Chapter 121: Well Said
A brief silence fell over the office.
Dumbledore looked at the Slytherin girl who had spoken so eloquently, citing obscure works and weaving arguments to clear her friend of suspicion.
His wise eyes, so skilled in Legilimency, found no panic or malice.
In truth, out of some complicated mixture of trust and pity, Dumbledore had not used Legilimency on this girl named Riddle from the very beginning.
In her, he saw a familiar intelligence and arrogance.
But what was entirely different was that she had used that intelligence to protect a Gryffindor.
The scrutiny in Dumbledore's eyes gradually faded, replaced by a warmth tinged with relief.
"A very brilliant deduction, Miss Riddle. Your breadth of reading and capacity for independent thought are beyond the reach of many adult Wizards."
Dumbledore smiled as he opened a drawer and pushed a jar of sweets toward them.
"Would either of you care for a sherbet lemon? I find that after a rigorous academic defense, a little sweetness always makes one feel better."
He did not expose her.
Nor did he continue questioning her.
"Well then, Harry, Tamara, I imagine you still have a great deal of schoolwork to attend to, so I shall not take up any more of your time."
When Tamara and Harry left, the heavy oak door closed with a soft click.
Quiet returned to the Headmaster's office.
Dumbledore sat silently behind his desk, and the smile on his face slowly faded.
He looked past the sunlight outside the window toward Fawkes on his perch, his gaze gradually sinking into distant memories.
"It truly is... exactly the same."
The old Headmaster's murmur was so soft that it was almost swallowed by the empty office.
As if peering through the mists of time, through the stubborn and upright silhouette of the girl who had just left, he saw another figure from decades ago. A black haired boy in that dark orphanage, just as arrogant, just as defensive.
The Tom Riddle of those years had regarded the entire world as his enemy, using cold and cruel methods to control everything around him.
But now, this girl who also bore the name Riddle, whose talent might be even more extraordinary, had been willing to stand up fearlessly in defense of an isolated classmate. She had even dared to use sophistry before him, the Headmaster, without the slightest change in expression.
Dumbledore reached out with one withered hand and gently stroked Fawkes's warm red feathers.
"A sincere friendship..."
"It seems not every child who walks out of darkness is destined to repeat the same mistakes and fall into the abyss."
...
On the other side, Tamara, who had just walked out of the Headmaster's office, did not have even the faintest look of being touched by redemption.
Her expression was terrifyingly gloomy.
Although she had smoothly bluffed her way past Dumbledore just now, she understood very well how frightening that old fox could be.
What if he actually went to the Restricted Section to search for the book she had invented on the spot, A Study of Ancient Runic Soul Imprints?
To ensure her false theory was watertight, she had to go to the Library at once and search through a large number of obscure texts. At the very least, she needed to scrape together enough scattered, out of context evidence to round out the lie completely.
Tamara brushed off Harry, who looked as though he wanted to say something, and headed straight for the Library with a dark expression.
Madam Pince was tidying the shelves. The Library was so quiet that only the rustle of turning parchment could be heard.
Tamara walked directly toward the advanced spellbooks near the edge of the Restricted Section.
However, just as she reached the back of a row of towering shelves, a burst of suppressed but clearly excited whispering came from the other side.
"I told you so! Justin, you have to stay away from him!"
That was Ernie Macmillan's voice.
The Hufflepuff boy was surrounded by several classmates, including Hannah Abbott, and looked rather like a politician giving a speech.
"Don't you understand yet? Harry Potter is definitely the Heir of Slytherin!"
"But... didn't Riddle say it was because of Dark Arts trauma aftereffects?" Hannah countered timidly. "I thought what Riddle said made a lot of sense..."
"Oh, Hannah, you're far too naive! Riddle must have been deceived by Potter, or she's only helping him because she feels sorry for him!"
Ernie spoke in the tone of someone who had seen through the ultimate truth of the magical world as he laid out his deeply moving logic.
"Use your brains and think about it! Harry Potter was only a baby back then. He couldn't even speak. So how did he survive the Killing Curse from You Know Who?"
Ernie's voice trembled slightly with excitement.
"You Know Who was the most terrifying and powerful Dark Lord in history! How could a baby possibly defeat him? There is only one explanation."
He took a deep breath, as if he were about to announce some horrifying truth.
"Potter is a Dark Wizard even more powerful and more evil than You Know Who!"
"Precisely because terrifying Dark Arts power lurks inside him, he was able to shatter You Know Who when he was still an infant! That's why he can speak that wicked Parseltongue!"
On the other side of the bookshelf, Tamara slowly turned her head after hearing those words.
A flash of murderous red light flickered in her dark eyes.
She, Lord Voldemort.
The greatest master of the Dark Arts in history. The terrifying ruler who had plunged all of Britain into eternal night.
The reason she had fallen at Godric's Hollow back then was because that wretched woman, Lily Potter, had used an ancient and unsolvable blood sacrifice magic.
Because that damned love spell had reflected her Killing Curse.
It was not because that stupid little brat, who could not even wear a nappy properly and only knew how to drool, was stronger than her!
This illogical belittling, this moronic statement that attributed the Dark Lord's defeat to a baby being more evil and powerful than she was, was practically grinding Lord Voldemort's noble pride into the mud again and again.
Tamara's hand tightened around the edge of the bookshelf beside her, her knuckles turning deathly pale from the force.
This stupid badger whose intelligence was lower than a Troll's.
How dare he insult the power of the Dark Lord?
Tamara's face darkened until it looked as though it could drip water, and the murderous intent churning in the depths of her eyes nearly set the row of ancient wooden shelves ablaze.
She took a deep breath and forced down the foul air in her chest.
Then, Tamara let out a contemptuous cold laugh and slowly stepped out from the shadows of the bookshelf.
Her dark eyes, as lifeless as the abyss, locked onto Ernie Macmillan, who was still rambling.
"Well said, Mr Macmillan."
Tamara's voice was soft enough to make one's hair stand on end.
"Could you tell me in more detail... the story of that baby defeating the Dark Lord?"
.....
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