In the Scottish Highlands, September mornings always arrived wrapped in damp, bone-chilling mist.
As Tamara led her followers out through the castle gates, the cold air struck their faces and immediately drew displeased frowns from the pampered young masters and ladies behind her.
"This wretched weather."
Draco Malfoy hunched his shoulders and glared disdainfully at the muddy grass beneath his polished boots. The moment he stepped forward, a splash of mud stained the leather, and his expression darkened further.
Tamara, however, remained perfectly composed.
She wore dark green silk robes that fluttered faintly in the breeze, her long hair tied neatly behind her head with a silver-green ribbon that revealed her slender, pale neck. Her posture was as impeccable as ever—like a queen surveying unworthy terrain.
Nagini had refused to come. The cat despised moisture and had stubbornly burrowed deeper into the blankets that morning. Tamara had not forced her. If she were honest, she sympathized.
If she had the choice, she would much rather raid an apothecary than trudge through wet grass before sunrise. But for the sake of earning an "Outstanding" in every subject, she endured.
Greenhouse One stood behind the castle grounds—a long glass structure shimmering faintly through the mist.
After changing into their work robes, the students pushed open the door and stepped inside. Warm, humid air enveloped them instantly, thick with the scent of damp soil and the sharp tang of fertilizer.
Professor Sprout stood behind a long wooden table piled high with flowerpots. Dirt clung perpetually beneath her fingernails, and her patched hat looked as though it had weathered a small war.
"Good morning, Slytherins!" she greeted cheerfully, clapping soil from her hands.
"Don't linger at the door—come in! Today we'll be studying a particularly interesting and practical plant."
She gestured toward a row of unassuming plants with silver-green leaves.
"Today's topic is—Dictamnus."
The name lingered in the air.
"Can anyone tell me its properties?"
Silence.
Goyle was attempting to excavate something from his nostril. Crabbe stared blankly at the plant as if hoping it would explain itself. Pansy busied herself brushing water droplets from her sleeves.
Draco knew the answer, but at the moment he was far more preoccupied with glaring at a nearby bucket of fertilizer.
Tamara sighed softly.
This was what happened when Hermione Granger was not present. Without someone desperate to answer every question, the classroom atmosphere became painfully awkward.
She raised her hand with quiet elegance.
"Yes, Miss Riddle?" Professor Sprout's eyes brightened.
"Dictamnus is a potent healing herb, Professor," Tamara said evenly, her tone precise, as though reading from a textbook. "Its essence can seal lacerations, prevent scarring, and even delay certain forms of irreversible damage caused by Dark Arts."
"Excellent! Five points to Slytherin!"
The Slytherins straightened instinctively, pride flickering across their faces.
Professor Sprout beamed. "Now, today's task is simple. These seedlings must be repotted into larger containers. Be careful—the roots are fragile. And don't forget to mix in proper fertilizer."
She pointed toward a large bucket of dark brown compost emitting a strong, unmistakable odor.
Draco recoiled.
"That's dragon dung," he said, covering his nose. "Antipodean Opaleye dung. I can smell it."
"A keen observation, Mr. Malfoy," Professor Sprout said approvingly. "Fresh dragon dung compost provides exceptional nourishment for Dictamnus."
She clapped her hands. "Put on your dragon-hide gloves and begin!"
The Slytherins exchanged horrified glances.
Handling dragon dung—even with gloves—felt like a violation of aristocratic dignity.
Pansy looked close to tears. "This will ruin my nails…"
Draco dropped his gloves onto the table. "I refuse. I'll have Goyle do it."
Tamara examined the flowerpot before her. Then she glanced at the bucket.
It was still dung.
Even if it belonged to a dragon.
She withdrew her finely crafted leather gloves from her pocket—black leather embroidered with a silver serpent—and prepared to put them on.
Touching it through gloves was already pushing her limits.
But just as her fingers brushed the leather—
[Ding! Core segment of Herbology course detected: Contact with the Earth.]
