Chapter 45: Come, Let's Have a Snowball Fight
The next morning, Hogwarts woke beneath a fall of fresh snow.
The lake had frozen into a sheet of pale steel, the grounds were wrapped in white, and Hagrid was already outside in the clearing, wrestling several fir trees into place for winter. It should have looked like something from an old storybook, all silver frost and quiet wonder.
For Tamara Riddle, it meant only two things.
Colder wind.
And louder people.
Having died more than once, she had developed an instinctive hatred of the cold. There was something about it that crawled under the skin and settled in the bones, a dead thing's memory that her body had never quite forgotten. Wrapped tightly in the dragon hide cloak Draco had given her and clutching a stack of newly borrowed library books to her chest, she crossed the courtyard with swift, precise steps, aiming for the relative warmth of the dungeons.
A burst of laughter rang out from somewhere behind a cloister.
"Oi! Watch out!"
Tamara's brow creased.
She did not slow down. She had no interest in other people's childish nonsense. The sooner she got out of this wind bitten courtyard, the better.
Then she passed the corner.
A split second later, a large snowball came hurtling through the air.
It had clearly been meant for Professor Quirrell. The twins who launched it had probably aimed for his ridiculous purple turban. But Quirrell, in a feat of cowardly incompetence only Quirrell could manage, stumbled at exactly the wrong moment.
The snowball changed course.
And struck Tamara squarely on the back of the head.
Splat.
The force nearly knocked her off her feet. The books flew from her arms and scattered across the stones. Snow exploded down the back of her collar, icy and wet and invasive, slipping beneath the warmth of her robes and melting against her skin.
For one awful second, the world went very still.
Tamara stood frozen.
Several damp strands of black hair clung to her cheek. Her carefully arranged appearance was ruined. Cold water slid down the nape of her neck with unbearable slowness.
Then she turned.
Not quickly. Slowly.
Very slowly.
A few yards away, Fred and George Weasley stood with their wands still raised, their grins gone rigid on their faces.
Fred swallowed.
"George," he said faintly, "I think we may have made a grave tactical error."
George had gone pale. "You think? We hit Miss Riddle."
That was the worst of it.
Not just any Slytherin. Not just any first year. Mrs Weasley herself had asked after this girl in more than one letter since King's Cross. The poor child, she'd written. Such a tragic background. Be kind if you can.
If their mother found out they had blasted a magically enhanced snowball into the back of Tamara Riddle's head, they would not survive Christmas.
Tamara did not wipe the snow from her face.
She did not stoop to gather her fallen books.
She only looked at them.
Her dark eyes were so cold that for one dreadful instant, the twins had the very distinct feeling that they were already dead and merely had not yet been informed.
Her fingers twitched once at her side.
Inside her mind, she was already choosing spells.
No wand was required. If necessary, she would freeze them solid where they stood and leave them in the courtyard as a warning to others. Two red haired statues buried in snow would improve the school's aesthetic considerably.
"You two..."
[Ding! Warning! Strong retaliatory murderous intent detected.]
The system's bright, idiotic voice rang through her skull.
[Sudden quest triggered: The Magnanimity of Forgiveness.]
[Quest description: Playful antics between youths are a symbol of vitality. As a broad minded top student, how can you become angry over such a minor accident?]
[Quest requirements: You are prohibited from using hexes or verbal abuse. Please forgive them with a smile and demonstrate your sense of humour.]
[Failure penalty: For the next twenty four hours, whenever you get angry, your voice will automatically become coquettish and spoiled.]
Tamara nearly stopped breathing.
For one terrible moment, the only thing keeping the Weasley twins alive was the sheer force of her self control.
"Forgive them?" she hissed inwardly. "They dumped snow down my neck."
[Please smile, host. Love and peace.]
Love and peace.
Tamara wanted to kill something.
Instead, she closed her eyes for the briefest instant, drew in a long breath, and forced the murderous storm inside her into something usable. When she opened her eyes again, the killing intent had vanished from her face.
What replaced it was worse.
A smile.
Soft. Radiant. Beautiful.
And so genuinely sinister that Fred later claimed it took three years off his life.
"Riddle," Fred began weakly, "we truly did not mean that."
"We were aiming at Quirrell," George added at once, as if this somehow improved matters.
Tamara walked toward them.
