Chapter 164: Undying
Tamara wrenched her head away in sheer disgust. She refused to waste another second looking at the blundering idiot who was single-handedly sending her blood pressure skyrocketing. 'Foolish, incompetent Gryffindors,' she cursed internally, her jaw locking tight.
Yet, the moment she broke eye contact, the adrenaline that had been keeping her upright evaporated. Her blood pressure plummeted just as rapidly as it had spiked. The brutal backlash of overdrawing her magical core and physical stamina crashed over her like a freezing tidal wave. The damp stone walls of the Chamber of Secrets blurred into a dizzying smear of gray and green. Her knees buckled, and her slender frame swayed violently.
"Tamara!"
Harry shouted, his voice cracking. He lunged forward, his hands reaching out to steady her collapsing form. But Draco was faster. The blonde boy darted in, catching Tamara by the arm just a fraction of a second before Harry could make contact.
"Don't touch me..."
Tamara hissed, her voice a fragile, venomous whisper. She slapped blindly at Harry's outstretched hand. The defensive motion was far too abrupt for her weakened state. The violent jerk pulled at the fabric of her already torn and disheveled school robes. The dark collar slipped sideways, exposing a stretch of her throat that should have been pristine, pale, and smooth.
In the dim, eerie greenish luminescence radiating from the Chamber's stagnant waters, Harry caught sight of it.
The air vanished from his lungs. His breath hitched, trapping a gasp in his throat.
Stamped across Tamara's slender neck was a horrifying ring of bruises. This was no ordinary injury sustained from a fall or a stray spell. It was a perfect, brutal ring of deep purple and blackened-red fingerprints. The edges of the welts were spider-webbed with morbid, bloody streaks—the physical manifestation of the violent backlash caused by soul resonance and raw Dark Magic.
The skin itself remained unbroken, yet the swollen, purplish-red marks looked utterly grotesque, screaming in stark contrast against her deathly pale complexion. It looked exactly as though an invisible, demonic serpent had coiled tightly around her throat, trying to crush the life out of her. It was a silent, damning testimony to the sheer brutality of the life-and-death struggle she had just endured.
Harry stood paralyzed. Every word he wanted to say turned to ash in his mouth. His green eyes widened in absolute shock and horror.
'She used her own life force to fight the monster inside Ginny,'he realized, his chest tightening with a suffocating wave of guilt.'She endured unimaginable pain, absorbing the dark backlash directly into her own body just to extract that parasite from Ginny's soul.'
In his mind, the narrative was perfectly, tragically clear. To save a first-year Gryffindor she barely knew, Tamara had deliberately held back any offensive magic that might have harmed the girl, choosing instead to bear the brunt of a fatal curse herself. He thought back to just moments ago—how she had dragged her battered, near-dead body upright, forcing herself to stand tall. How she had used the cruelest, harshest words imaginable to stop Neville from blindly provoking the Basilisk, playing the villain purely to protect them all.
Moved by a deep, agonizing gratitude, Harry reached out again, his hand trembling as if possessed.
"Tamara... your neck..."
Tamara lowered her chin, her dark eyes tracking his horrified gaze.
A sharp, stinging burn flared across her throat. It was the lingering rot of the Dark Magic backlash. She knew perfectly well that standard healing charms or a few drops of Essence of Dittany would do absolutely nothing to clear it. She would simply have to endure the phantom strangulation until the dark residue faded on its own.
To her, physical pain was entirely secondary. It was nothing.
But the moment she realized this ugly, glaring mark of weakness was fully exposed to Harry Potter... A violent surge of pure, unadulterated humiliation boiled over in her chest.
To the Dark Lord, scars were not badges of honor. They were a supreme disgrace. They were a permanent, mocking reminder of her own insufficient power, a branding of failure. And to have this failure witnessed by the foolish Savior—to be subjected to his nauseating, pity-filled gaze—was intolerable. The sensation of having her vulnerability laid bare before her destined enemy made her skin crawl with agitation.
Smack.
Tamara ruthlessly struck Harry's hovering hand away, her remaining strength channeled into that single, vicious slap. She snatched the collar of her ruined robe and yanked it up tight, burying the bruised flesh back into the shadows.
