Chapter 7: Reasonable Rights Protection
As Lord Voldemort, the one thing she had never lacked was insight.
If there was a single truth she trusted more than blood, prophecy, or sentiment, it was this. Most people did not understand what they were holding. They saw a cracked surface and assumed it was worthless. They saw rust and decided it was dead.
Tamara knew better.
Dark objects did not announce themselves with trumpets. The truly dangerous ones often looked broken first.
She walked through Diagon Alley with measured steps, her gaze sliding past Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions, past Flourish and Blotts, past the neat storefronts built for people with neat lives. Her eyes did not linger on the polished glass or the cheerful signs.
They landed instead on a shop shoved into a corner, almost hiding from the street. Its sign was crooked, its letters uneven.
Secondhand Robes and Junk Shop.
Several large baskets sat at the entrance, overflowing with rubbish. Broken cauldrons. Rusted scales. Mouldy books. Unidentifiable scraps of metal.
[It looks like it is prepared for poor people like the host.]
Tamara's lips curled into a cold smile.
"It is a place prepared for fools," she thought, "but the wise collect gold there."
She stepped inside.
The light was dim, as if the shop itself disliked being seen. The air tasted of damp parchment and old dust, and underneath that was the sour reek of dead rats. An elderly wizard sat behind the counter, thick spectacles sliding down his nose, hair as chaotic as a bird's nest. He was dozing, chin resting on his chest.
Tamara did not bother waking him.
She went straight for the basket labelled Clearance Items, Average Price One Sickle.
She began to rummage.
A brass scale missing a foot. Rubbish.
A copy of Practical Potion Master with the most vital page torn out. Rubbish.
A hairpin that looked suspiciously like a creature bone. Fake. It was a chicken bone, poorly cleaned.
Then her fingers brushed something cold.
Greasy.
Heavy for its size.
She drew it out without changing her expression.
A black metal sphere, about the size of her fist, its surface pitted and scarred like burnt cinders. Someone had tossed it beneath a pile of rusted spoons. At first glance it looked like nothing at all.
At the moment her skin touched it, Tamara felt it.
A faint magical pulse. Extremely specific. Subtle enough that anyone less attuned to Dark magic would have missed it entirely.
Goblin silver?
No.
More than that.
Keeping her face carefully bored, she pressed her thumb into a shallow depression on the sphere.
A thin green glimmer flashed inside the cracks.
Tamara's heart leapt, but her expression remained disdainful, almost offended to be holding it.
This was not charcoal. It was the outer shell of an Anti Wizard Shock Grenade, made during the goblin rebellions of the seventeenth century. The powder inside had long since gone dead, but the casing had been forged from a rare magic absorbing metal that could swallow and neutralise most defensive spells.
To someone who understood what it was, this was not scrap.
To someone like Borgin of Knockturn Alley, or a pure blood collector with more pride than sense, it was worth at least a hundred Galleons.
Here, it was treated like rubbish.
Tamara casually picked up a tatty copy of Hogwarts, A History, and a secondhand robe that looked vaguely clean. Then she carried all three to the counter.
"Shopkeeper," she said, as politely as if she had never wished to burn a city to ash. "I would like to pay."
The old wizard jolted awake, blinking blearily. He pushed his spectacles up and squinted at what she held.
"Oh. A robe, a book, and a… what is that? An iron lump." He yawned wide enough to show every tooth.
"Three Sickles for the robe, one Sickle for the book, and I will charge you five Knuts for that iron lump. Four Sickles and five Knuts total."
Tamara paid without hesitation.
Now it was hers.
The obvious route was to take it to Knockturn Alley and sell it properly.
But she was weak. She looked weak. In Knockturn Alley, weakness was a scent that brought teeth out of the shadows. She would be cheated, bullied, or worse, and she would have no strength to enforce a fair price.
So she chose a different method.
Tamara did not leave. She stayed at the counter, rolling the sphere lightly in her palm.
"Shopkeeper," she said, her voice still sweet, though something colder threaded through it, "do you know what this is?"
The old wizard waved a hand impatiently.
"What? Some discarded cauldron base? An iron ball a prankster broke? Little girl, you have bought it. Go."
"No," Tamara said softly. "This is not an iron ball."
