Chapter 168: Obligation to Inform
The rhythmic, metallic clatter of the Hogwarts Express wheels provided a soothing backdrop to an unusually tranquil return journey. Tamara had claimed a spacious, first-class compartment entirely for herself. Not a single soul dared to slide the frosted glass door open to disturb her.
The reason for her isolation was laughably simple. A faint, jagged outline of a dark magic backlash mark still marred the pale skin of her neck. To the pathetic, sentimental fools of Hogwarts, that ugly scar was a glorious, agonizing medal of honor—proof of a selfless hero who had bled to save her companions. They whispered among themselves that what "poor, brave Tamara" needed most was peace and quiet. To interrupt her recovery would be a gross desecration of her noble sacrifice.
Their collective delusion granted her exactly what she wanted: absolute silence.
The compartment door remained firmly locked. Tamara leaned back against the plush velvet upholstery, her face a mask of cold, porcelain indifference as rolling green fields and quaint Muggle villages blurred past the rain-streaked window. Her slender fingers idly twirled her yew wand, feeling the familiar, comforting grain of the wood, while her other hand rested inside her pocket, thumb brushing against a crumpled parchment reply.
Only last night, she had used a highly secure, untraceable method to issue her commands to Quirrell. The stuttering fool was currently cowering in the shadows, but she had ordered him back to Britain to collect her and escort her to the forests of Albania.
Thanks to the relentless chaos surrounding the Chamber of Secrets, the Ministry of Magic's Aurors were currently operating on a hair-trigger. Their nerves were frayed to the breaking point. Considering Quirrell was officially a Defense Against the Dark Arts professor whose status was currently listed as missing and presumed dead or dangerous, him strolling casually into King's Cross Station would invite a swarm of Ministry operatives.
To avoid such a headache, Tamara had arranged their rendezvous at a location she utterly despised, yet found necessary as a blind spot: Wool's Orphanage. She had underlined the word prudence three times in her letter. She required Quirrell to disguise himself so thoroughly that he would not arouse a shred of suspicion from either Ministry watchdogs or filthy Muggles.
She harbored zero illusions about Quirrell's actual competence, but the man was a groveling coward. His subservient terror guaranteed he wouldn't dare deviate a single inch from his master's explicit instructions.
'Finally...'
Tamara let her eyelids flutter shut, drawing in a long, slow breath. As the scarlet steam engine carried her further and further away from the Scottish Highlands, the suffocating, invisible net of Dumbledore's constant surveillance began to lift. The nauseating weight of the Savior's idiotic, puppy-dog concern faded. Even the System's sickeningly cheerful, saccharine chimes about love and friendship seemed to quiet down, peeling away from her consciousness layer by layer.
Her second year at Hogwarts was officially over.
The next two months belonged exclusively to the Dark Lord.
A piercing, drawn-out whistle shattered her quiet reverie as the scarlet engine hissed and ground to a halt at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. Instantly, the muffled silence of her compartment was replaced by a chaotic wall of sound—the shrill clamor of reunited families, the agitated hooting of caged owls, and the heavy, metallic clattering of brass-bound trunks hitting the stone platform.
Tamara smoothed her robes, arranged her features into a mask of polite, weary grace, and pushed her luggage cart out into the damp London air.
The platform was a sea of embracing parents and chattering students. Yet, the very second Tamara's polished shoes touched the stone, she felt the distinct, heavy weight of multiple stares locking onto her. Her dark eyes flicked sideways, catching the lingering gazes of several adult wizards and witches—the elite heads of various pure-blood families.
It was glaringly obvious they had spent the last few months reading frantic letters from their heirs, detailing the terrifying and impressive exploits of the enigmatic Miss Riddle. They watched her with a mixture of intense curiosity and deep-seated apprehension. For their own calculated reasons, they kept their distance, choosing not to initiate conversation.
Except, of course, for the Malfoys.
"Father. Mother." Draco's voice cut through the din as he hurried toward a striking, immaculately dressed couple standing near a wrought-iron pillar.
Narcissa Malfoy offered a rare, soft smile, her gloved hand gently smoothing her son's sleek blond hair. Lucius, however, barely spared a glance for his heir. His pale, sharp eyes were entirely fixed on the black-haired girl slowly approaching their position.
As Tamara drew near, Lucius's knuckles turned white. His grip tightened imperceptibly around the silver snake-head of his walking cane. A phantom sensation—the suffocating, icy terror of being throttled by a massive venomous serpent—crawled up his throat, a lingering trauma from their previous two encounters. He swallowed hard. He was the head of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Malfoy; he could not afford to look weak in public.
Forcing down his instinctive, shivering discomfort, Lucius offered a measured, perfectly polite bow. When he spoke, his voice carried that signature, aristocratic drawl.