"Wipe that disgusting expression off your face, Potter," she spat.
When she raised her head, her pitch-black eyes were absolute voids, radiating a freezing, murderous chill.
"It is merely a bit of Dark Magic backlash. It will not kill me."
A split second later, the hairs on the back of Tamara's neck stood on end. Her finely tuned instincts flared. She whipped her head around, her dark gaze locking onto the massive, golden-red bird circling lazily above Neville's head.
Fawkes.
The phoenix beat its brilliant, fiery wings, hovering in the damp air. Its ancient, overly intelligent eyes were fixed quietly upon her. The creature's gaze felt heavy, almost invasive, as if those golden irises could pierce straight through her porcelain skin and stare directly into her rotting, fragmented soul.
Tamara's lips curled into a sneer of absolute disgust.
'Dumbledore's feathered spy.'
As long as that wretched beast remained in the Chamber, it meant the old fox's omniscient gaze was already upon them. Every detail of her current, pathetic state, and every single event that had transpired in the depths of Slytherin's domain, had undoubtedly been broadcast straight back to Albus Dumbledore through the eyes of his pet.
There was zero value in remaining here. Lingering would only subject her to the suffocating, cheap sympathy of these brainless Gryffindors and the calculating scrutiny of the Headmaster.
"Malfoy."
Tamara's voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet the icy, imperious command layered within it was absolute.
Draco flinched, his shoulders jumping before he immediately scrambled to her side like an obedient hound.
"There is nothing left to stay here for."
She did not spare Harry a single backward glance. Instead, she pivoted sharply toward the darkest corner of the cavernous hall. Hidden within the shadows of the stone pillars lay a concealed corridor—a secret stairwell left behind by Salazar Slytherin, accessible only to his true Heir.
She was, of course, acutely aware that splintering from the main group right now would inevitably invite Dumbledore's suspicion. The old man would investigate. He would pry.
'But so what?' she thought, her eyes narrowing into dangerous slits.
The alternative was unthinkable. She refused to be hauled up the pipes like some helpless, pathetic burden clinging to the tail feathers of that damn phoenix. She refused to collapse onto the plush rugs of the Headmaster's office in this weakened, wretched state, only to endure an endless, relentless interrogation from the greatest wizard of the age while she could barely stand.
She would rather take the risk of handling the dark alone. At worst, she could fabricate some pathetic, teary-eyed excuse later. She would simply claim she had panicked, fumbled blindly along the damp walls in terror, and accidentally triggered an ancient mechanism. The old fool loved a tragic victim.
For the Dark Lord, the rule was absolute: even in retreat, one must never, ever surrender the initiative to the enemy.
"Let us go."
Draco fell into step closely behind her. Before stepping into the gloom, he cast one final, immensely smug sneer over his shoulder at Harry. Within seconds, the heavy shadows swallowed their figures, leaving the Gryffindors behind.
Harry remained rooted to the spot. The hand she had struck away hovered uselessly in the damp air. His fingertips tingled, still retaining the ghostly, freezing chill of Tamara's skin.
The silence in the Chamber felt oppressive. After what felt like an eternity, he slowly curled his fingers into a fist and let his arm drop to his side. A bitter, self-deprecating smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Yeah... it won't kill you," he murmured to the empty shadows. "As long as it doesn't kill you... nothing else matters, right?"
His voice echoed faintly off the wet stone, heavy with a deep, crushing sense of powerlessness.
His quiet despair was abruptly shattered by a loud, echoing shout from behind.
"Harry! Stop daydreaming!"
Harry sucked in a sharp breath. He blinked hard, forcing the stinging moisture and superfluous emotions out of his eyes before turning around.
Ron was trudging through the shallow, murky water, his face smeared with a thick layer of mud, soot, and sweat. He was panting heavily, his arms straining as he awkwardly supported the unconscious weight of his little sister, Ginny.
"Come over here and lend a hand, mate!" Ron yelled, his voice cracking with exhaustion. "It's too bloody hard for Neville to drag Professor Lockhart all by himself! Go help him!"
