Chapter 82: Legend
For most students, confinement in the hospital wing was a dreadful torment. For Tamara Riddle, it was a rare, blissful sanctuary of absolute silence.
Madam Pomfrey guarded the ward with the ferocity of a nesting Hungarian Horntail. The matron not only restricted Tamara to her crisp, white sheets but also charmed a heavy wooden sign on the double doors that explicitly barred all visitors.
This arrangement suited Tamara perfectly. She had absolutely no desire to endure Harry Potter's stupid, guilt-ridden face, and she certainly lacked the patience to deal with a swarm of weeping Gryffindor lions trying to force their revolting friendship upon her.
If there was any silver lining to the agonizing ordeal of saving the Boy Who Lived, it was the Virtue System's sudden burst of generosity. The sheer volume of points she had accumulated finally unlocked the complete roster of first-year spells. Lumos, Spongify, Diffindo, Alohomora, Locomotor Mortis, Periculum... She mentally ticked them off. At the very least, she no longer had to worry about faking her way through rudimentary incantations.
As for the literal mountain of expensive chocolates, sugar quills, and enchanted floral arrangements sent by her Slytherin housemates? Tamara hadn't even spared them a second glance. With a single, dismissive wave of her hand, she had ordered the hospital house-elves to incinerate the lot. In her current, magically exhausted state, the mere scent of cloying sugar was enough to induce nausea.
Several days later, Madam Pomfrey finally deemed her fit for release.
The journey back down into the Dungeons was a welcome shock to the system. The air grew progressively damper and colder, carrying the distinct, murky chill of the Black Lake's crushing depths. It smelled of wet stone and ancient magic.
Yet, the moment Tamara pushed open the concealed stone door to the Slytherin common room, a distinct shift in the atmosphere washed over her.
Usually, at this hour, the subterranean chamber was a chaotic mess of overlapping voices, the acrid stench of exploding Gobstones, and the haughty drawls of upper-year students mercilessly berating the younger ones.
Not today.
The instant the heavy stone door clicked shut behind her, the boisterous room went dead. It was as if a massive, invisible Silencing Charm had been dropped over the entire dungeon. Dozens of heads snapped toward the entrance. Every single pair of eyes in the room locked onto her in unison.
Gobstones rolled off tables, clattering against the stone floor. Nobody moved to retrieve them. The gazes fixed upon her held far more than the usual wariness. They burned with a feverish, near-fanatical intensity. They were looking at her not as a first-year girl, but as a living, breathing legend.
The rumors, of course, had outpaced her recovery. Dumbledore had tried his best to lock down the details of that night, but in Slytherin—a house built on whispered secrets, where half the students had parents on the Board of Governors—information was a currency that flowed freely.
The stories were wild, yet rooted in impossible truths. She had breached the forbidden corridor single-handedly. She had faced down a fully-fledged Dark Wizard without flinching. She had taken a lethal curse to protect the wizarding world's precious savior. And the detail that made the Slytherins' aristocratic blood boil with unmatched pride: she was one of them. A Slytherin had achieved a feat of raw power and reckless glory that even the most brainless Gryffindor wouldn't dare attempt.
Tamara swept her dark gaze across the frozen room, her face a mask of smooth, unreadable porcelain.
In that fleeting second, the illusion of the fragile, sweet first-year girl vanished entirely. The ancient, suffocating presence of the Dark Lord—the entity that had once commanded the very storms and brought the wizarding world to its knees—bled through her dark eyes. She tilted her chin up, just a fraction. It was a gesture of absolute, marrow-deep arrogance.
Without uttering a single syllable, she moved. She glided across the room like a queen inspecting her conquered territory, making a direct line for the prime spot by the roaring fireplace. It was a massive, dark green velvet armchair, a seat strictly reserved for seventh-year prefects and the house's undisputed elite.
A burly third-year boy currently occupying the chair scrambled to his feet as if the velvet cushions had suddenly caught fire. He didn't just vacate the seat; he hastily brushed a speck of imaginary dust from the armrest before bowing his head and stepping respectfully aside.
Tamara sank into the plush velvet as if it were her birthright. She leaned back, crossing her slender legs and resting her steepled fingers upon her knee. Her posture was languid, elegant, and utterly dominant.
"Welcome back, Tamara!"
The silence shattered. Draco Malfoy shoved his way through the paralyzed crowd, strutting forward with the puffed-up chest of a proud, albino peacock. His pale, pointed face was flushed with reflected glory, looking for all the world as if he had been the one to storm the forbidden corridor.
"Merlin, we tried to visit you! But that ancient fossil Madam Pomfrey wouldn't even let a fly through the doors!" Draco whined, his aristocratic drawl thick with grievance, before his expression snapped back to eager excitement. "I had an owl bring in a massive crate of sweets straight from Honeydukes! Did you get them?"
"Mhm." Tamara offered a cool, noncommittal hum, lacking the energy to crush the young Malfoy heir's enthusiasm.
Draco immediately spun around, acting as her loyal herald to the gathering crowd of first-years. "I told you all! I knew Tamara could do it!" he boasted loudly, throwing his arms wide. "I got an owl from my father, the magical shockwaves that night were terrifying! She was completely alone, staring down a fully grown mountain troll at least two stories high! And with just one flick of her wand—Boom!—she blasted the beast into solid stone!"
"It wasn't just a troll!" Pansy Parkinson shoved a second-year aside to reach the front, her dark eyes glittering with starry-eyed infatuation as she took in Tamara's flawless, recovered complexion. "There was a Dark Wizard, too! I heard he was Volde—I mean, You-Know-Who's most brutal lieutenant! But the moment he saw Tamara, he dropped his wand like a frightened toddler!"
