Chapter 230: Useful
"I didn't!" Harry shouted, his voice cracking. The biting wind of Hogsmeade snatched the words from his mouth, swallowing his defense beneath the howling snow and Ron's blistering accusations.
"You still have the nerve to lie?!" Ron shoved Harry hard in the chest. His face was flushed, eyes bloodshot with the sting of betrayal. "Ever since this term started, you've been acting completely mental! First, you defend the culprit who lost Scabbers at every turn, and now you're lying to your best mate—all for her!"
Ron jabbed a trembling finger toward Tamara. She stood a few paces away, the picture of serene, untouchable grace amidst the blizzard.
"Look at how she's looking at you!" Ron roared over the wind. "She's treating you like a bloody clown! Have you completely lost the plot, Harry?! Why are you trailing after a malicious Slytherin snake like some pathetic lapdog?!"
"Shut up, Ron!" Harry snapped, panic flaring in his chest. His hands clenched into fists inside his pockets. How could he possibly explain their unspeakable, secret alliance? How could he articulate the strange, suffocating agitation twisting in his gut? He couldn't. So he resorted to a harsh, desperate bark.
A delicate layer of frost gathered on Tamara's shoulders. The biting chill seeped through her cloak, sapping her desire to even offer a sarcastic, cutting remark to the bickering Gryffindor idiots. Pathetic little lions, she sneered inwardly, pivoting on her heel to leave them to their squabble.
Just as her boot crunched into the fresh snow, a silken, venomous drawl sliced through the howling wind.
"What a truly touching scene. Two Gryffindors, brawling in the streets of Hogsmeade like stray mongrels... putting on a show for a Slytherin."
Harry and Ron whipped their heads around, the color draining from their faces.
Severus Snape stood at the mouth of the alley. His black robes billowed around him like the wings of a giant bat, unaffected by the swirling snow. His flat, dead eyes locked onto Harry with predatory precision.
"Potter," Snape murmured. The quietness of his voice made it infinitely more terrifying than Ron's shouting. "If my memory serves, your name is noticeably absent from the list of students permitted to visit the village."
Harry's jaw dropped, his skin turning a sickly, translucent white.
"And..." Snape's dark gaze drifted lazily from the trembling boy to Tamara's calm facade. "It appears... you were attempting to use an Invisibility Cloak to stalk a student from my house?"
"Professor Snape, I—" Harry stammered, his throat working uselessly as his mind completely blanked.
"Spare me your pathetic excuses," Snape sneered. "Fifty points from Gryffindor. Now, you will accompany me to my office."
With a sharp flick of his wand, Snape summoned the silvery, fluid fabric of the Invisibility Cloak straight out of Harry's numb grip. He spun on his heel, his posture screaming of a warden marching a condemned prisoner to the gallows, and plunged back into the storm.
Just before disappearing into the whiteout, Snape cast a brief, calculating glance over his shoulder at Tamara.
She didn't even blink. She merely watched Harry trudge after the Potions Master, leaving a devastated Ron standing alone in the snow. A dark, thoroughly malicious sneer curled the corners of her lips. Fools. She turned her back on the alley, her boots clicking softly as she headed toward the warm glow of Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop. This little Gryffindor farce was precisely the seasoning she needed for an otherwise dreadfully dull weekend.
Over the next few days, the Hogwarts rumor mill churned with relentless efficiency. Whispers of the Savior getting caught sneaking into Hogsmeade echoed through the corridors, passed eagerly from portrait to portrait and student to student.
Draco, practically vibrating with smug satisfaction, had happily supplied Tamara with the finer details. Once Snape had dragged Potter down into the dungeon office, he had forced the boy to empty every single one of his pockets.
The Marauder's Map—that irritating piece of parchment tracking every secret passage and breathing soul within the castle walls—was exposed without an ounce of suspense. The moment Snape recognized the distinct magical signature woven into the parchment, his fury had reportedly rattled the potion vials on his shelves.
Unfortunately for the Potions Master, Remus Lupin had intervened. Having just survived the full moon, the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor was looking particularly haggard and sickly, yet he had dragged his weakened body down to the dungeons. Lupin had smoothly lied, waving the map off as a mere prank item from Zonko's, effectively bailing Harry out of a far more severe punishment.
The map, however, remained confiscated. It was highly unlikely to ever find its way back into Potter's clumsy hands.
