Chapter 167: Rewards
The hideous, jagged marks of the dark magic backlash on Tamara's pale neck had finally begun to recede after days of treatment in the Hospital Wing. They faded into slender, light red streaks, easily concealed beneath the stiff, high collar of her uniform. Yet, lying trapped in this sterile bed proved infinitely more agonizing than crossing wands with her own fractured soul down in the damp, rotting Chamber of Secrets.
Every single morning, a fresh mountain of garish, homemade Weasley confections and overly sentimental thank-you cards buried her bedside table without fail. Worse still was the youngest Weasley. Ginny haunted the neighboring bed like a ginger-haired poltergeist, her wide, guilt-ridden eyes constantly tracking Tamara's every breath from behind the privacy screens. And that was not even counting the endless parade of simpering dunderheads who dared to visit her over and over again under the presumptuous banner of friends.
Yet, of all the insufferable pests, the absolute worst was Gilderoy Lockhart.
The former Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor had finally regained consciousness. Exactly as Tamara had calculated, absorbing two consecutive, unreserved Memory Charms, compounded by a brutal, skull-rattling physical strike from a sixty-foot Basilisk, had utterly pulverized the man's already pathetic excuse for a brain.
He no longer possessed the faintest recollection of his past life as a parasitic fraud who built a career stealing the achievements of greater witches and wizards. He had even lost his grasp on the most basic magical concepts. However, the singular, manufactured obsession Tamara had violently carved into his fractured psyche remained seared there like a branding iron. He genuinely, fervently believed he was a valiant savior who had sacrificed himself to shield his students.
On the morning of his official discharge, the imbecile made a deliberate detour to her bed.
"Oh! Miss Riddle!"
Lockhart limped forward. His blond hair was entirely hidden beneath thick, comical layers of white bandages, but his eyes swam with thick, genuine tears. A sickeningly pure smile stretched across his face.
"It was you... it was your deep words, so brimming with wisdom and encouragement, that ignited the true light deep within my soul during our darkest hour!"
He clenched his fists against his chest, his voice hitching with a wet sob.
"If you had not guided me in that pitch-black tunnel, if you had not reminded me of the heavy mantle of heroism, I might never have tasted the sheer, euphoric joy of laying down my life to protect the innocent!"
"I have made my decision!"
Lockhart threw his shoulders back, striking a dramatic pose as he stared out the tall hospital windows toward the distant mountains.
"I am resigning from my post at Hogwarts! I shall travel the globe! I will dedicate my existence to truly aiding the downtrodden! Even without a wand, I shall wield this heart, overflowing with love, as my ultimate weapon against the forces of darkness!"
Tamara sat rigidly against her pillows. Her face was a mask of deadpan apathy as she stared at the blubbering fool practically glowing with the aura of a holy martyr. A familiar, violent throbbing began to pulse behind her eyes. Her blood pressure spiked dangerously. She had only wanted a convenient meat shield to absorb the Basilisk's initial strike, while simultaneously exacting petty vengeance on the charlatan who had dared to occupy the teaching post she had once coveted.
[Ding! Congratulations to the host! Hidden Achievement Completed: A Prodigal Son Returns!]
The accursed, chipper voice of the Virtue System erupted inside her skull, accompanied by the imaginary sound of popping confetti cannons and raining flower petals.
[Heavens above! What an absolutely monumental feat! You have not only preserved the precious lives of your fellow students, but you have successfully purified the corrupted soul of a fallen adult wizard! Your boundless kindness radiates with the warmth of the summer sun! You are practically a walking moral lighthouse for the entire wizarding world!]
[Reward: Cheering Charm, a delightful little spell guaranteed to bring a smile to anyone's face!]
"Get out..." Tamara rasped, her voice dangerously thin.
Listening to this drivel made her feel infinitely more nauseous than if someone had forced a live, skinned toad down her throat. Her fingers twitched against the bedsheets, aching for the familiar weight of her wand. Oh, how she yearned to raise it, point it directly between Lockhart's tear-filled eyes, and paint the ward green with a Killing Curse.
