrected him.
Anonymously.
Without claiming credit.
"What are you smiling about?" Ron asked suspiciously. "You didn't drink the potion, did you?"
"No," Harry said quickly, folding the note and tucking it carefully into his book. "I just… figured something out."
He glanced toward the aisle where she had disappeared.
A strange, unfamiliar warmth stirred in his chest.
What a… complicatedly kind person.
[Ding! Quest Completed: The Invisible Tutor.]
[Reward: Wisdom +3. Current Wisdom: 27.]
[Detected increase in Harry Potter's favorability toward you.]
[Updated Impression Label: Cold-Faced Guardian Angel.]
Tamara, already halfway down the Dungeon corridor, nearly walked into a stone wall.
"…Guardian Angel?"
She pressed her palm against the cold stone and closed her eyes.
Unbelievable.
Even if Potter's dim brain had deduced her involvement—
Even after reading an insult—
His favorability had increased?
Tamara felt a deep, existential irritation.
If this was the savior of the Wizarding World, then her death in her previous life had truly been a tragic miscalculation.
She exhaled slowly, irritation simmering beneath her calm exterior.
"When I obtain the Philosopher's Stone," she muttered coldly, "and recover my full power…"
Her eyes darkened with murderous resolve.
"I will personally open his skull and verify whether it is filled with Fluxweed."
The Dungeon torches flickered.
And somewhere in the Library, Harry Potter carefully pressed a folded green note between the pages of his textbook—like a secret he had no intention of sharing.
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