"Is it true?" Millicent Bulstrode pushed forward, her heavy, rough-hewn features slack with awe. She stared at Tamara as if looking at a terrifying, beautiful monster. "You're so powerful... Tamara, could you teach me that spell? The exploding one? I want to test it on that pathetic Longbottom boy from Gryffindor."
Listening to Draco's heavily filtered, utterly delusional retelling of the night's events, Tamara had to fight the urge to let her mouth twitch.
A two-story troll? Blasting it to stone? It was absolute drivel. Yet... as she sat there, bathed in the warmth of the fire and the suffocating weight of their fear and adoration, a dark, satisfied warmth bloomed in her chest. It had been a very, very long time since she had held court like this.
This was where she belonged. Surrounded by subjects, not trapped in a sterile bed being force-fed nutrient potions.
"It was merely some insignificant little trouble," Tamara finally spoke. Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, yet it carried an icy clarity that cut through the chatter, reaching every ear in the room.
The sheer, dismissive nonchalance of her tone acted like a spark in a cauldron of potion fumes. The awe in the room instantly doubled.
"See? I told you! Child's play for her!" Draco crowed, looking around as if he had personally orchestrated the entire event.
At the edges of the frantic crowd, the more restrained factions of the house began to make their moves. Theodore Nott quietly snapped his heavy leather-bound book shut. He stepped forward, met Tamara's eyes, and offered a single, shallow nod. There were no flattering words, no exaggerated gestures. For the notoriously silent and aloof Nott, that simple dip of his chin was a deep declaration of submission.
From the opposite side, Blaise Zabini smoothly threaded his way through the throng, balancing a steaming porcelain cup in one hand.
"I believe you might require this, Your Majesty," Zabini murmured. He wasn't panting with fanaticism like Malfoy, but the faint, knowing smirk playing on his lips held genuine, obvious respect. He set the exquisite bone-china teacup on the small silver table beside her armchair. "Madam Pomfrey's orders were clear about your recovery. Earl Grey, heavily dosed with honey. I imagine it goes down much smoother than the stench of hospital disinfectant."
Right behind him, Daphne Greengrass and Tracy Davis approached. Daphne's famously icy, statuesque features had thawed, revealing a rare, subtle softness.
"These are restorative potion fudges, owl-ordered directly from my family's private apothecary," Daphne said, sliding a polished silver tin across the table. "They will accelerate your magical core's recovery."
"Thank you." Tamara inclined her head a fraction of an inch, accepting the tributes with the grace of a sovereign.
Behind her, the hulking forms of Crabbe and Goyle had already taken up their positions. Without needing a single order, the two massive boys stood like stone gargoyles flanking the velvet armchair, glaring menacingly at any upper-year who dared step too close.
Tamara took it all in. In the span of a few minutes, the entire Slytherin first-year hierarchy had reorganized itself into a miniature, highly functional court, with her sitting at the absolute epicenter.
Malfoy was her eager mouthpiece. Crabbe and Goyle were her physical shields. Pansy and Millicent were her devoted handmaidens. And the sharp, calculating pure-bloods—Nott, Zabini, and Daphne—had positioned themselves as her inner circle of advisors.
Tamara picked up the delicate teacup and took a slow, measured sip. The rich, honeyed liquid slid down her throat, finally banishing the lingering, damp chill of the dungeons from her bones.
Over the rim of her cup, her dark eyes swept across the young, unformed, yet fiercely ambitious faces surrounding her. In her past life, she would have simply pinned them to the floor with a Cruciatus Curse, branded their left forearms with the Dark Mark, and reduced them to mindless, groveling slaves who knew nothing but terror and slaughter.
But now... Tamara watched Draco's animated boasting, caught Zabini's cynical half-smile, and felt the heavy weight of Pansy's utter devotion. Perhaps this method of rule—forging loyalty through a calculated blend of personal charisma, obvious strength, and subtle manipulation—was far more entertaining than ruling through pure, agonizing fear.
At the very least, she mused, Zabini knew how to brew an excellent cup of tea.
"Draco," Tamara called out, setting the china cup back onto its saucer with a soft clink.
"I'm here!" Draco instantly abandoned his audience, practically tripping over his own robes to lean closer to her chair.
"Tell everyone to step back," Tamara instructed, leaning deep into the velvet cushions. She allowed her eyelids to droop half-shut, cultivating an air of languid exhaustion. "I am tired. I require quiet."
"Right away!" Draco spun on his heel, his chest puffing out as he fully embraced his borrowed authority. He began shooing the older students and his peers away with sweeping gestures. "Did you all hear that? Tamara needs to rest! Disperse! Go back to your dorms! Stop crowding her, you're ruining the air circulation!"
The crowd immediately fractured, backing away under Draco's loud commands. Yet, even as they dispersed, they moved with hushed, careful steps, terrified of making too much noise and disturbing her peace.
Watching the room smoothly reorganize itself around her comfort, the corners of Tamara's lips curled into a sharp, satisfied smirk.
This was exactly how Slytherin was meant to function. Perfect order. Rigid hierarchy. And absolute, unquestioning obedience to their one, true king.
Basking in her excellent mood, a sudden, amusing thought drifted into Tamara's mind. Speaking of unquestioning obedience... how was her deeply loyal Defense Against the Dark Arts professor holding up?
If her memory served her correctly, that pathetic, stuttering fool was currently still submerged somewhere at the bottom of the Black Lake.
'I do hope the Giant Squid isn't feeling particularly peckish today,' Tamara thought, a dark, vicious amusement dancing in her eyes. Perhaps, once the castle went to sleep tonight, she ought to take a stroll down to the shoreline and fish her miserable new servant out of the water.
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