Chapter 142: This Is a Good Thing
Weeks later, the notoriously stingy sun of the Scottish Highlands finally decided to be a little more generous.
Outside the Hogwarts Quidditch pitch, the atmosphere was nothing short of explosive. Today was the highly anticipated clash between Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. Scarlet and canary-yellow banners snapped fiercely in the brisk wind, and the deafening roar of cheers and screams easily penetrated the thick stone walls of the distant castle.
On the winding dirt path leading to the stadium, Draco Malfoy practically skipped, excitedly waving a pair of brass Omnioculars.
"Hurry up, Tamara! The opening whistle is about to blow!" He twisted around, urging the slow-moving figure trailing behind him. "I specifically ordered Crabbe to guard the best seats in the front row of the Slytherin stands! We will have a perfect view of Potter getting knocked off his broom by those Hufflepuff idiots!"
Tamara stopped.
She tilted her head up toward the roaring stadium, her dark eyes flashing with undisguised, bone-deep weariness.
'A bunch of overgrown, sweaty little trolls straddling splintering twigs, risking their necks to chase a winged walnut through the sky.' How could such a technically devoid, barbaric, and utterly pointless sport drive the entire magical world into a frenzy? It was a spectacular waste of oxygen and life.
"You go ahead, Draco."
Tamara smoothed the front of her robes, her features effortlessly melting into a mask of appropriate fragility and deep regret.
"I am afraid I cannot make it."
"Huh? Why not?" Draco blinked, his pale face falling into immediate disappointment.
"Today is my scheduled routine check-up with Madam Pomfrey." Tamara let out a soft, breathy sigh, gesturing vaguely toward the towering silhouette of the castle. "You know how she is. Ever since I fainted last time, she has been terribly worried about my constitution. If I miss my medication time just to watch a match..."
At the mere mention of the undisputed, tyrannical queen of the hospital wing, Draco dropped his head in defeat.
"Alright... that is a shame," he mumbled, kicking a stray pebble. "I suppose I will go by myself, then. I will tell you exactly how miserable Potter looks when I get back."
"Mm. Have fun."
The moment Draco turned and sprinted toward the pitch like a hyperactive rabbit, the gentle, angelic smile on Tamara's lips evaporated.
She pivoted on her heel, turning her back on the chaotic noise, and walked alone toward the blissfully empty castle.
The world was finally quiet.
Tamara strolled through the cool, shadowed corridors. Only the crisp clack of her leather shoes echoed between the ancient stone walls. This deep silence did not make her feel lonely; rather, it granted her a long-lost, intoxicating sense of absolute control.
Instead of wasting hours watching brainless adolescents fly in circles, she had far more critical matters to plan. Specifically, the upcoming summer holidays.
'Albania...'
She silently rolled the name over her tongue, her dark eyes narrowing into bottomless, calculating slits.
She had explicitly warned Quirrell last semester to guard her hidden caches even if it cost him his pathetic life. But she was not about to pin her hopes on that stuttering, useless fool.
In the Dark Lord's flawless logic, no one was more trustworthy than himself, but conversely, no one was more dangerous than himself.
That wandering remnant soul was currently in an agonizingly weak, ravenous state. What if it grew desperate? What if it squandered all the precious resources she had spent decades painstakingly accumulating just to prolong its miserable, vaporous existence? What if it touched that dragon?
Tamara's jaw tightened. Her pale fingers twitched, unconsciously brushing against the smooth wood of her wand hidden in her sleeve.
This gnawing, uncontrollable lack of security made her skin crawl.
She had to go and confirm the status of her vaults personally.
In an absolutely low-key manner, of course. After all, her current vessel was still frustratingly frail, and her magical reserves were a mere puddle compared to the vast ocean of her former peak. If she were to strut around ostentatiously now, she would not be able to establish dominance. Worse, she might be treated as easy prey by her own brainless, opportunistic former subordinates.
'As soon as the term ends, I will set off immediately.''I just need to confirm my stash has not been tainted by that damned wandering soul, and recover a few urgently needed artifacts.'