Tamara felt absolutely nothing upon hearing this news. She took a slow sip of her pumpkin juice in the Great Hall, her expression perfectly placid. She had already banished Peter Pettigrew deep into the darkest depths of the Forbidden Forest. Even if that filthy werewolf spent hours pouring over the map, he wouldn't find a single trace of his old, supposedly dead friend.
Tamara shifted her gaze toward the arched windows, watching the heavy, relentless snow bury the grounds.
Christmas had arrived at Hogwarts once again.
The castle was practically suffocating under the festive cheer, bursting with towering, bauble-laden fir trees and enchanted, dry snow falling from the Great Hall's ceiling. Even the damp, gloomy Slytherin common room hadn't escaped the seasonal infection, now adorned with several elegant, chilling strings of silver mistletoe draped over the stone archways.
On Christmas morning, Tamara woke to the dim, greenish light of the lake filtering through her dorm window. Despite her explicit, thinly-veiled threats to her housemates that she desired absolutely no gifts, two distinct packages sat stubbornly at the foot of her four-poster bed.
The first was a flat, matte black box. The wrapping was stark and simple, entirely devoid of a sender's name.
As Tamara reached out and brushed her fingertips against the velvet surface, a sharp, agitated hiss erupted from the iron cage in the corner of the room.
Bella.
Tamara ignored the crazed feline. With a lazy flick of her wand, she cleanly sliced the packaging open. Inside, resting on a bed of dark silk, lay a heavy, dark silver pocket watch. Its casing was heavily engraved with dense, complex ancient runes. She popped the latch. There were no hands inside. Instead, the dial was a miniature, perfectly smooth mirror, its surface rippling and flowing like liquid mercury.
Tucked neatly beneath the heavy artifact was a piece of parchment, covered in a frantic, scribbled scrawl:
As payment for your help. This is a high-level warning mirror, exceedingly rare on the open market. If anyone harboring malicious intent toward you or Harry approaches, their reflection will bleed into the glass. — Sirius Black.
Tamara stared at the liquid silver surface, a single, elegant eyebrow arching upward.
A high-level alchemical detection artifact. This single item was worth a small fortune in Knockturn Alley. Fascinating, she mused. It seemed that even after a decade in Azkaban, even after being reduced to a filthy, stray dog scavenging for scraps, this escaped blood traitor still tossed around the Black family fortune like a spoiled, wealthy young master.
More, this was a transactional payment. A settling of debts, not some nauseating gesture of genuine friendship. Because of that crucial distinction, the irritating Virtue System in her mind—which usually leaped at any opportunity to force her into acts of sickening humility—remained blissfully silent. It didn't demand she return the expensive item, nor did it offer its usual patronizing praise.
Satisfied, Tamara calmly slipped the heavy silver watch into the inner pocket of her robes.
The second package, however, was a completely different story. It was comically large, wrapped in garish, shimmering paper that practically assaulted the eyes.
Tamara's frown deepened. She tore the paper away. A massive stack of glossy photographs spilled out across her blankets, followed by a ridiculously thick, leather-bound travelogue manuscript. The cover bore the title My Magical Journey in ostentatious, gold-stamped lettering.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
Tamara picked up the stack of photos, flipping through them with morbid curiosity. In the moving images, Lockhart was still draped in his usual flamboyant, brightly colored robes, but his demeanor had drastically shifted. His signature, blindingly arrogant smile had been entirely replaced by an expression of foolish, wide-eyed sincerity.
The photographs documented a horrifying transformation. There was Lockhart, standing on a rickety ladder, cheerfully helping a peasant fix a thatched roof. There he was again, waving his wand to cast a Doubling Charm, turning a single crust of bread in a beggar's hand into a massive, overflowing basket of pastries. In the most nauseating photo of all, he was kneeling in the mud, hugging a filthy, soot-covered orphan, beaming at the camera like a genuine, benevolent saint.
Tamara flipped one of the photos over. Lockhart's looping, dramatic handwriting covered the back:
Dearest Tamara! My smartest, kindest savior! Once again, I must express my absolute, deepest gratitude to you! The Healers all insist there is something terribly wrong with my brain, and it is true I cannot remember a single detail of my glorious past. But I must confess, I have never felt happier in my entire life! The deeds I perform now are small, and I certainly haven't made the front page of the Daily Prophet in months, but when I see these poor souls smiling at me with genuine warmth, I feel my very spirit elevating! I have traveled all the way from Britain to the deep reaches of Eastern Europe. The situation here is terribly turbulent. Wizards and Muggles alike are struggling in absolute despair. I have heard rumors that on the edge of this war-torn country, deep within the ancient forests, there are many lost souls and wandering wizards in desperate need of salvation. I plan to venture deep into those woods next week to explore and bring my love and magic to them! May Merlin bless you, my perfect little angel! — The forever happy, Gilderoy Lockhart.
