Chapter 20: Dormitory Conflict
Early mornings in the Hogwarts dungeons lacked the cheerful, sun-drenched warmth of the upper towers.
Through the heavy green curtains and the thick glass of the submerged windows, only a dim, murky luminescence filtered in from the depths of the Black Lake. Occasionally, a massive, indistinct shadow would glide past the glass, blocking out the light entirely for a few seconds.
For ordinary eleven-year-old girls, waking up in a cold, underwater stone chamber might induce a suffocating gloom. But for a soul that had spent decades orchestrating terror from the shadows, this oppressive, claustrophobic chill felt like a warm embrace. It was the scent of secrecy. It was safe.
Tamara Riddle's peaceful rest shattered against the sharp, grating sound of a teenage argument.
She opened her eyes slowly. The very first thing that greeted her waking vision was a massive, furry face pressing directly against her nose. It was that idiotic feline, Nagini. The black cat lay draped across her chest like a suffocating weighted blanket, purring like a broken engine. Its warm breath washed over Tamara's face, carrying the distinct, nauseating stench of the dried fish it had pilfered from the kitchens the night before.
'I should skin you and turn you into a pair of winter gloves,' Tamara thought, her mind already calculating the best spell for the job.
"Get down."
Her spoken voice, however, was perfectly level. She pushed the heavy mass of black fur away with a smooth, expressionless motion and sat up against the headboard.
A shrill, grating voice pierced right through the thick velvet hangings of her four-poster bed.
"Out of the way, Bulstrode! Your back is as wide as a mountain troll's, you are blocking the entire mirror!"
Pansy Parkinson.
A heavy, clumsy thud followed, accompanied by a low, rough grunt, sounding exactly like a large animal being shoved into a wooden wardrobe.
"I... I was just combing my hair."
The second voice belonged to Millicent Bulstrode.
Millicent possessed a large, heavy-set frame and a square, jutting jaw. Her features completely lacked the refined delicacy expected of high society—one could generously describe her appearance as rugged, and ungenerously as brutish. In the vicious, viper-filled circle of Slytherin girls, where elegance, pure-blood pedigree, and aristocratic grace were the absolute currencies of power, Millicent sat firmly at the absolute bottom of the food chain.
"Combing your hair? With what, a garden rake?" Pansy let out a high, piercing laugh that made Tamara's eardrums ache. "Do not even bother, Millicent. Some things are simply innate. Even if you dumped an entire cauldron of premium shampoo over your thick skull, it would not change the fact that you look like an unevolved..."
Across the room, Daphne Greengrass and Tracey Davis sat on their respective beds, silently watching the spectacle. Neither offered a word of defense for Millicent, nor did they attempt to rein Pansy in.
This was the true nature of Slytherin.
Survival of the fittest. The strong devoured the weak, and the winner took all.
If the Voldemort of the past were observing this pathetic display, he would have ignored it entirely. He might have even agreed with the pug-faced Parkinson girl. The weak existed solely to be trampled underfoot; if Bulstrode could not defend herself, she deserved the humiliation.
But the current Tamara Riddle operated under a vastly different set of rules.
'Idiots,'she mused coldly.'A house divided over hair products. How far my glorious Slytherin has fallen.'
She reached out, pulling back the heavy green velvet curtains, and stepped onto the cold stone floor with bare feet.
The harsh laughter died instantly.
Four heads snapped toward her at the exact same moment.
Tamara stood by her bed, clad in a sleek black silk nightgown, her long, dark hair cascading loosely over her shoulders. She had only just woken up, her pale face still carrying a trace of morning languor, yet the suffocating, naturally born aura of an absolute sovereign spilled from her effortlessly. The air in the dormitory seemed to freeze, growing heavy and utterly silent.
"Good morning, everyone."
Her voice was slightly raspy from sleep, yet it carried a smooth, elegant cadence that demanded total attention.
