Chapter 143: Not All Good Things
Tamara's voice hung in the sterile air, smooth and perfectly level, yet laced with a frost that made the surrounding temperature seem to drop.
Madam Pomfrey jolted slightly, following the young girl's unblinking gaze. The matron's shoulders sagged under the weight of her uniform, a heavy, ragged sigh escaping her lips. Her face crumpled into a portrait of absolute grief and bitter regret.
"It's Miss Granger... and a Ravenclaw prefect."
"They were just found near the library."
Madam Pomfrey shook her head, her voice cracking and straining as though a physical stone pressed against her throat. "Double petrification... and this time it's far more severe than before. That poor child, still holding..."
Tamara did not wait for the matron to finish her sentence.
She walked straight toward the curtained partition.
"Hey! Riddle! You can't—that's the severe ward!" Madam Pomfrey reached out, desperate to stop the first-year student.
But the air around Tamara abruptly shifted. A suffocating, chilling pressure bled from her small frame—the absolute, crushing authority of a tyrant accustomed to unquestioned obedience. The experienced matron's jaw snapped shut. Her instincts screamed at her to step aside, her body subconsciously clearing a path before her conscious mind could process the fear.
Tamara stepped to the bedside and yanked back the privacy curtain.
The heavy fabric blocked the afternoon sunlight, casting a deathly, muted shadow over the bed.
Lying there was Hermione Granger.
She was no longer the insufferable Miss Know-It-All who practically vibrated out of her seat to answer every question, annoying everyone in her vicinity. Her body was locked in a grotesque, stiffened arch, resembling a poorly chiseled marble effigy.
The sheer terror etched into her features was frozen in time. Those wide, brown eyes—usually burning with a relentless, irritating curiosity—stared blankly at the ceiling, entirely devoid of focus. Only a sickly, deathly gray-white film remained.
Her fingers were clamped in a death grip around the handle of a small hand mirror.
Tamara's dark eyes narrowed slightly, processing the scene. Evidently, the mudblood had realized something at the very last second. Relying on her extraordinary intellect, she had used the glass to check the corners, observing the monster through a reflection to avoid looking directly into the eyes of death.
Truly clever.
Exactly the sort of sharp, calculating mind Tamara expected from her chosen pawn.
Tamara stared down at the rigid face, at the eyes that had been stripped of all their annoying, vibrant life.
Her brow furrowed, a microscopic twitch of muscle.
No sudden wave of sadness welled up in her chest. There was no trace of that nauseating, pathetic emotion known as sympathy.
There was only a... strange, grating sense of discomfort.
It felt exactly like pressing down on a premium quill to write a flawless incantation, only to have the tip snap off mid-stroke. Or like carefully brewing a delicate, complex potion, only to have some idiot toss a rotting toad into the cauldron.
That slight friction, an annoyance that fell far short of actual pain, was like a jagged splinter lodged in her otherwise perfectly ordered mind. It was impossible to ignore.
'What is going on?'
Tamara, acutely aware of the abnormality in her own mental state, interrogated herself with absolute, freezing logic.
She was annoyed.
It was the deep, gloomy irritation born entirely from disrupted plans and shattered order.
Logically speaking, even if this mudblood died, it should mean absolutely nothing to her. In her previous life, the sheer volume of corpses she had piled up—those she had slaughtered directly or orchestrated the deaths of—could easily fill the entire Black Lake to the brim.
Even her own Death Eaters, the supposed elite, received no pity. If they failed a mission and died in the process, she would merely step over their cooling corpses without breaking stride, cursing them as useless, incompetent trash.
She had never once cared about the lives of her subordinates.
This mudblood... Hermione Granger, was nothing more than a slightly more efficient tool.
If a tool broke, it broke.
The world was crawling with smart, ambitious people desperate for a master. If one snapped, she would simply pluck another from the masses.
So why was she experiencing this strange, lingering emotion?
'Is it this body?'Tamara slowly raised her hand, staring at her pale, slender fingers, attempting to dissect this superfluous feeling with surgical precision.'Is the lingering, pathetic weakness of this twelve-year-old girl's biology acting up? Or is that damned system attempting to pollute my mind with the concept of cheap, worthless friendship?'
No. That wasn't right.
Those were excuses meant for the weak.
As her turbulent thoughts settled into their usual icy calm, Tamara finally peeled back the layers of gloom to expose the absolute core of her irritation.
This was not just an ordinary student lying on the bed.
This was an asset she had personally invested in.
It was a pawn she had patiently polished, carefully debugged, and even lowered herself to communicate with for the sake of her grand, overarching plans. She had just spent valuable time teaching this mudblood how to process magical theory through Ancient Runes. She had just begun to feel that this particular tool was finally becoming sharp enough to be useful.
And now, someone had dared to disrupt her carefully laid plans without her explicit permission.
This was a colossal waste of her time.
More, it was a direct, unforgivable offense to the Dark Lord.
