Chapter 121: Well Said
A heavy, contemplative silence settled over the circular office, broken only by the soft ticking of silver instruments.
Albus Dumbledore peered over his half-moon spectacles at the Slytherin girl standing before his desk. She had just delivered a flawless, eloquently argued defense, citing obscure academic texts to clear her Gryffindor friend of all suspicion. His piercing blue eyes, usually so adept at peeling back the layers of a mind through Legilimency, searched her face. He found no panic. No hidden malice.
In truth, driven by a complex mixture of trust and an old, lingering pity, Dumbledore had deliberately refrained from using Legilimency on this girl named Riddle from the very moment she stepped into his office.
Looking at her, he saw echoes of a familiar, terrifying brilliance. The same sharp intellect. The same quiet, underlying arrogance. Yet, the application of those traits was entirely different. Instead of manipulating others for personal gain, she had actually weaponized her intelligence to shield a Gryffindor boy she barely knew.
The intense scrutiny in the headmaster's gaze softened, melting into a warm, relieved crinkle around his eyes.
"A truly brilliant deduction, Miss Riddle. Your breadth of reading and your capacity for independent thought extend far beyond the reach of many adult wizards."
Dumbledore offered a gentle smile, sliding open a desk drawer and nudging a glass dish of yellow sweets across the polished mahogany.
"Would you care for a Lemon Sherbet? I find that after a rigorous academic defense, a touch of sweetness does wonders for the nerves."
He pressed no further. He did not poke holes in her elaborate theories or interrogate her motives.
"Well then, Harry, Tamara. I imagine you both have a great deal of schoolwork awaiting you. I shall not take up any more of your evening."
The heavy oak door swung shut behind them with a soft, definitive click.
Absolute quiet reclaimed the headmaster's office. Dumbledore remained seated behind his desk, the cheerful grandfatherly smile slowly draining from his weathered face. He turned his head toward the golden perch where Fawkes the phoenix sat preening his vibrant feathers in the fading afternoon light. The old wizard's gaze grew unfocused, sinking deep into the murky waters of distant memory.
"It really is... exactly the same."
The whispered words hung heavy in the empty room. Staring at the spot where the stubborn, upright silhouette of the young girl had just stood, Dumbledore felt the mists of time part. In her place, he saw the ghost of a black-haired boy from decades ago, sitting in a dreary, cold London orphanage. A boy who possessed the exact same defensive posture, the exact same chilling arrogance.
The Tom Riddle of those years had viewed the entire world as an enemy to be conquered, manipulating everything and everyone around him with a cold, calculated cruelty.
But this girl. This new Riddle. Her magical talent was perhaps even more terrifyingly extraordinary, yet she used it to stand fearlessly between an isolated classmate and the judgment of the school. She had even dared to spin a web of academic sophistry right to his face, never once breaking her righteous composure.
Dumbledore extended a withered, age-spotted hand, gently stroking the warm, crimson plumage of his familiar. Fawkes let out a soft, musical trill.
"A sincere friendship..." Dumbledore murmured, a spark of genuine hope returning to his tired eyes. "It seems... not every child forged in darkness is destined to repeat the same mistakes and fall into the abyss."
Meanwhile, on the other side of the oak door, Tamara Riddle's face bore absolutely zero trace of a soul touched by the light of redemption.
The moment the gargoyle statue slid shut behind her, her angelic, protective facade shattered. Her expression twisted into something terrifyingly gloomy.
'That meddling, hypocritical old fool,'she cursed internally, her jaw locking so tight her teeth ground together. She had smoothly bluffed her way out of his office, yes, but Voldemort knew better than anyone just how dangerously sharp that old fox truly was. Dumbledore never let anything go. What if he actually strolled down to the Restricted Section to verify her sources? What if he went looking for'A Study of Ancient Runic Soul Marks'—a book she had completely fabricated out of thin air just three minutes ago?
A cold sweat pricked at the back of her neck. To ensure her pseudo-intellectual drivel remained foolproof, she needed to hit the library. Immediately. She had to rip through mountains of obscure, dust-choked tomes, scrape together enough out-of-context runic theory, and physically forge a set of notes to completely seal the cracks in her lie.
Harry trotted beside her, his green eyes shining with sickening gratitude. He opened his mouth, clearly preparing to deliver some nauseating speech about friendship and loyalty. Tamara didn't even break her stride. She shot him a dismissive, hurried wave, cutting off his sentimental garbage before it could start, and marched straight toward the library with a face like a brewing thunderstorm.
The Hogwarts Library was a sanctuary of suffocating silence. Madam Pince prowled the aisles like a starved vulture, her feather duster snapping aggressively at any student who dared to breathe too loudly. The only sound was the dry, rhythmic rustle of turning parchment.
Tamara slipped past the librarian's line of sight, gliding like a shadow toward the towering shelves housing high-level spell theory, right at the very edge of the Restricted Section.
She reached out to pull a heavy, leather-bound volume from the top shelf. However, just as her fingers brushed the cracked spine, a burst of suppressed, feverishly excited whispering drifted through the gaps in the wooden planks.
