Chapter 21: Devotion to Life
September mornings in the Scottish Highlands were invariably swallowed by a damp, biting mist. As Tamara led her entourage out through the heavy oak doors of the castle gates, the frigid moisture slapped against their faces, instantly drawing a chorus of scowls from the pampered heirs of pure-blood society.
"This wretched weather."
Draco Malfoy shrank his neck into his collar, glaring disdainfully at the muddy grass beneath his feet. His carefully polished dragon-hide boots had barely touched the grounds before a foul splatter of mud ruined their pristine shine.
Tamara, however, maintained her flawless poise. Her dark green silk robes fluttered gently in the morning breeze, completely unbothered by the chill. Her long, dark hair was tied elegantly behind her head with a silver-green ribbon, exposing the graceful curve of her pale neck.
Nagini had not accompanied her today. The great snake utterly loathed moisture and had stubbornly buried herself deep beneath the warm blankets of Tamara's four-poster bed, refusing to budge an inch. Tamara saw no point in forcing her familiar to suffer the damp cold.
Truthfully, if given the choice, the Dark Lord would much rather rob an apothecary at wand-point than trudge out here to play in the mud. But for the sake of that infuriating goal—securing an 'Outstanding' in every single subject—she had to endure the indignity.
Greenhouse One sat on the sprawling grounds behind the castle, a long, imposing structure made entirely of glass.
The moment the Slytherin first-years changed into their heavy work robes and pushed open the door, they were hit by a suffocating wave of hot, humid air. The atmosphere was thick with the heavy scent of damp earth, crushed leaves, and the sharp, eye-watering stench of potent fertilizer.
Professor Sprout was already waiting for them behind a long wooden table piled dangerously high with terra-cotta flowerpots. The stout witch wore a heavily patched hat, and thick layers of dark soil were permanently wedged beneath her fingernails.
"Good morning, Slytherin students!"
Professor Sprout cheerfully clapped her hands together, sending a small cloud of dust into the air. Her smile was blindingly bright against the gloomy morning.
"Don't just loiter at the door, come in, come in! Today we are going to learn about a very fascinating and highly practical plant!"
She gestured grandly toward a row of rather ordinary-looking seedlings with silvery-green leaves sitting on the table.
"Today's subject is Dittany. Who can tell me the primary magical properties of Dittany?"
Dead silence fell over the greenhouse.
Goyle was entirely preoccupied with digging a stubborn booger out of his nostril. Crabbe was staring blankly at a terra-cotta pot as if hoping it would turn into a pastry. Pansy was frantically trying to wipe a stray droplet of condensation off her expensive robes.
Draco actually knew the answer, but he was far too busy gagging at the massive wooden bucket of fertilizer sitting on the table to even consider raising his hand.
Tamara suppressed a heavy sigh.
This was the distinct downside of not having Hermione Granger in the room. Without that insufferable Gryffindor desperately racing to answer every question, the silence stretched into a painfully awkward void.
Moving with practiced grace, Tamara raised her hand.
"Miss Riddle?" Professor Sprout's eyes lit up with immediate relief.
"Dittany is a powerful healing herb, Professor."
Tamara's voice was smooth, steady, and as precise as a printed textbook. "Its essence can be used to treat severe lacerations, prevent permanent scarring, and it even possesses a certain delaying effect on irreversible tissue damage caused by the Dark Arts."
"Perfect! Absolutely perfect! Five points to Slytherin!"
The surrounding Slytherin students immediately straightened their spines, puffing out their chests as they looked at Tamara with renewed awe and admiration.
"Now, today's task is quite simple."
Professor Sprout pointed a soil-stained finger at the massive wooden bucket nearby. It was filled to the brim with a dark brown, slightly steaming substance that radiated an absolutely eye-watering odor.
"These Dittany seedlings desperately need repotting. You will need to transplant them into larger pots and mix in a generous amount of fertilizer."
She leaned in, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Be very careful. The root systems of Dittany are incredibly fragile, and they thrive best in... well, highly nutrient-rich environments."
"That is dragon dung." Draco clamped a hand over his nose and mouth, stumbling backward in sheer horror. "That is Antipodean Opaleye dung, I can smell the sulfur!"
"A very keen nose, Mr. Malfoy." Professor Sprout nodded in genuine approval. "Fresh dragon dung compost is the absolute best nourishment for growing Dittany."
She clapped her hands again. "Now, put on your dragon-hide gloves and get to work!"
The Slytherin students stared at each other in frozen, wide-eyed panic.
Asking these pampered, noble pure-bloods to willingly grab handfuls of dragon excrement? This was practically a war crime.
Even Pansy, who usually followed Tamara's every command without question, wore an expression of pure agony. She stared at the bucket of steaming black sludge, her arms locked rigidly at her sides, entirely unwilling to move.
Tamara looked down at the empty flowerpot in front of her, then shifted her gaze to the bucket of nutrient-rich dragon dung.
