Ever since the battle in the snow, Tamara had acquired an unexpected shadow—Neville Longbottom.
He did not orbit her flamboyantly like Draco, nor did he chatter incessantly like Pansy. He simply followed her at a cautious distance, quiet and persistent.
When Tamara went to the Library, Neville would choose a table nearby and pretend to read. When she dined in the Great Hall, he would sit at the Gryffindor table, stealing glances toward Slytherin as though worried she might vanish if he blinked.
Clumsy surveillance.
Seated by the window in the Library, Tamara turned a page of her book without looking up. From the corner of her eye, she could see Neville's round face peeking from behind a bookshelf—half-hidden, half-exposed.
Pathetic.
And yet, she did not drive him away.
A loyal fool was often more useful than a clever opportunist. Loyal fools were predictable. Predictable people were easy to control.
Compared to Neville's awkward devotion, Harry Potter's behavior was far more irritating.
Ever since she had dragged him away from his obsession in front of the Mirror of Erised, Harry had grown restless—almost desperate. He constantly sought excuses to approach her. A question about homework. A casual greeting. A forced coincidence in the corridors.
But Tamara had returned to her "keep your distance" Slytherin persona.
Cold. Detached. Untouchable.
She treated him with polite indifference.
It wounded the so-called savior more than any curse.
He drifted through the halls looking like a drenched puppy abandoned in the rain.
[Host, Harry's favorability toward you has reached a critical threshold of emotional dependency.]
The system's voice rang inside her mind, tinged with mischief.
[If you strike now—even a small smile would make him ecstatic.]
Tamara flipped another page, the corners of her lips curling faintly.
"A smile?" she thought. "That's far too cheap."
"For someone starved of affection, the most effective strategy isn't warmth. It's restraint."
She adjusted her posture, eyes cool and calculating.
"Neglect. Distance. Occasional reward. Push and pull."
"Only when he understands that my attention is rare will he learn to crave it."
[How wicked, Host.]
Tamara gave a soft, humorless laugh.
"Obviously."
Friday arrived with Potion class.
If fate had a sense of humor, it was a cruel one.
Due to the flu spreading after the snowball incident, several students from both Slytherin and Gryffindor were absent. Professor Snape had no choice but to rearrange the pairings.
"Riddle. You will work with Potter."
The classroom fell silent.
Professor Snape's cold, unreadable gaze swept across the room as he made his decision. Whether he sought amusement or intended to test something, no one could tell.
Tamara's expression did not change—but inwardly, something cracked.
Harry, meanwhile, looked stunned for only a second before breaking into a bright, hopeful smile. He quickly gathered his cauldron and shuffled toward her desk.
"Hello, Tamara," he said, setting his things down carefully. "I'll try not to slow you down."
Tamara inhaled slowly and summoned a flawless, artificial smile.
"I should hope so, Potter."
She picked up her silver knife and began slicing Deadly Nightshade with precise, elegant motions.
"If the cauldron explodes," she added calmly, "please be considerate enough to shield it with that not-particularly-clever head of yours."
Harry didn't take offense.
Instead, he grinned—almost proudly.
"I'll be careful."
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes and focused on her work.
But then—
Harry lifted his wand to clean the cauldron.
Tamara froze.
Her gaze locked onto the wand in his hand.
It wasn't holly.
It was darker. The wood dense and deep, with an ominous sheen.
Yew.
Her breath stalled.
She remembered it clearly.
At Ollivander's shop before term began, she had held that wand. Yew. Thirteen inches. Dragon heartstring core.
It had resonated with her—hungry, powerful, predatory. A wand suited for dominance.
It had nearly chosen her.
But the system had intervened, rejecting it in the name of "Soul Purification." The rejection had almost cracked the wand.
And now—
That very wand rested in Harry Potter's hand.
"…Your wand," Tamara said quietly.
Harry glanced down at it, confused. "What about it?"
"Mr. Ollivander said it's very powerful," he continued, turning it slightly in the light. "It looks a bit old, but it feels… right."
Right?
Tamara felt something inside her twist.
Did he even understand what he was holding?
Yew did not choose gently.
It chose ambition. Authority. Darkness.
And yet the savior held it so casually, as if it were an ordinary stick.
The irony was suffocating.
She had taken his holly wand.
He had received the yew that should have been hers.
Was fate mocking her?
"Tamara?" Harry leaned slightly closer. "Are you alright? You look pale."
She realized too late that her expression had slipped.
Anger. Resentment. Jealousy.
Raw and unmasked.
For once, she was not the perfect porcelain doll.
Harry blinked, studying her face. Strangely, the vulnerability made her seem more human to him.
"Nothing," she snapped, turning away sharply.
If she kept staring at it, she might actually snatch it from his hand.
"Focus on the potion, Potter. Unless you'd prefer to create a lethal toxin."
He straightened quickly.
Today's assignment: Boil-Cure Potion.
Harry muttered the instructions under his breath as he worked.
"Dried nettles… then crushed snake fangs…"
He followed the recipe carefully—almost.
Tamara, meanwhile, chopped ingredients with graceful efficiency.
Then Harry reached for the porcupine quills.
He tossed them in.
Without removing the cauldron from the fire.
Tamara's eyes narrowed.
Too late.
The potion shifted from calm blue to violent green in an instant. It began bubbling aggressively, emitting sharp hissing sounds.
Acidic steam rose like a warning.
"You forgot to remove it from the flame," Tamara observed flatly.
Harry's eyes widened. "What do we do?"
"Prepare for your obituary."
She continued slicing.
"Or pray Professor Snape intervenes before you're covered in boils."
[Host, if it explodes, you will also be splashed.]
The system chimed in helpfully.
[Mission: Stabilize the potion. Reward: Unlock Spell—Mending Charm (Reparo).]
Tamara's knife paused.
"Declined."
[It's free. No virtue requirement.]
"…You're insufferable."
The potion swelled ominously.
Her brand-new robes were dangerously close.
She exhaled sharply.
"Fine."
She dropped the knife and shoved Harry aside.
"Move, idiot!"
Grabbing the stirring rod, she plunged it into the cauldron and stirred three precise counter-clockwise rotations, followed by half a turn clockwise.
Then she lifted the cauldron off the fire and slammed it onto the stone floor.
With her other hand, she grabbed dried nettles and scattered them in.
Sizzle—
The potion shrieked one final time before releasing a cloud of white smoke.
It settled into a dull, murky gray.
Ugly.
But stable.
Harry stared at her in awe.
"How did you know what to do? That wasn't in the textbook!"
"The textbook also doesn't instruct you to leave your brain in your dormitory."
She handed back the stirring rod.
"Next time you throw ingredients in blindly, I'll toss you in as well."
Despite her venom, Harry smiled.
"Thank you, Tamara."
His voice softened.
"You're actually very kind."
She nearly scoffed.
Kind?
She had only acted to protect her robes—and to obtain a spell.
[Mission complete. Spell unlocked: Reparo.]
A new circuit of knowledge unfolded in her mind.
That at least improved her mood.
Until her eyes drifted back to the wand in his hand.
The yew.
Her yew.
Her expression darkened once more.
Just wait, Potter.
One day, she would reclaim what was hers.
The wand.
And perhaps—
Everything else.
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