"I told you so! Justin, you absolutely have to stay away from him!"
Tamara paused, her hand hovering in the air. She recognized that pompous, overly dramatic tone immediately. Ernie Macmillan. Peering through a narrow gap between two ancient encyclopedias, she spotted the Hufflepuff boy holding court. He was surrounded by a small cluster of wide-eyed badgers, including Hannah Abbott, gesturing wildly like a seasoned politician delivering a wartime broadcast.
"Don't you lot understand yet?" Ernie hissed, leaning in close to his captive audience. "Harry Potter is definitely the Heir of Slytherin!"
"But... didn't Riddle say it was just because of post-traumatic stress disorder?" Hannah countered, her voice timid and unsure as she clutched her book to her chest. "I mean... I think what Riddle said made a lot of sense..."
"Oh, Hannah, you're far too naive!" Ernie scoffed, waving a hand dismissively. "Riddle is brilliant, sure, but she's too kind-hearted! She must have been tricked by Potter's innocent act, or she's just covering for him because she feels sorry for the bloke!"
Tamara's eye twitched. 'Kind-hearted? Tricked?' She briefly considered testing a localized Blasting Curse on the bookshelf.
Ernie, meanwhile, puffed out his chest. He adopted the grave, enlightened tone of a philosopher who had just unraveled the ultimate secrets of the magical universe, preparing to drop his masterpiece of logical deduction.
"Use your brains and really think about it!" Ernie urged, his voice trembling with the weight of his own genius. "Harry Potter was just a little baby back then. A baby who couldn't even talk! Why was he the only one able to survive the Killing Curse of You-Know-Who?"
He paused for dramatic effect, leaning so far forward he nearly knocked over an inkwell.
"You-Know-Who was the most terrifying, the most powerful Dark Lord in all of recorded history! How could a mere infant possibly defeat him in a duel? The only logical explanation is—"
Ernie took a deep, shuddering breath, preparing to unveil a truth so horrifying it would shake the very foundations of Hogwarts.
"Potter is a Dark Wizard even more powerful, and far more evil, than You-Know-Who himself!"
The surrounding Hufflepuffs gasped in unison. Ernie nodded grimly.
"Precisely! Because an unimaginably terrifying reservoir of Dark Magic lurks within him, he was able to shatter You-Know-Who as an infant! It's the only reason he can speak that wicked, foul Parseltongue!"
On the other side of the bookshelf, the air temperature seemed to plummet by ten degrees.
Standing perfectly still in the dusty shadows, Tamara slowly turned her head. A violent, murderous flash of crimson light ignited in the depths of her dark eyes.
She, Lord Voldemort. The greatest master of the Dark Arts in history. The terrifying, undisputed ruler who had single-handedly plunged the entirety of Wizarding Britain into an era of eternal night and despair.
The only reason she had met her humiliating downfall at Godric's Hollow all those years ago... was because that wretched mudblood woman, Lily Potter, had invoked an ancient, unsolvable blood sacrifice! It was because that sickening, archaic love magic had rebounded her own flawless Killing Curse!
It was absolutely, unequivocally not because that stupid, wailing little brat—a creature who couldn't even wear a diaper properly and only knew how to blow spit bubbles—was somehow magically stronger than her!
This sheer, illogical belittling... this utterly moronic, brain-dead statement attributing the Dark Lord's singular defeat to a baby being more evil and powerful... it was a direct assault on her soul. It was practically taking Voldemort's supreme, noble pride, throwing it into a pigsty, and stomping it deep into the mud over and over again!
Tamara's fingers dug into the solid oak edge of the bookshelf. The wood groaned under her grip, her knuckles turning a deathly, bone-white pale from the sheer, trembling force of her rage.
'This stupid, insignificant little badger!'she screamed internally, her mind a maelstrom of Unforgivable Curses.'An IQ lower than a concussed mountain troll! How dare he insult the absolute power of the Dark Lord?!'
Her face darkened to a shade so venomous it looked ready to drip poison. The raw, unfiltered murderous intent churning within her was so intense it threatened to spontaneously combust the ancient parchment surrounding her. She closed her eyes. She took a slow, agonizingly deep breath, forcing the suffocating, foul rage back down into her chest before the Virtue System decided to electrocute her for premeditated murder.
When she opened her eyes again, the crimson flash was gone, replaced by a terrifying, abyssal void.
A soft, contemptuous laugh slipped past her lips. It was a sound entirely devoid of warmth. Tamara stepped out from the shadows of the aisle, her dark, dead eyes locking onto the still-rambling Ernie Macmillan like a predator sizing up a particularly slow, fat rabbit.
"Well said, Mr. Macmillan."
Tamara's voice was a silken whisper, so soft and dangerously smooth it made the hairs on the back of the Hufflepuffs' necks stand at rigid attention. The group froze, spinning around in terror. She offered them a perfectly polite, chillingly hollow smile.
"Could you perhaps tell me in more detail... the fascinating story about how that little baby managed to defeat the Dark Lord?"
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