Just as Tamara immersed herself in these pleasant, productive holiday fantasies, mentally mapping out her travel route...
"THE MATCH IS CANCELED!"
Professor McGonagall's magically amplified voice struck like a physical blow. The charm echoed like a clap of thunder, instantly resounding through every stone artery of Hogwarts. Even deep inside the castle corridors, the sheer volume made the glass windows hum and rattle in their frames.
Her voice trembled violently, betraying an unmatched, raw panic.
"ALL STUDENTS ARE TO RETURN TO THEIR RESPECTIVE COMMON ROOMS IMMEDIATELY! NOW! AT ONCE!"
Tamara stopped dead in her tracks.
She stood motionless in the center of the empty corridor, listening to the distant, muffled eruption of fearful murmurs bleeding in from the Quidditch pitch.
There was no expression on her face.
On the contrary, a faint, almost pleased sneer curled the corner of her mouth.
'Someone else ran out of luck?'
It seemed that the reckless remnant soul was still continuing its messy revelry. Who was the victim this time? Another unfortunate cat? A lone Mudblood caught wandering the wrong hall?
But what did it have to do with her?
Tamara casually reached down and smoothed out a minor wrinkle in her wind-blown cuff, her movements elegant and entirely unbothered.
If the sky fell, that hypocritical old fool Dumbledore would bear the brunt of it. And if he failed, there was always the so-called Savior, Potter, to throw himself onto the sword.
As for her?
She was merely a delicate, innocent, and academically gifted second-year Slytherin girl. As long as the proverbial fire did not singe her robes, she could not care less. Even if this wretched school went bankrupt tomorrow due to a surplus of corpses, her only genuine regret would be losing access to a free, complete library.
'Perhaps... this might even be a good thing.'
Tamara mused in her heart, her dark eyes glinting with cold amusement.
If the situation escalated and the Board of Governors forced the school to close early, she could depart for Albania weeks ahead of schedule.
Buoyed by this gloating, remarkably lighthearted mood, Tamara completely ignored Professor McGonagall's frantic directive to return to the dungeons. Instead, she continued along her original route, heading straight for the hospital wing.
After all, nothing solidified her flawless persona as a fragile, obedient student quite like showing up for her medical appointments during a crisis.
The heavy oak doors of the hospital wing were slightly ajar.
The sharp, astringent scent of medicinal herbs perpetually permeated the air here, but today, it was laced with something else. The acrid tang of sheer panic.
Inside, Madam Pomfrey was a blur of motion. The matron was bustling frantically between cabinets, clutching an armful of brightly colored potion vials and muttering feverishly under her breath.
"Oh, thank Merlin you are here, Riddle."
Hearing the door creak open, Madam Pomfrey spun around. Upon seeing Tamara, she wiped a sheen of sweat from her brow, looking at the girl as if she were a minor miracle. Her tone was clipped and urgent.
"Listen to me, the situation is absolute chaos right now, and I do not have the time to run your detailed magic circuit checks! Here is your week's supply of Blood Replenishing Potion and Calming Draught. Oh, and drink this cup of milk, then hurry straight back to the Slytherin dungeons! You absolutely must not wander out without a Professor's explicit permission!"
She practically shoved a clinking velvet bag of potions and a steaming, overly sweet-smelling cup of milk into Tamara's hands, already turning her back to prepare another bed.
Clearly, the matron did not expect a frail second-year to be of any assistance; she just wanted to clear the room of liabilities.
"...Wait."
Tamara did not reach for the bag.
She had originally intended to grab her free supplies and leave. Her alibi was secured; her goal had been achieved.
However.
For some inexplicable reason, a sudden, icy prickle of intuition crawled up her spine, forcing her feet to root to the floor.
Her gaze drifted past Madam Pomfrey's bustling shoulder, inexplicably drawn to a specific bed at the far end of the ward.
The privacy curtain there had been hastily yanked shut, but it was not fully drawn. A small, telling gap remained, revealing a rigid, unmoving corner of the mattress.
"Who is that?"
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