Chapter 39: A Beautiful Misunderstanding
November descended upon Hogwarts, dragging a bitter, biting winter in its wake.
The towering mountains surrounding the castle took on a harsh, bruised gray-blue hue, and each morning, a fragile sheet of frost crusted the edges of the Black Lake. For the vast majority of the student body, descending into the subterranean dungeons for Potions class during this season was nothing short of absolute torture.
The air down there was perpetually damp, clinging to the skin like a wet shroud. Worse than the freezing drafts, however, was the resident Potions Master. Severus Snape possessed a gaze far more piercing than the winter wind.
Snape still went out of his way to make life exceptionally difficult for Harry Potter. He hovered like a menacing shadow, snapping at the boy's slightest hesitation, as if tormenting the bespectacled Gryffindor provided him with some dark, personal sustenance.
But sitting quietly at her own workstation, Tamara Riddle viewed this entirely differently.
'Look at him,'Tamara mused inwardly, carefully measuring out powdered asphodel.'Bullying the Boy Who Lived at every given opportunity. Such absolute, unyielding loyalty to the Dark Lord. Truly commendable.'
Sometimes Harry managed to stammer out the correct answer. Often, he failed miserably. Regardless of the outcome, Snape always found the precise combination of words required to publicly humiliate him.
Today was no exception. Snape had cornered Harry with a rapid-fire interrogation regarding the properties of crushed snake fangs. Miraculously, Harry managed to scrape together the right response.
"Barely correct," Snape sneered, his upper lip curling as though the words tasted foul. He looked genuinely irritated that he lacked a valid excuse to deduct points. "But your answer, Potter, much like your potion, lacks any semblance of spirit. Sit down."
He spun on his heel, his heavy black robes billowing out behind him like the wings of a massive, swooping bat.
Yet, as he glided toward the front of the damp classroom and came to a halt beside Tamara's bubbling cauldron, that suffocating, aggressive aura noticeably dampened.
Tamara stood perfectly straight, her expression a mask of serene focus. She was elegantly dicing Daisy roots with a polished silver knife. The rhythmic snick-snick of the blade against the wooden board was as smooth as flowing water. The number of times she stirred her cauldron was calculated down to the exact decimal point, her wrist turning with practiced, elegant grace.
Inside her pewter cauldron, the potion simmered a flawless, vibrant purple. Perfect, standard spirals of silver steam rose from the surface, twisting lazily into the cold dungeon air.
Snape loomed over her workstation. His dark eyes scanned the chopping board, the ingredients, and finally, the simmering liquid. Even he, with his notoriously impossible standards, could find absolutely no flaw in this brew. It looked as though it had been scooped directly out of an instructional textbook.
"...Perfect."
Snape stared at the purple liquid for a long, agonizing moment before finally forcing those two syllables through his gritted teeth. His facial muscles twitched. It was as if offering praise to a student bearing the surname 'Riddle' caused him actual, physical agony.
"Pure color. Moderate viscosity," Snape stated, his voice entirely devoid of moisture. "Five points to Slytherin."
"Thank you, Professor."
Tamara dipped her chin in a slight, respectful nod. A polite, gentle smile graced her lips—a smile so perfectly constructed, so entirely devoid of genuine warmth, that it made the hairs on the back of Snape's neck stand on end.
Snape's jaw tightened. He said nothing more, turning sharply to head back toward his heavy wooden lectern.
The very second he shifted his weight to turn, Tamara's dark eyes caught a fleeting detail.
Snape's left leg gave a microscopic tremble as it bore his weight. He masked it instantly, his stride remaining long and purposeful, but a faint crease of pain had briefly pinched the space between his brows.
Tamara flared her nostrils slightly, drawing in a quiet breath. Beneath the heavy, pungent odors of pickled toads, dried nettles, and simmering herbs, there was something else. A faint, metallic tang.
Blood.
And not just a simple scratch. The heavy, lingering iron scent belonged to a deep, lacerated wound.
Tamara's silver knife paused a fraction of an inch above a Daisy root. The light in her dark eyes shifted, sharpening into something deeply calculating.
'It seems... the rumors hold weight.'Her mind raced, piecing the puzzle together with ruthless efficiency.'On Halloween, when that stuttering idiot Quirrell unleashed the mountain troll to create a diversion, this loyal Potions Master did exactly what I expected. He bypassed the chaos and went straight for the third-floor corridor. To the room guarding the Philosopher's Stone.'She resumed slicing, her face a picture of innocent concentration.'Was he trying to steal the Stone to offer it to the main soul?'Tamara clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, feeling a sudden, sharp wave of disappointment at Snape's lack of grand ambition.'Foolish man. Is it truly worth risking your life for a fractured wraith that has already lost its power?'In Tamara's eyes, Severus Snape was one of Voldemort's most capable, brilliant, and devoted servants. Watching such an outstanding subordinate get his leg chewed on by a three-headed Cerberus just to appease a bodiless spirit throwing tantrums in the Albanian forests... it actually stirred a rare sense of appreciation within her.'What touching, pathetic loyalty.''A pity,' she thought, scraping the diced roots into her cauldron.'The master you currently serve is a useless piece of trash without even a body to call his own.'
The heavy toll of the bell echoed down the stone corridors, signaling the end of the period.
The Slytherins and Gryffindors scrambled to pack their brass scales and vials, fleeing the freezing dungeon as though escaping a collapsing cavern.
