After Tamara stuffed the Weasley twins headfirst into a snowdrift, a new and rather dangerous variation of snowball fighting quickly became popular at Hogwarts.
Unfortunately, this "innovation" resulted in half the student body catching colds.
"Harry, can you believe it?" Ron complained indignantly as they walked toward Potions class. "George and Fred said they wanted a proper snowball fight, and then—bam!—they shoved me straight into the snow! Headfirst!"
Harry gave an awkward laugh. He had heard about the new trend as well, but since he didn't have particularly close friends, no one had tried anything like that with him. Whether that was fortunate or unfortunate, he wasn't entirely sure.
The two of them entered the dungeon classroom together.
As always, the Potions classroom was thick with the sharp, lingering smells of sulfur and wormwood. The air felt heavy, almost damp, as if the stone walls themselves exhaled fumes from centuries of brewing.
Today's lesson was the Forgetfulness Potion.
Professor Severus Snape drifted between the desks like a resentful shadow, his black robes billowing faintly behind him. His cold, penetrating gaze dissected every movement, every misplaced stir, every incorrectly sliced ingredient.
"Longbottom," Snape said silkily, his voice low and dangerous, "if you drip your sweat into that cauldron one more time, I shall make you drink the entire contents."
Neville Longbottom trembled so violently that he nearly overturned his mortar.
"Potter," Snape drawled moments later, stopping beside Harry. He dipped the tip of his wand into the murky liquid and gave it a disdainful stir. "Your valerian has been boiled into paste. Five points from Gryffindor for your astonishing inability to grasp the concept of timing."
Harry clenched his jaw and glared, but he knew better than to argue.
Snape gave a curt, icy snort and swept away toward the Slytherin side of the room.
When he stopped at Tamara Riddle's desk, however, his mood shifted almost imperceptibly.
Tamara was quietly focused on preparing her ingredients. Her movements were steady, precise, almost mechanical in their perfection. Every slice was even. Every stir exact.
Snape stood there longer than usual.
Too long.
He searched for a flaw—an overcut leaf, an incorrect clockwise turn, an imprecise flame—but found none.
"…Passable," he finally said, the word dry and reluctant.
Yet he did not leave.
Instead, he remained where he was, his hollow black eyes fixed on Tamara's lowered gaze.
Ever since she had expressed concern about the injury on his leg, suspicion had been growing inside him like an invasive weed. It was not merely curiosity. It was something sharper—an instinct honed by years of secrecy and betrayal.
An irrepressible urge to investigate overcame him.
Without a word, he stared into Tamara's eyes, attempting to probe her thoughts silently.
Legilimency.
The mental pressure gathered—
And then—
[Ding! High-level mental intrusion detected!]
[System firewall activated automatically.]
[Defense strategy: Reverse mental pollution.]
Snape felt as though he had been struck by a burst of blinding, holy light.
Instead of uncovering dark conspiracies or hidden malice, his vision was abruptly flooded with an overwhelming cascade of pastel-colored scenes.
Tamara stepping forward to help Harry when Draco tried to bully him.
Tamara smiling gently as she tied a scarf around Hannah Abbott's neck.
Tamara kneeling to stroke Fang outside Hagrid's hut.
Tamara rushing heroically to rescue Hermione.
Tamara laughing brightly as she had a snowball fight with the Weasley twins.
Tamara clapping happily, her expression warm and radiant, singing in a soft, cheerful voice:
"Little swallow, wearing colorful clothes,
You come every spring—
May I ask why you're here?"
Then her expression shifted, just for a fleeting second.
Her lips curled into a faintly cold smile.
"The swallow said… none of your business."
Snape staggered backward.
His face turned pale, and he had to brace himself against a nearby table to steady his balance.
What he had just witnessed defied description. It was not darkness. It was not innocence. It was something… wrong. Something overwhelmingly bright and distorted.
Worse still, when he attempted to recall the images clearly, they blurred at the edges, slipping through his grasp like smoke.
"Professor?"
Tamara looked up, her obsidian eyes wide with concern and apparent innocence.
In truth, she knew only that the system's firewall had activated. She had no idea what Snape had actually seen.
Seeing his unusually shaken appearance, she wondered silently, What did you show him?
[Nothing at all. Just very ordinary things.]
The system's voice sounded perfectly innocent.
When Tamara demanded to see the memory playback herself, however, the system fell suspiciously silent.
[Overall, Professor Snape saw nothing particularly special. Rest assured.]
Tamara could not rest assured in the slightest.
Suppressing her unease, she activated her Harmless ability and blinked gently.
"Are you all right, Professor? Is it… an old injury acting up?"
Snape stared at her.
Fine beads of cold sweat gathered on his forehead.
At that moment, he found himself utterly incapable of directing even the smallest fragment of malice toward her.
"…I'm fine," he said hoarsely.
Forcing the chaotic images from his mind, he straightened.
"Continue with your potion, Riddle."
"Yes, Professor."
His gaze lingered on her, intense enough to bore through stone.
But Tamara interpreted it quite differently.
It seems, she thought with satisfaction, that no matter the era, my brilliance naturally inspires loyalty.
She nodded inwardly.
Such fervent devotion. He's practically trembling with emotion.
To further "reassure" this supposed loyal subordinate, she calmly picked up her silver knife.
"Professor, regarding this cauldron of Forgetfulness Potion…"
As she spoke, she began slicing mistletoe berries directly before him.
Instead of adding four berries as instructed in the textbook, she crushed two carefully, extracting only the juice into the potion. The remaining pulp she flicked aside into the waste bin.
It was a refinement known only to Lord Voldemort himself: the pulp dulled the potion's effect; the juice alone carried its true potency.
The moment the clear droplets fell into the cauldron, the gray smoke dissipated. The liquid shifted into a perfect, crystalline transparency and released a faint, calming fragrance.
Snape's pupils contracted sharply.
The exact same technique.
Again.
"What do you think?" Tamara asked, turning her head slightly and offering him a meaningful smile.
Snape looked from the flawless potion to the girl beside it.
Logic screamed that something was wrong. This child was dangerous.
And yet—
Another possibility intruded upon his thoughts. Perhaps she was simply a prodigy. A perfectionist. Someone whose brilliance merely coincidentally mirrored that of… him.
The contradiction split his thoughts apart, pounding against his skull.
"…Well done," he forced out at last.
"Ten points to Slytherin."
His voice was strained, almost brittle.
Then, as though fleeing an unseen threat, he pivoted sharply and strode toward the opposite end of the classroom.
"Longbottom!" he thundered. "You incompetent fool! Are you attempting to blow us all sky-high?!"
Neville's potion was seconds from exploding.
Meanwhile, Tamara extinguished the flame beneath her cauldron, her mood light and satisfied.
He simply needs time to adjust, she thought.
Watching Snape's retreating figure, she felt a deep sense of control over the future.
Be patient, Severus. When the time is right, you will kneel beneath my robes once more and kiss the hem in devotion.
Across the dungeon, Snape continued berating Neville, but a sudden chill crept down his spine.
It felt as though an enormous shadow loomed over him.
Almost unconsciously, he touched the Dark Mark on his left forearm.
It remained silent.
Unresponsive.
"…Perhaps," he muttered inwardly, "I should find an opportunity to speak with Dumbledore."
For the first time in many years, Severus Snape was uncertain.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
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