Chapter 185: Subconscious
The thestral-drawn carriages fought a losing battle against the raging storm, their wooden wheels slipping in the mud as they lumbered toward the castle. When the shivering students finally spilled through the massive oak front doors, a collective, shuddering breath echoed through the Entrance Hall. The crackling warmth of the wall torches washed over their soaked robes, banishing the lingering chill of the rain.
Tamara Riddle drifted smoothly into the center of the Slytherin crowd. Outwardly, she maintained her usual pristine elegance, but beneath her calm facade, her mood was utterly foul. The humiliating incident on the Hogwarts Express had poisoned her temper to a toxic degree. Right now, her desires were simple and absolute: march into the Great Hall, claim her rightful seat at the Slytherin table, and let a lavish feast—coupled with the groveling, reverent stares of her inferiors—scrub the stench of today's wretched luck from her skin.
"Potter, and Miss Granger. Please wait a moment."
The stern, crisp voice of Professor McGonagall sliced effortlessly through the chaotic chatter of the Entrance Hall. The shuffling lines of students ground to a halt.
Tamara paused, her dark eyes narrowing as she watched from the periphery. She observed the Transfiguration professor part the sea of drenched students, making a beeline straight for the Gryffindor rabble.
"Miss Granger, please come to my office. We need to discuss your course schedule for this term."
Hermione Granger's reaction was entirely too eager. A spark of unmistakable, manic excitement flared across her exhausted features. The lingering gloom left by the Dementors vanished instantly, replaced by the insufferable glow of an overachiever as she practically sprinted after the Deputy Headmistress.
Before the crowd could resume their march toward dinner, another imposing figure descended the marble steps of the Grand Staircase.
Madam Pomfrey, the school matron, marched downward with the grim determination of a general inspecting a battlefield. Her brow was furrowed in deep displeasure, her sharp eyes scanning the sea of black robes until they locked onto a frozen, messy-haired boy.
"Potter! Come here. Let me look at you."
Without waiting for permission, Madam Pomfrey seized Harry by the arm, hauling him away from a bewildered Ron Weasley. She tilted his chin up, her professional gaze scrutinizing his chalky complexion and the sheen of cold sweat clinging to his forehead.
"Professor Lupin sent an owl ahead. He stated you encountered a Dementor on the train and fainted. How do you feel? Any lingering chills? Nausea? Dizziness?"
Harry shifted his weight, his cheeks flushing as a dozen nearby students leaned in to eavesdrop. "I'm fine, Madam," he muttered, keeping his voice painfully low. "Professor Lupin gave me some chocolate..."
"Chocolate is the correct remedy, yes, but the man is not a certified medical professional, is he?" Madam Pomfrey snapped. She pressed the back of her cool hand against Harry's forehead, muttering furiously under her breath. "Absolute nonsense. Deploying Azkaban guards around a school full of children? What on earth is Albus thinking!"
She dropped her hand, her frown deepening. "Lupin also mentioned in his letter that another girl was severely affected. Supposedly, she collapsed completely on the corridor floor. Unfortunately, the carriage was pitch black and the poor dear ran off before he could get a proper look at her face..."
Harry's brain short-circuited. Before logic or self-preservation could intervene, a vivid, haunting image flashed across his mind's eye. A fragile figure slumped against the freezing floorboards. A face so pale it looked carved from marble, completely devoid of expression, yet silently streaming with tears.
"It's Tamara."
The words bypassed his filter entirely. "It's Tamara Riddle. She was right outside the compartment opposite mine."
The very second the syllables left his lips, Harry wanted to bite his own tongue off. Horror washed over him like a bucket of ice water. Tamara Riddle was a creature of terrifying extremes. She valued her flawless, untouchable pride far more than her own life. If she found out he had publicly exposed her moment of utter vulnerability, she would absolutely murder him. He had sworn to himself, time and time again, to stay as far away from that prickly, dangerous, entirely unreasonable girl as humanly possible.
Yet, in a moment of sheer, stupid impulse, his subconscious had betrayed him.
The damage was done. There was no taking it back.
"Riddle?!"
Madam Pomfrey's voice spiked a full octave. Her sharp eyes instantly pivoted, sweeping across the crowded Entrance Hall with the precision of a military radar.
At that exact second, Tamara was a mere half-step away from the Great Hall doors. Salvation, a warm fire, and a plate of roast beef were inches away. She lifted her foot to cross the threshold.
"Miss Riddle! Please wait right there!"
The matron's voice pierced through the ambient noise, striking the Dark Lord squarely between the shoulder blades.
Tamara's foot froze in mid-air.
Slowly, she turned her head. She watched as Madam Pomfrey parted the sea of Slytherins with an aggressive agility completely unbefitting her age, marching straight toward her. Standing just behind the matron's wake, Harry Potter had both hands clamped over his mouth, his green eyes wide with deep, agonizing regret.
Their gazes locked across the hall.
If Tamara's stare possessed physical mass, the Boy Who Lived would have been instantly julienned into ten thousand perfectly uniform strips of raw meat.