[Virtue Task Triggered: Gift of the Earth.]
[Task Requirement: Transplant and fertilize Dictamnus barehanded.]
[Reward: Life +5.]
[Failure Penalty: For three days, your body will emit a faint odor of dragon dung.]
Her hands froze.
The gloves slipped from her grasp and fell onto the soil-stained table.
Damn it.
Her temples throbbed.
That bucket contained filth.
And she—the Dark Lord reborn—was being asked to plunge her bare hands into it.
"Absolutely not," Draco muttered again.
Tamara inhaled slowly.
If she refused, she would stink for three days.
If she complied, she would earn life points—and reinforce her image as an untouchable leader among these fragile pure-blood heirs.
"This is the price," she told herself.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them, the disgust had been carefully replaced with solemn resolve.
She rolled up her sleeves, revealing pale, slender arms.
Then—
Without hesitation—
She plunged her bare hands directly into the bucket of warm compost.
A collective gasp filled the greenhouse.
Draco stared as though witnessing madness. "Tamara! Have you lost your mind?"
She lifted a handful of steaming compost and calmly spread it into the base of the pot.
Outwardly, she was serene.
Inwardly, she was screaming.
"In a wizard's eyes," she said evenly, "materials are neither noble nor base. Only useful—or useless."
She carefully placed the delicate Dictamnus seedling into the soil. The contrast was striking: hands coated in filth, cradling tender green life with reverence.
"Though dragon dung is unpleasant," she continued, "it contains powerful magic. It allows Dictamnus to reach its full medicinal potential."
Her dark eyes swept across the stunned Slytherins.
"If you cannot endure a little dirt… will you flee when faced with blood? With rotting wounds? With the true horrors of Dark Arts?"
Silence.
Draco looked at his spotless gloves, then at her mud-covered hands.
She could be regal and untouchable—
Or ruthless enough to soil herself for power.
This was Slytherin.
"I'm sorry," he said stiffly. "You're right."
He removed his gloves and plunged his hands into the compost.
Pansy hesitated only a moment before following.
Then Goyle. Blaise. One by one.
Soon, the only sound in the greenhouse was the soft rustling of soil.
Professor Sprout watched with misty eyes.
"Oh… how wonderful! In all my years teaching, I've never seen Slytherins show such respect for the earth!"
"Miss Riddle—twenty points to Slytherin! For exemplary spirit!"
Tamara did not smile.
She pressed the soil gently around the plant's base, her movements delicate.
[Task Completed: Gift of the Earth.]
[Reward: Life +5.]
[Current Life: 12.]
[New Spell Unlocked: Episkey.]
Healing magic.
Her expression darkened.
After enduring humiliation, she had unlocked—
A healing spell.
"I am the Dark Lord," she thought coldly. "Not a nurse at St. Mungo's."
The bell rang.
She sprang upright instantly.
"Class dismissed," Professor Sprout called.
Tamara had already begun casting spells at her hands.
"Scourgify. Tergeo. Scourgify. Scourgify."
She scrubbed away every trace of dirt until her skin turned faintly red and raw.
Only then did she stop.
"Tamara, wait!" Draco jogged toward her. "That actually felt… powerful. Like conquering nature."
She stepped back immediately.
"Stay away from me, Malfoy."
Her voice was icy once more—this time genuinely lethal.
"Do not speak to me until you have washed your hands."
She turned sharply and walked away at a pace that bordered on fleeing.
Pansy watched her retreating figure. "What's wrong with her?"
Draco studied his muddy fingers thoughtfully.
"She's probably planning our next step toward greatness."
He straightened.
"She's a born leader."
Ahead of them, Tamara walked faster.
If anyone had followed closely enough, they might have heard her muttering furiously about disinfecting charms, dragon dung, and the indignity of heroism.
But no one did.
And so the legend of Tamara Riddle grew—noble, fearless, devoted to life itself.
Even if she personally intended to bathe for the next three hours.
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