Chapter 21: Devotion to Life
In the Scottish Highlands in September, mornings always arrived wrapped in damp, cold mist.
As Tamara led her little entourage out through the castle gates, the wet air slapped against their faces. One by one, the pampered young masters and ladies frowned as if the weather itself had personally offended their bloodlines.
"This wretched weather," Draco Malfoy muttered, hunching his shoulders. He stared with open disdain at the muddy grass beneath his feet. The moment his polished boots touched it, a smear of mud splashed up.
Tamara, of course, looked untouched by the morning. Her dark green silk robes fluttered faintly in the breeze, her long hair tied back with a silver green ribbon that left her pale neck exposed, neat as a portrait in a corridor.
Nagini had not come. The cat loathed moisture, refusing to leave the blankets, and Tamara had not wasted energy forcing a creature with better instincts than most humans.
If she had been given a choice, she would rather have robbed an apothecary than spend her morning playing in mud. Unfortunately, for that ridiculous goal of earning an Outstanding in every subject, she had to endure it.
Greenhouse One sat behind the castle, a long glass structure on the grounds. After changing into work clothes, the group pushed open the door and stepped into a wave of warm, humid air, thick with the scent of earth and the unmistakable stink of fertiliser.
Professor Sprout, wearing a patched hat and the permanent look of a witch who had dirt under her fingernails by choice, stood behind a long table crowded with flowerpots.
"Good morning, Slytherin students!" she called, clapping soil from her hands with a bright, cheerful smile.
"Don't hover at the door, come in. Today we're going to learn about a very interesting and practical plant."
She gestured towards a row of ordinary looking seedlings with silver green leaves.
"Today's topic is Dittany. Who can tell me what Dittany is used for?"
Silence.
Goyle was trying to pick something out of his nostril. Crabbe stared blankly at the plants. Pansy was busy wiping water droplets off her sleeves as though the damp might ruin her by association.
Draco did know the answer, but he was too busy glaring at the fertiliser bucket on the table as if it were a personal insult.
Tamara sighed quietly.
This was the downside of Hermione Granger not being present. Without someone desperate to answer first, the room's collective intelligence fell asleep.
She raised her hand with controlled elegance.
"Miss Riddle?" Professor Sprout's eyes brightened at once.
"Dittany is a powerful healing herb, Professor," Tamara said. Her voice was steady, precise, as though she were reciting from a book. "Its essence can treat lacerations, prevent scarring, and it can even slow certain irreversible damage caused by Dark magic."
"Perfect! Five points to Slytherin!"
A ripple ran through the Slytherin students. Several sat up straighter, and a few looks turned towards Tamara with renewed admiration.
"Now, today's task is simple," Professor Sprout continued, pointing towards a large bucket of dark brown compost nearby. It gave off a strong, heavy smell.
"These seedlings need repotting. You'll transplant them into larger pots and mix in enough fertiliser. Be careful, the roots of Dittany are very delicate, and they like, er, nutrient rich environments."
"That's dragon dung," Draco said, recoiling with horror and pinching his nose. "That's Antipodean Opaleye dung. I can smell it!"
"A very keen nose, Mr Malfoy," Professor Sprout said, nodding approvingly. "Fresh dragon dung compost is the best nourishment for Dittany."
She waved a hand briskly.
"Now, put on your dragon hide gloves and get to work."
The Slytherin students exchanged looks of shared misery.
Asking noble pure bloods to handle dragon dung was, in their eyes, not education. It was a war crime.
Even Pansy, usually obedient around Tamara, stared at the bucket with a face like she had been sentenced to ruin. She hovered, hands tense, clearly unwilling to move.
Tamara glanced at the flowerpot in front of her, then at the slightly steaming bucket of compost beside it.
She reached into her pocket and pulled out exquisite leather gloves embroidered with a silver snake. She began to slide them on.
Touching dung through gloves was revolting, but it was as far as she was willing to compromise.
However, the moment her fingertips brushed the edge of the glove, the system chimed.
[ Ding! Core segment of Herbology course detected: Contact with the Earth. ]
[ Virtue Task Triggered: Gift of the Earth. ]
[ Task Description: True life force should not be isolated by cold leather. As a witch determined to protect life, please use your hands to feel the temperature of the soil and the pulse of life. ]
[ Task Requirement: Complete the transplanting and fertilising of Dittany barehanded. ]
[ Task Reward: life +5. ]
[ Failure Penalty: For the next three days, no matter how many times you bathe, your body will emit a faint smell of dragon dung. ]
Tamara froze.
The gloves slipped from her fingers and landed on the dirt covered table.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Damn it.
Her temples throbbed.
She stared at the bucket of dragon dung.
It was dung.
Even if it came from a dragon, it was still dung.
And now the system was demanding that she, who had once held the Elder Wand, plunge her bare hands into it.
"Not doing it," Draco announced, throwing his gloves down. "This is disgusting. I'll have Goyle do it for me."
"I can't either," Pansy said weakly, near tears. "It'll ruin my nails."
Complaints rose around the greenhouse like gnats.
Tamara drew a slow breath.
