Chapter 27: An Old Acquaintance
Friday morning arrived with a biting chill. Down in the subterranean depths of Hogwarts, the Potions classroom was steeped in a heavy, damp gloom.
Glass jars lined the cold stone walls, their murky preservative fluids suspending a vast array of macabre animal specimens. Under the flickering, dim candlelight, these floating oddities cast grotesque, elongated shadows across the floorboards.
For most students—especially the trembling first-year Gryffindors—this space was a waking nightmare.
But for Tamara Riddle, the stagnant air felt remarkably refreshing.
It was a far cry from the loathsome, earthy stench of the Greenhouses or the biting gales of the Astronomy Tower. Here, the sharp tang of dried herbs, the chemical bite of formaldehyde, and the faint, lingering kiss of sulfur filled her lungs. It smelled like home.
This was one of the fields she had once dominated with absolute authority.
More, this was the undisputed territory of her most loyal servant. Severus Snape.
Taking her seat in the very first row, Tamara let her slender fingers trace the cold, brass rim of the unlit cauldron on her desk. A soft, nostalgic sigh echoed in her mind.
In the memories of her past life, Severus had been the one Death Eater who never wavered, remaining steadfast until the bitter end. He had lurked in Dumbledore's shadow, swallowing humiliation and bearing an unimaginable burden, all to funnel her a steady stream of critical intelligence.
True, she had ultimately been forced to slit his throat to secure mastery over the Elder Wand, but such were the unavoidable costs of absolute power.
'That minor unpleasantness hardly diminishes my appreciation for your talent, Severus,' she mused.
Her dark eyes fixed on the empty podium at the front of the room. A playful, dangerous smile curled the corners of her lips. 'Since I have returned, it is only fitting that you rejoin the ranks. This time, my faithful servant, I shall grant you a station far above the rest.'
Bang!
The heavy oak door flew open with violent force, slamming against the stone wall.
A tall man in sweeping black robes strode into the dungeon. His sallow complexion and greasy, shoulder-length black hair framed a face set in a permanent scowl. As he walked, his robes billowed out behind him, giving him the distinct appearance of an overgrown, swooping bat.
Severus Snape.
He did not need to shout for order. The sheer weight of his inherent, gloomy aura washed over the room, instantly suffocating the idle chatter. The classroom fell dead silent.
Reaching the front, he picked up the parchment roll and began calling names.
Even the mundane act of reading a list sounded dangerous. His voice was a deep, resonant baritone, sliding across the silent room like a venomous snake gliding over dark velvet.
"Harry Potter."
Snape paused, letting the silence stretch.
"Ah, yes," he murmured softly, his dark eyes flashing. "Harry Potter. Our new... celebrity."
From the Slytherin side of the room, Draco Malfoy and his cronies snickered behind their hands. Snape did not even glance in their direction, his silence a clear endorsement of the mockery.
Tamara watched the exchange with cool detachment.
It seemed Severus still harbored a deep-seated hatred for the Potter boy. Good. This proved his fundamental stance remained as firm as ever.
The roll call continued.
"Tamara Riddle."
When those two words left Snape's lips, there was a microscopic hitch in his breath. It was an extremely subtle pause, yet to Tamara's finely tuned ears, it was deafening.
Snape slowly raised his head. Through the curtain of his drooping, greasy hair, his deep black eyes locked intensely onto Tamara.
The look he gave her was a turbulent storm of emotion. There was heavy scrutiny, a flash of distaste, and buried deep beneath it all—a raw, instinctual apprehension.
Tamara did not flinch. She did not avert her gaze.
Instead, she elegantly lifted her chin. Looking right into the eyes of her former subordinate, she offered him a perfectly measured, approving smile—the exact expression the Dark Lord used to reward a useful servant.
"Present, Professor."
Her voice was steady, composed, and laced with a subtle, almost imperceptible intimacy.
Snape's pupils constricted to pinpricks.
As if physically burned by her gaze, he violently jerked his head away, his eyes snapping back to the parchment. He cleared his throat, unconsciously increasing the speed of the remaining names.
Once the roll was finished, Snape stepped out from behind the podium to deliver his opening address.
"You are here to learn the subtle science and exact art of potion-making," he began.
His voice was barely louder than a whisper, yet it possessed a commanding quality that ensured every single student heard him perfectly.