Just like the stolen trinkets she had hoarded in her wardrobe at the miserable Muggle orphanage. Just like Nagini. Just like that diary. Just like the Elder Wand.
No one—absolutely no one—but her had the right to decide the life, death, or ownership of her possessions.
'Truly clueless about the rules of this world...'
Tamara sneered inwardly, the corners of her mouth twitching with dark promise. She turned on her heel, preparing to leave.
Just then.
A chaotic, hurried clatter of footsteps shattered the dead silence of the hospital wing.
"This way, Mr. Potter, Mr. Weasley."
Professor McGonagall's face was a mask of terrible, drawn tension as she led two equally distraught boys through the double doors.
The Transfiguration professor stopped, her eyes sweeping over the three silent children gathered around the bed. Her usually stern, uncompromising features softened, revealing a rare, raw trace of reluctance and bone-deep exhaustion.
As Deputy Headmistress, she knew the political and terrifying reality of what this attack meant better than anyone. And looking at the boys, she understood exactly how their young minds were fracturing at this moment.
"I think... you need some time to digest this news."
Professor McGonagall let out a soft, wavering sigh. She reached out, her hand somewhat stiffly patting Ron's violently trembling shoulder.
Then, she turned toward Madam Pomfrey, who was busying herself with potion vials. McGonagall lowered her voice, a distinct plea bleeding into her tone.
"Poppy, shall we step outside and discuss the next phase of the defense arrangements? Professor Dumbledore is still waiting for my full report."
"Give them ten minutes... just ten minutes."
Madam Pomfrey paused, her hands hovering over a tray of bandages. She looked worriedly at the children, taking in their pale, stricken faces, and finally offered a tight nod.
"Alright, Minerva."
The heavy wooden doors of the hospital wing clicked shut, sealing them inside.
In the cavernous, spacious ward, the only sounds left were the ragged, uneven breathing of the boys and the violent rustling of leaves outside the window, whipped into a frenzy by the biting wind.
The oppressive, suffocating sadness that had filled the air slowly settled, hardening into a much more naked, raw confrontation.
Tamara turned around with agonizing slowness, her dark, bottomless eyes coldly sweeping over the two intruders.
Harry and Ron looked as though they had just been violently dragged out of a nightmare.
Their Gryffindor robes were still smeared with mud and crushed grass from the Quidditch pitch, but their faces retained absolutely none of the flushed excitement of the game. Instead, their features were twisted into masks of sheer panic and utter bewilderment.
"Hermione!"
Ron choked on a gasp the second his eyes locked onto the petrified figure on the bed. He stumbled forward, his legs nearly giving out, staring in absolute disbelief at the horrifying scene.
Tamara let out a silent, contemptuous sneer in the dark theater of her mind.
Useless Gryffindors, exactly as expected.
What else were they capable of doing besides standing around, shocked, dumbfounded, and leaking useless fluids?
Her calculating gaze slid toward Harry Potter.
The famous, supposedly destined savior was staring intently at Hermione's rigid, gray face.
His emerald green eyes were blown wide, swimming with a volatile mixture of shock and agonizing pain. His arms hung stiffly at his sides, his hands clenched into fists so tight his knuckles were bone-white. He was trembling, vibrating with a suppressed, useless energy.
Tamara practically tasted the mockery on her tongue.
Look at this pathetic display. Is this the legendary figure destined to defeat the Dark Lord?
Is this the shining star of salvation that Albus Dumbledore had placed all his desperate, foolish hopes upon?
Faced with a fallen companion, he could do nothing but stand there, utterly lost, flapping about like a headless chicken waiting for the butcher's knife.
'So utterly useless...'
Tamara shook her head inwardly, her dark eyes practically overflowing with pure, unadulterated disdain.
Since the air in this room was already thoroughly polluted with these weak, pathetic emotions, there was absolutely no reason for her to remain.
It didn't matter anyway. She already knew exactly who the culprit was.
The next phase would be her hunting time. Alone.
Tamara retracted her gaze, elegantly adjusted the cuff of her pristine sleeve, and stepped forward, fully intending to walk right past the two troublesome boys and exit the wing.
However.
The very second she brushed past Harry's shoulder.
A hand shot out, fingers clamping down around her arm with the force of a vice.
The grip was so sudden, so shockingly tight, that Tamara actually felt a flare of dull, offended pain shoot up her bicep.
Tamara froze in her tracks. The temperature in her eyes plummeted to absolute zero.
"Let go."
She turned her head slowly, her voice dropping to a silken whisper that carried a lethal, undisguised warning.
But Harry did not let go.
Instead, his fingers dug in even deeper.
He snapped his head up, his brilliant green eyes locking directly onto the dark, abyssal depths of Tamara's gaze.
There was no trembling weakness there, none of the pathetic whimpering Tamara had fully expected to see.