If she refused, she would stink for three days. No spell would save her from that humiliation.
If she obeyed, she gained five life points, and more importantly, she could forge another moment of worship in front of these fragile little heirs.
"This is the price," she murmured.
She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again, the disgust had been locked away behind something colder and far more dangerous.
A look of sacred sacrifice.
Tamara rolled up the sleeves of her silk robes, exposing pale arms, slender and smooth.
Then she reached out her well cared for hands, nails trimmed and perfect, and without hesitation plunged them into the warm compost.
A collective gasp rippled through the greenhouse.
Draco's eyes practically bulged. "Ta Tamara? Have you lost your mind?"
Tamara scooped up a handful of warm, viscous compost and placed it into the bottom of her pot.
Her face showed no disdain. No flinch. No complaint.
Only a near devout concentration, as though she were performing a ritual rather than handling filth.
Inside, she was screaming about cutting her hands off.
Outwardly, she remained calm.
"In the eyes of a witch," Tamara said evenly, "materials are not noble or lowly. Only useful or useless."
She set the delicate Dittany seedling into the pot with extraordinary care. The contrast was almost absurd: hands coated in muck, holding bright green life as gently as if it were glass.
"Dragon dung is filthy, but it contains powerful magic. It allows Dittany to produce its strongest healing properties."
Then she lifted her gaze, black eyes sweeping across the stunned faces around her.
"If you cannot stand a little dirt," she said softly, "then when you face blood, rotting wounds, and true Dark magic, will you also run away because it disgusts you?"
Draco went still.
He stared at her filthy hands and suddenly felt ridiculous, as though his pride had been exposed as nothing more than delicate theatrics.
This was Tamara.
High and untouchable like a queen, yet willing to dirty her hands without hesitation for a goal.
That ruthlessness. That willingness to pay any price.
That was Slytherin.
"I'm sorry, Tamara," Draco said through clenched teeth, and pulled off his gloves.
"You're right. I'm a Malfoy. I shouldn't be afraid of this little bit of… stuff."
He plunged his bare hand in, expression twisting, but he endured it.
With Draco leading, the rest followed.
Pansy, Goyle, Blaise, and the other first years silently removed their gloves.
Soon, the greenhouse was filled only with the soft rustle of soil and the quiet sound of hands working.
Professor Sprout stood to one side, watching a set of students who were normally the hardest to please now turning earth barehanded with earnest concentration.
Her eyes glistened.
"Oh, how touching," she said, dabbing at the corners of her eyes. "In all my years of teaching, I've never seen Slytherins who respect the earth so much."
She beamed at Tamara.
"Miss Riddle, your words are wonderfully educational. Twenty points to Slytherin, for the most precious spirit in this class!"
Tamara did not smile at the points.
She focused on the last step.
With mud covered fingers, she pressed the soil around the base of the Dittany, movements light and careful, almost tender.
[ Ding! Task Completed: Gift of the Earth. ]
[ You have proven with your actions that true virtue is not afraid of dirt or exhaustion! ]
[ System Evaluation: S ]
[ Reward: life +5. ]
[ Current life: 12. ]
[ Ding! Congratulations to the host! ]
[ Detected that the life attribute has broken through the 10 point mark. ]
[ Your close contact with soil and fertiliser proves you understand the true meaning of life by nourishing all things. ]
[ Unlocked Level 1 life series charm: Episkey. ]
[ Spell Effect: Can heal minor wounds, bruises, small fractures, or nosebleeds. ]
[ System Evaluation: You used to only create corpses, but now you have learned to repair bodies. See, is that not an improvement? ]
"Healing magic?"
Tamara's expression turned ugly.
After nearly an entire lesson of humiliation and filth, she had unlocked what felt like a pathetic little spell.
She sneered inwardly.
I am the Dark Lord, not a nurse at St Mungo's.
[ No matter what it is, helping others is never a bad thing! ]
The moment the bell rang, Tamara rose so sharply it was almost as if she had been launched.
"Class dismissed," Professor Sprout began.
Tamara was already casting.
"Scourgify. Scourgify. Tergeo. Scourgify."
Four spells in rapid succession, driven by pure fury.
Only when her hands were clean again, pale and dry, even slightly red from over scrubbing, and the stench had vanished from the air, did she stop.
Even then, she still felt as though something were crawling beneath her fingernails.
"Tamara, wait for me!" Draco hurried after her, shaking mud from his hands, looking oddly excited. "I think that feeling was actually quite brilliant. Like, er, conquering nature!"
Tamara turned, saw his filthy hands, and immediately stepped back three paces.
"Stay away from me, Malfoy," she said.
Her voice returned to that cold, heart stopping calm, and this time it carried real murderous intent.
"Do not speak to me until you have washed your hands."
Then she turned and walked away at speed, as though fleeing for her life.
"What's wrong with her?" Pansy asked, watching Tamara's retreating back with confusion.
Draco stared down at his own filthy hands, thoughtful.
"Probably," he said slowly, "thinking about how to lead us to keep pursuing excellence."
He lifted his head, admiration firming.
"She really is a natural born leader."
.....
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