Chapter 27: An Old Acquaintance
Friday morning arrived quickly. The underground classroom at Hogwarts was steeped in cold damp air.
This was Potions.
Glass jars lined the walls, each holding some macabre preserved specimen that cast warped shadows under dim candlelight. For most students, especially Gryffindors, it was the sort of room that turned the stomach.
For Tamara Riddle, it was almost comforting.
Compared to the greenhouse soil and the knife cold wind on the Astronomy Tower, the scent here, herbs, preservatives, and a faint bite of sulphur, felt familiar. Like stepping back into a room she had once owned.
This was a field she had excelled in.
And it was the territory of her most loyal servant.
Severus Snape.
It brings back memories.
Tamara sat in the first row. Her slender fingers traced the cold rim of the cauldron, slow and thoughtful. In her previous life, Snape had been the Death Eater who never betrayed her. He had lurked beside Dumbledore, endured humiliation and burdens, and delivered intelligence that kept her plans alive.
Even if she had eventually killed him over the Elder Wand, that did not erase what he had been good for.
That does not diminish my appreciation for your talent, Severus.
Tamara glanced at the still empty podium, a faintly amused curve on her lips.
Since I have returned, you will rejoin the ranks. This time I will grant you higher status.
Bang.
The classroom door slammed open.
A man in black strode in, greasy hair hanging around a pale face. His robes swept behind him like the wings of an enormous bat.
Severus Snape.
He did not need to raise his voice. His presence alone silenced the room.
Snape picked up the roll and began calling names.
Even reading names, his voice carried a slow, venomous weight, like a snake sliding across velvet.
"Harry Potter."
Snape paused at the name.
"Oh, yes," he said softly. "Harry Potter. Our new famous figure."
Draco Malfoy and his cronies sniggered behind their hands. Snape did not even glance their way. His lack of reaction was approval enough.
Tamara watched with cool detachment.
So Snape still hated Potter. Good. His stance remained firm.
Then came the name that mattered.
"Tamara Riddle."
Snape's voice paused again, so subtle most would miss it.
Tamara did not.
He lifted his head. Through the curtain of black hair, his dark eyes fixed on her with startling intensity.
The look was complex. Scrutiny. Distaste. And underneath, something colder.
Apprehension.
Tamara held his gaze without moving. She lifted her chin with the poised confidence of the Dark Lord and offered him a faint, approving smile, the sort one gave a subordinate who had done well.
"Present, Professor."
Her voice was composed, steady, and carried the barest hint of intimacy, almost imperceptible, but real.
Snape's pupils tightened.
As if burned, he snapped his eyes away and returned to the roll. His speech quickened slightly, the only sign of disturbance he allowed himself.
When roll call ended, Snape began his introduction.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion making."
He barely spoke above a whisper, yet every student heard him.
"As there is little foolish wand waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic."
"I do not expect you to truly understand the subtle beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power that creeps through human veins, bewitching the mind and ensnaring the senses."
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, and even put a stopper on death, if you are not as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
Silence ruled the room.
Hermione Granger was perched on the edge of her seat, eager to prove she was not a dunderhead.
Tamara leaned back, a trace of nostalgia in her eyes.
This was Snape. Even when teaching children, he could not help sounding magnificent, arrogant, and unsettlingly seductive.
Then he struck.
"Potter."
Snape's voice snapped towards Harry like a lash.
"What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze. He glanced at Ron, who looked equally lost.
Hermione's hand shot up.
"I don't know, sir," Harry answered honestly.
Snape's lip curled.
"Tut, tut. Fame clearly is not everything."
"I shall ask you again. If I instructed you to find me a bezoar, where would you look?"
Hermione's hand rose even higher. Harry shook his head again.
"I don't know, sir."
"I assume you have not opened a single book since before term started, have you, Potter?"
The Slytherins roared with laughter.
Tamara watched Harry's face burn red and felt satisfaction coil quietly in her chest.
Well done, Severus. Even with me here, you have not forgotten to strike at the enemy's morale.
