"Alright, no dessert for you then." Goyle shrugged as he scooped a generous portion of chocolate sponge cake onto his plate. "You really don't know how to enjoy life. This is a house-elf's specialty."
At long last, the final crumbs of dessert vanished from the golden plates.
Tamara let out a long, exhausted sigh. She swore she didn't want to see another bite of food for at least three days—no, a whole week.
Just then, Dumbledore rose once more from the head table. The lively chatter filling the Great Hall faded instantly into silence.
"Now that we are all fed and watered," he said warmly, "I must once again ask for your attention."
His twinkling blue eyes swept across the long house tables, seeming to linger for a fleeting moment as they passed over Slytherin.
"I have a few start-of-term notices to give you."
"First years should note that the forest on the grounds is strictly forbidden to all pupils. And a few of our older students would do well to remember that as well."
His gaze shifted meaningfully toward the Weasley twins at the Gryffindor table.
"I have also been asked by Mr. Filch, the caretaker, to remind you that no magic is to be used between classes in the corridors."
"Finally, I must inform you that this year, the third-floor corridor on the right-hand side is out of bounds to everyone who does not wish to die a very painful death."
"A very painful death?" Harry muttered at the Gryffindor table. "Is he serious?"
"He's a madman. Who knows?" Ron mumbled, his mouth still half-full of pie.
Meanwhile, at the Slytherin table, Tamara merely curled her lips into a faint, disdainful smirk.
The third-floor corridor on the right-hand side.
That was where the Philosopher's Stone was hidden.
She knew perfectly well who had placed it there—and for whose benefit.
"A very painful death…" Tamara sneered inwardly. "That's just a phrase meant to frighten the weak."
Although her current body was pathetically frail, it didn't stop her from silently scorning Dumbledore's warning.
"And now, before we go to bed," Dumbledore continued cheerfully, "let us sing the school song!"
Tamara's expression changed instantly.
If there was anything more unbearable than overeating, it was being forced to sing that utterly unrhythmic, aesthetically offensive, and childishly absurd school song in a crowd of fools.
Dumbledore flicked his wand lightly. A long golden ribbon burst from its tip, soaring high above the tables before twisting itself into shimmering words like a snake coiling in the air.
"Everyone pick their favorite tune," Dumbledore announced happily. "And off we go!"
The entire school erupted into song.
Tamara sat stiffly in her seat, lips pressed tightly together, her expression blank. It was as though refusing to open her mouth could shield her from this collective assault on her senses.
However—
[Ding! Collective activity detected.]
[Virtue Quest triggered: Integrate with the Group.]
[Quest Description: The school song is a symbol of Hogwarts' spirit. How can a good student who loves the school not sing along?]
[Quest Requirement: Sing out loud! Even just a single syllable!]
[Failure Penalty: Randomly play a recording of the host humming in the shower at the orphanage.]
"You wouldn't dare!"
Tamara nearly crushed the silver goblet in her hand.
This wretched system even had recordings?
She drew in a slow breath, feeling her dignity crumble grain by grain.
With extreme reluctance, she parted her lips. Her voice was barely louder than a mosquito's hum.
"…Hogwarts, Hogwarts…"
Though her voice was so faint that even Malfoy beside her couldn't hear it, the system judged her participation sufficient.
The song dragged on in chaotic disharmony before finally collapsing into a ragged, disjointed ending.
"Ah, music," Dumbledore said dreamily, wiping his eyes. "A magic beyond all we do here. And now—bedtime! Off you trot!"
The Slytherin first-years rose from their seats and gathered behind their prefect, Gemma Farley.
Just as Tamara stepped away from the table, a sudden wave of icy cold swept over her from behind.
The temperature in the Great Hall plummeted sharply.
Several silvery, pearly-white figures glided soundlessly through the walls—the ghosts of the various houses.
And at the far end of the Slytherin table, a far more terrifying figure drifted forward.
He was gaunt and spectral, his robes stained with silvery blood. His hollow eyes stared ahead, empty and unblinking. Heavy chains coiled around him, clinking faintly as he moved.
The Bloody Baron.
Slytherin's resident ghost—and one of the most feared beings in all of Hogwarts, rivaled only by Peeves.
Even Malfoy flinched, instinctively stepping behind Tamara.
"Merlin, I don't like him," Draco whispered. "Look at the blood… is it real?"
The Baron glided forward, passing straight through a cluster of Hufflepuff first-years. They shrieked and scrambled away in terror.
He floated to the head of the Slytherin first-year line.
Prefect Gemma Farley bowed stiffly. "Good evening, Baron."
The Bloody Baron ignored her completely.
His lifeless gaze swept across the students before settling on a black-haired girl in dark green robes, her expression cold and composed.
Tamara Riddle.
Fifty years ago, when that name had belonged to a handsome boy, the Baron had seen him.
He had watched that boy wander the corridors at night. He had sensed him open the Chamber of Secrets—a place even ghosts feared. He had felt the pure, serpentine aura that only a true descendant of Slytherin could possess.
Tamara stood perfectly still.
Unlike the other trembling first-years, she showed no fear.
She lifted her chin slightly. A faint flash of crimson flickered in her dark pupils before disappearing.
She was releasing a pressure—one perceptible only to spirits and serpents—vibrating at a Parseltongue frequency.
The Baron drifted closer.
The surrounding students held their breath, terrified he might lash out without warning.
He stopped a single step before her.
For a long moment, he stared at Tamara, as though confirming the soul concealed within the fragile shell of a young girl.
"…Ancient blood," he rasped at last, his voice like two tombstones grinding together.
"…Still flows."
He did not expose her identity.
He simply acknowledged her legitimacy.
After speaking, the Baron drifted aside and stood like a silent sentinel, clearing the path.
Waiting for Tamara to pass first.
The entire Slytherin line fell into stunned silence.
Even Prefect Farley's mouth hung open.
The Baron did not yield—not even to Dumbledore.
"My goodness…" Pansy Parkinson whispered, covering her mouth. "The Baron… he's yielding to her?"
Draco Malfoy stared in disbelief.
"Ta… Tamara?" he stammered. "Do you know him?"
Tamara calmly smoothed the sleeve Draco had wrinkled when he grabbed her earlier. There was not a hint of pride or flattery in her expression. It was as though this were only natural.
[System Notification: Detection of reverence from an ancient spirit.]
[Evaluation: It seems that in Slytherin, some things are more effective than virtue—such as bloodline supremacy.]
Tamara snorted inwardly.
Then she turned slightly toward Draco, a faint, mysterious smile curving her lips.
"In this world, some rules transcend life and death, Draco," she said softly.
Her voice, though quiet, rang clearly in the tense silence.
"When your bloodline is pure enough… when your power is strong enough…"
Her gaze flickered briefly toward the Baron hovering nearby.
"…even the dead will yield the path to you."
With that, she stepped forward, leading the way toward the dungeon corridor.
At that moment—
Tamara Riddle, a mere first-year on her very first night, had planted something powerful within Slytherin.
She had not cast a single spell.
And yet, through nothing but presence, she had sown a seed of awe.
"So cool," Blaise Zabini murmured with a low whistle. "I like her."
"Shut up, Zabini," Draco snapped, finally breaking from his daze as he hurried after her.
"She's my friend! I noticed she was special ages ago!"
The torches along the dungeon walls flickered as the first-years descended the stone steps.
Behind them, the Bloody Baron remained floating in silence.
Watching.
As if he had just witnessed the return of something long dormant.
Something ancient.
And something inevitable.
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