Chapter 84: Reaction
On the night of the end of term feast, the Great Hall of Hogwarts was draped in a sea of green and silver.
The colours belonged to Slytherin.
Hundreds of enchanted candles floated in the air, casting their warm light over the green banners and the silver serpent crest hanging behind the staff table.
This marked the seventh consecutive year Slytherin had won the House Cup.
At the Slytherin table, the students were in high spirits.
Draco Malfoy stood with a goblet in hand, enthusiastically banging a golden spoon against its rim as he tried, for the third time, to gather enough attention to deliver another speech about Slytherin supremacy.
Amid all the noise, the greatest contributor of all seemed wholly uninterested.
Tamara sat at the head of the long table, in the seat reserved for the house's hero.
But her attention was nowhere near the roast turkey or the pudding prepared for the celebration.
Her right hand cut through the lamb on her plate with casual precision. Hidden beneath the wide sleeve of her robe, her left hand rubbed lightly at a fresh cut on her finger.
It was the result of the experiment she had conducted in secret the night before.
Just before the feast had begun, she had slipped into a bathroom in the dungeons and nicked her finger with a small silver knife, collecting the precious first drop of golden blood, the one that could only be used three times in a month.
Just a single drop.
When it fell into an ordinary bottle of Basic Magic Potion, the liquid had begun boiling at once. The murky solution turned pure and translucent in the blink of an eye, becoming a brilliant red gold and releasing a wave of intoxicatingly concentrated magic.
It was an alchemical miracle.
A material powerful enough to drive any alchemist mad.
"Perfect," Tamara praised inwardly, and a greedy glint flickered in her eyes.
With this, and with the forbidden Dark Arts knowledge she carried in her mind, she could create unprecedented Potions.
An improved Polyjuice Potion, perhaps.
Or an even stronger Veritaserum.
She was still immersed in those dangerous, delicious ideas when the noise in the Great Hall abruptly faded.
Albus Dumbledore had risen to his feet.
Even in such a celebratory atmosphere, the old man's gaze remained sharp enough to unsettle anyone who met it.
"Another year gone," Dumbledore said brightly. "Before we all begin enjoying this splendid feast, I must ask you to endure a few words from an old man."
"This year has brought us laughter, tears, and of course, more than a little excitement."
As he spoke, his gaze swept toward the Slytherin table. Whether by chance or not, it lingered for a moment on the black haired girl with her head bent over her lamb.
Tamara's hand paused for the briefest moment.
That feeling again.
Being watched.
"Now then," Dumbledore continued, "as I understand it, the current House Cup totals stand as follows. Gryffindor, 312 points. Hufflepuff, 352. Ravenclaw, 426. And Slytherin, 472."
Thunderous applause erupted at once.
The Slytherin table broke into cheers. Goblets hammered against the wood. Draco turned triumphantly toward the Gryffindor table and pulled several particularly irritating faces.
"Yes, yes, very good," Dumbledore said, smiling as he raised his hands for silence. "However, recent events must also be taken into account."
The hall fell silent immediately.
Draco's grin froze on his face. A sense of foreboding settled over the Slytherin table.
Tamara kept her head lowered, and a cold sneer touched the corner of her mouth.
Go on, old man.
Give your points to the saviour.
She did not care in the slightest about this ridiculous cup.
"I have a few last minute awards to make," Dumbledore said.
"First, to Mr Ron Weasley."
Ron's face turned scarlet on the spot.
"He played the finest game of chess Hogwarts has seen in many years. For that, I award Gryffindor fifty points."
The Gryffindor table nearly exploded.
"Second, to Miss Hermione Granger."
Dumbledore inclined his head toward her.
"For cool logic in the face of fire, I award Gryffindor fifty points."
Hermione looked as if she might burst into tears.
Gryffindor had gained a hundred points in an instant. They now trailed Slytherin by only sixty.
At the Slytherin table, several faces had already gone pale.
"Third, to Harry Potter."
Dumbledore paused, and the hall became so quiet that even the clink of cutlery seemed deafening.
"For pure nerve and outstanding courage, for refusing to back down even when faced with what seemed an invincible enemy, I award Gryffindor sixty points."
The Great Hall exploded.
With those sixty points, Gryffindor had drawn level with Slytherin. Four hundred and seventy two each.
"I am not finished yet," Dumbledore said, raising one hand.
The cheers stuttered into silence.
"There are many kinds of courage. It takes great bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends. Therefore, I award Mr Neville Longbottom ten points."
That brought Gryffindor to 482.
They had overtaken Slytherin by ten points.
The Gryffindor table erupted into full chaos. Harry, Ron, and Hermione leapt up and flung themselves at one another. Even students from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were cheering, delighted to see Slytherin's winning streak come to an end.
At the Slytherin table, there was complete silence.
