Chapter 236: Invitation
During the waning days of the Christmas holidays, Hogwarts was swallowed by a rare, ferocious blizzard.
The ancient castle vanished beneath thick, suffocating drifts of white snow, completely isolated from the outside world. Tamara used this forced confinement to prowl through every shadowed corridor and hidden alcove of the castle. Her objective was simple: hunt down the rat who had stolen the remnant soul housed within Ravenclaw's Diadem.
But the result was absolute silence.
The thief possessed a flawless cloaking method, leaving behind not a single ripple of magical residue.
Tamara knew of a specific artifact that could strip away this anonymity in an instant—the Marauder's Map. Unfortunately, ever since that little incident in Hogsmeade, the parchment was sitting securely locked inside the desk of the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor, Remus Lupin.
A quick calculation of the lunar cycle confirmed her worst timing. It was the full moon.
That filthy werewolf had just downed his Wolfsbane Potion and was currently barricaded inside his office, enduring the agonizing, bone-snapping torment of his monthly transformation. To knock on a werewolf's door mid-shift and politely request the return of a confiscated dark artifact? Most likely, she would not only be warily rejected, but she would also walk away reeking of a nauseating beastly musk.
Alongside her suspended manhunt, Tamara also halted her dangerous experiments deciphering the primordial laws of death woven into the Invisibility Cloak.
She could no longer afford such reckless expenditure of her life force. She had exactly three vials left of the Elixir of Life she had refined using the golden bloodline. That pitiful amount was nowhere near enough to sustain the massive magical drain required for such a deep deciphering task. She would never be so foolish as to work herself into an early grave before truly conquering the secrets of death.
The Dark Lord disdained making such a losing bargain.
Thus, in the days that followed, Tamara's life settled into a deceptively peaceful routine.
The Hogwarts library.
A heavy oak table groaned under the weight of towering stacks of magical history tomes and crumbling rune dictionaries. Hermione Granger sat opposite her, aggressively chewing on the feathered end of her quill. The Gryffindor's brow was knotted in deep distress as she glared at a complex parchment of Ancient Runes.
Across from this picture of academic panic, Tamara sat in pristine elegance, leisurely turning the fragile pages of an ancient text on Soul Potions.
"Tamara," Hermione began, pushing the parchment across the wood. A desperate thirst for knowledge burned in her brown eyes. "If this runic script for 'time'is combined with the'water' rune in a plural context, does it trigger a reversal of magic?"
"Your deductive reasoning is quite sharp, Granger."
Tamara lowered her book. She met the Gryffindor's gaze, her voice dripping with the gentle, boundless patience of a perfect mentor.
"However, within the ancient runic system of the Third Era, 'water'represents more than mere physical flow. It signifies the accumulation of memory. Therefore, in this specific sequence, translating it as'memory regression' would yield a far more precise result."
"Ah! Of course, that makes perfect sense!" Hermione gasped in sudden realization, her quill flying across the parchment as she furiously scribbled the correction.
"If you encounter any further difficulties, my door is always open," Tamara offered. A flawless, angelic smile graced her lips. She was the very picture of a benevolent senior student.
But the scratching of Hermione's quill abruptly ceased.
Miss Know-It-All slowly raised her head. Her clear brown eyes locked onto Tamara with piercing intensity.
For the past three days, this was exactly how Tamara had treated her. The suffocating, predatory pressure was gone. The icy condescension had vanished. She had not been called a 'fool'or an'idiot' even once. Tamara was gentle. Tamara was polite. Tamara answered every single mundane question without a hint of mockery.
Yet, for some inexplicable reason, this angelic version of Tamara made Hermione's skin crawl with an intense, uncomfortable sense of falseness. It felt as though an invisible, indestructible wall of glass had been dropped between them. Keeping a distance, so close yet seemingly worlds apart.
"Are you... angry with me, Tamara?" Hermione asked, setting her quill down with absolute seriousness.
Tamara's pale finger, resting against the edge of a page, paused for a fraction of a second. A perfectly calibrated expression of mild surprise bloomed on her exquisite face.
"Whatever makes you say that, Granger?" she asked back, her smile unwavering. "I was under the impression our study sessions these past few days had been exceedingly harmonious."