Slowly, she reached into her pocket and pulled out her exquisite, custom-made leather gloves. They were incredibly soft, embroidered with delicate silver snake patterns along the cuffs.
Even handling feces through thick leather was a disgusting prospect, but it was the absolute limit of what the Dark Lord was willing to tolerate.
However.
The very second her fingertips brushed the edge of the leather.
[Ding! Core segment of Herbology course detected: Contact with the Earth.]
[Virtue Task Triggered: Gift of the Earth.]
[Task Description: True life force should not be isolated by cold leather. As a wizard determined to protect life, please use your bare hands to feel the temperature of the soil and the pulse of life.]
[Task Requirement: Complete the transplanting and fertilizing of the Dittany seedlings entirely barehanded.]
[Task Reward: Life +5.]
[Failure Penalty: For the next three days, no matter how many times you bathe, scrub, or cast cleansing charms, your body will emit the distinct, pungent aroma of fresh dragon dung.]
Tamara's elegant movements froze completely.
The expensive silver-embroidered gloves slipped from her numb fingertips, landing softly on the dirt-covered table.
'Damn it.''Damn it!''DAMN IT!'
A vein began to throb violently against Tamara's temple. Her jaw locked so tight her teeth ached.
She stared at the dark brown, slightly steaming bucket of dragon dung.
That was shit.
Even if it belonged to a majestic, fire-breathing magical beast, it was still literal, steaming shit.
The system was demanding that she—Lord Voldemort, the greatest Dark wizard of the age, the one whose very name made the wizarding world tremble, the one who had wielded the Elder Wand—shove her bare hands into a pile of feces.
"I am not doing it." Draco threw his gloves onto the table in disgust. "This is entirely too degrading. I will just have Goyle do my share."
"I cannot do it either..." Pansy looked on the verge of actual tears. "This will completely ruin my cuticles."
A chorus of whiny complaints erupted from the rest of the Slytherins.
Tamara took a slow, deep breath, forcing the murderous rage back down her throat.
If she refused, she would smell like a dragon's latrine for three days. The sheer humiliation of walking through the Hogwarts corridors smelling like feces was a fate worse than death.
If she complied, not only would she secure those infuriating five Life points, but she could also spin this absolute degradation into a display of dominance, further cementing her god-like status among these pampered, useless children.
'This is the price of power.'
She closed her eyes. When her dark lashes fluttered open a second later, the burning disgust in her gaze had been entirely replaced by a look of sacred, solemn sacrifice.
Tamara reached down and slowly rolled up the sleeves of her expensive silk robes, exposing her pale, slender forearms.
Then.
She extended her perfectly manicured hands, with their neatly trimmed, rounded nails, and without a single microsecond of hesitation, plunged them wrist-deep into the steaming bucket of dragon dung compost.
"Hiss—"
A collective, horrified gasp sucked the air out of the greenhouse.
Draco's pale eyes bulged so far out of his skull they looked ready to drop into the dirt.
"Ta... Tamara? Are you completely insane?!"
Tamara scooped up a massive handful of the warm, viscous, squelching compost. Her face was a mask of absolute serenity as she packed the foul sludge into the bottom of her terra-cotta pot.
There was no trace of disdain on her beautiful features. Instead, she wore an expression of almost devout concentration, like a priestess performing a sacred rite.
Internally, Lord Voldemort was screaming loud enough to shatter glass, violently fantasizing about severing her own hands at the wrists with a dark curse.
"In the eyes of a true wizard, materials are neither noble nor lowly." Tamara's voice cut through the stunned silence, cool and commanding. "There is only the question of whether they are useful."
She picked up the delicate Dittany seedling. The visual contrast was staggering—her hands, coated thick with dark, foul-smelling filth, cradling the fragile, emerald-green life with extreme, tender care.
"Though dragon dung is filthy to the touch, it contains immense, raw magical power. It is the exact catalyst required to force the Dittany to radiate its strongest medicinal properties."
She pressed the seedling into the soil, her dark eyes slowly rising to sweep across the dumbfounded faces of her housemates.
"If you cannot even stomach a little bit of dirt..." Tamara's voice dropped to a dangerous, silken whisper. "Then tell me, when you are faced with spilled blood, when you are faced with rotting wounds, when you are faced with true, lethal Dark Magic... are you going to turn your backs and run away simply because you find it distasteful?"
Draco stood entirely paralyzed.
He stared at Tamara's mud-caked, filth-covered hands, and a sudden, crushing wave of shame washed over him. He suddenly realized how pathetic, how ridiculously affected his own whining sounded.
Yes.
This was Tamara Riddle.
She could sit high and mighty like an untouchable queen, yet she possessed the terrifying resolve to plunge her bare hands into filth without a second thought if it served her ultimate goals.
This kind of raw courage. This kind of absolute, chilling ruthlessness to do whatever it took to seize power. This was what it meant to be a true Slytherin.
