A few weeks after the start of term, a rather strange phenomenon began to unfold at Hogwarts.
Logically speaking, Slytherin first-years were usually the most unpopular group in the school. They were known for being arrogant, cliquish, and openly disdainful toward Muggle-born witches and wizards. Most students from other Houses avoided them whenever possible.
But Tamara Riddle was an exception.
She still walked with her chin held high, her dark eyes cold and unreadable. She rarely spoke to anyone outside Slytherin, and even within her own House she kept her distance. There was something aloof about her—something sharp enough to discourage casual conversation.
And yet, whenever she entered the Great Hall for meals, a curious sight could always be observed.
At the Hufflepuff table, a cluster of young badgers would eagerly wave at her, smiling as if greeting an old friend.
The Gryffindors found this deeply confusing.
Thursday's lunch was particularly noisy. The Great Hall buzzed with conversation, the clatter of cutlery, and the fluttering of owls delivering parcels and letters.
"I don't get it," Ron Weasley muttered through a mouthful of mashed potatoes, his gaze drifting toward the central seat at the Slytherin table.
"She's clearly a Slytherin. And she looks even scarier than Malfoy. Why do those Hufflepuffs like her so much?"
Ron grudgingly admitted that Tamara was beautiful. Her features were refined, almost aristocratic, and she carried herself with effortless grace. But beauty alone wasn't enough to make him lower his guard.
"Because she's not just a Slytherin, Ron," Hermione Granger said, setting down her copy of Quidditch Through the Ages. There was a rare note of admiration in her voice.
"Have you heard what happened in Wednesday night's Astronomy class? Hufflepuff and Slytherin had it together."
"I heard it was freezing," Harry Potter added absentmindedly, poking at the peas on his plate with his fork.
"It was," Hermione confirmed. "Hannah told me her hands were so cold she couldn't even adjust her telescope properly. Everyone knows most Slytherins would mock someone in that situation."
"Malfoy definitely did," Ron snorted.
"Exactly. Malfoy laughed," Hermione continued firmly. "But Riddle didn't. She helped Hannah recalibrate the telescope, and then she—"
Hermione lowered her voice dramatically.
"She took off her own scarf and gave it to Hannah. And she stood there in the freezing wind for nearly half the lesson without saying a word."
Harry and Ron stared at her.
Unconsciously, they both glanced toward the Slytherin table. Tamara was seated elegantly, cutting her steak with precise, controlled movements. Her expression was cool and distant, as though the world bored her.
It was difficult to reconcile that image with the idea of her quietly giving away her scarf.
"There's more," Neville Longbottom added timidly.
"In Herbology, we had to work with dragon dung fertilizer. Even Malfoy refused to touch it at first. But Riddle just… started working. Bare hands and all. Professor Sprout said she shows more respect for plant life than anyone else in our year."
Hermione straightened, as though presenting a final argument in court.
"She respects knowledge. She helps classmates. She isn't afraid of hard work or getting dirty. Yes, she looks arrogant—but her actions are… rather noble."
"Oh, come on," Ron scoffed. "She's in Slytherin. I bet that scarf had some kind of Dark magic woven into it. Probably made Hannah loyal to her or something."
Harry didn't laugh.
He continued watching Tamara thoughtfully.
In Potions class, she had spoken with a tone that reminded him uncomfortably of Snape—cool, cutting, and merciless. And yet, she had used her knowledge to counter Snape's sarcasm more than once. In doing so, she had indirectly spared Harry from humiliation.
It was confusing.
She was cold—but kind. Arrogant—but fair. Detached—but somehow attentive.
Harry found himself unable to decide what to think of her.
Just then, a flurry of owls swooped down from the enchanted ceiling, scattering envelopes across the tables.
Ron tore open a notice, scanned it, and let out a groan of despair.
"Oh no. This is a nightmare."
"What is it?" Harry asked.
"Flying class," Ron said grimly, slapping the parchment onto the table. "This afternoon. And guess who we're paired with?"
A sinking feeling settled in Harry's stomach.
"Please don't say—"
"Slytherin," Ron finished darkly.
Across the hall, Draco Malfoy was animatedly bragging to Crabbe about his childhood experience flying brooms at home.
"That ferret's been boasting all week," Ron muttered. "I swear he's going to make this class unbearable."
Harry sighed.
Strangely, he wasn't as worried about Malfoy.
He was more concerned about himself.
If he fell off his broom in front of Tamara Riddle—who seemed effortlessly competent at everything—he suspected the humiliation would sting worse than any detention from Snape.
Meanwhile, Tamara had been enjoying a relatively peaceful few weeks. The mysterious system in her mind had not issued any more absurd missions.
But when she reviewed her upcoming schedule, her brows knitted together faintly.
Flying class.
Of all the ridiculous activities this school insisted upon, this was by far the worst.
At precisely three-thirty that afternoon, the Slytherin and Gryffindor first-years assembled on the lawn outside the castle.
The sky was bright and cloudless. A gentle breeze swept across the green grass, making the scene look deceptively pleasant.
For most eleven-year-olds, it was a perfect day.
For Tamara, it felt like a walk to the gallows.
She stood beside a row of aging school brooms, staring down at the one assigned to her with open disdain.
The twigs at the tail stuck out unevenly, several of them snapped. The handle was scratched and worn smooth with years of use. It resembled a balding brush that had long since lost its dignity.
Barbaric.
That was the only word that came to mind.
In her view, straddling a wooden stick and soaring through the air was neither elegant nor refined. The posture was awkward. Undignified. Entirely lacking aesthetic appeal.
It was like clamping a branch between one's legs and scrambling through the sky like an overexcited primate.
In her previous life, at the height of her power, she had mastered true flight. She had developed advanced Dark Arts that allowed her to move through the air freely, without the need for any crude tools.
That had been real flight.
Rising like smoke into the night sky. Cloaked in darkness. Looking down upon the world from above, sovereign and untouchable.
And now?
Now she was expected to mount this splintered stick like an enthusiastic peasant.
"Everyone stand beside your broom!"
Madam Hooch strode across the field, her short gray hair ruffling in the wind. Her sharp yellow eyes swept across the students like a hawk assessing prey.
"Hurry up! No dawdling!"
Tamara resisted the urge to sigh.
"Place your right hand over the broomstick," Madam Hooch instructed. "Then say loudly: 'Up!'"
A chorus of voices rang out across the lawn.
"Up!"
Harry's broom leapt neatly into his hand, causing his face to light up with excitement. Draco Malfoy's followed suit almost immediately, and he smirked as though proving a point.
Hermione's broom merely rolled over lazily on the grass.
"Up!" she insisted again, sounding increasingly irritated.
Tamara did not move.
She folded her arms and stared down at the broom at her feet as though it were something mildly offensive.
Shout at a stick?
Absolutely not.
The others continued trying, their voices rising and falling in varying degrees of frustration.
Tamara's expression remained perfectly composed.
If the broom wished to rise, it would rise.
If it did not—
Well.
She certainly wasn't going to beg.
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