She walked slowly across the room toward the dressing table. Pansy Parkinson swallowed hard and subconsciously took a hurried step backward, instantly surrendering the prime real estate in front of the mirror she had just been viciously fighting for.
"G-good morning, Tamara," Pansy stammered, her hands nervously smoothing down the front of her own nightgown, suddenly looking very guilty.
Tamara did not even glance at her own reflection. Instead, she turned her body, her dark eyes locking onto the large figure huddled in the corner.
Millicent looked like a wounded bear cub. Her heavy shoulders were hunched forward, her chin tucked into her chest, and her thick fingers were white-knuckled as they gripped a wooden comb missing half its teeth. Her square face burned a mottled, humiliating red, and thick tears pooled in the corners of her small eyes.
"Lift your head up, Millicent."
The command was spoken softly, yet it carried the weight of iron.
Millicent flinched. Trembling, she hesitantly raised her chin. Her expression was a painful mixture of deep-seated inferiority and raw panic. Up close, her dark hair was a frizzy, tangled disaster resembling a bird's nest, and her slightly protruding, yellowish teeth gave her a distinctly dim-witted appearance.
"Did Pansy's words upset you?" Tamara asked, her tone entirely neutral.
Millicent bit her lower lip hard enough to draw blood. She did not dare speak a single syllable, opting instead to give a jerky, miserable nod.
Tamara shifted her gaze slowly toward Pansy.
Pansy immediately stiffened her spine, her chin jutting out as she scrambled to defend her position. "She was being entirely too slow! And you have to admit, she really is..."
"That isn't wise, Pansy."
Tamara cut her off. Her tone remained perfectly calm, conversational even, as if they were discussing the dampness of the dungeon walls rather than issuing a reprimand.
She closed the distance between them with slow, measured steps. Reaching out a pale hand, Tamara gently took hold of Pansy's collar, smoothing out a tiny, invisible wrinkle in the fabric.
Pansy's breath hitched. The sudden, calculated intimacy of the gesture completely disarmed her. A furious blush crept up her neck, her previous arrogance melting into a puddle of flattered submission.
"As a young lady of the noble Parkinson Family, your aesthetics and personal taste are, of course, beyond doubt," Tamara murmured, her dark eyes holding Pansy's gaze captive. "However, the act of elevating yourself by publicly belittling those within your own house... is cheap."
The words were spoken with a feather-light softness, yet they carried a crushing, irrefutable logic.
"Consider this," Tamara continued, her fingers lightly brushing Pansy's shoulder before dropping away. "If the people standing directly beside you look terrible, it only lowers your own standing. It makes outsiders look at our house and assume Slytherin has no one capable left to use."
Pansy stood frozen, her mouth slightly parted.
She had braced herself for a harsh scolding, or perhaps for Tamara to simply ignore the ugly girl entirely. But Tamara's angle completely shattered her worldview. The logic was flawless. If she constantly surrounded herself with people she deemed to be trolls, what did that make her? A troll-herder?
"We want every single person in this dormitory to represent the absolute perfection of Slytherin the moment they step through that door," Tamara stated, her voice carrying across the silent room.
She turned her back on the stunned Parkinson girl and walked back to the trembling giant in the corner.
"Sit down." Tamara pointed a slender finger at the wooden chair before the vanity.
Millicent dropped into the seat instantly, her heavy frame rigid, looking as though she expected to be struck.
Tamara picked up the broken comb from the dressing table.
"Watch closely, Pansy," Tamara instructed, her gaze fixed on the mirror. She drew her wand, the pale wood gleaming in the dim light, and tapped the tip gently against the back of the wooden comb. "In this world, there are no useless chess pieces. There are only players who lack the vision to place them correctly."
A faint, silvery light flared from the tip of her wand.
The magic washed over Millicent's head. The wild, frizzy tangles of coarse hair instantly smoothed out, turning sleek, shiny, and heavy, falling into a neat, disciplined cut that framed her square jaw perfectly.
"Scourgify."
