Chapter 181: Different Stances
A faint, acrid bitterness hung heavily in the air of the single guest room on the second floor of the Leaky Cauldron.
Tamara Riddle sat at the scarred wooden desk, her pale fingers absentmindedly swirling a small crystal vial of murky potion. Hovering inches from her face, a translucent screen emitted a soft, patronizing blue glow—a sight visible only to her.
Thanks to her excruciatingly cheerful punishing evil spree in the Black Forest of Albania over the holidays, combined with the generous rewards from her second-year settlement, her attribute panel had undergone a drastic, sickening mutation.
[Host's Current Core Attribute Panel:]
[Wisdom: 44]
[Courage: 56]
[Life: 36]
[Love: 35]
Tamara's dark eyes lingered on those four numbers. They were steadily climbing toward one hundred. The system's perky voice echoed in her memory, warning her that once all values maxed out, her soul would undergo complete purification, transforming her into a purely good, flawless saint.
'Purification?'A cold, mocking sneer curled her lips. She set the potion vial down, the glass clinking sharply against the wood.'Foolish,' she scoffed internally.
She was a Dark Lord. She had ripped her own soul into seven fragments and waded through the deepest, blackest abysses of death and dark magic. The very essence of her being was saturated with the purest, most concentrated darkness known to the wizarding world. How could absolute arrogance, rooted in her very origin, and an endless, ravenous greed for power ever be washed away by a few ridiculous numbers and a layer of hypocritical holy light?
'Even if these pathetic values really do reach one hundred...'A chilling flash of crimson flickered in the depths of Tamara's eyes.'They will be nothing more than nourishment for my return to the throne.'
To her, only one thing mattered. She would exploit every single loophole this wretched system possessed to reclaim her magic, by any means necessary.
Tamara flicked her wand, vanishing the residue from the cauldron on the table. She had spent the past few days staying at the Leaky Cauldron with absolute peace of mind. Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge had personally approved her free room and board, completely taken in by her flawless performance as a fragile, obedient good girl. More usefully, staying here gave her a legitimate excuse to hide in her room brewing potions all day, and she had even arranged for the magical courier service to deliver that wretched cat of hers to keep up appearances.
'Time to restock some Belladonna Essence.'
Pulling a dark, hooded cloak over her shoulders, Tamara pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped out.
The summer sunlight spilling over Diagon Alley was blindingly bright, yet a heavy shadow loomed over the cobblestone streets. Thanks to the news of Sirius Black's escape, the pedestrians moved with hurried, nervous steps, casting paranoid glances at the alleyways.
Tamara had just finished purchasing her apothecary supplies and stepped out of the shop when she nearly collided with two familiar figures.
"Tamara!"
Hermione's eyes lit up instantly. She hurried over, her arms straining under the weight of a massive stack of thick books. "It's so good to see you're okay! When you stopped replying to my letters, I was half a second away from writing to Dumbledore to come and save you!"
Tamara's attention entirely bypassed the bushy-haired girl. Her gaze dropped to the creature perched precariously on top of Hermione's books—a massive, bowlegged ginger cat with a face that looked as though it had run headfirst into a brick wall.
Noticing the stare, Hermione beamed and shifted her books to present the beast. "This is Crookshanks! My new pet."
The instant Crookshanks locked eyes with Tamara, the cat's squashed face contorted into an expression of pure, primal warning. It arched its back, its ginger fur standing on end, and let out a vicious, rattling hiss. As a creature with Kneazle blood running through its veins, it possessed a hyper-sensitive awareness of intent. It could smell the abyssal malice and suffocating darkness coiled deep within the girl's soul.
But a fraction of a second later, the system intervened.
The accursed [Magical Creature Affinity +20%] passive and the [Holy Halo] forcibly bestowed upon Tamara activated simultaneously.
Supreme dark magic and blinding holy light violently clashed around Tamara's form. This entirely contradictory, reality-breaking aura hit Crookshanks like a physical blow. The cat's brain short-circuited on the spot.
Its glowing yellow eyes immediately crossed. The fierce, threatening growl vibrating in its throat caught, twisting into a pathetic, highly confused squeak.
"Ha—meow?"
Crookshanks shook his large, furry head dizzily, gave up on trying to process the logic of the universe, and collapsed into a limp, confused ball in Hermione's arms.
Before Hermione could question her new pet's bizarre behavior, Ron came sprinting breathlessly from the other end of the street. His hands were clamped tightly over his chest pocket, where a fat rat missing a single toe was shivering violently, its head tucked beneath its paws.
"Don't even start with me, that thing is a complete menace!" Ron panted, glaring at the ginger lump in Hermione's arms with deep offense. "We were just in the Magical Menagerie, and it tried to eat my rat! It went completely mental!"
Tamara's dark gaze drifted slowly from the ginger cat down to the shivering lump in Ron's pocket.
Peter Pettigrew.
She did not yet know the exact details of why that rabid dog, Sirius Black, had suddenly broken out of Azkaban, but she was certain of one thing. A liberated mad dog would never stop hunting the traitor who had framed him and left him to rot in a Dementor-infested cell for twelve years.
The corners of Tamara's lips curved upward into a very faint, cryptic smile. She stared directly at Ron's chest pocket.
"Not only do cats eat rats..." Tamara drawled. Her voice was soft, silken, and entirely casual, as if she were merely reciting a law of nature. "Dogs... also eat rats."
The instant those words hung in the air, the rat named Scabbers went rigid.
Peter knew about Sirius's escape. He knew exactly who Black was coming for. But far more terrifying than the escaped convict was the slow, hair-raising tone of the girl standing three feet away.
