Early mornings in the Hogwarts dungeons were nothing like the bright, golden dawns that filled the castle's towers.
Behind the green velvet curtains and narrow windows, only dim, murky light filtered in from the depths of the Black Lake. Occasionally, a massive shadow drifted past the glass, reminding anyone watching that something enormous lived in those waters.
To most people, it would have felt oppressive.
To a soul long accustomed to darkness, however, the heavy silence and enclosed air brought a peculiar sense of comfort.
Tamara Riddle woke to the sharp sound of arguing.
She opened her eyes—and immediately found herself staring into the oversized, furry face of a certain black cat.
Nagini was sprawled across her chest, its warm breath brushing against her nose. The scent of dried fish lingered faintly in the air, evidence of last night's successful theft from the kitchens.
"Get down."
Expressionless, Tamara pushed the heavy creature aside and sat up.
A shrill voice pierced through the bed curtains.
"Move, Bulstrode! Your back is as wide as a troll's—you're blocking the entire mirror!"
Pansy Parkinson.
A dull grunt followed, as if someone had been shoved.
"I… I was just combing my hair."
The hesitant voice belonged to Millicent Bulstrode.
Millicent was tall and broad-shouldered, with a square jaw and features that lacked conventional delicacy. In fact, one might describe her as rugged. Among Slytherin girls—where elegance, noble bearing, and pure-blood pride were the unspoken standards—she sat firmly at the bottom of the hierarchy.
"Combing your hair? With a rake?" Pansy laughed sharply. "Don't bother, Millicent. Some things are just born that way. Even if you poured an entire bottle of shampoo on your head, you'd still look like some unevolved—"
Daphne Greengrass and Tracy Davis sat nearby, watching the scene unfold. Neither intervened.
It was very Slytherin.
Survival of the fittest. Strength above all.
If this had been the Voldemort of her previous life, she might have ignored it. Perhaps she would have agreed—the weak deserved to be trampled.
But Tamara Riddle was no longer merely that.
She pulled back the curtains and stepped onto the cool carpet with bare feet.
The argument died instantly.
Every girl in the dormitory turned at once.
Tamara emerged wearing a black silk nightgown, her long dark hair cascading loosely over her shoulders. Though she had only just awakened and a faint trace of laziness lingered in her expression, the natural authority she carried silenced the room more effectively than any shout.
"Good morning, everyone."
Her voice was slightly husky from sleep, yet calm and refined.
She walked unhurriedly toward the dressing table.
Pansy Parkinson instinctively stepped aside, surrendering the best position without protest.
"G-good morning, Tamara," Pansy said quickly, smoothing her nightgown.
Tamara did not look at her own reflection. Instead, she turned her gaze toward Millicent, who stood rigidly in the corner.
The taller girl looked like a wounded bear. Her head was lowered, her fist clenched tightly around a broken-toothed comb. Her cheeks were flushed, and unshed tears shimmered in her eyes.
"Lift your head, Millicent."
The command was soft, but unquestionable.
Millicent trembled and obeyed.
Her hair was tangled and unruly. Her teeth protruded slightly, giving her an awkward appearance. Her entire posture radiated insecurity.
"Did Pansy's words upset you?" Tamara asked.
Millicent bit her lip and nodded silently.
Tamara turned her gaze to Pansy.
Pansy stiffened at once. "She was taking too long! And she really does—"
"That wasn't wise, Pansy."
Tamara's interruption was calm, almost conversational.
She stepped closer and reached up, gently adjusting Pansy's collar. The intimate gesture startled Pansy far more than any reprimand could have. A faint blush crept across her cheeks.
"As a young lady of the Parkinson family, your taste and aesthetic sense are unquestionable," Tamara continued softly.
Pansy straightened instinctively.
"However, elevating yourself by belittling others is… inelegant."
The word struck harder than any insult.
"If the people standing beside you appear inferior, it lowers your own standing. Outsiders will not think you are superior—they will think Slytherin lacks quality."
Pansy's eyes widened slightly.
That perspective had never occurred to her.
Tamara turned back to Millicent.
"Sit."
Millicent obeyed immediately, lowering herself into the chair as stiff as a statue.
Tamara picked up the broken comb.