"As there is little foolish wand-waving here, many of you will hardly believe this is magic. I don't expect you will really understand the beauty of the softly simmering cauldron with its shimmering fumes, the delicate power of liquids that creep through human veins, bewitching the mind, ensnaring the senses..."
He swept his dark gaze across the room.
"I can teach you how to bottle fame, brew glory, even stopper death—if you aren't as big a bunch of dunderheads as I usually have to teach."
The silence in the dungeon grew heavier.
Beside Harry, Hermione Granger was practically perched on the very edge of her stool, vibrating with the desperate need to prove she was not a dunderhead.
Tamara, meanwhile, leaned back in her chair, a look of fond nostalgia softening her features.
This was the Severus she remembered. Even when forced to babysit a room full of ignorant brats, his rhetoric remained magnificent, arrogant, and utterly seductive.
"Potter!"
Snape suddenly snapped his attention to the boy with the lightning scar. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"
Harry froze. The color drained from his face as he shot a panicked glance at Ron, who looked equally bewildered.
Hermione's hand shot into the air, stretching so high she nearly lifted herself off her seat.
"I don't know, sir," Harry answered honestly.
Snape's lips curled into a sneer of pure contempt.
"Tut, tut—fame clearly isn't everything." He paced a slow step to the right. "Let's try again. Potter, where would you look if I told you to find me a bezoar?"
Hermione's arm stretched higher, her fingers practically trembling. Harry shook his head, his jaw tightening.
"I don't know, sir."
"Thought you wouldn't open a book before coming, eh, Potter?"
Snape ruthlessly dismantled the so-called savior's dignity, and the Slytherin students erupted into cruel laughter.
Watching Harry's face flush a deep, angry red, Tamara felt a warm surge of satisfaction in her chest.
'Well done, Severus,'she praised him inwardly.'Even with me sitting right here, you haven't forgotten to strike at the enemy's morale. A flawless performance.'
"Since Mr. Potter knows absolutely nothing..."
Snape's black eyes swept across the classroom, deliberately ignoring the desperate Hermione, until his gaze finally settled on the first row.
"Miss Riddle."
Snape's voice tightened. The muscles in his jaw locked. "Perhaps you can tell these... illustrious individuals the answers to these three questions?"
In truth, the very act of uttering that surname tasted like ash in his mouth. But rational consideration demanded it. Snape had to confirm the horrifying suspicion clawing at his mind.
Ever since he had seen that cursed name on the class roster, he had not slept a wink. While the majority of the Wizarding world only knew the moniker 'Voldemort', how could one of his most trusted Death Eaters not know his Master's true, original name?
He needed to know if the delicate, polite girl sitting before him had any connection to the monster who had murdered Lily.
Tamara stood up. Her movements were fluid, graceful, and entirely unhurried.
She did not rush to spit out a textbook definition like the Granger girl would have. Instead, she let a beat of silence pass before speaking in a slow, deliberate cadence that was remarkably similar to Snape's own.
"Powdered root of asphodel and an infusion of wormwood, when mixed, form a sleeping potion so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death, Professor."
She held Snape's gaze, a faint, knowing smile playing on her lips.
"As for the bezoar, it is a stone taken from the stomach of a goat, possessing extremely potent antidote properties. It serves as a lifesaver for those fools who accidentally ingest poison."
She tilted her head slightly. "Finally, monkshood and wolfsbane are the exact same plant, also known collectively as aconite."
A flawless answer.
But it was not just the precision of her words. It was the delivery. The tone of her description carried a quiet, absolute arrogance—a chilling authority that scraped against the bone.
It was a tone Snape knew intimately.
It was the exact cadence used by the dark figure who sat at the head of the table during countless, blood-soaked Death Eater meetings.
The last vestiges of color drained from Snape's face, leaving him looking like a corpse.
He stared at the eleven-year-old girl standing before him. He looked into those dark, bottomless eyes that seemed entirely capable of peeling back his flesh and reading his very soul.
In that instant, the ambient chill of the dungeon plummeted to freezing.
"...Correct."
Snape squeezed the word out through tightly gritted teeth. His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, his voice dry and strained. "Five points to Slytherin."
He turned away abruptly, his black robes whipping through the air, looking as though he could not bear to look at Tamara for a single second longer.