'That reckless, brainless, suicidal idiot...' Tamara cursed, her mental voice dripping with venom.
"I knew it!" Madam Pomfrey declared, reaching Tamara and giving her zero opportunity to speak. "How could your fragile constitution possibly withstand the direct proximity of a Dementor!"
The matron seized Tamara's wrist.
"Look at this hand! It is practically made of ice! You are coming with me to the Hospital Wing this instant!"
And so, under the stunned, collective gaze of the Hogwarts student body, the great and terrible Dark Lord was mercilessly hauled away from the Great Hall. Madam Pomfrey dragged her toward the marble staircase like a scruffed, disobedient kitten, leaving Tamara's dreams of a peaceful dinner in ruins.
The Hospital Wing was quiet, save for the relentless drumming of rain against the high windows.
Harry and Tamara were forced to sit side-by-side on two adjacent, stark-white hospital beds. While Harry had merely been subjected to a quick check of his pupils and pulse, Tamara was currently enduring a full, invasive, and thoroughly degrading magical examination.
"I knew it! Erratic magical fluctuations, and your core body temperature is dangerously below normal!" Madam Pomfrey waved her wand in complicated arcs over Tamara's head, chattering incessantly. "Miss Riddle, your baseline constitution was already dreadfully poor. Your nutrient absorption has always been a major issue! Dementors do not merely drain happiness; they siphon away raw life force! This delicate body of yours simply cannot handle such a violent strain!"
Tamara sat perfectly rigid. Her face was a mask of porcelain indifference, but her knuckles were bone-white where she gripped the edge of the mattress. She was enduring the ultimate humiliation. Right now, her sole desire was to reach across the agonizingly small gap between the beds and strangle the Savior of the Wizarding World, who was currently hanging his head and doing an excellent impression of a corpse.
"Ordinary chocolate works far too slowly for a constitution as frail as yours," Madam Pomfrey muttered, turning on her heel and marching into her private dispensary.
Less than a minute later, she emerged carrying a massive, steaming mug.
"Drink it."
The heavy ceramic mug was shoved unceremoniously into Tamara's hands. A cloyingly sweet aroma, heavily laced with the rich, nauseating scent of heated dairy, rushed straight up Tamara's nose.
It was the Hospital Wing's infamous special remedy: Hot Chocolate Milk.
"I am not drinking this," Tamara stated flatly, pushing the offending cup away with a look of pure disgust. "I am perfectly fine."
"Drink it. Every last drop." Madam Pomfrey planted her hands on her hips. Her glare was suddenly sharper and infinitely more terrifying than anything Professor McGonagall could muster. "Otherwise, I will strap you to this bed for the night and pour it down your throat with a funnel!"
Faced with the absolute, tyrannical authority of the Hospital Wing's ruler, Tamara took a slow, measured breath.
Between being physically restrained like a madwoman and drinking it herself, the Dark Lord swallowed her pride and chose the latter.
She closed her eyes. She held her breath. She lifted that ridiculous, infantile mug to her lips and, as if downing a goblet of lethal poison, chugged the sickeningly sweet, warm liquid.
"Very good." Seeing the bottom of the empty mug, Madam Pomfrey nodded in smug satisfaction.
"You really ought to thank Mr. Potter, you know," the matron added casually, turning her back to tidy up a tray of potions. "Professor Lupin had absolutely no idea who you were. If it hadn't been for Potter's kind and timely reminder, you very well might have collapsed right into your dinner plate at the feast tonight!"
The moment those words hung in the air, the ambient temperature in the ward plummeted to absolute zero.
Harry, who had been intensely studying the grout lines in the floor tiles, felt every single hair on his arms stand at attention. He prayed to any deity listening that Madam Pomfrey would just stop talking.
Stiffly, like a rusty hinge, Harry turned his head.
Tamara had tilted her head to look at him. Thanks to the scalding milk, a faint, unnatural flush had bloomed across her exquisite, pale cheeks, making her look softer, almost angelic.
But her eyes—those endless, pitch-black voids—burned with a monstrous, suffocating killing intent.
If they weren't sitting in the middle of the Hospital Wing, and if Madam Pomfrey weren't standing three feet away, Harry had absolutely no doubt that Tamara would have shattered that heavy ceramic mug against the bedpost and used the jagged shards to saw his throat open.
"Alright, the two of you may go back to your houses now," Madam Pomfrey said, waving a dismissive hand. "Remember, if either of you suffer from nightmares tonight, my doors are always open."
Tamara slowly, deliberately, placed the empty mug back onto the metal nightstand. The ceramic clinked softly against the steel.
Shadows and unspeakable violence still churned violently in her dark eyes, her gaze piercing straight through Harry's skull from over the matron's shoulder.
Yet, when she finally opened her mouth, her voice was soft, melodic, and sickeningly sweet. It carried a hint of impeccable, flawless politeness.
"Of course, I understand. Thank you so much, Madam Pomfrey."
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