Chapter 20: Dormitory Conflict
Early mornings in the Hogwarts dungeons were nothing like the bright, cheerful starts in the towers.
Through the green curtains and narrow windows, there was only the dim, murky glow of the Black Lake pressing in, and, now and then, the slow drift of some enormous shadow passing by.
Most people would have found it bleak.
For a soul that had long since learned to breathe in darkness, the tight, underwater hush felt like safety.
Tamara Riddle woke to the sound of a quarrel sharp enough to cut through sleep.
She opened her eyes, and the first thing she saw was that stupid cat called Nagini.
It was sprawled on her chest like a lump of warm coal, its oversized furry face pressed close to her nose. Its breath was hot and faintly fishy, the lingering evidence of whatever dried fish it had stolen the night before.
"Get down."
Tamara pushed the heavy black mass away without expression and sat up.
Outside her bed curtains, a shrill voice snapped like a whip.
"Move, Bulstrode! Your back is as wide as a troll's. You're blocking the entire mirror!"
Pansy Parkinson.
A low, crude sound followed, the sort of grunt someone made when shoved.
"I… I was just combing my hair," came Millicent Bulstrode's voice, small with embarrassment.
Millicent was big boned, square jawed, and built like she could shoulder a suit of armour without noticing. Her features were not delicate. If anything, they were rugged, as though someone had carved her from stubborn stone and then decided to leave her that way.
Among Slytherin girls, where polish, pedigree, and poise were the quiet laws of survival, Millicent lived at the bottom of the hierarchy.
"Combing your hair? With a rake?" Pansy let out a sharp laugh. "Don't bother, Millicent. Some things are born into you. Even if you poured an entire bottle of shampoo on your head, it wouldn't change the fact you look like an unevolved…"
Daphne Greengrass and Tracy Davis sat nearby, watching with the lazy interest of people observing a predictable spectacle. Neither joined in. Neither stopped it.
It was very Slytherin.
Strength ruled, weakness paid.
If Tamara had still been the man she used to be, he might have ignored it. Might even have found Pansy's cruelty sensible. Weak pieces were meant to be stepped on.
But Tamara Riddle, as she was now, had a different arrangement in mind.
She drew back the green velvet curtains and stepped onto the carpet barefoot.
The argument died instantly.
Several heads turned at once, eyes tracking her as she emerged.
Tamara wore a black silk nightgown, her long hair loose over her shoulders. Sleep still softened the edges of her face, a trace of laziness at the corner of her eyes, but the air around her changed anyway. It was not beauty alone. It was presence, the effortless gravity of someone accustomed to being obeyed.
"Good morning, everyone," she said, her voice slightly rough from sleep, yet still smooth, still composed.
She walked towards the dressing table. Pansy, without realising she was doing it, stepped back and surrendered the prized spot she had been guarding like territory.
"G good morning, Tamara," Pansy said quickly, adjusting her nightgown as though it could hide her guilt.
Tamara did not glance at her reflection.
Instead, she turned, and her gaze settled on Millicent in the corner.
The taller girl looked like a wounded bear, shoulders hunched, head lowered, one hand gripping a comb with broken teeth. Her face was flushed. Her eyes shone with tears she was trying desperately not to let fall.
"Lift your head, Millicent," Tamara said softly.
Millicent flinched, then raised her head in small, reluctant increments. Her square face held a deep, practiced shame, as though she expected mockery from every direction.
Her hair was tangled like nettles. Her front teeth protruded slightly, giving her an awkward, uncertain look.
"Did Pansy's words upset you?" Tamara asked.
Millicent bit her lip and nodded, not trusting her voice.
Tamara turned her head to Pansy.
Pansy straightened, defensive instinct flashing across her face. "She was taking too long, and she really is…"
"That is not wise, Pansy."
Tamara's interruption was calm, almost conversational, as if she were commenting on the weather rather than cutting someone down.
She stepped closer to Pansy and reached out, straightening Pansy's collar with a gentle, almost intimate touch.
Pansy froze, then flushed, flattered despite herself.
"As a young lady of the Parkinson family, your sense of style is not in question," Tamara said, voice still soft.
"However, raising yourself by crushing someone else is cheap."
Pansy blinked, thrown off balance by the word. Cheap. Not cruel. Not mean. Cheap. As though it were tacky, beneath proper standards.
Tamara's eyes stayed steady.
"If the people beside you look dreadful, it does not make you look better. It lowers the whole room. Outsiders will not think, Pansy Parkinson is refined. They will think, Slytherin has nothing worth looking at."
Pansy stared, stunned.
She had expected scolding. Or indifference.
Instead, she had been offered strategy.
Tamara turned back towards Millicent.
"We want everyone in this dormitory to represent Slytherin properly when they walk out," she said.
"Sit down."
She pointed to the chair before the mirror.
Millicent obeyed at once, stiff as if sitting for an execution.
Tamara picked up the damaged comb from the table and weighed it lightly in her hand.
"Watch, Pansy," Tamara said, and tapped her wand against the comb. "In this world, there are no useless chess pieces. Only players who do not know where to place them."
A faint flash of light.
Millicent's hair smoothed at once, strands settling neatly, glossy and orderly, tamed as if they had never been wild.
"Scourgify."
The spell struck Millicent's teeth. The yellowish stains vanished instantly, leaving them clean, pale, and bright.
Tamara lowered her wand and set both hands on Millicent's shoulders, looking at her through the mirror.
Millicent's features had not changed. She was still broad, still square, still built for force rather than delicacy.