"It is exactly because it has been too harmonious that I know something is horribly wrong!"
Hermione bit her lower lip. Her innate Gryffindor bluntness suddenly shattered her restraint.
"You do not scold me anymore! Before, even when you were explaining a theory to me, you would always find a way to mock me. You would ask if a mountain troll had trampled my brain. But now... not only do you not insult me, you are actually being polite."
Hermione narrowed her eyes, leaning across the table to inspect Tamara with neurotic suspicion.
"You couldn't possibly be someone else disguised with Polyjuice Potion, could you? Or did you damage your brain while researching those dark ancient books? Are you feeling unwell?"
Hearing this utterly preposterous interrogation, the corner of Tamara's flawless smile twitched. Just a millimeter.
"You have been too... too polite!" Hermione continued, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper as she leaned back, looking genuinely creeped out. "For three whole days, you haven't used the words 'stupid,''ridiculous,' or'troll-brained' once. You even smiled at me when I mis-translated a basic rune! Tell me the truth. Who are you really? Did someone kidnap the real Tamara and take her place? Or do you have a fever that fried your frontal lobe?"
Faced with this barrage of sheer idiocy, Tamara's gentle mask finally stiffened for an almost imperceptible moment.
'Damn this wretched Gryffindor intuition!' Tamara cursed coldly in the dark recesses of her mind.
After using the Memory Charm to wipe Hermione's mind of their previous confrontation, Tamara had decided to adopt a new strategy. To completely eradicate the mudblood's sickening, misplaced concern for her, Tamara had simply slipped on the same mask she used to deceive Dumbledore and the rest of the faculty. Gentle, polite, and completely emotionally detached.
It was a calculated defense mechanism designed to isolate variables.
And yet, this insufferable little beaver was actually throwing a fit because she wasn't being verbally abused?
"You are overthinking things, Hermione."
A trace of manufactured helplessness softened Tamara's dark eyes as she maintained her gentle facade.
"I simply came to the realization that, as one of the most outstanding students at Hogwarts, it is my duty to display proper tolerance and grace toward students from other houses. Would you genuinely prefer that I hurl insults at you while teaching you runic script, Miss Know-It-All?"
"No... that is not what I meant. I just feel like the person sitting across from me right now isn't real."
Hermione shook her head, still looking dubious. The nagging sense of incongruity remained, but Tamara's airtight logic left her with no angle of attack.
Then, as if a new thought had surfaced, Hermione's gaze softened into something deeply sincere.
"Actually... I really am grateful to you, Tamara."
She looked down at her carefully organized notes, taking a deep, shaky breath.
"If it weren't for your guidance during this holiday, I think I might have suffered a complete mental breakdown this semester. With your help, I don't even need to rely on the Time-Turner anymore. I can actually manage this heavy coursework on my own."
A rare gleam of pure, unadulterated admiration—mixed with the tiniest, almost invisible sliver of envy—shone in the Gryffindor's bright eyes.
"You really are amazing, Tamara."
Resting her chin on her hand, Hermione stared fixedly at the seemingly all-powerful Slytherin girl opposite her.
"It is not just Potions or Ancient Runes. In every single field of magic, your insights far surpass even the professors. If only I could be as powerful as you... Someone with your brilliance is destined to achieve great things. You are going to stand at the very pinnacle of the Wizarding world."
In the hushed silence of the library, Hermione's unreserved praise fell upon Tamara's ears like sweet, intoxicating nectar.
As the conceited Dark Lord, her ego was already dangerously inflated following the sublimation of her soul in the Room of Requirement. Now, facing this absolute, heartfelt reverence from the fiercely proud Gryffindor who always clawed for first place...
The dark, crawling itch of vanity and the lust for dominance surged from the very depths of Tamara's soul.
She enjoyed this look of complete, willing submission far too much. Bathed in this comfortable, worshipful atmosphere, Tamara's gentle, distant mask finally fractured.
She leaned back against the heavy oak chair, crossing her hands elegantly over her knees. She tilted her chin up. In those bottomless black eyes, the terrifying, absolute arrogance of a predator looking down upon all living things surfaced once more.
