The next morning, Hogwarts awoke beneath a blanket of white.
Snow had fallen silently through the night, frosting the castle towers and cloisters in silver. The surface of the Black Lake had frozen solid, reflecting the pale winter sun like a sheet of polished glass. In the clearing outside the castle, Hagrid was busy setting up several enormous fir trees for the coming holidays, humming cheerfully as he worked.
It should have been a picture-perfect winter scene straight out of a fairy tale.
But for Tamara Riddle, it meant nothing but biting cold and unnecessary noise.
Having died more than once, she had developed an instinctive loathing for the cold. It reminded her of lifelessness. Of stillness. Of graves.
Wrapped tightly in the dragon-hide cloak Draco had given her and clutching several books she had just borrowed from the library, Tamara crossed the courtyard briskly, heading toward the relative warmth of the dungeons.
"Hey! Watch out!"
A burst of giggling erupted from somewhere around the corner.
Tamara frowned but did not slow her pace. She had neither the time nor the patience for childish nonsense. All she wanted was to escape the wind that cut through her like a blade.
She rounded the corner of a cloister—
"Whoosh—SPLAT!"
A massive, magically enhanced snowball shot through the air.
Originally, it had been aimed at the towering purple turban of Professor Quirrell, who was passing by at that exact moment. Unfortunately, Quirrell stumbled at the worst possible time, causing the snowball to veer wildly off course in a bizarre arc.
It struck Tamara squarely in the back of the head.
The impact nearly knocked her off her feet. Her books flew from her arms, scattering across the snowy ground.
Ice-cold snow slid down her collar and melted against her warm skin.
The sensation was bone-chilling.
Something inside her snapped.
Her meticulously arranged hair was ruined instantly, several wet strands clinging to her face in a thoroughly wretched display.
"..."
The air seemed to freeze.
Not because of winter.
But because of her.
Nearby, the culprits stood frozen as well—Fred and George Weasley, wands still raised, their triumphant grins stiffening into expressions of dawning horror.
"Oh, Merlin's pants… we're in trouble," Fred muttered, swallowing hard.
"George, I think we've really messed up," George whispered, his face paling. "We accidentally hit Miss Riddle. Mum will kill us if she finds out."
Ever since they had parted at King's Cross, Mrs. Weasley occasionally asked in her letters how "that poor girl with the tragic background" was doing.
Tamara slowly turned around.
She did not wipe the snow from her face.
She did not retrieve her books.
She simply stared at them.
Her mind was already chanting spells.
Even without a wand, she was more than capable of turning these two red-headed disasters into elegant ice sculptures that would decorate the courtyard for eternity.
"You two…"
Her fingers twitched.
[Ding! Warning! Strong retaliatory murderous intent detected.]
That infuriating mechanical voice rang in her mind at the worst possible moment.
[Triggering Sudden Quest: The Magnanimity of Forgiveness.]
[Quest Description: Playful antics between youths symbolize vitality! As a broad-minded top student, how can you become angry over such a minor accident?]
[Quest Requirements: You are prohibited from using any hexes or verbal abuse. Please forgive them with a smile and demonstrate your sense of humor.]
[Failure Penalty: For the next 24 hours, whenever you become angry, your voice will automatically change into a coquettish, spoiled tone.]
Tamara felt her blood pressure skyrocket.
Was this system actively trying to kill her?
"Forgive them?" she roared internally. "They shoved snow down my neck!"
[Please smile, host. Love and peace.]
Her jaw clenched.
The desire to kill collided violently with the system's absurd demand. After several agonizing seconds, the conflict resolved into a twisted compromise.
She closed her eyes.
When she opened them again, the murderous intent in her gaze had been forcibly suppressed.
In its place bloomed an extraordinarily gentle smile.
The kind that radiated warmth.
And absolute menace.
"R-Riddle… we didn't mean it!" Fred stammered.
Looking at her smile, he would have vastly preferred being hexed on the spot.
"We were aiming for Quirrell!" George added hastily.
Tamara walked toward them slowly.
Her smile grew brighter with every step.
"It's alright."
Her voice was soft—sweet, even.
To the twins, it sounded like the whisper of the Grim Reaper.
"It was just a joke, wasn't it?"
She reached them and brushed a few stray snowflakes from Fred's shoulder with eerie gentleness.
"How could I possibly be angry? A snowball fight… what a delightful activity."
"Really?" Fred asked cautiously. "You're not mad?"
"Of course not."
Tamara tilted her head slightly. A dangerous glint flickered in her dark eyes.
"Let's have a snowball fight, shall we?"
The twins blinked.
Before they could process her words—
Tamara lifted her hands gracefully, palms upward.
The thick snow blanketing the courtyard trembled.
Then it rose.
Two swirling columns of snow spiraled upward like miniature tornadoes, pure white and deceptively beautiful. In an instant, they coiled around Fred and George's ankles.
"Hey! What's this—?"
"Whoa—!"
The snow tornadoes tightened and shot upward like twin serpents, hoisting the twins upside down into the air.
"Don't rush," Tamara said cheerfully. "I'm only playing a little joke as well."
She hooked one elegant finger.
"If we're going to play, let's make it interesting."
With that motion, the snow columns vanished.
Fred and George dropped headfirst.
Fortunately, the snow on the ground was thick and soft. No blood was spilled.
Instead, most of their bodies—from head to waist—were perfectly planted into the snowbank.
Only four legs remained sticking out of the ground, kicking helplessly.
From a distance, they resembled two very energetic, upside-down shrubs.
Tamara observed the spectacle.
The frustration that had been simmering inside her finally dissipated.
[Warning! Suspected violent behavior detected!]
The system's alert flashed red.
"Violent?" Tamara scoffed internally. "I didn't even hide bricks in the snow."
"And if a snowball fight doesn't contain a bit of 'fight,' how can it be called a snowball fight?"
She examined the four flailing legs critically.
"And honestly… aren't they quite humorous like this?"
[System is determining…]
A brief pause.
[Determination Result: According to certain records, burying participants in snowbanks does fall within the scope of a snowball fight.]
[Barely passed.]
Tamara clapped the snow from her hands, satisfied.
With a casual wave of her wand, her scattered books flew neatly back into her arms.
She gave a graceful curtsy toward the two pairs of kicking legs.
"Enjoy yourselves, Messrs. Weasley."
Then she turned and walked away, her cloak swaying elegantly behind her.
It was not until she had disappeared down the corridor that two passing Hufflepuff students noticed the unusual "plant life" in the courtyard.
Startled, they hurried over and pulled the nearly suffocated twins out of the snow.
"Cough—cough! Ptooey!" Fred spat out a mouthful of snow, gasping for air.
George wiped ice shards from his face and squinted toward the direction Tamara had gone.
There was no fear in his expression.
Only admiration.
"She's brilliant, Fred."
"Absolutely brilliant," Fred agreed, grinning despite his chattering teeth. "Planting people headfirst in the snow? That's inspired."
George's eyes sparkled.
"We have to try it."
"Let's find Ron."
The two exchanged identical mischievous looks.
Moments later, they were already plotting their next experiment.
Meanwhile, Tamara walked through the cold underground corridor toward the Slytherin common room.
[Ding! Quest Completed: The Magnanimity of Forgiveness.]
[Reward: Love +1. Weasley Twins' Favorability Unlocked.]
Her lips twitched.
"…Is this system unwell?"
The corridor echoed only with the soft sound of her footsteps.
Outside, snow continued to fall gently over Hogwarts.
And somewhere in the courtyard, two newly inspired pranksters were already preparing to "improve" the art of the snowball fight.
Winter had only just begun.
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