Chapter 182: Superfluous Insights
Evening.
When Tamara stepped into the bustling main hall on the first floor of the Leaky Cauldron, she walked straight into a wall of fiery red hair.
The entire Weasley family was crammed around a long, grease-stained wooden table, their boisterous voices overlapping as they argued over the upcoming school year.
"Oh! My dear!"
Molly Weasley possessed the eyes of a hawk. She spotted the dark-haired girl instantly, abandoning her half-filled goblet to rush forward.
"We missed you so much while we were in Egypt! It is absolutely wonderful to see you safe and sound!"
Without waiting for permission, Molly threw her arms wide and engulfed Tamara in a crushing embrace, squeezing hard enough to threaten the structural integrity of the girl's ribs.
Tamara's spine locked into a rigid line. The muscles in her shoulders went taut.
In her past life, she would have blasted this filthy blood traitor through the nearest brick wall without a second thought, even if it meant enduring a blinding surge of electric agony from that wretched system.
But today, despite the flash of pure, venomous disgust that rippled through her pitch-black eyes, she forced her arms to remain loosely at her sides. She made no move to resist.
After all, Tamara was in a rather pleasant mood. She could afford to squeeze out a flawless, sickeningly sweet smile.
"Thank you for your concern, Mrs. Weasley. I have been doing very well," Tamara replied, pitching her voice to a gentle, melodic softness that left absolutely no room for fault.
"Come and sit down, Tamara! Try some of this pie," Arthur Weasley greeted her with a warm, oblivious grin, gesturing to an empty wooden stool.
"We were just talking about our trip to Egypt. Bill's curse-breaking work over there is simply amazing..."
The atmosphere around the dining table had been loud and cheerful. Yet, as the conversation inevitably drifted from enchanted Egyptian trinkets to the grim, hollow-cheeked convict plastered across the front page of the Daily Prophet, the mood shifted into something extremely delicate.
Arthur and Molly's voices dropped to a hushed whisper. They leaned in close, deliberately using vague euphemisms, their anxious eyes darting repeatedly toward the opposite end of the long table where Harry sat picking at his food.
"...The Ministry of Magic is in a total mess right now. In any case, you must all be extra careful at school this year," Arthur muttered vaguely, terrified that the Potter boy might overhear a single stray syllable.
Tamara suppressed a yawn, her dark eyes glazing over with deep boredom.
'A gathering of fools whispering about a rabid dog,'she sneered inwardly.'What possible value is there in listening to this drivel?'
"Forgive me, Mr. Weasley. I am a bit exhausted from purchasing my school supplies today, and I would like to head back to my room to rest."
Tamara delivered the polite excuse with practiced grace, offering a small bow of her head before turning toward the creaking wooden stairs that led to the second floor.
However, just as her leather boots stepped onto the dim floorboards of the second-floor corridor, and her fingers brushed the brass key in her pocket...
A faint, deliberate scuff of a shoe echoed from the shadows of the stairwell.
"Senior..."
Ginny Weasley stood half-swallowed by the gloom of the corner.
The youngest Weasley looked vastly more spirited than the hollow shell she had been last term. Yet, as those brown eyes locked onto Tamara, they carried an uncomfortable, cloying weight—a sticky intensity that made the air feel thick.
"To see that you are safe and sound... it is truly wonderful."
Ginny stepped forward, her pace agonizingly slow. Her gaze did not rise to meet Tamara's eyes. Instead, it dropped, staring with unblinking fixation at the pale skin of Tamara's neck.
There, a faint strangulation mark remained—a lingering ghost of her possession. Though it had faded to the point of being nearly invisible to the casual observer, to Ginny, it looked like the most beautiful, sacred brand in the world.
As if guided by the Imperius Curse, Ginny raised her hand. Her movements were jerky, uncontrollable. Her cold fingertips drifted upward, desperate to trace the healed scar.
"Does it... still hurt here?" Ginny whispered, her voice trembling with a strange, breathless awe.
Smack.
Tamara ruthlessly swiped the girl's hand away, the sharp sound echoing in the narrow hall.
"Drop that neurotic act, Weasley."
The gentle upperclassman persona vanished. Tamara's face darkened into a mask of cold fury, her eyes flashing with undisguised disgust and a lethal warning.
"Your family is right downstairs. You would do well to act normal and stop causing me trouble."
Ginny stood frozen, her hand suspended in the air where it had been struck.
Yet, she did not shrink back in fear. She did not well up with tears of grievance, as any normal child would have.
Instead, she blinked her large brown eyes with exaggerated innocence. The corners of her mouth twitched, slowly curling upward into a smile that was terrifyingly pure, yet entirely drenched in madness.
"I am just worried about Senior's health..."
Ginny tilted her head to the side, her tone dripping with a near-obsessive, twisted sense of entitlement. "What is wrong with caring about the person I care about most?"
