Chapter 237: Not Targeting You
Hermione Granger had known something was fundamentally wrong with Tamara for quite some time.
The suspicion had taken root the moment they stepped out of the Room of Requirement, blossoming into a quiet, nagging certainty. Tamara was hiding something massive. The proof lay in the overlapping, phantom images Hermione had witnessed hovering over the ancient runes on that parchment. Those visions had felt entirely too visceral, too grounded in reality, as if she had lived through the memories herself rather than merely glimpsing them.
Every interaction since that day only cemented her theory.
Hermione was a fiercely intelligent witch. She understood the underlying mechanics of Tamara's personality. Beneath that flawless, fragile exterior lay a core of innate, chilling arrogance. A girl like that would never deign to wear such a carefully constructed mask of politeness for a Gryffindor unless she was protecting a secret of monumental importance. Tamara was actively brushing her off, erecting invisible walls to keep her at arm's length.
The urge to march up and demand the truth burned in her chest, but logic quickly doused the flame. Confrontation would be entirely pointless. If Tamara wanted a secret kept, a Gryffindor throwing a tantrum would only earn a dose of biting ridicule or cold annoyance.
Hermione's fingers brushed against the fabric of her robes, feeling the hard, metallic outline of the time-turner resting against her collarbone. She could spin the hourglass. She could travel back to that exact afternoon and uncover the truth from the shadows.
Yet, the mere thought made her stomach twist. Tamara was far too perceptive. If she were caught spying... Hermione swallowed hard. An instinctual dread warned her that the consequences would be catastrophic. More than that, she simply could not bear the thought of Tamara looking at her with genuine hatred.
That path was a dead end. She had to unravel this mystery on her own terms.
Lowering her gaze, Hermione stared at the parchment of Ancient Runes she had just finished revising. Her eyes locked onto the jagged, complex runic root that translated to Memory Retracing. Her fingers tightened around the hidden hourglass beneath her robes.
'I will find the answer through my own abilities,' she vowed silently.
Looking across the room, she offered Tamara, who had currently retreated behind her usual mask of cold, haughty indifference, a sincere yet faintly sly smile.
The new term brought its own set of miseries.
Deep inside the Hogwarts Hospital Wing, the air smelled sharply of antiseptic herbs and brewing potions. Madam Pomfrey stood at the foot of the pristine white bed, clutching Tamara's physical examination parchment. The matron's face was so thunderously grim it looked ready to summon a localized storm.
"Malnutrition! Absolute, utter malnutrition!" Madam Pomfrey barked, her voice echoing off the stone walls. "Miss Riddle, have you been treating my medical warnings as mere background noise?!"
Before Tamara could formulate a sufficiently polite lie, a heavy glass vial of thick, sludgy potion was shoved aggressively into her hands.
"Since you clearly lack the basic competency to maintain your own bodily health, I am forced to enact mandatory measures!"
Tamara's brow furrowed. She opened her mouth, ready to spin a delicate, pitiful excuse about late-night studying and a weak stomach, but the matron cut her off with a sharp wave of her hand.
"Save your breath. You are to report to the Great Hall immediately. Severus has recommended an exceptionally dedicated helper for this exact issue. From this day forward, every single one of your supplemental meals will be consumed under strict supervision!"
The mention of Snape acted as a soothing balm on Tamara's fraying temper.
'Severus,'she thought, a dark, satisfied smirk ghosting across her internal monologue.'At least the man remains useful.'
She naturally assumed her former Death Eater had arranged for a sensible, obedient Slytherin to act as her supervisor. Someone who would simply sit there, stare at the wall, and sign off on whatever lies she told Madam Pomfrey. It would save her an immense amount of trouble.
Yet, as Tamara dragged her feet into the Great Hall, her lazy, elegant steps faltered.
At the far end of the designated table, there was no quiet, respectful snake waiting for her. Instead, sitting behind a towering mountain of excessively greasy food, was a girl with a blindingly bright mane of red hair. Her freckled face was practically glowing with eager anticipation.
Ginny Weasley.
The moment the Gryffindor spotted her, she began waving her arms with enough frantic energy to flag down a flying hippogriff.
"Senior Riddle! Over here!" Ginny called out, completely ignoring the stares of passing students. As Tamara approached, her expression frozen in a mask of polite horror, the younger girl eagerly launched into an explanation. "This morning, I just happened to be walking down the corridor and overheard Professor Snape and Madam Pomfrey discussing your condition."
Ginny puffed out her chest, looking entirely too proud of herself. "Madam Pomfrey was complaining that she couldn't find anyone stubborn enough to make sure you actually ate. So, I volunteered! I told them I would take on this sacred task, and Professor Snape agreed on the spot! He even looked relieved!"
Tamara stared at the grotesque pile of roasted steaks, dripping fried sausages, and sugary Pumpkin Pasties piled high on the golden platters. Her crimson eyes narrowed into dangerous, imperceptible slits.
'Severus Snape,'she hissed in the dark confines of her mind, carving his name into a mental ledger of vengeance.'It seems my once-loyal hound has completely forgotten how to heel.'To think he would dare use such an insidious, underhanded method to saddle her with the most inescapable, loud-mouthed Gryffindor nuisance in the entire castle. It was an act of quiet rebellion.'The very second I reclaim my rightful power, the first thing that greasy-haired traitor receives is a Cruciatus Curse straight to the chest. A long, lingering one. Just to jog his memory.'
