Chapter 218: Utilization
The stone corridor grew quiet, leaving only the fading echo of frantic footsteps. Harry Potter's terrified, flushed face lingered in Tamara's mind, bringing with it a wave of deep, soul-deep exhaustion.
After delivering her carefully calculated warning, she refused to spend even half a second longer in the presence of a savior who practically radiated weaponized stupidity. Without a hint of hesitation, she turned on her heel, her robes billowing sharply as she strode toward the damp chill of the Dungeons.
She didn't make it far.
The moment she rounded the shadowed corner, she nearly collided with a figure lurking by the stone wall. A pair of grey-blue eyes glared back at her, swimming with a volatile mixture of shock, fury, and intense grievance.
Draco Malfoy.
He had been tailing her. The idiot had likely crept along the shadows, paranoid that Severus Snape would make things difficult for her in the Potions office. Instead of witnessing a reprimand from their Head of House, he had caught every single word exchanged between her and Potter.
"You're actually going to teach that idiot Potter?!"
Draco's voice was a harsh, grating whisper. He stepped directly into her path, blocking the narrow corridor. His jaw locked, his teeth grinding audibly. He tilted his pointed chin upward, desperately wrapping himself in the haughty arrogance of his pure-blood lineage to mask what was clearly an internal breakdown.
"Are you out of your mind, Tamara? You're actually willing to waste your time on a Gryffindor who can't even scrub a cauldron properly? What is the point of such an inefficient investment?!"
Tamara stared at the frantic little peacock puffing his chest out in front of her. Deep within the dark, twisted recesses of her soul, she felt she had exhausted a lifetime's worth of eye-rolls.
Why was she constantly surrounded by these underdeveloped, single-celled organisms?
"Drop that ridiculous young master temper, Draco," Tamara said. Her voice was flat, carrying the freezing temperature of the Black Lake in mid-winter. "Teaching him Occlumency is strictly to prevent his empty head from dragging down my plans. It's called utilization. Do you understand the concept?"
The cold logic usually worked. Not today.
"Utilization again..." Draco hissed, entirely unappeased. Instead of backing down, his chest heaved with righteous indignation. His grey-blue eyes widened in absolute disbelief. "Then why don't you use me?!"
He took a step closer, his voice cracking slightly. "Instead of using me, the sole heir of the House of Malfoy, you go out of your way to use some Scarhead?!"
The damp dungeon air fell into a suffocating, dead silence.
Tamara's dark pupils dilated. For a fleeting, surreal second, she genuinely wondered if her recent magic backlash had permanently damaged her hearing. She stared at the pale, furious face of the Malfoy heir, whose expression practically screamed, 'Come use me right now.'
use him?
Her mind flashed to the premium, imported black tea waiting for her in the Slytherin common room every evening. She thought of the outrageously expensive, restricted Potion ingredients he had scoured the entirety of Hogsmeade to procure for her. She recalled his undisguised, desperate look of pure concern in the Great Hall just last night.
Merlin's rotting beard.
Was that not already utilization?!
A deafening roar of frustration echoed through the Dark Lord's mind. She fought the overwhelming urge to draw her wand, crack open his slicked-back skull, and check if his brain cavity was stuffed with Flobberworm mucus.
Instead, she looked at his stubborn, trembling lip and forcefully rubbed her throbbing temples.
"Since you are so eager to learn," Tamara sighed, her tone laced with heavy resignation, "then go fetch the materials I asked you to buy."
She didn't spare him another glance, turning her back to walk toward the eighth floor. "Follow me."
A few minutes later, the heavy wooden door of the Room of Requirement clicked shut, sealing them off from the rest of the castle.
Bending to Tamara's silent will, the room had manifested into a sprawling, immaculately equipped alchemy laboratory. The heavy air hung thick with the sharp, bitter fragrance of dried roots and rare herbs. Without wasting a breath, Tamara arranged a heavy pewter cauldron over the burner and began carefully processing the ingredients Draco had hauled in.
