When Tamara regained consciousness, the world that greeted her was an endless expanse of sterile white.
For a brief moment, her mind drifted, unable to distinguish whether she was awake or still trapped in some lingering dream. The air carried a thick, layered scent—sharp notes of brewed potions intertwined with an almost suffocating floral sweetness. It was a smell she recognized immediately.
The Hospital Wing.
Her fingers twitched.
The instant she tried to move, a strange sensation surged through her entire body.
It wasn't pain.
Nor was it weakness.
It was something far more unsettling.
A burning current coursed through her veins, as if molten energy had replaced her blood. Every inch of her body felt like it was being dismantled and rebuilt at the same time. The remnants of the Philosopher's Stone's power were still raging within her, forcing her fragile, underdeveloped body to adapt.
Her blood vessels pulsed.
Her bones ached—not from damage, but from transformation.
Each heartbeat echoed loudly in her ears, deep and heavy like the pounding of war drums.
"Dammit…"
The word slipped out in a hoarse whisper, her throat dry and uncooperative.
The sensation was unbearable. It felt as though she had been thrown alive into a boiling cauldron, left to simmer endlessly without relief.
"Oh! Thank goodness, you're finally awake!"
A voice broke through her haze—sharp, stern, but laced with unmistakable concern.
Madam Pomfrey rushed to her bedside, robes fluttering as if she had been waiting for this exact moment. In her hand was a potion bottle emitting faint curls of smoke.
Behind her sat an old man.
Long silver-white beard.
Half-moon spectacles.
Calm, piercing blue eyes.
Albus Dumbledore.
The moment Tamara saw him, her heart tightened.
Instinct took over.
Her body tensed subtly, but her expression shifted just as quickly. Weakness replaced tension, vulnerability masking calculation. In an instant, she adopted the role of a fragile, recovering child.
"Professor…"
She made a weak attempt to sit up.
Madam Pomfrey immediately pressed her back down with surprising strength.
"Stay down, Miss Riddle!" she snapped. "Your body is in no condition to be moving about. You're practically held together by threads right now."
Dumbledore gave a gentle nod, his expression calm but watchful.
"Listen to Poppy, Tamara," he said softly. "You've given us quite a scare."
Tamara raised a trembling hand to her forehead, deliberately playing into the act.
"My body… it feels like I have a fever…" she murmured. "Is it because of that stone?"
Madam Pomfrey's expression darkened slightly.
"It's far more serious than a simple fever, child."
With a flick of her wand, she performed a thorough scan. As the results appeared, her brows furrowed deeper with each passing second.
"I cannot fully determine what the Philosopher's Stone has done to you," she admitted, "but your current state shows severe magical overload. Your magic circuits are under immense strain."
She turned toward Dumbledore, her tone sharpening.
"And frankly, Albus, this child's physical foundation is appalling."
Her gaze dropped to Tamara's thin wrist, emphasizing her point.
"Severe malnutrition during early development. Long-term magical stagnation, likely caused by environmental suppression. Her body has been deprived on multiple levels."
She sighed.
"Frankly, it's remarkable she's even alive."
Dumbledore's eyes softened, but he remained silent.
Madam Pomfrey continued.
"Her life force, however, is unusually resilient. In fact, I'd say it's extraordinary. But that resilience is trapped in a body far too fragile to support it."
She paused, then added more gravely:
"This imbalance will slow her development significantly."
"Slow?" Dumbledore asked.
"Yes," she confirmed. "Her body will divert most of its energy toward stabilization and repair. Growth will be… delayed."
She chose her next words carefully.
"She may enter puberty much later than other children her age."
There was a subtle weight behind that statement.
Everyone in the room understood its implications.
Everyone except Tamara—at least, outwardly.
Inside, she scoffed.
Idiots.
This wasn't "delayed development."
This was evolution.
A transformation at a level they couldn't even begin to comprehend.
The fusion of that golden bloodline required immense energy. Her body wasn't weakening—it was refining itself, eliminating inefficiencies, concentrating power.
This wasn't a flaw.
It was perfection in progress.
A necessary cost for something far greater.
Still, she lowered her gaze and spoke softly.
"It's alright, Madam… as long as I can live… I don't mind growing a bit slower."
Dumbledore watched her carefully.
Something in his expression shifted—guilt, perhaps.
He was reminded of another child from an orphanage.
Tom Riddle.
The similarities were undeniable.
Yet, where Tom had embraced cruelty to overcome his circumstances, the girl before him had seemingly chosen sacrifice.
"You will recover, Tamara," Dumbledore said quietly. "Hogwarts will ensure you receive the care you need. We will help you regain what you've lost."
Tamara nodded politely.
"Thank you, Professor."
But inside, she sneered.
Regain?
Unless he could reconstruct the Philosopher's Stone and return its power to her, his words were meaningless.
"Alright," Madam Pomfrey interrupted briskly. "That's enough for now. The patient needs rest."
Dumbledore stood, placing a gentle hand on Tamara's shoulder.
"Rest well," he said. "I'll see you at the End-of-Year Feast."
With that, he left.
Silence settled over the room.
Madam Pomfrey returned shortly, conjuring a tray.
On it sat a cup of potion, swirling with faint purple smoke.
Beside it—
A large glass of warm milk.
"Drink this," she instructed.
Tamara eyed the potion first and reluctantly swallowed it in one gulp.
It was revolting.
Bitter beyond reason.
Then her gaze shifted to the milk.
Her expression immediately soured.
"This isn't necessary, is it?"
"You must drink it," Madam Pomfrey replied firmly. "It's enriched with a calcium potion. Your body needs it."
"I don't want to."
Tamara's voice carried a faint edge of defiance.
Madam Pomfrey didn't budge.
"Drink it, Miss Riddle. Or I will make you."
Tamara's eyes narrowed.
For a brief moment, something cold and dangerous flickered beneath her gaze.
She considered resisting.
Then—
[Ding! A friendly reminder.]
The system's voice echoed in her mind.
[Please follow the doctor's instructions.]
[Current height: approximately 148 cm.]
[While acceptable now… imagine needing a stool to duel in the future.]
"Shut up," she snapped internally.
"Height has nothing to do with power."
But the image lingered.
Standing below eye level.
Looking up at Harry Potter.
Unacceptable.
"…I'll drink it."
She snatched the glass.
The smell hit her immediately—thick, creamy, nauseating.
Holding her breath, she forced it down in one go.
It was worse than the potion.
Far worse.
Every instinct in her body rejected it.
She nearly choked.
"Good," Madam Pomfrey said with satisfaction. "You'll have one every morning and evening."
Tamara's expression froze.
"…Every day?"
"Yes."
Her tone made it clear this was not negotiable.
Tamara lay back in silence as Madam Pomfrey tucked her in and left.
The room grew quiet again.
The taste of milk lingered stubbornly in her mouth.
Disgusting.
Humiliating.
Yet beneath that discomfort—
Power.
Slowly, steadily, her body was changing.
Adapting.
Strengthening.
Her lips curled faintly.
"Once I fully digest this power…"
"This body will become the perfect vessel."
"All of this… is temporary."
[Ding! That's the spirit!]
[Reward: another cup?]
"Get lost."
She turned over, pulling the blanket up to her chin.
Her back faced the door.
Her expression hidden.
Cold.
Resolute.
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