"Since you possess such excellent taste, Granger..."
The corner of Tamara's mouth curled into a smirk dripping with dark ambition and supreme arrogance. Her voice dropped, carrying the unquestionable, crushing authority of a tyrant.
"If the day comes when I truly trample the power of the entire Wizarding world beneath my feet and establish a New Order of my own design..."
She leaned forward slightly, her gaze pinning Hermione to her seat. She spoke with the tone of a monarch casually tossing a gold coin to a beggar.
"Considering you are somewhat clever, I might show great mercy. I might allow you to stand by my side, granting you a position the rest of this pathetic world wouldn't dare dream of."
The moment the words left her lips, Tamara's pitch-black eyes darkened.
'Truly...'she thought, a flicker of annoyance passing through her.'I have been influenced by that twenty-year-old remnant soul.'
As a Dark Lord who valued only utility and profit, she certainly did not mind extending an olive branch to a genuinely talented pawn. In the face of absolute power, a mudblood's filthy origin was merely an insignificant blemish. As long as they were exceptional enough, they were qualified to serve as the foundation stones beneath her throne.
But the problem was, she clearly remembered this exact same stubborn Gryffindor rejecting her deal with a look of absolute defiance just a few days prior.
This was a redundant move. According to this mudblood's ridiculous, bleeding-heart Gryffindor values, such dictatorial remarks should instantly trigger a wave of intense moral preaching or a screeching, unbelievable rejection.
A flash of cold irritability crossed Tamara's eyes.
Beneath the table, her pale fingers curled. Her wand slid silently from her sleeve and into her palm. If this mudblood dared to look at her with that loathsome, self-righteous pity again, or if she started screaming for Dumbledore... Tamara would not hesitate to skillfully gift her another perfect Memory Charm right here in the library.
However.
To Tamara's deep surprise, Hermione did not look angry. She did not show a single ounce of terror.
On the contrary, staring at Tamara's incredibly haughty, megalomaniacal display, Miss Know-It-All actually let out a sudden snort and laughed.
"Thank goodness," Hermione breathed a heavy sigh of relief, her bright eyes dancing with a mischievous, knowing light. "You are finally back to normal. That fake, polite act was absolutely suffocating me."
Tamara's fingers, tightly gripping her wand, froze.
She did not lower her guard. Instead, she narrowed her long, dark eyes, a genuine frown of confusion marring her perfect features.
What on earth was this mudblood so happy about? Was she deaf? Could she not hear the tyrannical ambition dripping from every word? Or was it possible that, compared to a pleasant, smiling disguise, this deranged Gryffindor actually preferred her cold, ruthless, and arrogant true face?
A trace of beyond understanding strangeness flickered in Tamara's bottomless eyes.
"You think I am joking?" Tamara stared at her, her tone devoid of all warmth. Her voice was a razor blade, poised to unleash the Memory Charm the second Hermione's answer failed to satisfy her.
"No, Tamara."
Hermione pulled back her smile. She sat up perfectly straight, pressing her hands flat against the oak table. She did not possess Tamara's terrifying, suffocating aura, but in that moment, a brilliant, unyielding radiance erupted from the thirteen-year-old Gryffindor.
"I admit your talent is second to none. I truly believe you will stand at the absolute highest point of the Wizarding world in the future."
Hermione looked straight into Tamara's pitch-black, dangerous eyes. She spoke with absolute, unshakable firmness, enunciating every single word.
"But, if such a day truly comes... I will rely on my own wisdom and my own strength to walk to that height, step by step. I will walk to your side openly, honorably, and as an equal."
Hearing this fierce declaration, Tamara was genuinely stunned.
Beneath the table, her tense fingers slowly, silently released their death grip on her wand.
After a long, heavy silence, Tamara let out a low, disdainful scoff.
"Truly, the blind, idiotic confidence unique to Gryffindors."
She withdrew her oppressive, predatory gaze. Picking up her quill, she returned her attention to the ancient tome, her tone slipping back into its usual cold, lazy drawl. She did not even bother to look up again.
"Then let me see just how high you can actually climb, you boastful Miss Know-It-All."
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