She was brewing an improved variant of the Soul Separation Potion. The original, ancient formula was violently toxic; her current thirteen-year-old vessel would simply melt under its strain. She had to carefully strip away the lethal toxicity, reducing it to a manageable threshold.
Draco stood off to the side, entirely mute. His previous jealous indignation over Potter evaporated, replaced by absolute, breathless awe as he watched her hands move. It was a display of artistic precision, her silver knife flashing as she crushed, sliced, and measured without a single wasted motion.
As the bubbling liquid reached its critical phase, Tamara's dark eyes narrowed into sharp focus.
She reached into the inner pocket of her robes and extracted a tiny, crystal vial. Inside swirled a few drops of golden blood—drawn directly from her own veins.
With absolute, terrifying control, she tilted the vial. Two drops of golden blood, radiating a brilliant, blinding shimmer, fell into the rolling boil of the cauldron.
The moment the blood struck the surface, a magnificent, violent resonance erupted from the iron pot. The dark, sludgy green liquid churned wildly, instantly transmuting into a pool of liquid silver that glowed like captured moonlight. A pure, ancient ripple of magic blasted outward, washing over the stone walls of the Room of Requirement.
It was nothing short of a miracle.
The well-traveled, heavily pampered young Master Malfoy was left completely paralyzed. He stared blankly at the swirling silver vapor, his chest perfectly still as he forgot how to breathe. The ghostly blue firelight beneath the cauldron flickered, casting dancing shadows over his platinum blonde hair and reflecting in his wide eyes—eyes now swimming with absolute, unadulterated adoration.
Tamara calmly decanted the glowing silver liquid into a fresh crystal vial. She tilted her head slightly, her dark gaze sweeping over Draco's slack-jawed expression. He was utterly intoxicated by the sheer display of power.
In a brief, hazy moment, the face before her blurred. Through this young, foolish boy, she saw the ghost of Abraxas Malfoy from fifty years ago. She saw that cunning, slippery pure-blood who had eagerly traded his family's gold and political influence for a taste of greater glory.
A cold, arrogant sneer curled through Tamara's mind.
'A shrewd, calculating grandfather. A father who plays the fierce aristocrat but cowers like a rat within...''And now, the most precious heir they raised with sickening indulgence, the very foundation of their legacy, panting like a loyal hound, willingly groveling beneath my power without a shred of reservation.'
The Dark Lord's insatiable vanity and manic desire for absolute control swelled, reaching an unmatched peak of satisfaction. Today had been a masterpiece. First, she had crushed Marcus with raw violence. Then, she had mentally dominated the Savior with Legilimency. And now, she had effortlessly ensnared the Malfoy heir with a display of supreme magical supremacy.
Her mood was simply spectacular.
Adopting the magnanimous posture of a Dark Lord granting a rare, generous boon, she spoke. Her voice was a slow, deliberate drawl.
"You performed well today, Draco."
She tilted her chin up. A dangerous, charming light danced in the depths of her dark eyes. "That previous condition—having you accompany me shopping—is far too trivial."
She took a slow step toward him. "As my follower, you must learn to display ambition that matches the weight of your bloodline."
Her tone dropped, becoming as soft and intoxicating as a demon whispering temptations to a mortal on the edge of ruin. "You may ask me for something greater. For instance... more advanced Black Magic. Or perhaps a Potion that can grant you an instant, overwhelming surge of magical power."
She stopped just inches from him. "Tell me. What do you desire?"
Tamara watched him with composed, predatory interest, fully prepared to satisfy this young acolyte's greedy, desperate thirst for supremacy.
Draco blinked.
He stared at Tamara's stunning, fire-lit face. He listened to the dark, seductive promises of forbidden magic and absolute power.
And then, the Malfoy heir—the boy upon whom Lucius had placed the entirety of his ruthless hopes—developed a highly suspicious, bright red flush that crept rapidly up the tips of his ears.
He swallowed hard. His grey-blue eyes were painfully clear, devoid of any dark ambition, radiating a certain, damned stupidity.
After a long, agonizing pause, he squeezed out a single sentence.