Step by measured step.
The snow crunched softly beneath her boots. The smile on her lips grew warmer, brighter, more terrifying.
"It is quite alright," she said gently.
The twins exchanged a glance that plainly said we are doomed.
"It was only a joke," Tamara continued. "Was it not?"
She stopped before them and reached up with graceful fingers to brush a few stray snowflakes from Fred's shoulder. The gesture would have looked tender to anyone who did not know better.
Fred almost flinched out of his skin.
"How could I possibly be angry?" Tamara asked sweetly. "A snowball fight sounds delightful."
George blinked. "You... you're not furious?"
"Of course not."
Tamara tilted her head. A dangerous spark flashed in her eyes.
"Come. Let us have one."
The twins stared at her.
Then Tamara lifted both hands, palms upward.
She did not draw her wand.
All around them, the thick snow blanketing the courtyard stirred.
For a heartbeat nothing happened. Then the surface shivered, rose, and spiralled upward in two violent white columns. Snow whirled into the air like living smoke, forming twin twisting funnels that lashed out and wrapped themselves neatly around Fred and George's ankles.
"Oi!"
"What in Merlin's name is this?"
The next moment they were yanked upside down into the air.
Their robes flapped, their scarves swung loose, and the two Weasley twins dangled helplessly above the courtyard, red hair hanging toward the ground while their hands pinwheeled in outrage.
Tamara smiled up at them serenely.
"Do not be impatient," she said. "I am only playing a small joke as well."
Then she crooked one finger.
The snow funnels snapped downward.
Fred and George dropped like two carrots being planted.
They vanished headfirst into a deep snowbank with matching thumps, buried from head to waist in packed snow. Only their legs remained visible, kicking wildly in the air.
For one glorious instant, the courtyard was silent.
Tamara gazed at the scene with great satisfaction.
It was art.
The last of her irritation drained away like smoke.
[Warning! Suspected violent behaviour detected!]
The system flashed scarlet in her mind.
"Violent?" Tamara replied coolly. "There are no stones in the snow. I checked nothing, broke nothing, and set nothing on fire."
She regarded the two pairs of flailing legs.
"Besides, if a snowball fight contains no actual fight, what precisely is the point?"
The system fell briefly silent.
[System is determining...]
[Determination result: According to certain records, burying people in a snowbank does indeed fall within the broad category of a snowball fight.]
[Barely passed.]
Tamara gave a silent snort.
With a flick of her wand, the books scattered across the ground rose obediently into the air and arranged themselves back into a neat stack in her arms. She brushed a bit of loose snow from her sleeves, then turned back to the upside down twins.
"Enjoy yourselves, Messrs Weasley."
She offered them a graceful curtsy.
Then, with all the poise of a queen leaving a tedious audience, she turned and walked away through the falling snow, her dragon hide cloak trailing behind her like dark silk.
It was not until she was halfway across the courtyard that two passing Hufflepuffs noticed the spectacle and rushed over in alarm.
"Merlin, are those legs?"
"Fred? George?"
After much digging, both twins were finally hauled free, red faced, gasping, and coughing snow.
Fred spat out a mouthful of slush. "That," he declared hoarsely, "was brilliant."
George wiped half frozen snow from his face, eyes gleaming. "Absolutely inspired."
Fred grinned through chattering teeth. "Planting people headfirst in a snowdrift."
George nodded solemnly. "Elegant. Efficient. Deeply educational."
They looked after the distant figure of Tamara disappearing into the castle.
"She is terrifying," Fred said.
"She is magnificent," George corrected.
A moment later, the two of them straightened as one.
"Come on," Fred said.
"Let us go find Ron," George finished.
"And improve his outlook."
By the time Tamara reached the underground corridor leading back to Slytherin, the wind had been shut outside by stone and silence. She could still feel a lingering chill at the back of her neck, but her mood had improved considerably.
Then the system chimed again.
[Ding! Quest completed: The Magnanimity of Forgiveness.]
[Reward: Love +1. Weasley twins' favourability unlocked.]
Tamara stopped mid step.
Her mouth twitched once. Then twice.
"...Is it ill?" she muttered to herself.
She adjusted the books in her arms, drew her cloak tighter around her shoulders, and continued into the dungeon with the expression of someone very seriously considering whether it was possible to murder a moral support system.
.....
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