"Heh..." A dry, hollow sound escaped Tamara's lips.
Staring at the letter, dripping with a sincerity so bright it was practically blinding, Tamara experienced a deep, indescribable wave of speechlessness.
She was Lord Voldemort. She was the greatest, most terrifying Dark Lord in magical history. Throughout her long, bloody, and cruel reign, she had used fear, absolute power, and greed to mass-produce monsters. She forged villains, sadists, and unscrupulous murderers out of Britain's elite, branding them as her Death Eaters.
And now?
She had repeatedly scrambled this blond idiot's brain with Memory Charms just to keep him out of her way. As a direct result of her malicious tampering, she had accidentally manufactured a saint. A genuine, bleeding-heart philanthropist dedicated to spreading love and peace across Eastern Europe.
It was a cosmic joke. An absolute, humiliating mockery of her very identity as the Dark Lord.
[Ding! The system has detected massive positive feedback regarding kindness!]
Inside her mind, the Virtue System's perky, electronic voice chimed. It sounded so overwhelmingly excited it was practically choking on its own digital tears.
[Because of the 'malice' you displayed in the Chamber of Secrets, there is now one more selfless, devoted good person wandering this vast world! What a deeply noble elevation of the soul! You have brought light to the darkness, Host!]
[To commend the Host for this magnificent act of spreading goodness from the shadows, the system has decided to award a special prize!]
[Reward: Life +5! Current Life: 42]
[Unlock Spell: Shield Charm (Beginner)]
[Special Reward: Obtained one-time special item — Soul Bond Contract!]
[Item Description: This is a completely harmless contract forged from the concepts of 'love and protection'.]
[When the Host uses this contract on a dangerous creature that secretly craves obedience and guidance, all of its negative, violent emotions will be completely internalized. These dark feelings will be purified into absolute submission and deep, loving dependence on the Host. Note: This item is consumed after a single use.]
Tamara listened to the system's cheerful chimes fade into silence. Her face was an unreadable mask. Slowly, deliberately, she tossed the ridiculous stack of photographs onto her nightstand.
She turned her hand over, opening her pale palm.
A dark crimson contract mark materialized, floating quietly an inch above her skin. As long as she didn't actively release the magic, it remained nothing more than a suspended, glowing rune—a wisp of crimson light with no physical substance.
Tamara narrowed her eyes, carefully analyzing the underlying magical principles of this so-called [Soul Bond Contract].
Suddenly, a slow, immensely pleased sneer bloomed across her exquisite, pale features.
Forcibly internalizing negative emotions into absolute submission and dependence?
How in Salazar's name was this a harmless contract based on love and protection? The system was completely delusional. Stripped of its flowery, righteous phrasing, the mechanics were crystal clear. This was a high-level, inescapable brainwashing curse.
The moment this crimson mark was branded into a target's soul, it would materialize into an absolute, unbreakable collar.
Her dark eyes gleamed with cruel delight. Wasn't this the perfect, custom-made leash for a certain deranged creature? A creature currently locked in an iron cage, teetering on the very edge of losing control every single day?
Tamara slowly turned her head. Her deep, pitch-black eyes locked onto the iron cage sitting in the shadowed corner of the dormitory.
Inside, the ragged black cat was staring back at her. Its dark golden, slit-like pupils were blown wide, swirling with a volatile mixture of sick, twisted obsession and deep-seated fear.
"It seems..." Tamara murmured, lifting her chin slightly. Her slender fingers closed into a fist, carelessly crushing the dark red light in her palm. The contract dissolved, turning into a wisp of potent, binding magic that coiled obediently around her fingertips. "...that blond waste of space whose brain I fried isn't entirely useless after all."
[Akarin's Note:
Enjoying the story? Dropping a quick review, comment, or Power Stone means the world to me and keeps these daily updates flowing!
Want to read 50 chapters ahead or just want to help keep a shameless translator alive? (My livelihood actually depends on this, haha 😭). You can support me directly here:
(P.S. Just remove the brackets and replace the [.] with a regular dot . to use the links!)
✨ Patreon (50 Advanced Chapters): patreon[.]com/AkarinTL
☕ Ko-fi (Support / Sponsor): ko-fi[.]com/AkarinTL
🔗 All My Links: linktr[.]ee/AkarinTL
Thank you so much for reading and keeping this project alive!]