Ron paused to catch his breath, his eyes darting toward the pitch-black corridor where Tamara and Malfoy had just vanished. He pursed his lips, his freckled face twisting in deep annoyance.
"Typical Slytherin behavior," Ron grumbled loudly, making sure his voice echoed off the walls. "The second the actual life-threatening crisis is over, they leg it faster than a Golden Snitch! Can't even be bothered to stick around and help carry the wounded out. Absolutely stinking attitude, the lot of them!"
Harry's boots splashed through the puddles, his steps faltering slightly at Ron's words.
He didn't snap back. He knew Ron wasn't harboring any genuine, deep-seated hatred for Tamara right now; this was just the standard, habitual grumbling a Gryffindor fell back on when faced with that trademark Slytherin arrogance.
After all, if Harry hadn't witnessed the truth with his own eyes—if he hadn't seen Tamara repeatedly step into the jaws of death at the most critical moments to save him and everyone else... He would probably be standing right next to Ron, complaining about the beautiful, cold-hearted, and utterly unapproachable Slytherin ice queen.
Harry opened his mouth, wanting to defend her. He wanted to tell Ron about the horrifying bruises circling her throat. But the words died on his tongue.
He couldn't offer any rebuttal or explanation, because he finally understood. Tamara didn't care about their misunderstandings. She welcomed them. She was deliberately using this vile, abrasive attitude as a shield, intentionally pushing everyone away so she could suffer in isolation.
"Coming," Harry finally called back, his voice thick.
He bent down, his fingers closing around the ruby-encrusted hilt of the Sword of Gryffindor where it lay half-submerged in the dark water. He hoisted the heavy blade, preparing to trudge over to Neville.
But before he could take another step.
"Tamara! What's wrong with you?!"
A shrill, terrified cry ripped through the silence, echoing violently from the pitch-black corridor where the two Slytherins had just disappeared.
It was Draco Malfoy's voice. The usual aristocratic drawl was completely gone, replaced by raw, undisguised panic and utter helplessness.
"Potter! Weasley! Get over here! Hurry!!!"
Harry's heart seized in his chest. He didn't even bother to sheathe the sword. He simply dropped it with a loud clang and sprinted madly toward the yawning mouth of the dark passage.
When he plunged into the shadows, the sight that greeted him made his blood run cold.
The proud Slytherin girl—the one who, mere seconds ago, had stood with her spine perfectly straight, berating them with razor-sharp insults and projecting an aura of absolute invincibility—was now crumpled lifelessly on the damp stone floor.
Draco was on his knees beside her. His pale hands clutched his hawthorn wand, shaking so violently he could barely keep it pointed at her chest. He was frantically, incoherently casting the reviving spell, his voice cracking with desperation.
"Rennervate! Dammit... Rennervate! Why isn't it working?!"
Hearing Harry's frantic footsteps splashing into the corridor, Draco whipped his head around. His pale face was a mask of unconcealable terror, but the moment he registered the Gryffindors, instinct took over. He desperately tried to pull his crumbling aristocratic mask back into place, puffing up his chest in a pathetic attempt to look commanding.
"What are you standing there like gawking idiots for?!" Draco shrieked, his voice betraying his fear. "Come help! She just... she just suddenly collapsed while walking! It must be you bunch of Gryffindor parasites! You completely drained her magical strength!"
Harry ignored the blonde boy's hysterical accusations. He slid to his knees on the hard stone, his trembling fingers reaching out to hover just beneath Tamara's nose.
Her breath was terrifyingly shallow. Almost non-existent.
Her skin felt like solid ice, the body temperature dropping to a frightening degree. Stripped of the shadows, the purple and blood-red ring of the Dark Magic backlash on her neck looked even more grotesque, a vivid brand of death against her porcelain skin.
'Saying it won't kill her, yet collapsing flat on the ground the moment she's out of sight.'
"Liar..." Harry gritted his teeth, the curse echoing silently in his breaking heart.
He whipped his head around, his desperate green eyes locking onto the fiery plumage of the phoenix still circling in the cavernous space behind them.
"Fawkes!" Harry roared, his voice tearing through the Chamber of Secrets. "We need to get out of here! Take her to the Hospital Wing! Now!"
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