"I do not have the time to entertain your madness. I am going to rest."
Tamara's jaw locked. She turned on her heel, reaching for the doorknob.
But the very instant she exposed her back.
Ginny lunged. Moving with the sudden, terrifying agility of a wild beast, she closed the distance in a single stride, throwing her arms wide and locking them in a vice grip around Tamara's waist.
She buried her face fiercely into the fabric of Tamara's robes, right between her shoulder blades, taking a long, shuddering breath of the cold, crisp scent that clung to the older girl.
It was a brutal, forceful embrace. A physical declaration of ownership.
A split second before Tamara's surging, murderous intent could shatter her restraint—before she could draw her wand and blast the wretched girl into bloody pieces—
Ginny let go.
She released her hold as violently as if she had grabbed a live electric wire, scrambling backward a large step into the shadows.
Standing in the dim, flickering light of the corridor, Ginny looked up at Tamara's face. The Dark Lord's expression was breathtakingly suffocating, twisted by a rage so deep it seemed to warp the very shadows around her.
Seeing this, Ginny broke into a smile of extreme, blinding radiance.
"Goodnight, Senior."
With that, acting exactly like a stray cat that had successfully stolen a forbidden treat, the redhead turned and bounded lightly down the stairs, her footsteps fading into the noisy chatter of the tavern below.
In the empty corridor, Tamara remained rooted to the spot.
Her knuckles were stark white as she gripped the brass doorknob. In the heavy darkness of the hall, a sinister, bloody red light flickered violently within her narrowed eyes.
"...Lunatic."
September 1st.
Outside the frosted windows, a relentless, freezing autumn rain lashed against the glass. The Hogwarts Express tore through the gloomy countryside, emitting a monotonous, dull roar as steel ground against the tracks.
Inside the exclusive Slytherin compartment, the air was thick and heavy.
"Thank goodness that annoying Scarhead, Potter, has finally stopped buzzing around you like a headless fly."
Draco Malfoy slouched back against the plush green upholstery, lazily twirling a polished wand between his fingers. His tone dripped with undisguised schadenfreude and a distinct, secret layer of relief.
He glanced across the carriage at Tamara. She sat with her head bowed, slender fingers slowly turning the brittle, yellowed pages of a heavy, ancient tome dedicated to the Dark Arts.
Unable to suppress the stifled, sour feeling that had been festering in his chest for months, Draco lowered his voice and complained, "Tamara, I told you long ago, you were far too merciful to those Gryffindors."
"If you ask me, we should have made them clear off ages ago."
The pale finger resting on the edge of the parchment paused.
Tamara closed the heavy book with a soft, definitive thud. She slowly raised her head.
Those eyes, as black and bottomless as an abyssal trench, held absolutely zero warmth as they locked onto Draco's pale face.
The temperature inside the enclosed compartment seemed to plummet ten degrees in a single heartbeat. Beside Draco, Pansy Parkinson's movements froze entirely. Across from them, Crabbe and Goyle practically retracted their thick necks into their shoulders, terrified to even draw a loud breath.
"Draco."
Tamara's voice was barely more than a whisper, yet it carried a hair-raising, suffocating pressure that pressed down on their chests.
"You seem to have some very superfluous insights into how I manage my own connections."
The smug, aristocratic sneer on Draco's face shattered instantly. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing as he subconsciously straightened his spine, desperately trying to backtrack. "I didn't mean it like that, I just thought..."
"What you think is not important."
Tamara sliced through his defense with a voice like cracked ice. Her gaze scraped over Draco's features like a physical blade.
"I acknowledge that the House of Malfoy's position in my heart is unshakable, and the glory of Slytherin remains my absolute bottom line."
"But that does not mean I intend to behave like a brainless mountain troll, wearing all my hostility and prejudice plainly on my face."
Tamara leaned forward slightly. The sheer weight of her presence pinned Draco to his seat.
"I have told you this before: being civil with them is nothing more than a calculated act."
"A true Slytherin should know how to turn every breathing, living thing into a piece on the chessboard."
"As long as they can be used for my purposes, anyone can be squeezed for their absolute last drop of value."
She stared coldly into Draco's trembling gray eyes, delivering her final, absolute warning word by agonizing word.
"Never attempt to interfere with my decisions."
"No one is qualified to dictate my actions. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"
Draco was thoroughly cowed, struck by a primal fear etched deep into his very bones.
He took a shaky breath and immediately dropped his gaze, entirely unable to meet Tamara's eyes.
"I understand..." he muttered quietly to his lap, though his tone still carried the faint, pathetic edge of awkward stubbornness.
"I just... I just don't like seeing you always hanging around Potter and the others."
Hearing this petulant, resentful remark, Tamara felt a sharp throb pulse behind her temples.
She pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting off a rising headache, and let out a bewildered, mocking sneer within the confines of her own mind.