Draco slammed his goblet onto the table in fury.
Tamara, meanwhile, continued cutting into her lamb, reducing it to a pile of shredded meat.
As expected.
She would never have expected anything less from Dumbledore's bias.
"However..."
The single word cut through the celebration.
Dumbledore's voice rang out again, and this time it held a solemnity it had not before.
"In this matter, there is one more student whose actions deserve recognition. A student who showed wisdom beyond her years and a deeply moving willingness to sacrifice herself."
The hall fell still once more.
Then every eye turned toward the Slytherin table.
"Miss Tamara Riddle."
The knife in Tamara's hand stopped.
She looked up and met Dumbledore's gaze.
There was no scrutiny in those blue eyes now. Only approval.
Approval so sincere it made her feel ill.
"For her decisiveness in the face of darkness, for stepping forward at the critical moment, and for risking herself to protect her fellow students..." Dumbledore's voice carried through the hall.
"This noble quality, placing the lives of others above one's own, is one of Hogwarts' most precious treasures."
"Therefore, I award Slytherin one hundred points."
One hundred points.
The number hit the hall like a physical blow.
No student had ever received so many at once.
It did not merely make up the difference. It pushed Slytherin to an overwhelming total of 572 points.
A crushing victory.
The cheers at the Gryffindor table died in their throats.
And after three full seconds of stunned silence, the Slytherin table erupted in a roar loud enough to crack glass.
"We won! We won!"
Draco, nearly mad with joy, climbed up onto the table and hammered his goblet with abandon.
Pansy gave a shriek and threw herself toward Tamara in an attempt to hug her.
Hands reached from every direction, patting her shoulders, trying to touch the hero who had led the house to glory.
Tamara sat there like a statue carved from ice.
She did not smile.
She did not show the slightest trace of satisfaction.
She looked at Dumbledore on the dais, smiling and nodding in her direction, and felt her stomach turn.
Noble quality.
Protecting fellow students.
Spirit of sacrifice.
Every word felt like a slap.
She was the Dark Lord.
The master of fear and death.
And now she was being praised by the very man who should have despised her most, praised for protecting Harry Potter of all people.
What humiliation.
What ridicule.
This recognition felt worse than a hundred Cruciatus Curses.
And yet, while she sat there swallowing the nausea and maintaining her calm facade, she noticed something else.
Dumbledore's gaze had not moved.
Even after the speech, he was still watching her.
In fact, it had sharpened.
He was applauding, yes.
But behind those half moon spectacles, he was studying her.
Faced with this sudden flood of honour, this adoration from Slytherin, this intoxicating moment of reversing the outcome in a single stroke, what expression would this girl named Riddle show?
Although the evidence had already been sealed away, Quirrell was the culprit, Voldemort the force behind him, and Tamara no more than an innocent victim forced to fight back in order to protect herself and her classmates, it was all too neat.
Too neat.
Too perfectly arranged.
It reminded Dumbledore too much of another night, fifty years earlier, when a student named Tom Riddle had caught Hagrid and been rewarded with the Special Award for Services to the School.
He had never forgotten it.
Before a demon fully matures, it is often best at wearing a hero's skin.
Would she be like Tom had been then, unable to fully conceal his greed, his arrogance, his hunger for fame?
Or would she react like any ordinary eleven year old girl suddenly raised to glory, full of dazzled pride?
What surprised Dumbledore was that she showed neither.
No joy.
No vanity.
Not even the faintest hint of childish satisfaction.
She sat perfectly still, almost disgusted.
And that disgust did not look acted.
Dumbledore's applause slowed for a fraction of a second. The scrutiny in his eyes deepened.
A Slytherin who did not care for glory.
A child with great power and a calm mind.
"Interesting," he thought.
But nothing changed on his face. The smile remained warm and whole, as though that moment of thought had never existed.
"Which means," he said aloud, "we must make a small adjustment to the decorations."
He clapped his hands.
The banners that had shifted to red and gold changed back to green and silver.
The great silver serpent of Slytherin gleamed proudly overhead.
"That's your glory, Tamara!" Draco shouted, flushed with excitement.
"This has never happened before. A hundred points. You broke the record!"
Tamara looked at the banners. Then at the fools around her, drunk on a shallow and childish victory.
She set down her knife and fork.
The metal rang lightly against the porcelain.
"Boring," she thought coldly.
Rather than playing house with these children, she would rather return to the dungeons and brew another cauldron of Potion.
And yet...
Her gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor table, where Harry Potter, despite his disappointment, was still smiling at her with gratitude.
Whatever else happened, she had still won.
Even if the shape of that victory disgusted her.
Tamara lifted her glass and offered Dumbledore a distant toast.
Then she placed upon her face a perfect, utterly false smile.
"Thank you for your generosity, Headmaster."
.....
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