But the clumsy, neglected look was gone. In its place was something sturdier, more striking.
There was a boldness to her now, the impression of a girl who could stand in front of danger without shrinking.
"Look," Tamara said, indicating the mirror. "Millicent has a large frame. That means she will never look fragile."
Her gaze met Pansy's through the glass.
"That also means she has strength and presence the rest of us do not. If anyone dares to bully a Slytherin girl, Millicent will be our strongest shield."
Her voice stayed gentle, but the meaning landed like a verdict.
"Not the target of your ridicule."
Millicent stared at her reflection as if she had been shown someone else entirely. Her throat bobbed. A breath hitched.
Then the tears finally spilled, not quiet and dignified, but unstoppable.
She twisted around in her chair and looked up at Tamara with an expression that bordered on worship.
"Thank you," she whispered, voice trembling. "Thank you, Tamara."
[ Ding! Detected that the host has not only resolved dormitory bullying, but also performed an image makeover and psychological counselling. ]
[ This is a textbook example of mutual aid! ]
[ Reward: Charisma +2. ]
[ Obtained Passive Skill: Bestie's Trust (Basic). ]
[ Skill Description: Within female groups, your right to speak and affinity increase by 20%. ]
Tamara sneered inwardly.
Bestie.
No. This was carrot and stick, properly applied.
She had gained a loyal enforcer and, in the same motion, warned and reshaped the most influential girl in the room into something useful.
Tamara turned back to Pansy with a faint smile.
"Do you understand, Pansy?"
Pansy looked at Millicent, transformed. Then at Tamara, composed, effortless, untouchably sure of herself.
The small jealousy that had lived behind Pansy's eyes did not vanish.
It changed.
It melted into admiration, the kind that was almost devotion.
This was the difference between them.
Pansy mocked ugliness.
Tamara turned it into strength.
A true big sister.
"I understand," Pansy said, lowering her head. For the first time, her voice carried real respect. "You're right. I… I shouldn't have said that."
She glanced at Millicent, awkward. "Bulstrode… about earlier… sorry."
Millicent shook her head quickly, overwhelmed by the attention as much as the apology. "I it's okay."
"Good," Tamara said, clapping her hands once, clean and decisive, breaking the emotional softness before it could linger.
"Now that the problem is solved, hurry up and get ready. Time waits for no one."
Half an hour later, when the five first year Slytherin girls walked into the Great Hall, heads turned in unison.
At the centre was Tamara Riddle.
She looked as perfect as ever. Dark green silk robes set off her pale skin, and her hair fell in a smooth black curtain. Nagini lay draped over her shoulder like a living stole, tail flicking lazily.
On Tamara's left, Pansy Parkinson walked with her chin lifted, pride restored, carrying Tamara's textbooks as though it were an honour.
On Tamara's right, Millicent Bulstrode moved with quiet vigilance, scanning the room like a bodyguard, posture rigid with purpose, as if she might punch anyone who stared at Tamara too long.
Daphne and Tracy followed behind, enjoying the attention as if it were sunlight.
"Merlin's pants," Ron Weasley muttered at the Gryffindor table, and the bread in his hand slipped straight into his milk.
"Wasn't Tamara alone yesterday? How does it look like… like she recruited them all overnight?"
Harry watched the girl at the centre of that orbiting group.
He took a bite of toast, but his eyes stayed on her, the memory of yesterday's train carriage returning with uncomfortable clarity.
"Because she's amazing," he said quietly.
Then, softer, almost to himself, "And it feels like she was meant to be there."
Tamara took her seat at the Slytherin table, her group settling around her as naturally as if it had always been that way.
Draco Malfoy immediately leaned over, with Crabbe and Goyle squeezing in behind him.
"Good morning, Tamara!" Draco's eyes flicked to Millicent, surprised. "Bulstrode looks… much more presentable today."
"Naturally," Tamara said, taking a sip of pumpkin juice that Pansy handed her at once.
"Slytherin pursues perfection."
At that moment, countless owls poured into the Great Hall, wings beating, feathers scattering, breakfast thrown into its usual chaos.
A grey owl dropped a copy of The Daily Prophet onto the table.
Tamara did not subscribe. This would be Malfoy's.
She glanced at the front page, and the headline snagged her attention.
Gringotts Break In Latest: Goblins Claim Vault Was Empty.
Her fingers paused on her cup for the briefest moment.
Quirrell.
Which meant the thing behind Quirrell.
The noseless main soul.
So the path of history, despite small deviations, still bent in the same direction.
Voldemort was still hunting the Philosopher's Stone.
"Someone tried to steal something from Gringotts?" Draco scoffed, reading over the paper. "That's mad. It's the safest place in the world, except for Hogwarts."
"Safest?" Tamara gave a light chuckle, but her eyes did not smile.
"There is no such thing as absolute safety, Draco."
She set her cup down and looked past the crowds to the staff table, to the man in a large purple turban.
Professor Quirrell sat there, smiling thinly, as if nothing in the world had ever shaken him.
"As long as desire is strong enough," Tamara said softly, "there is no door that cannot be opened."
And, silently, in the privacy of her own mind, she added the sharper truth.
How could that fool have stolen it, anyway?
The Stone had already been moved.
Dumbledore had relocated it to the fourth floor corridor.
Tamara cut into her fried egg. The yolk spilled out, bright and golden.
For a moment, it looked like legend made liquid, like the promise of immortality bleeding across porcelain.
.....
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