"Since Mr Potter knows nothing," Snape continued, eyes sweeping the room. He ignored Hermione entirely and stopped on Tamara.
"Miss Riddle."
His voice tightened, almost against his will.
"Perhaps you can tell these illustrious people the answers to those three questions."
He did not want to say that surname.
But he needed to test the suspicion he had not been able to sleep away since he saw it on the roll.
Most of the wizarding world knew Voldemort, not Tom Riddle.
Snape knew both.
He needed to know whether this girl was connected to the soul he had once served and feared.
Tamara rose smoothly.
She did not rush or stumble. Her tone turned slow and deliberate, eerily similar to Snape's own cadence.
"Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood, when mixed, make a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death, Professor."
She looked at him, a faint smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
"As for the bezoar, it is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat. It has very strong antidote properties. A lifesaver for fools who drink poison."
"Finally, monkshood and wolfsbane are the same plant. Both are also known as aconite."
Perfect.
Accurate. Precise.
And the arrogance in her delivery sent a chill through the room.
It was a tone Snape knew too well. The tone that had filled the main seat at Death Eater meetings, the voice that made even grown men lower their eyes.
Snape's face went paler.
He stared at the eleven year old in front of him, at dark eyes that seemed to look straight through skin and bone.
The dungeon's chill seemed to deepen.
"Correct," Snape said at last, forcing the word out as if it tasted foul.
"Five points to Slytherin."
He turned away abruptly, robes snapping.
"What are you waiting for? Write this down."
Tamara sat, pleased.
She could feel Snape's tension like a wire pulled too tight.
It seems he has recognised my talent.
Perhaps he feared her potential might surpass his. Or perhaps he was thrilled that his Master finally had a worthy heir.
Either way, she enjoyed it.
In her former life, Voldemort had never doubted Snape's loyalty. Tamara did not know Lily's death had shaken it. She knew nothing of Snape's later cooperation with Dumbledore.
The lesson moved on to brewing the Boil Cure in pairs.
Tamara and Draco worked together.
Under Tamara's direction, Draco became the labourer while she controlled the critical steps, timing, and measurements with ruthless precision.
Their potion turned a perfect blue and released pink smoke.
Across the room, the Gryffindors were chaos.
Neville Longbottom somehow melted Seamus Finnigan's cauldron. The potion spilled, burning holes in shoes. Neville cried out as angry red boils erupted across his skin.
"Idiot," Snape roared, wand flashing as he cleaned the mess. "I assume you did not take the cauldron off the fire before adding the porcupine quills."
He berated Neville, then turned sharply on Harry.
"Potter. Why did you not tell him not to add the quills? Do you think his mistake makes you look good? Gryffindor will lose one point because of you."
Harry bristled, fury obvious, but Ron tugged him back.
It was blatant prejudice.
To Tamara, it was a familiar kind of loyalty.
He is willing to use any excuse to suppress the saviour.
Tamara bottled their flawless potion and glanced at Snape's cold rage.
You still hate Gryffindor so much, Severus.
Excellent.
Even without Death Eaters holding power, Snape's fundamental compass had not moved.
The end of class bell rang.
Tamara left the dungeon in a better mood than when she arrived.
Besides the Bloody Baron, she was certain she had gained another potential ally.
The ally appeared neurotic and foul tempered, but that did not matter.
As long as you hate Potter, we are on the same side.
Tamara paused and looked back at the dungeon door, confidence bright in her eyes. She believed Snape was discerning. Whatever form she wore, once he recognised her soul, he would offer the loyalty she was owed.
Behind that door, Severus Snape slumped in his chair.
His eyes, usually cold and empty, were filled with terror and a kind of helpless agony.
He clutched the Dark Mark on his left arm. The skin did not burn, but something deeper trembled.
"That tone," Snape whispered, staring at the place where Tamara had sat.
Then his voice broke into something almost human.
"Lily… if you could see this…"
"That person's soul has truly returned."
.....
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