"I am sorry, Tamara."
Draco ground his teeth together, his jaw setting in determination as he snatched his gloves off the table and threw them aside.
"You are right. I am a Malfoy. I should not be cowering over a little bit of compost."
He squeezed his eyes shut and shoved his bare hands into the bucket. His facial muscles spasmed violently as the warm sludge squished between his fingers, but he forced himself to endure it.
With Draco taking the lead, the dominoes fell. Pansy swallowed her tears and removed her gloves. Goyle, Crabbe, Blaise Zabini... one by one, the Slytherin first-years silently stripped their hands bare.
For a long while, the only sound in the humid greenhouse was the wet, squelching noise of turning soil and packing fertilizer.
Professor Sprout stood frozen by her desk. She stared at this group of notoriously difficult, arrogant Slytherin aristocrats, watching them willingly dig through dragon dung with their bare hands, working with a frantic, almost religious enthusiasm.
Her lower lip trembled.
"Oh... Merlin's beard... how incredibly touching..."
Professor Sprout pulled a dirty handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed at her leaking eyes. "In all my decades of teaching at this school, I have never, ever seen a class of Slytherins who love magical plants so deeply, who respect the raw earth so deeply!"
She beamed at the dark-haired girl leading the charge. "Miss Riddle! Your words were deeply educational! A true inspiration!"
"Twenty points to Slytherin! Awarded for displaying the most precious, dedicated spirit I have ever witnessed in Greenhouse One!"
Tamara did not smile at the massive point reward.
She was entirely focused on finishing this waking nightmare.
Using her filth-encrusted fingers, she gently pressed the top layer of soil down around the base of the Dittany stem. Her movements were feather-light, as gentle as a lover's caress.
[Ding! Task Completed: Gift of the Earth.]
[You have proven with your decisive actions that true virtue is never afraid of dirt, grime, or exhaustion!]
[System Evaluation: S]
[Reward: Life +5.]
[Current Life: 12.]
[Ding! Congratulations to the host!]
[Detected that the 'Life' attribute has successfully broken through the 10-point milestone.]
[Your intimate, barehanded contact with soil and fertilizer proves that you possess a heart that truly understands the deep meaning of life by nourishing all living things.]
[Unlocked Level 1 Life-series Charm: Episkey.]
[Spell Effect: Capable of healing minor lacerations, moderate bruises, small bone fractures, or bleeding noses.]
[System Evaluation: "You used to only specialize in creating corpses, but now you have learned how to repair bodies! See? Isn't this a massive improvement in your character?"]
'Healing magic?'Tamara's internal expression twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated venom. She had endured the absolute, stomach-churning humiliation of playing in dragon feces for an entire hour, only to unlock a pathetic, low-level first-aid spell.'I am the Dark Lord,'she sneered viciously in her mind.'I am not a bloody trainee nurse at St Mungo's.'
[No matter what it is, helping others is never a bad thing! Keep up the great work!]
The very second the heavy brass bell rang to signal the end of the period, Tamara shot up from her stool like a fired cannonball.
"Class dismissed," Professor Sprout had barely finished saying the words.
Tamara was already backing toward the door, her wand whipped out of her robes, frantically slashing it over her soiled hands.
"Scourgify! Scourgify! Tergeo! Scourgify!"
She fired off four rapid, aggressive cleaning charms in a single breath. The magic scoured her skin so violently that her hands turned bright red and began to peel, but she did not stop until the skin was bone-dry and not a single microscopic trace of odor lingered in the air around her.
Even with the magic scrubbing her raw, she still felt the phantom sensation of wet sludge crawling beneath her fingernails.
"Tamara, wait for me!"
Draco jogged after her, vigorously shaking the excess mud off his bare hands. His pale face was flushed with strange, adrenaline-fueled excitement. "I have to admit, that feeling just now was actually quite brilliant! It felt like... like we were conquering nature itself!"
Tamara snapped her head around. She looked at Draco, who was happily marching toward her with hands completely coated in wet dragon feces, and her survival instincts kicked in. She instantly took three massive steps backward.
"Stay away from me, Malfoy."
Her voice had completely lost its gentle, polite veneer. It dropped into a heart-stopping, abyssal coldness, dripping with genuine, unfiltered murderous intent.
"Do not even breathe in my direction until you have scrubbed your hands down to the bone."
Without waiting for his response, she spun on her heel and practically sprinted toward the castle, her pace so frantic she looked like she was fleeing a raging Fiendfyre.
"What on earth is wrong with her?" Pansy walked up beside Draco, blinking in confusion as she watched Tamara's rapidly retreating back.
"She is probably..." Draco looked down at his own filthy hands, his expression shifting into one of deep, solemn reverence. "She is probably rushing off to strategize. Thinking about how to lead us toward our next pursuit of excellence."
He nodded to himself, completely convinced. "She truly is a natural-born leader."
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