Chapter 84: Reaction
The Great Hall of Hogwarts drowned in a sea of emerald and silver.
Hundreds of enchanted candles drifted beneath the dark, velvety ceiling, casting a warm, flickering glow over the massive banner suspended behind the High Table. A silver serpent coiled proudly against a field of deep green, its scales shimmering in the candlelight.
This marked the seventh consecutive year that Slytherin House had claimed the House Cup.
Down at the long table, the students of Slytherin were reveling in their triumph. The air was thick with the smell of roast turkey, spiced pudding, and premature victory. Draco Malfoy stood near the center, aggressively clinking a golden spoon against his crystal goblet. He was halfway through his third impromptu speech about pureblood supremacy and Slytherin's inevitable glory, desperately trying to command the attention of the entire hall.
Amidst this raucous clamor, the architect of this supposed glory sat in absolute detachment.
Tamara Riddle occupied the seat of honor at the head of the table, a position practically forced upon her by her adoring housemates. Yet, her attention was miles away from the celebratory feast. Her right hand mechanically sawed a silver knife through a perfectly roasted lamb chop, reducing the tender meat to mangled shreds. Hidden beneath the heavy folds of her dark robes, her left thumb gently traced a fresh, stinging slice across her index finger.
The wound was a souvenir from a secret experiment conducted in the dead of night.
Just hours ago, before the noisy feast began, she had stood in the cold, damp bathroom of the Dungeons. With a small silver blade, she had sliced her own flesh, carefully catching that precious first drop of golden blood—a rare substance that only held its potency three times a month.
Just one drop.
The moment it struck the unremarkable sursmall small face of a Basic Magic Potion, the cauldron had erupted. The murky liquid boiled violently, instantly transmuting into a pure, translucent golden-red. A wave of high-purity magic had washed over the room, carrying an intoxicating, heavy scent.
It was a miracle of Alchemy. A catalyst potent enough to drive any seasoned Potions Master to madness.
'Simply perfect...' Tamara praised in the dark corners of her mind, a familiar, ancient greed flickering behind her dark eyes.
With that golden blood, combined with the forbidden dark magic knowledge locked inside her head, she could force unmatched miracles out of a cauldron. An improved, undetectable Polyjuice Potion? A Veritaserum so potent it could shatter a victim's mind? The options were endless.
Just as she was sinking deeper into these dangerous, wonderful calculations, the deafening noise in the Great Hall abruptly died.
Albus Dumbledore had stood up.
Even in the midst of a celebration, the old man's presence commanded absolute silence. His gaze, sharp and piercing behind his half-moon spectacles, swept across the room.
"Another year has gone by!" Dumbledore announced, his voice cheerful and echoing off the stone walls. "Before we all indulge in these delicious delicacies, I must trouble you all to listen to an old man's clichés."
He smiled warmly. "This year, we have experienced much: laughter, tears, and of course, thrilling adventures."
As he spoke, his eyes drifted over the Slytherin table. Intentionally or not, his gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on the quiet girl sitting at the head of the table, her head bowed as she continued to butcher her lamb chop.
Tamara's knife paused.
That familiar, prickling sensation of being watched crawled up her spine.
"Now, as I understand it, the original House Cup scores are as follows," Dumbledore continued, raising a hand. "Gryffindor, three hundred and twelve points. Hufflepuff, three hundred and fifty-two points. Ravenclaw, four hundred and twenty-six points. And Slytherin, four hundred and seventy-two points."
Thunderous applause and stamping feet erupted from the Slytherin table. Students pounded their goblets against the wood, and Draco leaned over to make a triumphant, mocking small small face at the Gryffindor table.
"Yes, yes, well done, Slytherin," Dumbledore said, his eyes twinkling as he pressed his hands down to quiet the room. "However, recent events must also be taken into account."
The Great Hall instantly turned deathly silent.
The arrogant smirk on Malfoy's small small face froze solid. A heavy, ominous premonition descended upon the Slytherin table, suffocating their cheers.
Tamara kept her head down, a cold, mocking sneer curling the corners of her lips.
'Come on, old man. Do it. Give the points to your precious savior.' She dragged her knife through the porcelain plate with a faint screech. She didn't care about this stupid, hollow cup anyway.
"I have a few last-minute points to award," Dumbledore said, clearing his throat. "First—to Mr. Ron Weasley."
Ron's freckled small small face turned the color of a ripe tomato. He looked as though he might pass out from sheer nerves.
"For the best-played game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years, I award Gryffindor House... fifty points."
