Chapter 28: Reputation
A few weeks into the autumn term, a deeply unsettling phenomenon had taken root within the ancient stone walls of Hogwarts.
By all logical metrics, the first-year Slytherins were supposed to be the most universally despised demographic in the castle. They were notoriously arrogant, fiercely cliquey, and wore their disdain for Muggle-born wizards like a second set of robes.
But Tamara Riddle was the glaring, baffling exception.
Even though she handled the corridors with her chin angled imperiously, her dark eyes as cold as glacial ice, and rarely deigned to speak to anyone outside her own house... the other houses simply adored her. During meals beneath the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, one could reliably witness a cluster of cheerful first-year badgers at the Hufflepuff table waving enthusiastically in her direction.
It left the Gryffindors utterly bewildered.
Thursday lunch was a chaotic display of clattering silverware and overlapping conversations.
"I just don't get it." Ron Weasley mumbled around a massive mouthful of buttery mashed potatoes. He swallowed heavily, his freckled face scrunched in confusion as his gaze drifted across the sea of black robes toward the center of the Slytherin table. "She is a Slytherin through and through. Honestly, she looks even scarier than Malfoy when she glares. Why do those Hufflepuff idiots practically worship her?"
He had to admit, albeit grudgingly, that Tamara was stunningly beautiful. But a pretty face wasn't nearly enough to make Ron lower his guard around a snake.
"Because she isn't just a typical Slytherin, Ron." Hermione Granger carefully placed her copy of Quidditch Through the Ages face-down on the wooden table. Her voice carried a rare, reluctant note of admiration. "Did you hear what happened during Wednesday night's Astronomy class? Hufflepuff and Slytherin share that period."
"I heard it was absolutely freezing up on the tower," Harry Potter interjected. He listlessly pushed a pile of green peas around his plate with the tines of his fork, his appetite entirely absent.
"Yes, bitterly cold," Hermione agreed with a firm nod. "Hannah Abbott told me her fingers were so stiff from the frost that she couldn't even adjust the brass dials on her telescope. You know how Slytherins usually react to that sort of thing. They just stand around and sneer."
"Malfoy definitely mocked her," Ron snorted, stabbing a sausage.
"Exactly. Malfoy did laugh at her," Hermione leaned in, her expression turning dead serious. "But Riddle didn't. She didn't just help Hannah calibrate the lens. She actually..."
Hermione lowered her voice to a hushed whisper, treating the information like a highly classified state secret.
"...she took the thick wool scarf right off her own neck and wrapped it around Hannah's. Riddle stood up there in the biting wind for the rest of the hour, completely exposed, and didn't utter a single complaint."
Harry and Ron exchanged wide-eyed, incredulous looks.
As one, they shifted their attention toward the distant Slytherin table. The dark-haired girl in question sat perfectly straight, her silver knife and fork moving with aristocratic precision as she sliced into a rare steak. Her porcelain features were completely devoid of warmth. It was nearly impossible to reconcile that icy, untouchable exterior with the image of a girl selflessly shivering in the cold to help a clumsy Hufflepuff.
"There's... there's more than just the scarf," Neville Longbottom chimed in, his voice a timid squeak. He leaned closer to the group, glancing nervously over his shoulder. "I heard about Herbology. They had to repot seedlings using fresh dragon dung. Even Malfoy gagged and refused to touch it because it was too filthy. But Riddle? She just rolled up her sleeves and mixed the fertilizer right in with her bare hands. Professor Sprout nearly cried. She told the whole greenhouse that Riddle is the student who shows the most deep respect for life."
"Listen to that!" Hermione threw her hands up, presenting the evidence like a seasoned barrister. "Respect for knowledge, genuine care for her classmates, and she isn't afraid of hard, dirty work. She might look incredibly arrogant, but her actual choices... they are undeniably chivalrous."
"Oh, come off it, Hermione," Ron groaned, rolling his eyes so hard he nearly tipped backward off the bench. "She's a snake. I bet my wand that scarf was cursed with some sort of obscure Dark Magic. Probably designed to brainwash Hannah into becoming her obedient little badger minion."
Harry remained silent.
He watched Tamara from across the hall, a heavy knot of conflict tightening in his chest. During Potions, her drawling, mocking tone had sounded eerily similar to Snape's venom. Yet, she had used her flawless textbook knowledge to effectively shut the Potions Master down, drawing the fire away from Harry. Had she done that on purpose to protect him? Or was she just showing off?
The girl was an absolute enigma, far too difficult to read.
A sudden rush of wind and the beating of wings interrupted his thoughts. A flock of owls swooped down from the high rafters, showering the tables with the morning post. A large barn owl dropped a crumpled parchment directly onto Ron's plate, narrowly missing his pumpkin juice.
