Scabbers seemed to sense something.
The rat abruptly lifted its head and locked eyes with Tamara.
In the very next second, it let out a shrill, terrified squeak, hurled itself headfirst into Ron's pocket, and began trembling violently. No matter how much Ron prodded at him, he refused to come back out.
"What's wrong with him?" Ron patted his pocket in confusion. "He's usually pretty brave."
Tamara calmly pointed to the cage beside her. "Perhaps it's because of my cat."
The foolish black cat named Nagini was lying lazily near the cage, its golden eyes wide and fixed on Ron's pocket. A thin string of drool glistened at the corner of its mouth.
"Really?" Ron glanced at the cat suspiciously. Still, since cats naturally hunted rats, he didn't think much more about it.
A few minutes later, Ron suddenly remembered something. He turned toward Harry, his eyes lighting up with excitement.
"Wait—are you really Harry Potter?"
Harry nodded.
"Then do you really have… that?" Ron pointed at his own forehead. "That scar?"
Harry sighed inwardly, but he brushed his bangs aside anyway.
The lightning-shaped scar was revealed once more.
Tamara immediately turned her head away and stared out the window at the fields rushing past. She forced herself to think about pleasant things—like throwing that dead rat into a cauldron and stewing it thoroughly.
"Wicked," Ron breathed in awe.
Harry offered an awkward smile. He didn't think the scar was wicked at all, but Ron seemed harmless enough, so he smiled along.
"Tamara, don't you want to see this super cool scar on Harry's head?" Ron called out to the girl who was deliberately ignoring them.
"Not cool at all."
Tamara did not turn around.
"It's a mark left by murder, not some medal."
It was also proof of her own failure.
Ron and Harry exchanged confused glances. They didn't understand why Tamara's mood had suddenly darkened.
It seemed she disliked Harry's scar intensely.
Just as the atmosphere grew heavy, the compartment door slid open again.
A smiling witch stood in the doorway, pushing a trolley piled high with sweets and snacks.
"Anything from the trolley, dears?"
"No, thanks. I've got food," Ron said, holding up his slightly squashed sandwich. His mother hadn't given him extra money for treats.
Harry stared at the cart in silence. In truth, he hadn't eaten much all day.
"We'll take the lot," he declared suddenly, placing a handful of Galleons onto the table with surprising boldness.
Moments later, a mountain of sweets covered the seats—Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans, Chocolate Frogs, Licorice Wands, Pumpkin Pasties, Cauldron Cakes—bright wrappers sparkling in the sunlight.
"Want some? You had low blood sugar earlier," Harry said awkwardly, picking up a Chocolate Frog and offering it to Tamara.
Tamara turned her head slowly. Her gaze moved from the chocolate frog to Harry's hopeful expression.
"Thank you, but I'm fine now," she replied coolly, her voice devoid of warmth.
"Besides, I don't like sweets. They rot your teeth and dull your mind."
Ron, whose mouth was stuffed with Cauldron Cakes, nearly choked. "How boring," he muttered through crumbs.
The girl might be pretty, but she was completely unsociable—and undeniably strange.
In truth, if Tamara wanted to, she could easily make anyone adore her.
In her previous life, she had been a popular prefect, admired throughout the school. Her impeccable manners, polished appearance, and natural charisma had fooled nearly everyone.
Everyone except Dumbledore.
But this Tamara had no desire to charm the two boys sitting in front of her.
Nor had she truly accepted the system in her mind—or this body, which she found weak and pathetic.
The constant feeling of restriction irritated her deeply. It was even more suffocating than drifting as a wandering spirit in Albania.
Just as the tension in the compartment reached its peak, the door slid open once more—this time not gently, but rudely.
Three boys stood in the doorway.
The one in the center had a pale, pointed face and wore a smug, aristocratic expression that seemed permanently affixed to his features.
Draco Malfoy.
Behind him stood two bulky boys with thick necks and vacant stares—Crabbe and Goyle.
"So it's true," Malfoy drawled, his gaze locking immediately onto Harry. There was a predatory gleam in his eyes.
"Everyone on the train says Harry Potter's in this compartment."
He looked Harry up and down with open disdain. "So that's you, is it?"
"Yes," Harry replied cautiously.
"Oh, this is Crabbe, and this is Goyle," Malfoy said carelessly. "And I'm Malfoy. Draco Malfoy."
Ron let out a small snort, barely disguising a laugh.
Malfoy spun around sharply, glaring at Ron with contempt.
"Think my name's funny, do you? No need to ask who you are. My father told me all the Weasleys have red hair, freckles, and more children than they can afford."
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