Chapter 12: A Chance Encounter
Escaping death might be a rare miracle for most people, but for Lord Voldemort, it was an absolute humiliation.
Tamara allowed herself one glance at the platform entrance, then forced her eyes away. She was not yet capable of laying a hand on the so called saviour, no matter how fiercely her instincts screamed for it.
The rear carriages of the Hogwarts Express were quieter. Avoiding the buzzing swarm of first years, Tamara chose an empty compartment, slid the door open, and stepped inside.
She wrestled her heavy leather trunk under the seat with stubborn, unglamorous effort. Nagini, who technically should have been checked in, padded after her anyway, tail flicking as though the train belonged to him.
Outside, partings unfolded in a parade of tears and waving hands. Tamara watched it with cold indifference. It all looked so meaningless.
Then the compartment door rattled and slid open.
"Sorry, I was wondering…"
A slightly breathless voice reached her.
Tamara turned with immediate displeasure. Her brow tightened, and a flicker of irritation flashed through her dark eyes at the sheer audacity of being disturbed.
A scrawny boy stood in the doorway.
He wore old clothes that hung off him and did not fit at all, turning him into something like a cloth sack draped over a coat rack. His messy black hair stuck up in stubborn tufts. A pair of battered round framed glasses sat crookedly on his nose.
This look was even worse than Silly Billy back at the orphanage.
And yet Tamara would never mistake that face.
Even if he were reduced to ash, she would know him.
The culprit who, ten years ago, had cost her not only a body, but her dignity.
Harry Potter.
The Boy Who Lived.
At that very moment, he stood there, awkward and hesitant, looking straight at her.
"Um… the other compartments are all full," Harry said, stammering slightly as he pointed back down the corridor. "Can I sit here?"
The air seemed to freeze.
Tamara's hands, resting on her knees, clenched hard enough that her nails bit into her palms. Reason told her she could not strike the saviour now, not with her strength sealed and the system watching. But instinct did not care about reason. The instinct to destroy an enemy made her breathing quicken all on its own.
Kill him.
If she killed him, the prophecy that had hung over her like a chain would finally end.
Her stare locked onto Harry, sharp and unblinking, like a snake coiled to strike. It travelled upward and settled on the messy fringe on his forehead.
Harry lifted a hand to wipe away sweat.
The lightning shaped scar was exposed.
And in that instant, memories surged up like floodwater.
Green light.
A soul tearing pain.
The final moments of resentment and humiliation, the feeling of being ripped apart and thrown into nothingness.
Killing intent boiled up inside Tamara's chest. The temperature in the compartment seemed to drop, subtle but real, as though even the air recoiled.
If she drank that Basic Magic Potion, she could cast that curse with ease and take the life right in front of her.
"Avada…"
She mouthed the beginning inside her mind, the most familiar curse in existence. Magic surged at her fingertips, violent and eager.
Then, faster than the curse, the system crashed into her skull with obscene cheerfulness.
[Warning! High level Red Alert!]
[Detected that the host has generated intense killing intent toward the Child of Destiny, Harry Potter!]
[This behaviour seriously violates the virtue system Core Rule 1: Love and Peace.]
[Initiating Special Intervention Procedure: Level 3 Electric Shock]
"Bzzzt!"
This was not a mild sting.
A brutal shock ripped through her spine like a live wire.
"Ugh!"
Tamara let out a short, strangled sound. The killing intent evaporated instantly, as though someone had smashed it with a hammer. The power that had been gathering at her fingertips scattered into nothing.
It felt as if the bones had been pulled out of her body. Strength vanished. Pride vanished. Even her breath turned thin and uneven.
Her face blanched, then an ugly, unnatural flush crawled up her cheeks and into the tips of her ears. Her breathing became quick and ragged, like someone fighting off a sudden, vicious illness.
Tamara collapsed back against the seat, clutching her chest as she fought to draw air. Her eyes, a moment ago murderous, now shimmered with involuntary tears.
"Are… are you okay?!"
Harry was horrified.
A second ago, he had thought the girl looked like a porcelain doll, beautiful and distant. The next, she was clutching her chest like she might stop breathing at any moment.
"Are you feeling unwell somewhere?" Harry blurted, panic wiping away his manners. He hurried inside, shoved his trolley aside, and hovered helplessly, not daring to touch her but clearly wanting to do something.
"Don't… don't touch me…"
Tamara wanted to snap at him to get lost.
What came out was a thin, weak whisper.
Damn it.
Damn this system.
Rage threatened to choke her, but the more furious she became, the heavier her body went, as if the current were turning her to water.
[System Tip: Please control your emotions, host. The stronger the killing intent, the softer your body will become.]
Tamara forced herself to swallow the fury. She needed a distraction, something to break the spiral before the system decided to finish the job properly.
"I need… water…"
"Water? Oh, right, but I don't have any," Harry said, pacing once, twice. Then he snapped his fingers as if remembering something obvious. "I'll go get someone. Hang in there!"
He rushed out.
Watching his panicked back vanish down the corridor, Tamara finally managed to draw a deeper breath. The suffocating pressure eased as the system's punishment gradually weakened.
She slumped, wiping cold sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief, feeling as though she had just survived a session of torture.
The great Dark Lord, reduced to this state in front of her mortal enemy.
A moment later, disorganised footsteps thundered in the corridor.
"She's right inside! It looks like she's having some kind of attack!" Harry's voice called.
Ron Weasley followed close behind, red hair bobbing as he ran.
By then, Tamara had forced herself upright. Her face was still pale, but at least she no longer looked moments from death.
She swept a cold glance over the two boys.
"I'm fine," she said, pitching her voice as icy as she could manage in an attempt to reclaim some dignity. "Just a bit of low blood sugar."
"You scared me to death," Harry said, letting out a long breath and wiping his forehead. "You looked really serious just now."
Tamara had no excuse left to refuse him the seat. She leaned back further into the compartment, making space with stiff reluctance.
"Sit down."
Only then did Harry properly look at her up close.
She wore an exquisitely made dark green robe, with subtle embroidery at the cuffs and collar that looked expensive at a glance. Her pale face looked fragile, almost sickly, but her features were so delicate they seemed unreal. Most unsettling were her eyes, deep black and unreadable, the sort that made you instinctively look away.
"Um… I'm Harry Potter."
He extended his hand, awkwardly trying to ease the tension.
Tamara stared at the offered hand.
That hand, in a few years, would hold a wand and kill her.
She tapped his fingers once, perfunctory as a formality, and answered quickly.
"Tamara Riddle."
The moment her name landed, something shifted in Ron's pocket.
A fat rat crawled out, sniffed the air, and nosed around Ron's leg as if it owned him.
"This is Scabbers," Ron said quickly. "He's really old. Doesn't do anything but sleep and eat. He's useless."
Tamara's gaze dropped to the rat.
"Interesting."
For the first time, a genuine smile curved Tamara's lips.
How could she fail to recognise her own servant?
Peter Pettigrew.
.....
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