Ron tore it open, scanned the messy scrawl, and immediately let out a loud, pained groan.
"Oh, no. No, no, no. This is an absolute nightmare!"
"What's wrong?" Harry asked, sitting up straighter.
"Flying lessons," Ron slapped the notice onto the wood with a look of utter despair. "They start this afternoon. And guess which house we're paired up with?"
A cold, ominous dread pooled in Harry's stomach.
"Don't tell me it's..."
"Slytherin," Ron hissed through gritted teeth. He glared across the hall at Draco Malfoy, who was currently using his hands to mimic a steep dive, loudly bragging to Crabbe and Goyle about his supposed aerial acrobatics. "That arrogant git has been boasting about dodging Muggle helicopters for days. I guarantee this class is going to be a complete disaster."
Harry exhaled a long, shaky breath.
He wasn't even worried about Malfoy's taunts anymore. His anxiety was entirely focused on his own lack of experience. If he ended up making a fool of himself—if he slipped and fell off his broom right in front of the seemingly flawless, all-powerful Tamara Riddle... the sheer humiliation of her cold, judging stare would be infinitely worse than earning a month of detentions from Snape.
Across the hall, Tamara Riddle was currently enjoying a rare moment of peace.
The past few weeks had passed quite comfortably. The blasted Virtue System hadn't suffered any sudden glitches, nor had it forced her into completing any more nauseatingly heroic missions. Her magical core was stable, her reputation was impeccably crafted, and her steak was cooked to a perfect medium-rare.
But the moment her dark eyes landed on the newly distributed class schedule, her perfectly sculpted eyebrows twitched, knitting together in deep displeasure.
The absolute worst class of the curriculum had finally arrived.
At exactly three-thirty that afternoon, the first-year Slytherins and Gryffindors marched out onto the sprawling, flat lawn situated just opposite the Forbidden Forest.
The weather was obnoxiously pleasant. A crisp, cool breeze brushed against their cheeks, and the grass beneath their polished black shoes rippled in vibrant, soft waves of green. For the average eleven-year-old child, it was a picture-perfect afternoon for outdoor activities.
For Tamara, however, the short walk from the castle doors felt akin to a march toward the executioner's block.
She stood rigidly beside a neatly arranged row of dilapidated school brooms, her crimson-tinted eyes glaring down at the pathetic antique resting by her feet. The twigs at the tail end jutted out at chaotic, uneven angles. Several of the bristles were snapped clean off. It looked less like a magical artifact and more like a balding, diseased floor brush that had been vigorously abused by a troll for the better part of a decade.
'Simply a barbarian's pastime,' Tamara sneered in the private, venomous confines of her own mind.
In her esteemed opinion, the very concept of straddling a thin, splintering wooden stick was entirely devoid of aesthetic grace. The posture required was utterly humiliating. Clamping a rough branch between one's thighs and scurrying clumsily through the clouds? It was an activity fit only for incompletely evolved primates.
During the absolute zenith of her previous life, Lord Voldemort had long since conquered the crude limitations of gravity. She had personally invented the dark, complex magics required for true, unsupported flight. She remembered the sheer, intoxicating power of it—dissolving into a vortex of thick black smoke, tearing through the atmosphere, and looking down upon the pathetic, crawling masses of humanity from the heavens.
That was power. That was true flight.
And now? Now she was expected to straddle a rotting twig.
"Well, what are you all waiting for? Everyone stand beside your broom!" Madam Hooch barked, striding briskly across the lawn. The flying instructor possessed short, spiky gray hair and piercing yellow eyes that locked onto the students like a hawk spotting field mice. "Hurry up now, I haven't got all day. No dawdling!"
"Stick your right hand out over the broom," Madam Hooch commanded, pacing down the center aisle of nervous students. "And say, loud and clear: 'Up!'"
"Up!"
The lawn immediately erupted into a chaotic chorus of high-pitched voices shouting at the dirt.
Harry Potter's broom snapped upward, slapping firmly into his palm on the very first try. A rare, genuine grin broke across his face, his green eyes lighting up with sudden excitement. A few paces away, Draco Malfoy was not about to be outdone; he barked the command with arrogant authority, and his broom snapped to attention just as obediently.
Across the grass, Hermione Granger was growing visibly frustrated. Her voice grew shriller with every failed attempt, yet her broom merely twitched, rolling over lazily in the grass as if mocking her textbook perfection.
Tamara remained perfectly still.
She stood with her arms elegantly crossed over her chest, her posture radiating an aura of absolute, freezing disdain as she stared down at the pathetic piece of kindling resting by her polished shoes.
Making her shout at a dead piece of wood like a bumbling, magic-starved fool?
Never.
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