Chapter 135: A Sincere Gift
"And what about you?"
Ron finally swallowed the massive bite of toast he had been chewing on, washing it down with a large gulp of pumpkin juice. He set his golden goblet down, his eyes darting suspiciously between his two best friends.
"Harry didn't send anything, so what about you, Hermione?"
Ron jabbed a thumb toward the staff table. Up at the high table, Gilderoy Lockhart was currently adjusting his golden curls in a silver hand mirror, flashing a dazzling smile at his own reflection. Ron made a face as if he had just swallowed a live flobberworm.
"Don't tell me you're one of those fools who sent Lockhart a Valentine's card? I saw it earlier—someone actually sent him a whole set of scented, signed photo albums! Merlin's beard, it's absolute madness."
"How could I!" Hermione retorted instantly, her nose wrinkling.
She shot a look of sheer disgust toward Lockhart, eyeing him the way one might look at a pile of damp, useless scrap paper.
"That blowhard is useless for anything except having white teeth. Sending him a gift would be a complete waste of my ink."
"Good." Ron let out a heavy sigh of relief, slumping slightly against the wooden bench. "I thought your brain had been fuddled by all those ridiculous pink decorations too."
"However..." Hermione let the word hang in the air. A mysterious, almost smug smile played on her lips. "I did send out a gift."
"To whom?" Ron pressed, leaning in closer over his plate of bacon.
Hermione did not answer immediately. Instead, her gaze swept across the Great Hall, landing squarely on the green and silver banners of the Slytherin table.
"I sent it to Tamara."
"What?!"
This time, it was Harry who nearly choked on his pumpkin juice. He stared at Hermione in utter disbelief, his green eyes wide behind his round glasses. She might as well have just announced she had mailed a box of chocolates to Voldemort.
"But... but Tamara never accepts gifts!" Harry stammered, glancing nervously across the hall. "You saw her earlier. She didn't even spare a single glance at the mountains of stuff people sent her. She actually looked a bit... repulsed."
A hint of subtle, lingering frustration colored Harry's voice. He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the edge of the carefully prepared card he had not dared to send. If he couldn't even muster the courage to hand over a simple greeting, how on earth had Hermione managed it?
"That is because your methods are completely wrong."
Hermione lifted her chin, wearing that uniquely proud, confident expression of a top-tier student who had just solved an impossible equation.
"Look at what those people are sending her. Suggestive chocolates, mushy love letters, and those gaudy flowers that have absolutely zero practical value. For someone with Tamara's personality, those things aren't just useless; they are a burden. An intrusion into her private space."
Hermione leaned across the table, lowering her voice as if imparting a highly classified Ministry secret.
"But what I sent is different. I sent a thank-you."
"A thank-you?" Harry and Ron exchanged utterly baffled glances.
"Exactly." Hermione nodded firmly. "To thank her for helping me out in the bathroom earlier this year. Even though her words were incredibly biting at the time, she did step in and help me. I have noticed a distinct pattern with her. While Tamara absolutely loathes it when people try to butter her up with cheap flattery, she does not seem to mind when people acknowledge her sheer ability and authority. As long as your gesture is based on genuine gratitude or respect for her strength, rather than sticky, sentimental affection, she usually... reluctantly accepts."
Across the Great Hall, at the Slytherin table.
Tamara Riddle sat with perfect, aristocratic posture, elegantly slicing a tender lamb chop on her silver plate. The Great Hall was a chaotic sea of pink confetti and floating cherubs, but her immediate vicinity remained an oasis of cold, untouchable calm.
Resting by her left hand, right next to a luxurious dark green velvet box sent by Malfoy, sat a simple, unadorned parchment card.
No floating pink hearts. No pungent, headache-inducing perfume.
Just a single line of exceedingly neat handwriting:
[To Tamara Riddle: Thank you for your previous help. I will keep this kindness in mind. — Hermione Granger]
Tamara cast a sidelong glance at the card. The corner of her mouth curled up in a microscopic, almost imperceptible arc.
'Even if she is a filthy mudblood...'Tamara snorted coldly in the dark recesses of her mind.'At least she understands basic etiquette and hierarchy far better than these brainless trolls who are only good for being in heat.'
This pure, unadulterated attitude of submission and gratitude toward the strong did indeed stroke her ego. It was the proper way lesser beings should address a Dark Lord.
However, this rare, fleeting moment of peace was destined to be shattered.
"Out of the way! Everyone move! I am the messenger of Cupid!"
A crude, grating shout suddenly violently ruptured the refined atmosphere of the Slytherin table.
A particularly hideous, foul-tempered dwarf—outfitted with a pair of cheap, golden wings that were half-falling off its back—was aggressively waving its thick, hairy arms. It forcefully shoved aside several older Slytherin students who tried to block its path, ignoring their indignant shouts.
The creature charged straight ahead like a rampaging Erumpent, its beady eyes locked dead onto Tamara.
"Tamara! I have a musical love poem for you!"
The dwarf leaped onto the polished wooden table with a heavy thud. Its large, mud-caked boots narrowly missed stomping directly into Tamara's plate of lamb chops, kicking up a spray of grease.
"Get down, you filthy beast!"
Draco, seated right beside her, instantly flew into a rage. His pale face flushed red as he yanked his hawthorn wand from his robes, fully prepared to blast the creature into the stone wall.
But the dwarf was surprisingly fast.
It lunged forward, its grubby fingers grabbing a fistful of the pristine hem of Tamara's school robes. It refused to let go, anchoring itself in place. With its free hand, it reached into its back pocket and yanked out a crumpled parcel. The package was dripping with a thick, dark red liquid.
Before Tamara could even react to the sheer audacity of the creature touching her, the dwarf crudely shoved the sodden mess directly into her hand.