She drew out her handkerchief and wiped a smear of grime away with slow care, as if cleaning a jewel. Underneath, faint runes surfaced, thin and worn but still legible to anyone who knew how to look.
"This is contraband from the goblin rebellions," Tamara continued. "Designated X seventy nine. A magic absorbing shock grenade."
The old wizard froze.
Tamara lifted her gaze, her large eyes calm and shining, and her smile was so innocent it almost hurt to see.
"According to Article Seventy Two of the Ministry of Magic Dangerous Goods Control Act, private possession or trade of contraband goblin weapons carries a fine of at least five hundred Galleons," she said, as if reciting a recipe. "Possibly a few months in Azkaban."
The old wizard's face drained of colour.
Tamara tilted her head slightly.
"You sold it to an underage witch," she added gently. "If I walk out, turn left, and hand it to that Auror on patrol…"
The old wizard looked as if he might faint.
How was this child more fluent in legal statutes than half the Ministry?
"What… what do you want?" he stammered, sweat beading on his forehead. "I can refund you. I will not sell it. I did not know."
"A refund?" Tamara sighed, almost kindly. "The transaction is complete, sir. This item is now my legal property."
She clasped her hands in front of her like a model pupil.
"But I am a good child. I would hate to see you go to prison over a mistake."
[System Notification: Detected host performing… reasonable rights protection based on legal knowledge.]
[System Judgment: Methods are somewhat shady, but it qualifies as popularising legal knowledge and helping others correct mistakes, without causing bloody conflict.]
[Barely passed.]
Tamara felt the system's refusal to electrocute her like a small blessing from a very petty god. The smile on her lips deepened.
"So," she said brightly, "I think this is far too dangerous for me to keep. I would like to sell it back to you."
She set the sphere on the counter with a soft thud.
"As a professional shop, you must be willing to pay a proper price to buy back such a rare piece of goblin craftsmanship, yes?"
The old wizard stared at her as if she were a Dementor wearing a child's face.
"H how much?" he croaked.
"I am not greedy," Tamara said, holding up five fingers. "Fifty Galleons. Half the market price. You can still make a profit selling it to someone who knows what it is, and I will be spared the trouble of speaking to an Auror. Everyone benefits."
"Fifty Galleons?" the old wizard shrieked. "You are mad!"
Tamara turned slightly, as if preparing to leave.
"Or I could go speak to the Auror," she suggested, still smiling.
"Do not," the old wizard snapped, panic cracking through his rage. "Do not go."
He gritted his teeth, then yanked open the cash box as if it had personally betrayed him. With shaking hands he began to count.
"Take it. Take it and get out. Do not ever come back."
Clink. Clink.
Heavy gold coins dropped into Tamara's purse.
Fifty Galleons, on top of the twenty from Hogwarts.
It would do, for now.
Tamara pushed the so called contraband back across the counter and performed a neat curtsy.
"A pleasure doing business with you, sir," she said sweetly. "You see, knowledge is wealth."
Then she stepped back into the sunlight, light on her feet, as if she had not just drained a man's profit with a smile.
[Ding! Since you accurately identified an ancient magical item and successfully popularised legal knowledge.]
[Reward: Wisdom plus ten.]
[Current Wisdom: ten.]
[Congratulations! Wisdom has reached ten points. First year spell unlocked: Levitation Charm.]
Ten points in one go.
Tamara blinked, genuinely surprised. She had assumed these virtues would be earned in miserable drips, like charity forced into her palm.
As she walked, she felt the seal inside her loosen by a fraction, like a knot reluctantly giving way. Somewhere in her mind, an icon brightened.
"Levitation Charm…"
She stretched out a hand and tapped lightly towards a pebble by the roadside, willing the spell into being with what little magic she could reach.
The pebble trembled.
Then it lifted, rising only a few centimetres, wobbling like a newborn bird trying its wings.
It was pathetic.
It was magnificent.
It meant that she, Lord Voldemort, had taken her first real step back into power.
"Very good," Tamara murmured.
She closed her fist, feeling the pleasant weight of coins and the sharper thrill of magic in the same moment.
Her gaze slid towards Madam Malkin's again, not far ahead.
"Now that I have money, these rags can be thrown away," she thought, tugging at the old dress with disgust. "Improper clothing is detrimental to my status as the Dark Lord."