Chapter 120: Cooling Down
Although her declaration in the corridor about controlling everything had been domineering, Tamara Riddle had never been a brainless brute.
Once her high fever had completely receded and reason reclaimed the high ground, this calculating Dark Lord immediately realized something very practical.
At present, she was not the Lord Voldemort who could turn the sky over with a flick of her hand and make the entire wizarding world tremble in fear.
She was merely a twelve year old Witch whose magic was severely restricted, so restricted that she could not even cast a basic Avada Kedavra whenever she pleased.
Under such conditions, if Potter truly caused some extreme, uncontrollable trouble because of excessive fanaticism, cleaning it up would be rather troublesome.
To cool down this dangerous progress bar, Tamara decided to adopt a safer tactic.
Perfect, flawless detachment.
Thus, over the next few days, the students of Hogwarts noticed nothing unusual, but Harry fell into a bottomless pit of panic.
Tamara did not ignore him.
When they crossed paths in the corridors, she would still stop, nod slightly, and even allow a faint, faultless curve to appear on her pale, exquisite face.
"Good day, Potter."
Her voice remained soft, but beneath that tone, laced with bone deep coldness, there was no trace of the previous sincerity.
In Potions class, she would still calmly hand him the ingredients he needed and even thank him politely.
But that was precisely the most suffocating part.
This measured detachment was like an indestructible pane of transparent glass erected between them.
Tamara was still looking at him, but their relationship had shifted from close friends who had shared danger to ordinary classmates and nothing more.
"What's wrong with her?"
Harry frequently looked up from cutting daisy roots, his green eyes full of confusion as he stared at the cold silhouette at the Slytherin workstation.
"What do you mean, what's wrong?" Ron muttered beside him. "Didn't Riddle just nod at you? You should be satisfied a Slytherin gave you that much."
Harry gripped the silver knife in his hand tightly, hacking the poor daisy root into a mangled mess.
Ron did not understand.
No one else understood either.
But Harry, who had grown up in the Dursleys' cupboard and had long been used to reading expressions to survive in the cracks, had an unusually keen intuition for subtle changes in emotion.
He would rather Tamara scold him as a troublemaker in that nasty tone of hers than face this politeness that left him with nothing to complain about.
This politeness was a silent rejection.
A frustration and panic Harry could not understand surged in his chest.
Why?
In the Hospital Wing, she had clearly accepted his vow in silence. At the Duelling Club, she had mercilessly rebuked the whole school for his sake.
But now, she had elegantly pushed him back into the crowd.
Had he done something wrong again?
Or did she think he was too weak, unworthy of standing beside her, and was using this dignified manner to drive him out of her world?
This panic over losing what he had only just gained did not make Harry retreat. Instead, like dry wood thrown into flames, it completely ignited the Gryffindor stubbornness in his bones and the obsession born from a lack of love.
He clenched his teeth.
No matter why Tamara wanted to raise that cold wall again, he would absolutely not be shut outside like a coward.
Sitting in the distance, Tamara felt that gaze from behind her. Instead of cooling down, it had become even more scorching. Her brows furrowed almost imperceptibly.
She suddenly felt that the system's warning might not have been a joke.
"What a nuisance."
Tamara calmly lowered her lashes, deliberately ignoring the gaze fixed firmly on her.
While Harry was agonizing, the happiest person was none other than Draco Malfoy.
Seeing Tamara finally ignore that Scarhead, Draco was like a peacock with its tail spread, walking with a spring in his step.
He smugly believed Tamara had finally realized that Potter was nothing but a jinx who attracted trouble, and that he, Draco Malfoy, was the only pure blood elite qualified to stand at her side.
However, this one sided peace did not last long.
On Thursday afternoon, just as Transfiguration ended, Professor McGonagall solemnly stopped Tamara and Harry as they were preparing to head to the Library.
"Potter, Riddle." Professor McGonagall's lips were pressed into a thin line. "Please come with me. The Headmaster wishes to see you."
Harry's heart leapt into his throat.
Did Professor Dumbledore also suspect him of being the Heir of Slytherin?
Tamara, on the other hand, gave an impatient cold sneer in her heart.
What was bound to come would come.
How could that sharp old fox remain indifferent to the long speech she had delivered at the Duelling Club?
The two followed Professor McGonagall up the spiral staircase and stepped into the Headmaster's office, which was filled with silver instruments.
The last time she had been here was when she had returned to Hogwarts as Tom Riddle.