Harry's eyes burned with a desperate, stubborn urgency. He looked exactly like a child terrified of being left behind by the adults, practically clawing at the walls to prove he was finally old enough to fight.
"You want to go alone, don't you?"
Harry's voice came out hoarse, the words tumbling over each other in a fast, nervous rush.
"I can tell... Tamara, your eyes have changed."
"Just like before... you're going to try and solve everything by yourself again."
Tamara paused, a genuine flicker of surprise causing her to raise a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
This supposed savior's intuition was becoming incredibly, annoyingly sharp.
"What is it to you?"
Tamara jerked her arm, attempting to violently shake off his grip, a cruel, mocking curve forming on her lips.
"I do not need you to tell me what to do, Potter. Get out of my way."
Harry planted his feet, his voice dropping into a low, fierce retort.
"I'm not... I don't want to just stand here and watch!"
He stared intently at her face, his tone saturated with a desperate, bleeding stubbornness.
"I know you think we're weak. I know you think we'll just hold you back... but I can help too!"
"I have the invisibility cloak! I can sneak into places the professors can't even get near! And... and I can understand the monster's voice! I know that voice has to be inextricably linked to these attacks!"
Harry eagerly dumped his bargaining chips onto the table, his green eyes wide and pleading.
"Take me with you, Tamara."
"Hermione is my friend too. I can't just sit here and wait... whatever you're planning to do, at least let me... and Ron come with you!"
Tamara stared down at the boy who lived. Sweat was beading at his temples, his chest heaving with the sheer urgency of his plea.
She remained perfectly silent for two long seconds.
Then, as if she had just heard the punchline to a mildly amusing joke, a short, breathy scoff escaped her lips.
She reached over with her free hand and methodically, forcefully pried Harry's fingers from her sleeve, peeling them back one by one.
"Are you severely misunderstanding something here, Potter?"
Tamara looked down her nose at him, her eyes practically dripping with toxic mockery.
"Revenge? For this insufferable Miss Know-It-All?"
She cast a lazy, dismissive glance toward the stiffened form of Hermione on the bed. Her tone was so utterly contemptuous, so perfectly bored, that one would never guess she had been radiating murderous intent just moments prior.
"Which eye of yours exactly saw me wanting to avenge her?"
"I simply find the air in this room far too stifling, and I wish to go back to my dorm and sleep."
"Put away your superfluous, pathetic heroism."
Tamara elegantly brushed non-existent dust from the fabric of her sleeve, finally fixing Harry with a look of absolute, freezing indifference.
"And do try not to think so highly of yourself."
"In the face of true, absolute power, your so-called advantages are nothing but child's play."
With that final, cutting remark, she didn't spare Harry a single backward glance. She turned on her heel and strode purposefully out of the hospital wing.
She left behind nothing but a resolute, impossibly cold back.
Harry stood frozen in place, his body still locked in the awkward posture of being pushed away, his fingers hanging limply in the empty air.
"I told you so."
Ron, who had been hovering near the foot of the bed, entirely too terrified to speak while Tamara was in the room, finally shuffled forward.
He sniffled loudly, his voice thick, nasal, and heavy with crushing dejection.
"Don't count on her, Harry. She's a Slytherin. She's Tamara Riddle."
Ron stared nervously at the empty doorway where Tamara had vanished, his words a messy, tangled mixture of lingering fear and rising indignation.
"She doesn't care about Hermione's life or death at all. Even if they seemed to get along alright normally, in the eyes of someone like her, maybe... maybe this is no different from losing a pet dog."
Harry shook his head, a sharp, violent motion.
He stared intently at the empty space between the double doors, his green eyes shimmering with a strange, almost terrifyingly intuitive certainty.
"She cares."
"I saw it... the way she looked at Hermione just now."
Harry was intimately familiar with that specific look.
It was the exact same dark, twisting expression he occasionally caught in his own eyes when he stared into the mirror at the Dursleys'—the raw, burning anger of having something that belonged to him violently taken away.
"She just... doesn't want to take us."
Harry slowly curled his hands back into fists, his voice dropping to a low, suppressed rumble.
"She thinks we're too weak. She thinks we're a burden, and that we'd only cause her trouble if we tagged along."
Ron opened his mouth, his brow furrowing as he clearly wanted to argue the point, but the fight drained out of him. He simply hung his head, his shoulders slumping in defeat.
"Then... what do we do now?"
Ron looked back at Hermione's frozen, terrified face, his voice cracking with utter helplessness. "If even Tamara isn't willing to take us..."
Harry turned away from the door.
He walked to the bedside, his eyes locking onto the small, silver-backed mirror still clutched in Hermione's petrified hand. He took a slow, deep breath, filling his lungs with the sterile air of the ward.
"Then we'll investigate it ourselves..."
The panic and shock in Harry's green eyes gradually burned away, replaced by a hard, unyielding resolve. It was the raw, reckless Courage of Gryffindor coalescing once more.
"To prove we're not a burden."
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