Alas, her torment for the day was far from over.
By mid-afternoon, Madam Pomfrey had finally completed the long-awaited Mandrake Restorative Draught. The petrified victims were revived one by one, shaking off their stony paralysis. Naturally, this included the most insufferable know-it-all of them all, Hermione Granger.
The moment Hermione extracted the full, harrowing tale of the Chamber of Secrets from Harry and Ron, the moment she learned exactly who had stood bleeding and broken to shield them all, the typically logical, rule-abiding Gryffindor completely shattered.
"Tamara!"
A wet, strangled cry tore through the quiet ward. A chaotic blur of bushy brown curls barreled into Tamara's line of sight like a derailed Hogwarts Express.
Before the Dark Lord could even attempt to dodge, Hermione lunged. She threw her arms around Tamara's neck, crushing her in a vice-like embrace.
"I knew it... I just knew you would figure it all out!"
Hermione buried her face deep into Tamara's shoulder, abandoning all dignity as she wailed. Hot, obnoxious tears immediately soaked through the thin fabric of Tamara's hospital gown, clinging uncomfortably to her skin.
"Harry told me everything..." Hermione choked out, her voice muffled. "You took such a horrific curse just to save Ginny..."
The Gryffindor pulled back slightly, her red, puffy eyes dropping to Tamara's slightly parted collar. The moment she laid eyes on the jagged, faded scar, a mark that still pulsed with the faint, sickening residue of dark magic, Hermione let out a fresh sob. Her arms clamped down even harder.
"Merlin, that must have been agonizing... You absolute fool, why do you always throw yourself into danger for us?"
She was being manhandled. By a mudblood. A mudblood who was currently exhaling warm, damp breath directly against her neck.
The sheer audacity of the physical contact sent a violent jolt of revulsion down Tamara's spine. Every muscle in her body locked into rigid stone. Her right hand twitched upward, entirely on instinct, preparing to blast the filthy little Gryffindor through the nearest stone wall with a wandless Knockback Jinx.
Her fingers curled into a claw, halfway raised. Then, a cold bucket of logic splashed over her murderous intent. Dumbledore's suspicion meter currently sat at a precarious fifteen percent.
Grinding her teeth together so hard her jaw ached, Tamara forced her hand to open. She lowered it, resting her palm awkwardly against the trembling girl's back. She patted Hermione's spine with the stiff, mechanical rhythm of someone testing the sturdiness of a wooden plank.
"That is quite enough, Granger," Tamara deadpanned, staring blankly up at the vaulted ceiling. Her exquisite, pale features radiated an absolute, deep exhaustion with the concept of existence itself. "If you do not release me this instant, I am going to be the first student in history to be strangled to death in the Hospital Wing."
The end-of-term feast commenced that evening, bathing the Great Hall in the warm, golden glow of thousands of floating candles. To celebrate their survival of the Chamber of Secrets crisis, Dumbledore had officially canceled all final exams, sending the entire student body into a state of absolute, deafening hysteria.
Harry, Ron, and Neville had each been awarded a staggering two hundred points for their reckless Gryffindor bravery down in the Chamber. Yet, even that ridiculous sum could not bridge the massive gap Slytherin had maintained all year. Besides, Tamara and Draco had also been front and center during the rescue operation.
When Dumbledore finally announced that Slytherin had secured the House Cup for yet another consecutive year, the banners draped high above the Great Hall instantly bled into rich emerald green and shimmering silver. A colossal serpent crest unfurled across the enchanted ceiling, rippling proudly in the phantom wind.
However, a strange phenomenon occurred. To the utter bewilderment of the other three houses, the Slytherin table did not immediately erupt into raucous cheering.