"Take it! Someone specifically sent this just for you!"
The dwarf grinned broadly, revealing a crooked mouthful of rotting yellow teeth. It let out a sudden, blood-curdling, eerie cackle that echoed unnaturally over the chatter of the Great Hall.
Tamara's delicate brows furrowed sharply.
A heavy, metallic stench instantly invaded her nostrils. Her crimson eyes narrowed. That was not the smell of cheap red ink.
It was blood.
And not just any blood. It was fresh. The kind of blood that had just been drawn from a living vein, still carrying a sickly, lingering warmth through the damp parchment.
Tamara looked down at the ruined parcel resting against her pale skin.
The parchment, which should have contained some pathetic, rhyming drivel, was completely saturated in the red liquid. Smeared across the surface, written in manic, jagged, and violently crooked strokes, were several lines of text:
[Your eyes are like a fresh pickled toad...]
[Your hair is as black as a blackboard...]
[I wish you would stay with me forever...]
[In this... cold... Chamber of Secrets...]
The final few words were heavily blurred into a dark, coagulating red smudge due to the sheer excess of blood. The stain pooled at the bottom of the parchment, forming a shape that looked disturbingly like a weeping, bleeding skull.
The immediate surroundings instantly fell dead silent.
The clinking of silverware stopped. The chatter died in the throats of the surrounding Slytherins. Even the most obtuse, thick-headed student in the vicinity could sense the heavy, suffocating aura of sheer malice and eeriness radiating from the dripping parchment.
"Who sent this?!" Draco stared at the bloody parcel, all the color draining from his pointed face. He instinctively leaned back, his wand trembling slightly. "This is practically... a Dark Magic curse!"
The dwarf did not bother to answer. Having successfully completed its assigned task, it let out another strange, grating cry. Flapping its ridiculous, molting golden wings, it scrambled off the table and sprinted away, fleeing the scene before anyone could hex it.
Meanwhile, hidden away in a far corner of the Gryffindor table...
Ginny Weasley sat with her head bowed, mechanically lifting a forkful of eggs to her mouth. Her brown eyes were entirely vacant, glazed over with a dull, lifeless sheen, as if she were completely disconnected from the waking world and entirely unaware of the commotion she had just caused.
In her own fragmented memory, she had merely asked the dwarf to deliver a beautifully bound copy of "Medieval Sonnets" she had carefully picked out from a second-hand bookstore. It was meant to be a simple, earnest expression of her deep admiration for her brilliant senior, Tamara.
The poor girl had absolutely no idea.
She did not know that the very second the parcel left her trembling hands, her consciousness had slipped. The gift had been hijacked and swapped by the dark, awakening remnant soul lurking within her diary.
And at that exact moment, deep within the furious, calculating void of Tamara's mind, a long-absent, blindingly cheerful blue pop-up window materialized.
[Ding! Detected that the Host has received a special gift "full of deep affection"!]
[System Judgment: This is a handmade gift full of unique personality and "sincere emotion"!]
Tamara stared down at the still-dripping, blood-soaked 'sincere gift'. A blue vein throbbed violently at her temple.
'Sincere?'she thought, a hysterical, murderous laugh bubbling up in her throat.'If this bloody, threatening garbage counts as sincere, then I, Lord Voldemort, am the most benevolent, kind-hearted saint to ever walk the earth. The Wizengamot should drag themselves here on their knees and award me an Order of Merlin, First Class, just to recognize my sincere, lifelong contributions to maintaining the population balance of the wizarding world!'
[Triggered Task: Reciprocity.]
[As the most popular, beloved student at Hogwarts, how can you possibly fail to live up to a sweet junior's earnest feelings?]
[Task: Please hand-make a gift full of heart within 24 hours and present it to Ginny Weasley in return.]
[Note: The gift must be purely handmade. You cannot use ready-made store-bought items, nor can you use magic to directly transfigure the final product.]
[Failure Penalty: Loudly recite this bloody love poem in front of the entire school during dinner, and provide a deeply soulful, emotional verbal response.]
Tamara took a slow, agonizingly deep breath.
Her slender fingers tightened around the handle of her heavy silver steak knife. Without applying any visible physical use, the solid metal slowly began to groan, bending and deforming between her pale fingers as if it were made of warm wax.
The fragment of dark, ancient power she had recently devoured back into her soul was throbbing wildly at her fingertips, connecting with her explosive, murderous rage. If she had not desperately clamped down on her own magic, the sheer force of her aura would have flipped the entire heavy oak table into the air and shattered every window in the Great Hall.
'Very well,' she thought, her eyes flashing with a dangerous, lethal glint.
Not only did she have to sit here and endure this grotesque mental pollution from her own rogue horcrux... but she also had to craft a gift in return?
And where exactly was she supposed to find materials for a purely handmade gift on such short notice? Her pitiful, meager stock of crafting supplies—the special wood inhabited by Bowtruckles that she had painstakingly hoarded to deal with the System's ridiculous tasks back in her first year—had long since been depleted.
Her face a mask of terrifying, expressionless calm, Tamara casually flicked her wand. A burst of intense, localized heat ignited the bloody parcel. She sat in silence, watching the grotesque poem curl, blacken, and turn to fine ash in the magical flames.
Then, she stood up abruptly, the legs of her chair scraping loudly against the stone floor.
"Where are you going, Tamara?" Draco asked, his voice tight with caution. He had known her long enough to recognize the lethal, freezing stillness in her posture. Her expression was completely unreadable, which was always when she was at her most dangerous.
Tamara did not look back. She stared straight ahead toward the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall, spitting out a single, freezing sentence.
"To find... materials worthy of this generous gift."
[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!]