"Well? What are you all waiting for? Copy that down!" he barked at the stunned class.
Tamara sat back down, thoroughly satisfied.
She could easily sense the rigid tension radiating from Snape's posture.
'It seems he has recognized my immense talent,'Tamara thought smugly, smoothing her skirt.'Is he terrified that my potential will soon surpass his own? Or is he simply overwhelmed with thrill, realizing his Master has finally found a worthy heir?'
Either way, she enjoyed the reaction immensely.
In her previous life, right up until the moment of her death, Voldemort had never once doubted Severus Snape's loyalty. She had no idea that Lily Potter's death had shattered that allegiance irreparably.
Naturally, she remained entirely ignorant of the secret, decade-long alliance between Snape and Albus Dumbledore.
The remainder of the lesson was dedicated to brewing a simple Cure for Boils.
Tamara and Draco Malfoy were paired together at a workstation.
Under Tamara's calm, authoritative direction, the arrogant Malfoy heir was swiftly reduced to a glorified laborer. He chopped, crushed, and stirred exactly when told, while Tamara stood back, overseeing the precise temperature control and the critical timing of the ingredients.
Within thirty minutes, their cauldron simmered with a perfect, translucent blue liquid, emitting soft puffs of pink smoke.
The Gryffindor side of the room, however, was a stark contrast of chaos.
Neville Longbottom had somehow managed to completely melt Seamus Finnigan's cauldron into a twisted lump of slag. The acidic green potion washed across the stone floor, hissing violently as it burned holes straight through the surrounding students' shoes.
Neville shrieked in agony as the spilled liquid splashed his ankles, his skin instantly erupting into angry, red, swollen boils.
"Idiot boy!"
Snape roared, sweeping across the room. He slashed his wand through the air, vanishing the spilled potion in a flash of magic. "I suppose you added the porcupine quills before taking the cauldron off the fire?"
He loomed over the whimpering boy, berating him mercilessly, before suddenly whipping his head toward Harry.
"You—Potter! Why didn't you tell him not to add the quills? Did you think letting him make a mistake would make you look brilliant by comparison? That is another point from Gryffindor, because of your sheer arrogance."
Harry's mouth fell open. He looked furious enough to shout back, but Ron grabbed his robes, dragging him down and shaking his head frantically.
It was a blatant display of prejudice. An entirely fabricated excuse to target a student.
But in Tamara's eyes, it was a beautiful display of unwavering loyalty.
'He is actually willing to use such a flimsy, transparent excuse just to suppress the savior,'Tamara thought, elegantly sliding a glass stopper into her vial of perfect blue potion. She glanced sideways at the raging Potions Master.'You still hate Gryffindor with such a burning passion, Severus. Excellent.'
It seemed that even though the Death Eaters had lost their power and scattered to the winds, Snape still maintained his fundamental, delightfully twisted moral compass.
When the bell finally rang to signal the end of class, Tamara walked out of the dungeon in significantly higher spirits than when she had arrived.
She was now absolutely certain that, alongside the Bloody Baron, she had secured another trustworthy ally within the castle walls.
True, this particular ally currently seemed a bit high-strung, neurotic, and possessed a foul temper.
But none of that mattered.
'As long as you hate Potter, we are on the same side.'
Tamara paused at the end of the corridor, glancing back at the heavy, tightly closed oak door of the Potions classroom. Her dark eyes gleamed with absolute confidence.
She believed Severus was a discerning man. No matter what physical shell she currently inhabited, as long as he recognized the sheer power of her soul, he would unreservedly offer the loyalty she was owed.
Meanwhile, behind that heavy oak door.
Severus Snape had collapsed into the chair behind his desk. His breathing was ragged, shallow. His usually cold, empty black eyes were blown wide, filled with a suffocating mixture of terror and agonizing grief.
His right hand clamped down hard over his left forearm, fingers digging into the fabric of his sleeve right above the faded Dark Mark.
The skin there wasn't burning. But his soul was trembling violently.
"That tone..."
Snape stared blankly at the empty stool in the first row where Tamara Riddle had sat, his voice breaking into a hoarse whisper.
"Lily... if you could see this..."
He closed his eyes, a shudder wracking his thin frame.
"That monster's soul... has truly returned."
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