Escaping death was a rare occurrence for anyone—but for Lord Voldemort, it had been the ultimate humiliation.
Tamara allowed herself only a single glance before quickly looking away. She was not yet capable of making a move against the so-called savior.
The rear carriage of the Hogwarts Express was comparatively quiet.
Avoiding the swarm of excited first-year students, Tamara selected an empty compartment, slid the door open, and stepped inside. She bent to push her heavy leather trunk beneath the seat, struggling more than she cared to admit. Nagini, who was technically supposed to be checked in with the luggage, had followed her inside without hesitation.
Outside on the platform, scenes of tearful partings continued to unfold—parents hugging their children, last-minute reminders shouted over the steam. The displays seemed utterly meaningless to her.
Just as she watched with detached indifference, the compartment door slid open with a sharp clatter.
"Sorry, I was wondering…"
A slightly breathless voice drifted in.
Tamara turned her head slowly, displeasure flashing across her pale face. Her brow furrowed, and a flicker of irritation passed through her cold black eyes at being disturbed.
Standing in the doorway was a scrawny boy.
He wore oversized, faded clothes that clearly did not fit, hanging off his thin frame like fabric draped over a hanger. His messy black hair stuck up stubbornly in every direction, and a pair of battered round glasses rested crookedly on the bridge of his nose.
Though this appearance was even worse than Silly Billy back at the orphanage, Tamara would never mistake this face.
Even if he were reduced to ash, she would recognize him.
The one who had caused her to lose not only her body, but her dignity.
The Boy Who Lived.
Harry Potter.
At this moment, he stood there awkwardly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other as he looked at her.
"Um… the other compartments are full," Harry stammered, gesturing vaguely behind him. "Can I sit here?"
The air seemed to freeze.
Tamara's hands, resting neatly on her knees, tightened abruptly. Her nails bit deep into her palms.
Reason told her she could not strike the savior—not now. But instinct, raw and violent, urged her to confront her enemy.
Kill him.
If she killed him now, the prophecy that had haunted her existence would finally end.
Her gaze locked onto Harry like a serpent preparing to strike, slowly traveling upward until it settled on the fringe of hair covering his forehead.
As he raised a hand to wipe away sweat, the lightning-shaped scar was revealed.
In an instant, memories surged back like a tidal wave.
The flash of green light.
The tearing agony of her soul splitting apart.
The final moments of humiliation and rage.
A suffocating wave of killing intent exploded in Tamara's chest, and the temperature in the compartment seemed to drop several degrees.
If she drank the Basic Magic Potion in her pocket, she could easily chant the incantation and end his life.
"Avada…"
She silently mouthed the most familiar curse she knew. Magic surged at her fingertips, wild and eager.
But something arrived faster than the spell.
[Warning! High-Level Red Alert!]
[Detected that the host has generated intense killing intent toward the Child of Destiny, Harry Potter!]
[This behavior seriously violates Virtue System Core Rule #1: Love and Peace.]
[Initiating Special Intervention Procedure: Level 3 Electric Shock—]
"Bzzzt—!!!"
This time, the punishment was not a mild tingling.
A violent current shot down her spine, as if lightning itself had burrowed beneath her skin.
"Ugh!"
A muffled sound escaped her lips.
The murderous magic gathering at her fingertips shattered instantly.
It felt as though the strength had been sucked out of her bones. The destructive power that moments ago threatened to erupt vanished without a trace, replaced by humiliating weakness.
Her face drained of color before an unnatural flush rapidly climbed up her cheeks and ears.
Her breathing turned ragged and uneven, as though she were suffering from a severe heart condition.
Tamara collapsed back against the seat, one hand clutching her chest as she gasped for air. Her once venomous eyes shimmered with involuntary tears.
"Are—are you okay?!"
Harry's face went pale.
A second ago, the girl had looked like a beautiful porcelain doll—cold, distant, untouchable. The next, she had crumpled against the seat as if on the verge of death.
"Are you feeling unwell?" he asked, panicking. Forgetting all sense of politeness, he hurried inside, abandoning his trolley in the corridor. He hovered awkwardly beside her, wanting to help but not daring to touch her.
"Don't… don't touch me…"
Tamara wanted to scream at this filthy savior to get out.
But what emerged instead was a thin, breathless whisper.
Damn it.
Damn this system.
Rage churned violently inside her chest. But the stronger her fury, the more the current coursed through her body, leaving her limbs limp and weak.
[System Tip: Please regulate your emotions, Host. The stronger the killing intent, the softer your body will become.]
"I need… water…"
She forced the words out, swallowing her pride. If she did not distract herself, she might truly lose consciousness.
"Water? Oh—right! I don't have any…" Harry looked around frantically. Then his expression lit up with sudden realization. "I'll get someone! Hang on!"
He bolted from the compartment.
Watching his retreating back, Tamara finally exhaled as the electric sensation slowly faded.
She slumped deeper into her seat and wiped cold sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief. It felt as though she had just endured torture.
The great Dark Lord—reduced to such a state before her mortal enemy.
Unforgivable.
Moments later, hurried footsteps echoed down the corridor.
"She's in here! It looked really serious!" Harry's anxious voice rang out.
Another figure followed closely behind—red hair unmistakable.
Ron Weasley.
By now, Tamara had forced herself upright. Her complexion was still pale, but at least she no longer appeared to be dying.
She cast them a cool glance.
"I'm fine," she said coldly. "Just… low blood sugar."
"You scared me half to death," Harry admitted, wiping his forehead. "You looked like you were about to faint."
Tamara suppressed the urge to sneer.
Now she had no reasonable excuse to refuse him entry.
"Sit," she said, shifting slightly deeper into the compartment.
Harry hesitated before sitting opposite her.
Only now did he truly study her up close.
She wore an exquisitely tailored dark green robe, subtle embroidery tracing the cuffs and collar. The craftsmanship alone suggested wealth and refinement.
Her face, though pale, was strikingly delicate—almost unreal. But it was her eyes that unsettled him most. Deep, dark, unfathomable. It felt dangerous to look at them for too long.
"Um… I'm Harry. Harry Potter."
He extended his hand awkwardly.
Tamara stared at it.
This hand would one day hold a wand.
This hand would one day kill her.
Her expression did not change.
She touched his hand lightly—barely a tap—and withdrew immediately.
"Tamara Riddle."
The name fell between them like a stone.
The moment she spoke, something stirred inside Ron's pocket.
A plump rat wriggled free and climbed up his leg.
"This is Scabbers," Ron said hurriedly, grateful for the distraction. "He's ancient. Doesn't do much except eat and sleep. Honestly, he's useless."
Tamara's gaze fell upon the rat.
And for the first time since boarding the train, something genuine curved her lips.
"Interesting," she murmured.
How could she fail to recognize her own servant?
Peter Pettigrew.
The rat froze for the briefest moment under her stare.
Tamara leaned back slowly, her earlier weakness forgotten.
Perhaps this journey would not be entirely dull after all.
Meeting is fate, after all.
And fate had just delivered three very useful pieces onto the board.
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