Most Slytherin students, though fierce, triumphant joy danced in their eyes, collectively swallowed their voices. Bound by an unspoken, ironclad discipline, hundreds of heads turned in unison. Their gazes locked onto the slender, black-haired girl seated quietly at the very head of their long table.
The sheer chaos of the past academic year, particularly the terrifying window when Dumbledore had been ousted from the castle, had cemented Tamara's absolute authority. She had quietly, ruthlessly rewritten the internal power structure of the snake pit.
Throughout the long, agonizing months when Hogwarts drowned in the paranoia of the Heir of Slytherin, Tamara had been the anchor. She had stepped forward time and time again. Through perfectly calculated, highly inflammatory rhetoric, she had stabilized their fractured morale at the most chaotic moments. Every single move she made, every word she spoke, had fiercely protected the aristocratic pride of Slytherin House to the extreme.
To these students, raised from birth to worship power and revere cunning, the terrifying competence and cold audacity Tamara displayed commanded far more respect than a piece of tin pinned to a prefect's chest. Even the handful of upperclassmen who privately bristled at taking silent orders from a second-year girl knew better than to voice their complaints. In the face of her overwhelming magical strength and the fanatical loyalty she inspired in the masses, they had no choice but to bow their heads.
They were waiting.
Seated at the epicenter of this heavy, expectant silence, Tamara merely stared up at the silver serpent banner. Her dark eyes were entirely placid, looking almost bored by the Headmaster's grand declaration.
In a brief yet incredibly subtle silence, she slowly raised her pale, delicate hands. Clap. Clap. Two crisp, leisurely strikes of her palms echoed sharply over the silver plates.
That was the spark. In the very next fraction of a second, a deafening, thunderous roar of jubilation detonated from the Slytherin table. Only then did Draco allow himself to cheer, slamming his hands together until his palms flushed red, rattling the golden goblets against the oak wood.
Looking at their flushed, ecstatic faces, it became chillingly clear: what he and the other Slytherins were celebrating was no longer a mere school trophy awarded by Albus Dumbledore. They were roaring for their invincible Queen.
Up at the staff table, the Headmaster missed none of this terrifying display of absolute fealty.
Dumbledore's hand, halfway through raising his own goblet, froze in mid-air. Behind his half-moon spectacles, his piercing blue eyes locked deeply onto the black-haired girl holding court at the serpent's table.
In that fleeting second, the ancient wizard seemed to see once again that devastatingly handsome youth from fifty years ago, sitting in that exact same chair, surrounded by a group of rapt followers. In fact, at this very moment, she was infinitely more flamboyant, radiating a far more alarming aggression than Tom Riddle ever had back then.
[Ding—System Emergency Alert!]
The shrill, panic-stricken wail of the Virtue System sliced through her thoughts like a rusty blade.
[Detected a severe spike in Principal Albus Dumbledore's danger assessment of the host! Current suspicion level has soared to: 25%! Warning! Please immediately suppress your villainous aura and maintain the low-profile, friendly top-student persona!]
Hearing the alarm in her head, Tamara casually picked up her silver goblet. The microscopic, polite smile resting on her lips actually deepened a few degrees, sharpening into something dangerous.
'Twenty-five percent? Let him suspect.'
A cold, contemptuous sneer echoed through the dark corridors of her mind.
Earlier, in the Hospital Wing, that fifteen percent had genuinely irritated her. She had been physically drained, recovering from a life-and-death battle, and she despised any variable that escaped her absolute control.
But now? Looking at these proud, arrogant pure-blood wizards who were in an absolute frenzy because of her, feeling the intoxicating, narcotic rush of holding power firmly in her palm... Tamara could not care less about the old fool's pathetic paranoia.
She was the Dark Lord, born to sit upon a throne. If she had to spend her second life cowering like a submissive House-elf, tucking her tail between her legs and refusing the worship she was rightfully owed just to appease an old man's twitchy instincts, then she wouldn't be Voldemort.
