Chapter 126: Each Gets What They Need
Hermione blinked, momentarily stunned by the abrupt invitation, before she hurriedly gathered her heavy books against her chest and scrambled to follow. The two girls handled the winding, torch-lit corridors of the castle, eventually arriving at a blank stretch of wall on the eighth floor.
When the heavy oak door of the Room of Requirement materialized and swung open, Hermione's breath hitched. Her brown eyes widened to the size of Galleons.
The space had completely transformed into a master-class potions laboratory. Brass scales gleamed under the magical lighting, and shelves groaned under the weight of rare, carefully labeled ingredients. A steady, sapphire-blue fire crackled merrily beneath a heavy pewter cauldron in the center of the room. The air hung thick with the sharp, distinct bite of crushed herbs mixed with the heavy tang of sulfur.
"Speak."
Tamara glided toward the central workbench. She picked up a silver stirring rod, twirling it idly between her pale fingers, and tilted her head to appraise the Gryffindor. Her tone was smooth, carrying the faint, aristocratic drawl she had perfected. "What exactly is troubling you? The ingredient proportions? Or perhaps the brewing temperature?"
Hermione shifted her weight, biting her lower lip. She hesitated, her grip tightening on her textbook. But Tamara was brilliant—perhaps the most brilliant witch in their year. If anyone had a solution, it was her.
"It's the time," Hermione finally admitted, stepping forward. She flipped open her heavy tome, her finger landing squarely on the complex, forbidden recipe for Polyjuice Potion. "The brewing cycle for this specific recipe is simply too long. Especially the processing phase for the lacewing flies... I just don't have that much time to wait."
"Polyjuice Potion?"
Tamara let her dark eyes drop to the yellowed page.
She did not ask the Gryffindor why she was attempting to brew a highly restricted, identity-stealing concoction. Nor did she ask whose face the little lioness planned to wear.
To the Dark Lord currently masquerading as a model student, it was perfectly natural for a clever little witch to dabble in a few forbidden experiments between classes. Back in her own school days, she had successfully split her soul and forged a Horcrux before even sitting for her N.E.W.T.s. What was a trivial batch of Polyjuice Potion compared to the mastery of death itself?
If anything, it proved this particular Mudblood actually possessed a sliver of genuine intellect, unlike the rest of the mindless sheep roaming these halls who only knew how to regurgitate textbook theory.
"Books are written for the mediocre."
A cold, quiet laugh slipped past Tamara's lips.
"If you follow those antiquated, pedantic steps exactly as written, you will indeed find yourself waiting by the cauldron like an absolute idiot for a month."
She turned on her heel, her dark robes flaring slightly, and approached a private storage cabinet tucked into the darkest corner of the laboratory. It was heavily warded with a Confundus Charm.
With a graceful, almost lazy tap of her wandless fingertip against the wood, the cabinet door slid open without a single creak. Inside sat a dazzling, highly illegal array of premium potion ingredients.
These were the spoils of her recent acquisitions—materials purchased using the hefty sum of gold she had mercilessly extorted from Lucius Malfoy. After all, a standard Hogwarts dormitory trunk was hardly a suitable vault for contraband. If any professor discovered this stash, it would be enough to get her expelled ten times over.
While the Room of Requirement was not entirely foolproof, Tamara knew that old fool Dumbledore would turn a blind eye to the castle's shifting architecture as long as she did not do anything blatantly destructive.
Tamara reached past a jar of pickled toads and deftly extracted a small crystal vial. Inside, a fine powder shimmered with an ethereal, icy blue light.
"You simply add one-third of an ounce of Moonstone Powder as a catalyst right before introducing the lacewing flies to the base," Tamara instructed, her voice taking on the sharp, commanding edge of a master instructing an apprentice. "Combine that with three forceful, counterclockwise stirs..."
She gestured with her chin toward the bubbling cauldron. "Set it up. Watch."
Hermione scrambled to obey, carefully measuring out the base liquids. Once the cauldron was ready, Tamara stepped up right behind her, leaning down slightly to inspect the surface of the potion.
The sudden proximity made Hermione's breath catch in her throat.
A faint, incredibly pleasant scent—a crisp blend of winter fir and ancient, dry parchment—instantly enveloped the Gryffindor.
Hermione's spine went rigid.
Tamara was too close.
She was so close that Hermione could actually feel the subtle vibration humming in the older girl's chest when she spoke. If Hermione merely tilted her head upward, her nose would brush against Tamara's pale, almost translucent jawline. She could see the intense, stunning focus burning in those dark, abyssal eyes.
"Relax your wrist."
Tamara's brows snapped together in a sharp frown.
What on earth was wrong with this beaver-toothed girl?
Hermione's hand was vibrating so violently it looked as though she had caught a sudden case of Dragon Pox just from holding a stirring rod.
Desperate to finish this wretched, system-mandated teaching task as quickly as humanly possible, Tamara suppressed a heavy sigh. She reached out, her pale hand smoothly closing over Hermione's trembling knuckles, forcing a proper grip on the silver rod.
"Here. The motion needs to be fluid. Gentle."
Tamara's skin was startlingly cold, yet her grip possessed an unyielding, iron strength. She physically guided Hermione's hand, forcing the rod to trace a flawless, sweeping arc through the simmering liquid.
"Feel the resistance of the draught pushing back against the silver... When the hue shifts from that muddy dark brown to a pale khaki, you have reached the critical point. That is when the potency is triggered."