In this office, filled with silver instruments and watched over by Fawkes, he had once requested the Defense Against the Dark Arts post from Dumbledore.
Stepping into this place again after decades, Tamara let out a disdainful cold snort in her heart.
This spacious circular room was just as it had been back then, filled with the old fox's dreadful taste for mystification.
Her gaze swept coldly over the portraits of past Headmasters pretending to sleep before finally landing on the tall gilded perch behind the door.
Standing upon it was a decrepit looking bird.
Its feathers were falling out in patches, and its head drooped listlessly. It looked like a half plucked, sickly turkey that might stop breathing at any moment.
Fawkes.
Others might be deceived by that miserable appearance, but as Voldemort, she naturally recognized this Phoenix, a creature representing light and rebirth, at a glance.
Clearly, this creature of pure light was currently in its weakened state before burning.
An instinctive flash of disgust crossed Tamara's eyes, followed by a biting cold sneer in her heart.
At the same time, however, the greed and desire for control over powerful forces carved deep into her bones gave rise to a resentful gloom.
"What a waste of a celestial creature."
Tamara commented coldly in her mind.
This legendary magical animal, possessing top tier magic and an immortal body, was actually willing to be domesticated as an old madman's exclusive pet, acting like a singing turkey in this room full of scrap metal.
Beside her, Harry Potter clearly looked as if he had never seen the world.
The savior, who had grown up in the Muggle world, was staring wide eyed at the smoke puffing silver instruments around the room, filled with immense curiosity and wonder.
Because Tamara was there, the savior still maintained a relatively mature facade. At least he did not grab that filthy Sorting Hat and shove it onto his head again, only to stupidly ask whether it had sorted him into the wrong House.
After a short wait, Dumbledore pushed open the office door and walked in.
"Sit down, children."
Dumbledore sat behind the large desk, fingers interlaced, watching Tamara through his glasses with a gaze that was gentle yet sharp.
"I heard that a small accident occurred at the Duelling Club a few days ago."
Dumbledore spoke with a smile, his tone like that of a kind grandfather chatting.
"Harry displayed an extremely rare talent."
Harry nervously gripped the hem of his robes and was just about to explain, but Dumbledore gently raised a hand to stop him.
The old Headmaster's gaze remained fixed on Tamara's exquisite, pale face.
"I also heard that Miss Riddle proposed a very... novel viewpoint."
A light of inquiry flickered in Dumbledore's blue eyes.
"Dark Arts trauma aftereffects?"
He leaned forward slightly.
"Forgive this hundred year old man for his ignorance, but in all my years studying magic at Hogwarts, even after scouring the entire Restricted Section, this is the first time I have heard of such a theory."
"I wonder if Miss Riddle could solve this mystery for a curious old man?"
It was polite, yet absolutely oppressive.
Any other twelve year old Wizard, under the gaze of the greatest White Wizard of the age, might have been frightened into incoherence and perhaps even revealed their deepest secrets.
But sitting opposite him was the world's greatest master of disguise and lies.
Facing the old fox's scrutiny, not even one of Tamara's eyelashes trembled.
She naturally straightened her back and, without the slightest blush or racing heartbeat, entered her expert mode of nonsense.
"Professor Dumbledore, the truths of magic are often hidden in the cracks of history."
Tamara's tone was calm and certain, carrying an irrefutable arrogance.
"You may not have heard this exact term because it is merely a name I summarized myself, to make it easier for classmates with no common sense to understand."
"But its underlying logic is clearly recorded in fifteenth century Defense Against the Dark Arts manuscripts."
She skillfully began throwing out obscure references that ordinary people would have no way to verify.
"In the third chapter of A Study of Ancient Runic Soul Imprints, as well as in Alexander Griffin's The Malleability of Curses, there are similar records."
"When an... evil soul attempts to parasitize or attach itself to another living organism, the assimilation of magic and the stress response will forcibly record some physiological or magical traits of the perpetrator."
Tamara looked directly into Dumbledore's eyes, which seemed capable of seeing through people's hearts, her logic airtight.
"Potter faced the presence within Quirrell last year."
"He is a twelve year old boy. When facing that level of extreme Dark Arts, is the imitation mechanism produced by the soul not the most logical magical explanation?"
"Or..."
Tamara's gaze remained calm as she looked at Dumbledore.
"Do you also believe he is the Heir of Slytherin?"
.....
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