The cheers from the Gryffindor table nearly blew the enchanted ceiling off its hinges.
"Second—to Miss Hermione Granger." Dumbledore waited for the noise to recede. "For the use of cool logic in the small small face of fire, I award Gryffindor House... fifty points."
Hermione buried her small small face in her arms, her shoulders shaking as tears of sheer excitement spilled over.
The math was brutal. Gryffindor's score had just surged by a hundred points. They were now only sixty points behind Slytherin. The small small faces of the students in green and silver began to drain of color.
"Third—to Mr. Harry Potter."
Dumbledore paused. The Great Hall was so quiet that the crackle of the floating candles sounded like roaring fires.
"For pure nerve and outstanding courage, for his spirit of never backing down even when facing an invincible enemy, I award Gryffindor House... sixty points."
Boom.
The hall exploded. The sound was deafening. With those sixty points, Gryffindor had tied with Slytherin. Four hundred and seventy-two points apiece.
"I am not finished yet."
Dumbledore raised a hand, his voice cutting through the hysteria.
"Courage has many forms," he said, a gentle smile touching his lips. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. Therefore, I award Mr. Neville Longbottom... ten points."
Four hundred and eighty-two points.
They had overtaken Slytherin by ten points.
The Gryffindor table descended into absolute bedlam. Harry, Ron, and Hermione jumped onto their benches, hugging each other and screaming until their throats went raw. Even the Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff tables erupted into cheers, thrilled to see the end of Slytherin's seven-year tyranny.
With a casual wave of Dumbledore's hand, the emerald banners hanging from the ceiling melted into a brilliant scarlet and gold. The silver serpent vanished, replaced by the roaring Gryffindor lion.
On the Slytherin side, there was nothing but dead, suffocating silence.
Draco slammed his goblet onto the table, his small small face twisted in fury.
Tamara continued to cut her lamb, which had long since been reduced to an unrecognizable paste of meat and bone.
'Exactly as expected.'She sneered internally.'I never expected anything less from Dumbledore's blatant, sickening favoritism.'
"However..."
Just when everyone thought the dust had settled and the victory was sealed, Dumbledore's voice rang out one final time.
This time, the cheerful grandfatherly tone was gone. His voice carried an unmatched, heavy solemnity.
"In this recent event, there is one more student who displayed wisdom far beyond their years, and... a truly moving spirit of sacrifice."
The hall fell silent once more. The cheering Gryffindors froze in place.
Slowly, every eye in the Great Hall turned toward the Slytherin table.
"Miss Tamara Riddle."
Dumbledore slowly, deliberately read out the name.
The silver knife in Tamara's hand stopped dead.
She slowly lifted her head, her dark eyes meeting Dumbledore's piercing blue gaze across the length of the hall. In those ancient eyes, there was no trace of his usual guarded scrutiny. Instead, there was a deep, gentle approval that made her stomach physically churn.
"For her absolute decisiveness in the small small face of encroaching darkness, for stepping forward at a critical moment and risking her own life to protect her fellow students..."
Dumbledore's voice echoed with absolute authority, washing over the stunned crowd.
"This noble quality of placing the lives of others above one's own is precisely Hogwarts' most precious treasure." He paused, letting the weight of his words settle. "Therefore, I award Slytherin House... one hundred points."
One hundred points.
It was an astronomical, unheard-of number. No student in the history of the school had ever received so many points in a single breath.
This didn't just close the ten-point gap. It catapulted Slytherin's score to a daunting, impossible height. Five hundred and seventy-two points. An absolute, crushing victory.
The lingering cheers from Gryffindor were choked off instantly, as if an invisible hand had clamped around their throats.
For three full seconds, the Great Hall existed in a state of paralyzed shock.
Then, the Slytherin table erupted.
It was a roar loud enough to shatter the crystal goblets.
"We won! We won!"
Draco Malfoy shrieked, his previous fury vanishing as he leaped onto the heavy oak table, grabbing his goblet and pounding it frantically against the wood. Pansy Parkinson screamed, lunging forward to throw her arms around Tamara's neck. Countless hands reached out from all directions, patting her shoulders, grabbing her sleeves, desperate to touch the hero who had single-handedly dragged their house back to glory.
But amidst the chaotic sea of green and silver, Tamara sat frozen like a statue carved from ice.
She didn't smile. She didn't blush. She didn't show even a fraction of a hint of joy.
She stared at Dumbledore on the raised platform, watching him nod and smile down at her, and felt a wave of pure, unadulterated nausea wash over her.