Hermione felt as though all the oxygen had been sucked from the room.
Her heart hammered a frantic, deafening rhythm against her ribs, entirely drowning out the wet, bubbling sounds of the cauldron. She did not process a single syllable of the deep, complex theories regarding molecular magical recombination that Tamara was currently lecturing her on. Every ounce of her sensory perception was zeroed in on that cold, slender hand enveloping her own.
'Tamara... she's actually teaching me.''She is personally guiding me, hand-in-hand, to brew one of the most complex potions in existence!''She hasn't even demanded to know what I plan to use this for!'
This deep, unconditional trust—this unreserved, intimate sharing of high-level magical knowledge—made Hermione's chest ache. Her heart swelled until it felt ready to burst.
"Focus, Granger."
The cold, silken voice sliced through her ear, carrying a very real, very dangerous edge of warning.
"If you dare blow up my cauldron, I will transfigure you into an actual beaver."
Hermione jolted, her face flushing a brilliant shade of crimson. She hurriedly pulled her scattered thoughts together and gave a stiff, jerky nod.
Under Tamara's strict, borderline rough physical guidance, the potion—which normally required agonizingly slow simmering—began to froth and boil violently. The intense catalytic reaction of the Moonstone Powder tore through the mixture. The tough lacewing flies, which strictly demanded a full twenty-one days to dissolve under standard procedures, were now breaking down at a visibly accelerated rate.
Tamara finally released her grip. She stepped back, flicking her wrist dismissively as if shaking off some invisible, filthy dust.
"This modified catalyst forcibly compresses the decomposition cycle of the lacewing flies."
She cast a critical eye over the liquid in the cauldron. It had settled into a perfect, smooth consistency. "At this accelerated rate, the original twenty-one-day process can be completed in a mere ten days. The overall potency might suffer a negligible drop, but it will serve its purpose."
Tamara shot the Gryffindor a sideways glance. "Provided, of course, you do not make that pathetic hand-trembling mistake again."
Internally, Tamara was somewhat satisfied with the results of her impromptu lesson. She casually drew her wand and cast a silent Scourgify over her own robes, instantly banishing the lingering, acrid stench of potion residue.
"Really?!"
Hermione spun around, her brown eyes shining with sheer, unadulterated excitement. "Ten days?! That is simply amazing! Tamara, you are incredible!"
The look the Gryffindor gave her—that wide, starry-eyed expression of absolute adoration—made it look as though she wanted nothing more than to launch herself forward and tackle Tamara into a bone-crushing hug.
"Thank you! Oh, thank you, Tamara!"
Tamara's entire body went rigid. Her muscles locked as she reflexively slid half a step backward, her dark eyes flashing with genuine alarm at the prospect of falling into that warm, suffocating embrace.
"It is merely mutual benefit," Tamara stated, her voice dropping to a cool, detached register.
Right on cue, a familiar, glowing blue screen materialized in her peripheral vision.
[Task completed. Reward issued.]
Tamara's lips twitched upward into a microscopic, satisfied smirk.
"Remember. Do not breathe a word to anyone that I assisted you with this."
Tamara turned sharply on her heel, possessing absolutely zero desire to remain in this room for a second longer than necessary.
"And the next time you decide to conduct an experiment of this magnitude, cure that trembling affliction of yours first. Slytherin does not welcome useless waste who cannot even hold a simple stirring rod steady."
With a dramatic sweep of her robes, she marched out of the Room of Requirement, not bothering to cast a single glance backward.
Left standing alone in the quiet laboratory, Hermione stared at the heavy wooden door as it clicked shut. Instead of feeling stung by the harsh, biting insult, she hugged her copy of Advanced Potion-Making tightly against her chest. A soft, somewhat silly smile spread across her face.
No matter how venomous Tamara's words sounded, the older girl had still taken the time to personally guide her, hand-in-hand, just to help her save a few days of brewing.
Was this simply how Slytherins expressed friendship?
It was... really quite cool.
Meanwhile, out in the dimly lit corridor.
[Ding! Congratulations, Host!]
[Detected a qualitative leap in Hermione Granger's favorability towards you!]
[Current relationship evaluation: Worshipped Guide.]
[System note: Congratulations! This studious Miss Know-It-All has been deeply impressed by your immense talent. This is a monumental step forward on the bright path to becoming close friends!]
Reading the floating text, Tamara's brisk footsteps ground to a sudden halt. Her pale brow furrowed in a barely perceptible display of revulsion.
She felt absolutely no pleasure from the System's cheerful congratulations.
On the contrary, standing there in the cold stone hallway, she could faintly sense it bleeding through the heavy wooden door behind her. A cloying, physically nauseating wave of sticky, pure gratitude.
The sensation was vile. It felt exactly like having a massive, wet slug drag itself slowly up her spine, leaving behind an indelible, suffocating trail of slime.
It was the very thing the Dark Lord detested above all else in this miserable world—those worthless, burdensome, sickening things called genuine feelings.
Tamara shuddered, violently shaking her dark robes in utter disgust, as if trying to physically dislodge that invisible, slimy sensation from her skin. Her jaw set into a hard line as she resumed her brisk, predatory stride down the corridor.
In the empty, echoing hallway, only the Dark Lord's quiet whisper remained, dripping with absolute indifference and boundless scorn:
"...Foolish."
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