Chapter 39: A Beautiful Misunderstanding
November at Hogwarts announced winter properly.
The mountains around the castle faded into cold grey blue, and each morning a thin skin of ice formed across the surface of the Black Lake.
For most students, trudging down to the dungeons for Potions in this season was torture.
It was damp, it was freezing, and it contained a professor sharper than the wind itself.
Severus Snape.
Snape still made Harry's life miserable whenever he felt like it, as if mocking the Boy Who Lived were a private hobby.
To Tamara, this was a clear sign of loyalty.
Sometimes Harry answered correctly, sometimes he did not, but it hardly mattered. Snape always found a way to sneer.
Today, Snape questioned Harry as usual, and for once Harry managed the right response.
"Barely correct," Snape said with a contemptuous sniff, sounding almost disappointed that he could not deduct points. "But your answer, like your potion, lacks spirit. Sit down."
His black robes swept behind him as he turned, like the wings of a great bat.
When he stopped beside Tamara's cauldron, that predatory pressure softened, just slightly.
Tamara Riddle was slicing daisy roots with a silver knife.
Her motions were smooth and unhurried. The thickness of each slice was consistent. The timing between stirs was exact.
In her cauldron, the purple potion produced perfect spirals of steam, as precise as a textbook illustration.
Even Snape could not find fault.
He stared for several seconds before forcing the words out.
"...Perfect."
The expression on his face twisted faintly, as if praising a Riddle physically hurt him.
"Pure colour. Proper viscosity," Snape said in a dry voice. "Five points to Slytherin."
"Thank you, Professor."
Tamara gave a slight nod and a polite, distant smile that made Snape look as if his skin had crawled.
His lip twitched. He said nothing further and moved back toward the lectern.
As he turned, Tamara caught a detail most students would never have noticed.
Snape's left leg trembled when he put weight on it.
He tried to hide it, but a line of pain crossed his brow for the briefest instant.
And beneath the faint perfume of herbs, there was a trace of blood in the air.
Fresh blood, from a wound that had opened.
Tamara's knife paused mid slice.
The light in her eyes sharpened into something thoughtful.
So the rumours were true.
On Halloween, when that idiot Quirrell released the troll to cause chaos, this loyal Potions professor had gone where the Philosopher's Stone was hidden.
Was he trying to steal it and offer it to the main soul?
Tamara felt a flicker of irritation at his lack of ambition.
Foolish. Was it worth this much effort for a main soul that had lost power and dignity?
In Tamara's mind, Snape was one of Voldemort's most loyal followers.
Seeing a subordinate this talented and this devoted get bitten by a Cerberus for the sake of a master who could only hiss and tantrum was almost... touching.
A pity.
The one you serve is a useless piece of trash without even a body.
The bell rang, ending class.
Students hurried to pack up and escape the freezing dungeon as if it were a prison.
"Potter, stay behind and clean the classroom," Snape said coldly, inventing a new excuse to punish Harry before turning toward his office. He clearly meant to tend to his wound.
"Professor."
A cool voice stopped him.
Snape froze.
He turned.
Tamara had not left.
She stood near the lectern with her books in her arms, those pitch black eyes fixed quietly on him.
That look was too similar.
The calm contempt, the sense of standing above everyone else, it was the same gaze that had watched him kneel at Death Eater gatherings.
"Miss Riddle?" Snape's hand slid into his sleeve, fingers closing around his wand. "Is there something else?"
"Your leg seems to be troubling you."
Tamara did not bother with subtlety. Her eyes flicked to the hem of his robes, and her voice carried a hint of concern.
Snape's pupils contracted.
She knew.
How did she know? Had she been watching him?
"I do not know what you are talking about," Snape said, voice turning sharper. "If you have nothing else to say..."
"Cerberus teeth carry a sort of cursed toxin. Ordinary healing charms will not do much."
Tamara cut him off.
She stepped closer and lowered her voice, as if sharing a private secret meant for no one else.
"If I were you, I would add unicorn horn powder to Essence of Dittany. The wound will close faster."
Snape stared at her, his face paling.
She not only knew he was injured.
She knew what had bitten him.
Cold dread slid down his spine.
How much did this eleven year old girl actually know?
Then her next words made his confusion and fear deepen.
"You are working very hard, Professor."
Tamara looked at him, and in her eyes there was something like admiration.
To Snape, it was worse than mockery.
"To take such a risk, even at the cost of injury."
Snape's brow drew tight. His voice carried the smallest tremor.
"What are you talking about?"
Tamara blinked, innocent as a lamb.
"I am only saying you must have suffered such a wound for an important purpose."
Then her tone shifted. Her gaze turned pitying.
"But, Professor, some purposes are not worth such a price from you."
She gave him a polite bow.
"Please take care of your health. Hogwarts still needs talent like yours."
Then she turned and walked out, leaving Snape alone in the dungeon, chilled to the bone.
Snape gripped the lectern until his knuckles whitened.
What did she mean?
His heart hammered.
There was something in her words, an implication he could not grasp, but he could not see what she truly wanted.
Worse, he did not know how much she knew.
"Damn... Riddle."
Snape took a slow breath and felt the wound in his leg throb harder, as if mocking him.
That familiar feeling, like being watched by a venomous snake, left him suffocating.
Meanwhile, Tamara left the dungeon in an excellent mood.
He should feel my goodwill now.
Tamara's thoughts were neat and satisfied.
Show him care. Make him realise the main soul's indifference and my benevolence. When the time is right, I will pull him away from the main soul entirely.
A subordinate like that was far too valuable to waste.
Both of them believed they understood the other.
In truth, their thoughts were separated by a distance wider than the English Channel.
.....
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