"Senior, you really have to eat more. Madam Pomfrey said you're practically wasting away," Ginny urged, resting her chin on her hands. Her bright brown eyes locked onto Tamara with unblinking, terrifying sincerity.
"Take it away," Tamara commanded, her voice dropping its usual sweet cadence. She turned her head, unable to mask the sheer disgust rippling across her features as the smell of heavy grease hit her nose. "I do not need this ridiculous supplemental meal. Take these plates and remove yourself from my sight immediately, Weasley."
For a Dark Lord who had conquered death, who operated on the highest planes of dark magic and cold logic, being forced to sit in a brightly lit hall and be fed like a helpless toddler was a catastrophic insult to her dignity.
She planted her hands on the table, fully intending to push herself up and storm down to the dungeons to murder her Potions Master. But before her robes could even clear the bench, that sickeningly cheerful, mechanical voice chimed directly into her cerebral cortex.
[Ding! Warm reminder: A strong, healthy physique is the absolute foundation for channeling high-level magic!]
[System has detected that the host is currently engaged in highly dangerous runic decryption work. If the host increases her physical vitality, it will not only drastically improve her resistance to magical backlash, but also significantly reduce the stamina consumption generated during the decryption process!]
[It is highly suggested that the host sits down and eats obediently! Do your best!]
Tamara's leg, which was already halfway out from under the table, froze rigidly in mid-air.
A muscle feathered along her jawline. 'I despise you,' she thought venomously to the empty air.
She clicked her tongue, a sharp, irritated sound, and slowly lowered herself back onto the wooden bench. Her face was a mask of absolute frost. Snatching the silver knife and fork from the table, she began slicing into the thick cut of steak. Her movements were flawlessly elegant, yet the sheer force she applied to the blade—scraping harshly against the ceramic plate—spoke volumes of her suppressed, murderous rage.
Watching the notoriously aloof Slytherin suddenly yield and begin eating without another word of protest, Ginny's eyes lit up like sparklers.
"See? Madam Pomfrey was entirely right. You just need a little encouragement to nourish yourself!"
Ginny swung her legs happily beneath the table, entirely oblivious to the dark aura radiating from the girl beside her. She immediately began chirping away like a hyperactive lark.
"By the way, Senior, did you hear the news? Ron's old rat went missing a while back. When Mum found out, she felt awful and bought him a brand new one over the Christmas holidays." Ginny shrugged, a note of exasperated fondness creeping into her voice. "For the past few days, Ron has been treating the furry little thing like it's made of spun glass. He carries it absolutely everywhere. He's terrified it might fall or get bumped in the corridors, and he refuses to let anyone else even look at it too closely."
She paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "But to be perfectly honest, I think the new rat is actually quite nice. Much better than the old one... Oh, speak of the devil. Here he comes."
Right on cue, Ron Weasley strode through the heavy oak doors of the Great Hall.
His casual gait faltered the moment his eyes landed on the designated table. Seeing his younger sister sitting shoulder-to-shoulder with Tamara Riddle caused his face to instantly scrunch up in deep displeasure. He marched over, his posture stiffening.
"Ginny, why are you hanging around this... Slytherin again?" Ron demanded, his tone dripping with blatant vigilance and rejection.
"Because Madam Pomfrey specifically asked me to supervise Senior Riddle's meals," Ginny replied, rolling her eyes so hard she nearly tilted backward. "What are you even doing back here? You ate half a roast chicken at lunch. Don't tell me you're still hungry."
"Of course I'm not hungry!" Ron snapped, scratching the back of his neck irritably.
Then, puffing out his chest in a deliberate show of bravado, he carefully brought his cupped hands up to his chest. Nestled safely within his palms lay a plump rat with smooth, glossy fur. It looked remarkably healthy and entirely ordinary.
"This is my new pet. Scabbers the Second!" Ron declared proudly. He then shifted his glare directly onto Tamara, puffing himself up to deliver a loud, hostile warning. "And I'm warning you right now, Riddle. You are not allowed to lay a single finger on him!"
At this spectacularly childish threat, Tamara did not so much as twitch an eyelash.
She continued slicing her steak, her voice carrying the cold, cutting edge of a winter gale. "Weasley, if you possessed even a microscopic shred of a functioning brain, you would realize that I have absolutely zero interest in murdering an ordinary, flea-bitten rodent."
She finally looked up, her crimson eyes pinning him to the spot. "Take your 'Stupid the Second' and remove yourself from my presence."
Hit by the sheer, insulting weight of her dismissal, Ron's freckled face flushed a brilliant, angry crimson. He opened his mouth, fully prepared to shout an indignant argument, but the words died in his throat as he looked at Tamara's completely expressionless face.
Her eyes were flat, bored, and entirely devoid of deceit.
She wasn't lying. She truly didn't care. She wasn't displaying a fraction of that intense, creepy, predatory focus she used to aim at the original Scabbers.
And now that he thought about it... it wasn't just Tamara.
Ron stood frozen as a rare moment of deep clarity struck him. Since he had brought this new rat back to the dormitories, Hermione's monstrous cat, Crookshanks, hadn't tried to maul it even once. Harry no longer wore that strange, deeply uncomfortable expression whenever the pet was brought out.
For the first time in his life, Ron's brain shifted into high gear, connecting the invisible dots.
It seemed... it wasn't that his friends harbored some deep-seated prejudice against him keeping a pet rat.
It was just that everyone had simply, universally, despised the previous Scabbers.
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