Peter's tiny, rat-sized heart contracted violently. During their brief encounters over the past year, he had felt an aura radiating from this girl that made his very soul want to curl up and die. And now, that casual, perfectly targeted pun shattered the absolute last shred of hope he had left.
She had seen through his Animagus disguise without a second glance. She knew exactly what Black was planning.
In the entire world, besides the supreme Dark Lord who had kept him waking up in cold sweats for twelve years, who else possessed such terrifying, soul-crushing insight? Who else could project this kind of despair-inducing pressure?
'The Master... has returned?'
Countless horrifying scenarios flashed through Peter's mind. He was convinced the Master was using this twisted, disguised form to toy with him, preparing to settle the score for his twelve years of utter cowardice.
Pure, unadulterated terror stripped away his ability to flee. He knew better than anyone that running from the Master would only guarantee a much longer, infinitely more painful Cruciatus Curse. He dug his tiny claws into the fabric of Ron's pocket and froze completely solid, playing dead, his breath stopping entirely.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake! Poor Scabbers, he's really had the life scared out of him today. Why is he stiff as a board?" Ron patted his chest sympathetically, keeping a protective hand over the pocket to shield his paralyzed pet from the cat.
Tamara let out a pleasant, icy snort in her mind and withdrew her gaze, her expression returning to perfect neutrality.
"What are you doing standing around here?" she asked flatly.
"We're waiting for Harry," Hermione explained, adjusting her grip on her books. "He just went over to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour to get..."
Before she could finish her sentence, a boy with messy black hair came jogging across the cobblestones, carefully balancing several large ice cream cones in his hands.
The moment Harry's green eyes met Tamara's dark ones, the relaxed, easy smile on his face died instantly. He did not offer his usual clumsy, polite greeting. Instead, his jaw tightened, and he stiffly averted his gaze.
The moment Tamara saw him, her casual indifference vanished. She did not sneer. She did not glare. She simply let her gaze slide right through him, treating him as though he were nothing more than empty, meaningless air.
An eerie, suffocating silence crashed down upon the group.
Standing right in the middle of the crossfire, Hermione keenly sensed the massive drop in atmospheric pressure. She looked back and forth between the two of them, her clever brain working frantically to process the sudden hostility.
What had happened? In Hermione's mind, while Harry and Tamara weren't exactly best friends, they had never reached this level of frozen hostility.
"Did you two have a fight?" Ron asked bluntly, looking from Harry's rigid posture to Tamara's blank face.
"...No," they replied in perfect, flat unison.
Hearing their voices overlap, both Harry and Tamara frowned deeply at the exact same time. The air grew even heavier.
Harry walked forward with stiff, mechanical steps and shoved the melting ice cream cones into Ron and Hermione's hands. His tone was forcefully steady, completely ignoring the girl standing right next to them.
"Have some ice cream. It's chocolate and raspberry."
Tamara's gaze swept over Harry's now-empty hands. A sharp, mocking breath escaped her nose. She turned on her heel to leave.
"It is good to eat more sweets," Tamara commented. Her tone was lazy, her back entirely turned to Harry. "I do hope that cheap sugar is enough to soothe your fragile nerves, considering how badly rattled you've been by the recent news."
Harry's fingers twitched, curling tightly around the wand hidden in his trouser pocket. His expression remained stubbornly blank.
"Thanks for the reminder," Harry retorted. His voice was unhurried, adopting a cold, biting tone that sounded almost exactly like Tamara's. "I'll be sure to keep plenty of sugar on hand."
He took a slow breath. "After all, if I ever again encounter someone who's so paralyzed by potion backlash they can't even stand up, or someone who insists they're perfectly fine in the Chamber of Secrets only to pass out a second later... I'll definitely need something sweet to calm my nerves."
Tamara's departing footsteps stopped dead.
The summer heat of Diagon Alley seemed to instantly freeze into jagged ice shards.
She turned her head slowly, looking over her shoulder. A dangerous, bloody red light bled into the depths of her dark eyes. If looks carried physical weight, Harry would have been crushed into the cobblestones ten times over.
"It seems the Ministry of Magic's pathetic leniency has given you delusions of omnipotence, Potter," Tamara whispered. Her voice was entirely devoid of human emotion. "Blowing up a Muggle like a balloon... with that kind of mindless, pathetic loss of control, if you weren't carrying that precious little title of yours, do you really think the Dementors of Azkaban would take a liking to you?"
Neither of them drew the wands resting in their pockets, but the killing intent rolling off them was thick enough to choke on. It felt as though if one more syllable were spoken, the two of them would start hurling lethal curses at each other right in the middle of the street.
Hermione, caught directly in the center of the invisible crossfire, finally snapped.
She raised her voice to a near-shout, forcibly shattering the hair-raising silence. She lunged forward and grabbed a fistful of Tamara's cloak, her brain short-circuiting as she stammered out the first excuse she could think of.
"Um—Tamara! I just remembered, I don't think I've bought all my Arithmancy textbooks yet! You—you have to come with me to Flourish and Blotts to take a look! Right now! Please!"
Without giving the dark-haired girl a single second to refuse, Hermione threw her entire body weight backward, half-dragging Tamara down the street.
Tamara allowed herself to be pulled away. She withdrew her murderous gaze from Harry and walked off with Hermione, not sparing him a single backward glance.
Watching their retreating backs disappear into the crowd, Harry stood frozen in place, his chest heaving slightly as he forced his breathing to steady.
Beside him, Ron stood completely still, a drop of melting chocolate ice cream falling from the cone and splattering onto his shoe. He looked blankly at the empty space where Tamara had just been standing, then slowly turned his head to look at Harry.
"So..." Ron swallowed hard, his voice cracking slightly in the heavy silence. "This is what you call... not having a fight?"
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