A second, sharp pulse of magic struck Millicent's mouth. The dull, yellowish stains coating her slightly protruding teeth vanished in an instant, leaving them gleaming as white as polished jade.
Tamara lowered her wand. She placed both of her pale hands firmly onto Millicent's broad, heavy shoulders, forcing the girl to look straight ahead into the glass.
Millicent's features were still rugged. She would never possess Daphne's icy beauty or Pansy's aristocratic sharpness. But with the sleek hair and the pristine, polished appearance, the clumsy, brutish aura had completely evaporated. In its place sat a heavy, imposing, and undeniably heroic presence.
"Look," Tamara commanded softly, pointing at the reflection. "Millicent possesses a large frame. This makes her look less soft than the rest of you, yes. But it also means she possesses a raw, physical strength and a natural deterrence that no other girl in this castle has."
Tamara's fingers squeezed Millicent's shoulders slightly.
"If anyone from the other houses dares to bully a Slytherin girl, Millicent will be our strongest, most unbreakable shield." Tamara's eyes met Pansy's through the mirror. "She is our vanguard. Not the object of your petty ridicule."
Millicent stared at the mirror, her chest heaving. She could not believe the formidable, capable-looking warrior staring back at her was actually herself.
The dam finally broke. Hot tears spilled over her eyelashes, tracking down her newly cleaned face. She twisted around in the chair, looking up at Tamara with an expression of absolute, fanatical devotion, as though she were gazing upon a descending goddess.
"Thank you... thank you, Tamara!"
[Ding! Detected that the host has not only resolved a case of dormitory bullying but also performed a complete image makeover and provided psychological counseling.]
[This is a textbook example of mutual aid and sisterhood!]
[Reward: Charisma +2.]
[Obtained Passive Skill: Bestie's Trust (Basic).]
[Skill Description: Within female groups, your right to speak and your natural affinity are permanently increased by 20%.]
'Bestie?'Tamara sneered viciously in the dark confines of her mind.'I would rather swallow broken glass.'
This was simply the carrot and the stick, applied with precision. In a span of five minutes, she had secured a physically imposing, fiercely loyal enforcer who would gladly take a curse for her, while simultaneously putting the most influential loudmouth in the room firmly in her place.
"Do you understand now, Pansy?" Tamara turned her head, offering the short-haired girl a faint, perfectly measured smile.
Pansy looked from the imposing, transformed Millicent to the composed, regal figure of Tamara Riddle. The tiny, lingering spark of jealousy that had been burning in Pansy's chest was snuffed out entirely, replaced by a deep, overwhelming awe.
This was the chasm between them. While Pansy wasted her breath mocking others for being ugly, Tamara possessed the power and the vision to forge that ugliness into a weapon.
This was a true leader.
"I understand, Tamara," Pansy said, lowering her head. For the very first time, her voice carried a heavy note of genuine, unfeigned respect. "You are right. I... I should not have said those things."
She shifted her weight awkwardly, looking toward the large girl in the chair. "Hey, Bulstrode... about earlier... sorry."
Millicent wiped her face with the back of her hand, looking entirely overwhelmed by the sudden shift in reality. She shook her head quickly. "I-it is okay."
"Good."
Tamara clapped her hands together once, a sharp, crisp sound that shattered the lingering sentimental atmosphere.
"Now that the internal friction is resolved, hurry up and finish getting ready. Time waits for no one, and I refuse to be late for breakfast."
Half an hour later.
When the five first-year Slytherin girls marched into the Great Hall, the sheer presence of their formation drew countless sideways glances from the other three tables.
Walking dead center, dictating the pace of the group, was Tamara Riddle.
She looked absolutely flawless. Her dark green silk-lined robes draped perfectly over her pale skin, and that black cat, Nagini, lay draped across her shoulders like a living fur stole, lazily flicking its tail.
Flanking her on the left was Pansy Parkinson, her chin held high, her face a mask of pure aristocratic pride as she diligently carried Tamara's heavy textbooks against her chest.