"Potter. Stay behind and scrub the cauldrons," Snape ordered, his voice cutting through the noise. He had found his daily excuse to torment the boy, clearly eager to retreat to his private office and tend to his bleeding leg.
"Professor."
A cool, melodic voice drifted through the emptying room.
Snape's spine locked entirely.
He turned slowly. The classroom was empty save for a miserable-looking Harry scrubbing away in the far corner, and Tamara Riddle. She had not joined the fleeing crowd. Instead, she stood quietly by the front lectern, her heavy textbooks clutched to her chest. Her pitch-black eyes were fixed directly on him.
That look. It was far too familiar.
That specific tilt of the chin. That calm, unblinking stare that silently evaluated everything in the room as if it were entirely beneath her. It was a perfect, chilling mirror of the Dark Lord from decades past.
"Miss Riddle?" Snape's right hand twitched, instinctively retreating a fraction of an inch into his dark sleeve, his fingers brushing the smooth wood of his wand. "Is there something else?"
"Your leg seems to be causing you quite a bit of trouble."
Tamara did not bother with pleasantries. She lowered her gaze to the hem of Snape's black robes, her tone laced with a perfectly calibrated layer of gentle concern.
Snape's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
She knew?
How could she possibly know? Had she been following him? Spying on the third-floor corridor?
"I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about," Snape replied, his voice dropping to a dangerous, silken whisper. "If you have no actual business here, Miss Riddle..."
"The teeth of a Cerberus carry a rather nasty, lingering cursed toxin. Standard healing charms are practically useless against it."
Tamara cut him off smoothly.
She took a single, deliberate step closer. Her voice dropped to a soft murmur, creating an intimate, conspiratorial atmosphere, as if they were old friends sharing a deeply guarded secret.
"If I were you, Professor, I would try adding a pinch of powdered Unicorn horn to your Essence of Dittany. The lacerations will close much faster that way."
Snape stared at her. All the color drained from his sallow face, leaving him looking like a corpse.
She didn't just know he was injured. She knew exactly what had bitten him.
A cold, creeping dread crawled up his spine, sinking its claws into his neck. How much did this eleven-year-old girl actually know? What was she playing at?
But Tamara's next words plunged him into an even deeper abyss of confusion and terror.
"You really are working far too hard, Professor."
Tamara looked up into Snape's eyes. To his absolute horror, a genuine flicker of admiration danced in her dark gaze.
"To be willing to take such a massive risk, even at the cost of your own physical well-being... it is quite something."
Snape's brow furrowed so deeply it looked carved from stone. His voice carried a microscopic, barely detectable tremor. "What exactly are you implying?"
Tamara blinked, her eyelashes fluttering with practiced innocence. "I am simply saying, you must have endured such a vicious injury for a very great purpose."
"But, Professor."
Her tone shifted, softening into something that sounded dangerously like pity.
"Certain purposes... might not be worth such a heavy price from a wizard of your caliber."
Having delivered her message, Tamara stepped back and offered a flawless, polite bow.
"Please take better care of your health, Professor. After all, Hogwarts still desperately needs talent like yours."
She turned gracefully, her dark robes swishing around her ankles, and walked out of the classroom. She left Severus Snape standing entirely alone in the freezing dungeon, chilled to the very marrow of his bones.
Snape gripped the edges of the wooden lectern. His knuckles strained against his skin, turning stark white.
"What... did she mean?"
His heart hammered violently against his ribs. There were layers upon layers to her words, hidden threats and acknowledgments that he could not even begin to untangle. What purpose did she think he was serving? Did she know about Dumbledore's orders? Did she know about the traps protecting the Stone?
He had no idea where her knowledge began or ended.
"Damn... Riddle."
Snape dragged in a ragged breath. The massive bite wound on his calf throbbed with renewed, vicious agony. The familiar, suffocating sensation of being watched by a coiled, venomous snake wrapped tightly around his throat.
Meanwhile, a floor above, Tamara strolled down the stone corridor in an exceptionally good mood.
'I think he should be able to feel my goodwill now,'she thought, a smug smile playing at the corners of her lips.'First, I show him some genuine care. I make him realize the stark contrast between the main soul's cold indifference and my own benevolence. Then, once the time is ripe, I will simply poach him from the main soul's ranks.'She adjusted the books in her arms, her step light and bouncy.'Such a highly skilled, loyal subordinate absolutely cannot be wasted on a wraith.'
Down in the dungeons, a terrified Potions Master prepared for war. Up in the corridors, a scheming Dark Lord patted herself on the back for excellent employee management. Both firmly believed they understood the other perfectly, but in reality, their trains of thought were separated by the entire width of the English Channel.
[Akarin's Note:
Enjoying the story? Dropping a quick review, comment, or Power Stone means the world to me and keeps these daily updates flowing!
Want to read 50 chapters ahead or just want to help keep a shameless translator alive? (My livelihood actually depends on this, haha 😭). You can support me directly here:
(P.S. Just remove the brackets and replace the [.] with a regular dot . to use the links!)
✨ Patreon (50 Advanced Chapters): patreon[.]com/AkarinTL
☕ Ko-fi (Support / Sponsor): ko-fi[.]com/AkarinTL
🔗 All My Links: linktr[.]ee/AkarinTL
Thank you so much for reading and keeping this project alive!]