"Watch carefully, Pansy," she said lightly, tapping her wand against it. "In this world, there are no useless chess pieces—only players who fail to place them correctly."
A faint shimmer of magic passed through the air.
Millicent's tangled hair smoothed instantly, falling into glossy waves that framed her face neatly.
"Scourgify."
Another spell flickered.
The yellowed stains on Millicent's teeth vanished, leaving them clean and bright.
Tamara set her wand down and placed both hands on Millicent's shoulders.
"Look."
Millicent stared at her reflection.
Her features had not changed—but her presence had. The clumsy awkwardness was gone. In its place stood someone solid, formidable, and unexpectedly commanding.
"You have a strong frame," Tamara said evenly. "You are not delicate. That is not a flaw. It is strength."
She met Millicent's eyes in the mirror.
"If anyone dares to bully a Slytherin girl, you will be the shield standing in front of her."
Millicent's eyes filled at last. Tears rolled down her cheeks freely.
"Thank you… Tamara…"
In Tamara's mind, a crisp mechanical voice sounded.
[Ding! Dormitory bullying resolved. Image enhancement and psychological guidance completed.]
[Reward: Charisma +2.]
[Passive Skill Acquired: Bestie's Trust (Basic).]
[Effect: In female social groups, affinity and influence increased by 20%.]
Tamara suppressed a faint sneer.
"Bestie"?
No.
This was strategy.
She had secured a loyal enforcer—and subtly reined in a future influencer.
"Do you understand now, Pansy?" she asked, turning with a faint smile.
Pansy looked from Millicent's transformed appearance to Tamara's composed figure.
The flicker of jealousy in her eyes dissolved into admiration.
This was the difference between them.
While she mocked flaws, Tamara converted them into assets.
"I understand," Pansy said sincerely. "I was wrong."
She glanced awkwardly at Millicent. "Sorry… about earlier."
Millicent shook her head quickly. "It's fine."
"Good."
Tamara clapped her hands lightly.
"Now, we have class. Let's not waste time."
Half an hour later, the five first-year Slytherin girls entered the Great Hall together.
Heads turned.
Tamara walked at the center, composed as ever in dark green robes that complemented her pale complexion. Nagini rested across her shoulders like a living accessory.
On her left, Pansy held Tamara's books, chin raised proudly.
On her right, Millicent moved with quiet vigilance, her broad frame lending the group a protective presence.
Daphne and Tracy followed behind, clearly pleased to share in the reflected attention.
At the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley dropped his bread into his milk.
"Blimey… wasn't she alone yesterday? It looks like she's recruited half of Slytherin overnight."
Harry Potter took a thoughtful bite of toast.
"She's… remarkable," he said quietly. "It feels like she was always meant to lead."
At the Slytherin table, Draco Malfoy approached immediately, with Crabbe and Goyle in tow.
"Good morning, Tamara!" Draco said brightly. His gaze flicked to Millicent. "Bulstrode looks… different."
"Naturally," Tamara replied, accepting pumpkin juice from Pansy. "Slytherin pursues excellence."
Owls began flooding into the Great Hall, delivering the morning post.
A gray owl dropped a copy of The Daily Prophet onto the table in front of Draco.
Tamara glanced at the headline.
"Gringotts Break-In: Goblins Claim Vault Was Empty."
Her fingers paused briefly around her cup.
So. Quirrell had made his move.
Which meant that the fragment—the foolish primary soul—was still searching for the Philosopher's Stone.
History, it seemed, was still largely intact.
Draco snorted. "Breaking into Gringotts? Idiotic. It's the safest place in the world—except Hogwarts, of course."
"Safest?" Tamara's lips curved faintly. "There is no such thing as absolute safety, Draco."
She looked across the hall toward the staff table, where Professor Quirrell sat beneath his absurd purple turban.
"With sufficient desire," she murmured, "any door can be opened."
And yet…
How laughable.
The Stone was no longer in that vault.
Dumbledore had already relocated it to the castle.
Tamara cut into her fried egg.
Golden yolk spilled across the plate—bright and rich.
Almost like a certain legendary stone said to grant immortality.
She watched it quietly, her expression unreadable.
The game had begun.
And this time—
She would not lose.
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