"...Then, can you come to my house to play during the summer break?"
Tamara's elegant, predatory smile froze solid.
"My estate has a flock of very beautiful white peacocks," Draco continued eagerly, completely oblivious to the sudden paralysis gripping the Dark Lord. "And my father's basement is hidden with loads of the Ministry of Magic's confiscated dark treasures..."
He leaned in, throwing down his ultimate bargaining chip. "And the handmade cookies my mom bakes are incredibly delicious!"
"..."
Silence descended upon the Room of Requirement.
The great Dark Lord stood rigidly amidst the heavy scent of brewing herbs, staring blankly at the expectant, blushing boy in front of her.
White peacocks?
A basement full of rusty scrap metal?
And handmade cookies baked by that simpering woman, Narcissa?!
Was this it? Was this the absolute pinnacle of ambition a Malfoy could muster when directly offered the generous favor of the Dark Lord?!
Tamara took a slow half-step backward. Her carefully constructed facade of arrogant superiority was cracking, threatening to shatter completely.
"Do you truly have no other pursuits in life, Malfoy?" she asked, her voice tight with the breathless, speechless frustration of a master staring at a particularly dense dog.
Draco wasn't entirely deaf. He keenly caught the heavy disdain dripping from her tone.
His sensitive, aristocratic pride flared, instantly plunging him into a panic. He suddenly realized that standing before Tamara—a girl who clearly worshipped absolute, unyielding power—his earnest request sounded painfully, embarrassingly childish.
Desperate to salvage his dignity, Draco snapped his spine straight. He cleared his throat loudly, forcing a stiff, haughty mask onto his burning face.
"I... what I meant was!" he announced loudly, his cheeks still flaming red. "Since you agreed to teach that idiot Potter, then you must teach me as well! I demand to learn Occlumency!"
He lifted his chin. "The heir of the House of Malfoy must never lose to a Gryffindor in any field of magic!"
Hearing a demand that finally displayed at least a microscopic fraction of a functioning brain, the violent throbbing in Tamara's temples eased slightly.
She narrowed her eyes, calculating.
Having a Malfoy master Occlumency did align perfectly with her long-term strategic layout. A shielded mind meant she could hand him numerous dirty, treasonous tasks in the future without the constant risk of discovery.
"Very well," Tamara nodded slowly, granting the request.
Seeing Tamara finally agree, Draco let out a massive, highly visible sigh of relief.
He immediately relaxed, pretending to nonchalantly adjust the silver cufflinks on his sleeves. He looked away, aiming for a tone of casual indifference. "So... about coming over to our house...?"
The vein in Tamara's temple resumed its frantic pulsing.
Her fingers clamped around the crystal vial in her hand with enough force to turn her knuckles white. She fought a vicious, rising urge to pick up the heavy iron cauldron and smash it directly over his slicked-back blonde hair.
"Fine," she hissed through tightly gritted teeth. "We will discuss it when there is time."
As the great Dark Lord—the terrifying entity who had once held the entire Wizarding world by the throat, the master manipulator who prided herself on understanding the darkest depths of the human heart—she wasn't blind. She could naturally see that this adolescent peacock had his mind entirely consumed by that ridiculous, pathetic emotion known as infatuation.
Decades ago, she had weaponized this exact same handsome skin. She had worn a mask of gentle warmth to effortlessly cheat Hepzibah Smith out of her trust, smiling right up until the moment she murdered the old woman to claim Hufflepuff's Cup and Slytherin's Locket.
To her, infatuation was never anything more than a cheap transaction with a clear, exploitable price tag.
Naturally, she had assumed Draco would use this infatuation to demand power, to beg for secrets that would shock the Wizarding world to its core.
But now.
Standing in the quiet warmth of the Room of Requirement, she looked at the idiot boy who was currently grinning like an absolute fool at a pile of discarded potion residue.
For the first time in her two lives, the Dark Lord felt a deep, baffling sense of powerlessness.
Tamara simply could not comprehend it.
What exactly was this idiot so happy about?
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