'I truly do not understand,'Tamara thought, her internal voice dripping with venomous exhaustion.'Back when I commanded Abraxas and Lucius, I almost never encountered such tedious, infantile issues.'
Especially Lucius.
That opportunistic, slippery hypocrite's fear and loyalty toward her had been wonderfully pure. It was pure self-interest, pure ambition, and a pure, unadulterated dread of absolute power.
As long as she tossed him a fleeting taste of authority and then pressed her boot to his neck with a Cruciatus Curse, he transformed into the most obedient, fawning hound. He never required a single extra word of persuasion or coddling.
As for his grandfather, Abraxas...
While the elder Malfoy had lacked the pure, trembling submission of Lucius, Tamara had always rationalized their dynamic. At that time, she had not yet completely seized absolute power. Their relationship had functioned more like shrewd partners extracting what they needed from one another, rather than a strict master and servant. Thus, it was only natural that his loyalty wasn't entirely pure.
But why was communication so agonizingly difficult when it came to Draco?
This was clearly a grand layout concerning deep-rooted interests and high-stakes power plays. Why did this spoiled little fool always fixate on meaningless social distances and schoolyard rivalries?
This young master had neither inherited his father's useful, fear-dominated loyalty, nor possessed a fraction of his grandfather's calculating shrewdness based on the exchange of benefits.
Instead, his head was stuffed full of a cloying, awkward, and inexplicably resentful possessiveness.
Tamara could only attribute this headache to her subordinate's severely immature mind, which had somehow led to a bizarre, beyond understanding deviation in his loyalty.
Just as Tamara was reaching the absolute limit of her patience with this 'low-level and deeply boring interpersonal interaction,' the gray light filtering through the window darkened.
Outside, in the gloomy sky, rolling banks of pitch-black clouds surged forward, swallowing the remaining daylight whole.
Along with the sudden loss of light, the rhythmic roar of the Hogwarts Express began to stutter. The train's speed was noticeably decreasing, the metal wheels groaning against the tracks.
The already oppressive environment inside the carriage became stiflingly irritating.
"I am going to the corridor for some air."
Tamara stood up abruptly and unceremoniously yanked the compartment door open, eager to use the excuse of a walk to escape the suffocating presence of this idiot boy.
"Wait, it's pitch black out there, I'll go with you—" Draco blurted out, scrambling to stand up and follow her like a lost duckling.
"Stay inside. Do not bother me."
Tamara slammed the sliding door shut ruthlessly, cutting off Draco's voice and trapping him inside.
However, the moment her boots hit the carpeted aisle, she barely managed to take three steps.
The entire train gave a violent, bone-rattling jolt and ground to a complete, shuddering halt.
Immediately after, the glass lamps lining the corridor ceiling flickered twice, buzzed weakly, and died without warning.
The entire world was plunged into a deathly, suffocating darkness.
Accompanying the sudden blackout was an intense, unnatural cold—a freezing chill that seemed to bypass skin and bone, aiming directly to freeze the blood in one's veins.
The temperature in the air plummeted to the freezing point in mere seconds. A thick, creeping layer of white frost spread across the train windows at a speed visible to the naked eye. The air grew so frigid that Tamara could clearly see the thick puffs of white mist escaping her own lips.
She narrowed her eyes, the muscles in her jaw tightening.
This cold was by no means a natural shift in the autumn weather. It was a supernatural chill, heavy with the thick, rotting scent of death and decay.
Tamara slowly lifted her chin, following the creeping direction of the frost toward the far end of the narrow aisle.
There, illuminated only by the faint, ghostly reflection of the frosted glass, a terrifying dark shadow hovered. It was massive, so tall its hooded head nearly scraped the ceiling, floating slowly through the mid-air like a phantom of the abyss.
It was entirely draped in a tattered, rotting black cloak. It possessed no face, only a gaping void beneath its hood, and it emitted a series of wet, hair-raising, rattling hisses as it drew breath.
From the locked compartments on both sides of the aisle, the terrified screams and panicked cries of the other students had already begun to echo, their voices cracking with raw, unfiltered terror.
But Tamara, standing perfectly still at the very epicenter of the encroaching chill, did not retreat a single inch.
Instead, within those deep, abyssal black eyes hidden by the dark, an eerie, blood-red light slowly ignited.
Compared to the foolish, vivid, and endlessly noisy brats whining inside the train cars, the dark creature drifting before her—an entity representing pure, unadulterated death and despair—actually made her feel a deep, long-lost sense of comfort.
Feeling the deathly aura wash over her skin, the corners of her mouth slowly curled upward into a pleasant, chillingly beautiful smile.
"Heh..."
Tamara's voice was as soft and intimate as a lover's midnight murmur as she slowly breathed a single word into the deathly silent corridor.
"Dementor."
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