So what if he suspects? He possesses zero concrete evidence. He cannot point to a single broken rule.
also, she was currently the untouchable darling of Hogwarts. In the eyes of the staff and the student body, she was a certified hero. Even if Dumbledore pushed the suspicion meter to fifty percent, his hands were entirely tied. He could not move against the very savior who had just bled to protect his precious students in front of everyone.
Tamara took a slow, deliberate sip of the pumpkin juice in her cup. A flash of supreme, total arrogance ignited in the depths of her dark eyes as she allowed the tidal wave of cheers to submerge her.
Before the feast concluded, Dumbledore rose to announce one final honor.
"To commend the students who demonstrated extraordinary courage and wisdom in the face of this crisis..." Dumbledore looked at them with a smile. "Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Neville Longbottom, Draco Malfoy, and Tamara... Riddle. You will jointly receive the Special Award for Services to the School."
The resulting applause was thunderous.
Once the feast was over, Dumbledore did not permit the young heroes to return to their common rooms immediately. Instead, he warmly invited them to the Trophy Room together. He claimed he wished to personally select the perfect resting place for a piece of history so deeply steeped in courage.
Pale moonlight poured through the high, arched windows, spilling over the glittering cups and medals. With solemn reverence, Dumbledore opened a central glass display case and carefully set a gleaming, brand-new gold medal engraved with their names inside.
While Potter and the others crowded around, their chests puffed out with naive pride over the reward, Tamara stood perfectly still. Her dark, unblinking eyes stared straight through the glass cabinet before her.
Her gaze was not directed at the shiny new medal. Her focus was locked onto a much older, slightly tarnished golden medal resting just a few inches away. Engraved into its surface was a single, clear line of text: Tom Marvolo Riddle, Special Award for Services to the School.
Fifty years ago.
She had stood in this exact room, watching this very medal being placed onto its velvet cushion. Back then, she had earned it by flawlessly framing that blundering oaf Hagrid, washing her hands clean of the crime of releasing the monster. Standing beneath the pained, deeply admiring gazes of her professors, she had spun a web of brilliant lies, swindling them out of their absolute trust and highest honors.
And this time.
She had been violently coerced into playing the role of a thorough good person to earn an almost identical piece of gold. Two medals, both bearing the name Riddle, separated by half a century of time, now lay ironically side by side in the Hogwarts Trophy Room. Both were built on spectacular lies. The only difference was that this time, she had paid a very real, agonizing physical price for the charade.
"Riddle..."
Dumbledore's soft, gravelly voice suddenly rang out beside Tamara. The wise old man had moved to stand directly beside her at some unknown point, his footsteps soundless. His blue eyes were fixed intensely on the two adjacent awards in the cabinet.
"This is a surname that has left an extremely deep mark upon the history of Hogwarts. Fifty years ago, there was also a Riddle who received the same honor for... protecting this school."
Dumbledore turned his head slightly, his bright blue eyes quietly watching Tamara.
"History has a way of repeating itself, doesn't it, Tamara?"
It was a blatant, highly dangerous probe. The old fox was warning her, watching her peripheral reactions like a hawk to see if the name Tom Riddle triggered even a hint of abnormality.
Tamara did not flinch. She slowly turned her head, meeting Dumbledore's scrutinizing gaze head-on. A polite, chilling smile, utterly devoid of warmth, curved her pale lips.
"Is that so, Principal?"
Her voice was as calm as a pool of stagnant water. There was no trace of panic, no hesitation. Instead, her tone carried the faint, lofty mockery of an unimpressed outsider.
"But I prefer to believe that the price and blood paid for my medal were much greater than those of this Mr. Riddle from fifty years ago."
Leaving the double meaning hanging heavily in the air, she ignored the sudden, complicated shadow that crossed Dumbledore's face. She didn't spare a single glance for Harry, whose face showed sickening, heartbroken pity because of her words.
Tamara simply turned straight around. The hem of her black robes snapped through the moonlit air in a sharp, decisive arc.
"Goodnight, everyone."
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