Flanking her on the right was the tall, broad-shouldered Millicent Bulstrode. Her posture was rigid, her eyes scanning the surrounding tables with the intense, hyper-alert glare of a professional bodyguard. She looked entirely prepared to launch herself across the room and punch the teeth out of anyone who dared to look at Tamara for a second too long.
Daphne and Tracey trailed half a step behind, their postures straight, thoroughly enjoying the sudden, concentrated wave of attention washing over their group.
"Merlin's pants..."
Over at the Gryffindor table, Ron Weasley's jaw dropped so fast that the piece of buttered bread slipped from his fingers and splashed directly into his goblet of milk.
"Wasn't that Tamara girl sitting all by herself yesterday?" Ron muttered, frantically wiping milk off his robes. "How does it look like... like she's recruited a whole bloody army today?"
Harry Potter took a slow bite of his toast, his green eyes tracking the dark-haired girl as she moved through the hall, surrounded by her peers like a star orbited by its moons.
"Because she is very amazing," Harry said quietly.
The memory of her standing in the train carriage yesterday, her wand raised, her voice calm while chaos reigned around her, surfaced vividly in his mind.
"And..." Harry added, his brow furrowing slightly. "It just seems like she was naturally meant to be in that position."
Tamara led her group to the Slytherin table, taking her seat with practiced grace.
Almost immediately, Draco Malfoy leaned over from his spot across the table, with the massive figures of Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle squeezing into the bench right behind him.
"Good morning, Tamara!" Draco greeted, his pale eyes flicking toward the large girl sitting to Tamara's right. He blinked, clearly taken aback. "Bulstrode looks... significantly more presentable today."
"Naturally."
Tamara reached out, accepting the goblet of chilled pumpkin juice that Pansy eagerly pushed into her hand. She took a slow, elegant sip.
"Slytherin always pursues perfection, Draco. We do not tolerate rough edges."
Just as she set her goblet down, a massive rushing sound echoed from the high ceiling. Countless owls poured into the Great Hall, their wings beating the air, dropping parcels, letters, and chaos over the breakfast tables.
A large, gray screech owl swooped low over the Slytherin table, dropping a freshly printed copy of The Daily Prophet directly onto Draco's plate, narrowly missing his eggs.
Tamara did not subscribe to the newspaper herself, so she let her gaze drift casually over the front-page headline facing Draco.
GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST: GOBLINS CLAIM VAULT WAS EMPTY
The fingers holding her goblet tightened. Her hand paused in mid-air for a fraction of a second.
'Quirrell did that,' she thought, her mind racing.
Or rather, the pathetic, noseless main fragment of her soul currently clinging to the back of Quirrell's head did it.
A cold sense of satisfaction washed over her. As expected, although her own presence in this timeline was a massive deviation, the general current of history remained unchanged. The main soul was still desperately hunting for the Philosopher's Stone.
"Someone tried to steal something? From Gringotts?" Draco stared at the bold black ink, letting out a loud, mocking sneer. "That is completely insane. Everyone knows it is the safest place in the world, except for Hogwarts."
"Safest?"
Tamara let out a light, airy chuckle. The sound was musical, but the mirth did not reach her dark, calculating eyes.
"There is no such thing as absolute safety in this world, Draco."
She set her goblet down on the silver coaster. Her gaze drifted up, cutting through the chaotic sea of students and owls, locking directly onto the figure seated at the High Table. She stared at the back of the large, absurd purple turban wrapped around Professor Quirrell's head.
"As long as there is enough desire, there is no door that cannot be forced open."
'And...'she added silently, a cruel, mocking smile playing at the very edges of her mind.'How could that fractured fool possibly steal it from a bank? Dumbledore is many things, but he is not stupid. That Stone has long since been moved to the third-floor corridor of this very castle.'
Tamara picked up her silver knife and fork. With a precise, elegant motion, she cut directly into the center of the fried egg on her porcelain plate. The rich yolk broke open, flowing out in a bright, golden pool—shining exactly like the legendary stone that promised eternal life.
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