"Miss Riddle."
"Draco has been quite... full of praise for you in his recent letters," Lucius began, his tone smooth as glass. ", as a school governor, I feel it is my duty to personally thank you for everything you have done to uphold the honor of Slytherin House during this unfortunate Chamber of Secrets incident..."
Lucius paused. A flicker of intense, carefully masked wariness and probing inquiry flashed within his pale grey eyes.
"...your outstanding contribution will not be forgotten."
He enunciated each syllable a fraction slower than usual, his cadence deliberate and cautious, like a man blindfolded and tiptoeing through a dragon's nesting ground.
Tamara's internal sneer was vicious, though her face remained a picture of serene modesty. She saw right through his aristocratic posturing. This slippery, opportunistic Death Eater had been reduced to a startled bird. He was only standing here, testing the waters, because he was desperate to confirm if this brilliant, terrifying orphan girl truly possessed a direct connection to the Dark Lord. If she did, this cunning old fox would need to immediately tear up his current political playbook, reassess his allegiances, and start groveling early to ensure the survival of his precious House.
"It was merely my duty to my House, Mr. Malfoy," Tamara replied. Her voice was perfectly flat—neither welcoming nor overtly hostile. It was a masterclass in condescending composure, offering him absolutely nothing to grasp onto.
Faced with her airtight, impenetrable defense, Lucius's eyes narrowed a fraction. He opened his mouth, preparing to probe a little deeper.
Before the patriarch could speak, Draco eagerly interjected. "Tamara, do you have any set plans for the summer holidays? If not, my father and I would be honored if you came to stay at Malfoy Manor."
Draco puffed his chest out slightly, his grey eyes shining with eager anticipation. "Mother has just finished redesigning the gardens, and our private library contains countless rare editions of ancient spellbooks. I'm sure you'd find them fascinating..."
Tamara did not answer immediately.
Her dark, calculating gaze drifted right past Draco's hopeful expression and Lucius's sharp scrutiny. Instead, her eyes locked onto an inconspicuous shadow near the hem of Lucius's sweeping black robes.
Cowering there, trembling so violently its bony knees knocked together, was a House-elf. It was dressed in a filthy, ragged pillowcase. Its massive, bat-like ears drooped pitifully against its head, and its bulging, tennis-ball-sized green eyes were blown wide with sheer, unadulterated terror. Its spindly fingers were frantically twisting and pulling at its own ears.
It was Dobby.
A spark of wicked, sadistic amusement flared in the depths of Tamara's eyes.
"A visit won't be necessary, Draco," Tamara said, her tone polite but carrying a glacial finality that brooked no argument. "I have other, far more pressing matters to attend to this summer."
She completely ignored the crestfallen look that instantly washed over the Malfoy heir's face. Her undivided attention was now fixed on the shivering creature by his father's boots.
"However..."
The corners of Tamara's lips curled upward into a very strange, very sharp smile. She took a slow, deliberate step forward, closing the distance until she was standing directly in front of Lucius.
"I must admit, I am rather surprised to discover that this particular House-elf belongs to the House of Malfoy."
The moment those words left her mouth, Dobby let out a high-pitched, strangled shriek. The elf threw its hands over its head and scrambled backward, desperately trying to fold itself into the fabric of Lucius's cloak to hide from her gaze.
Lucius's brow furrowed in deep disgust. He looked down at the pathetic, whimpering creature dirtying his robes and sneered, before turning his attention back to the girl. His tone was laced with renewed, sharp wariness.
"Why do you ask, Miss Riddle? Is there some sort of... problem with Dobby?"
"A problem?"
Tamara let out a soft, airy chuckle. There was absolutely zero warmth in the sound; it was a hollow, melodic noise laced with a concentrated malice that could freeze the marrow in a man's bones.
"Oh, of course there is no problem, Mr. Malfoy. I merely find it... endlessly fascinating."
She tilted her head, her dark eyes narrowing into dangerous slits as she spoke with a casual, deadly grace.
"You see, during this rather brief school year, I have personally encountered this very House-elf on two separate occasions within the halls of Hogwarts."
She watched with immense satisfaction as Lucius's aristocratic mask cracked, his posture instantly stiffening into rigid shock. The cruel smile on Tamara's lips deepened.
"And, by some miraculous coincidence, on both of those occasions, it was standing loyally by Harry Potter's side."
She let the silence stretch for a fraction of a second, letting the poison seep into Lucius's mind.
"Honestly, Mr. Malfoy," she murmured, her voice dripping with dark amusement, "if I hadn't seen the creature trailing at your heels today, I would have sworn upon my magic... that it was a devoted servant, left behind by the late Potter family to protect their precious Boy-Who-Lived."
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