'Noble quality? Protecting fellow students? Spirit of sacrifice?'
Every single word felt like a vicious, calculated mockery, slapping her repeatedly across the small small face. This was the most absurd, grating, humiliating praise she had ever endured in her entire existence.
She was the Dark Lord.
She was the architect of fear, the master of death, the nightmare that made the wizarding world tremble.
And now, she was sitting here, receiving a standing ovation and glowing recognition from the man who hated her most, all for the supposed crime of protecting her mortal enemy, Harry Potter?
What a disgrace. What a sickening irony.
This public recognition felt worse than enduring a hundred consecutive Cruciatus Curses.
Yet, as Tamara swallowed the bile rising in her throat and forced her facial muscles to maintain a mask of quiet composure, she noticed something.
The gaze from the center of the staff table had not moved away.
As the applause thundered around them, Dumbledore's eyes grew sharper. He was clapping, his hands moving in a steady rhythm, but his eyes, magnified behind his half-moon spectacles, were boring directly into Tamara's soul.
The grandfatherly kindness was a veneer. He was observing her.
Facing this sudden, massive honor, the fanatic worship of her peers, and the intoxicating thrill of turning the tide of the entire school with a single name... what kind of expression would this girl named Riddle show?
The official story was closed perfectly. Quirrell was the mastermind, Voldemort was the shadow behind him, and little Tamara Riddle was just an innocent, brilliant victim forced to fight back for self-preservation and to save her classmates.
But it was too perfect.
So perfect that it mirrored a night fifty years ago, when a brilliant, polite student named Tom Riddle had caught Rubeus Hagrid and received the Special Award for Services to the School.
Albus Dumbledore never forgot.
Before a demon fully matures, it is often best at disguising itself in the pristine mantle of a hero.
Would she be like Tom back then? Unable to completely suppress the greedy, arrogant gleam in his eyes when handed fame and fortune? Or would she react like a normal, suddenly famous eleven-year-old witch, lightheaded and flushed with satisfied vanity?
However, what Dumbledore saw surprised him.
Tamara showed absolutely nothing.
There was no ecstasy. No pride. Not even a hint of the smug satisfaction a young person should naturally possess. She sat amidst the screaming crowd, so utterly calm that her stillness bordered on apathy. If anything, there was a faint, almost imperceptible trace of disgust tightening her jaw.
That cold indifference was not an act. It was too raw.
Dumbledore's clapping paused for a fraction of a second. The scrutiny in his blue eyes deepened, becoming infinitely more complex.
A Slytherin who did not love fame, who cared nothing for public honor, yet possessed terrifying power and a mind as calm as still water.
'Interesting.'
Dumbledore whispered the word in his heart.
But the expression on his weathered small small face did not change. That kind, grandfatherly smile remained impeccable, as if that fleeting moment of intense psychological calculation had been nothing but an illusion.
"Which means," Dumbledore called out, his voice magically amplified over the din, "that we need to make a little change to the decorations in here."
He clapped his hands together.
The banners that had just turned scarlet and gold rippled violently, bleeding back into deep emerald and silver. The roaring lion dissolved, and the huge Slytherin serpent coiled once more, its silver scales looking exceptionally bright under the enchanted candles.
"That's your glory, Tamara!" Draco shouted over the noise, his pale small small face flushed red with manic excitement. "This has never happened before! A hundred points! You broke the record!"
Tamara slowly turned her head, looking at the massive green banner, and then at the absolute fools around her, screaming themselves hoarse for a hollow, meaningless victory.
She slowly set down her knife and fork.
The silver metal hit the porcelain plate with a crisp, sharp clink.
'Boring.'
She delivered the cold judgment in the silence of her own mind. Rather than sitting here playing house with these loud, obnoxious children, she would much rather be down in the damp dungeons, brewing another cauldron of forbidden potions.
However...
Tamara's gaze swept across the hall, landing on the Gryffindor table. Amidst the sea of devastated small small faces, she saw Harry Potter. The boy was looking directly at her, and despite the crushing disappointment of losing the cup, he offered her a genuine, grateful smile.
Her stomach churned again.
Regardless. She had won. Even if it was in a way that utterly nauseated her.
Tamara reached out with a steady hand and raised her crystal goblet, tilting it slightly toward Albus Dumbledore on the raised platform.
A standard, flawless, and utterly hypocritical smile bloomed across her delicate small small face.
"Thank you for your generosity, Headmaster."
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