Chapter 34: Hagrid's Invitation
Although Halloween was still weeks away, the late autumn winds sweeping across the Hogwarts grounds already carried a biting, desolate chill.
Friday afternoon meant no classes—a golden window of time that any proper Slytherin would spend lounging by the roaring fireplace in the common room, or perhaps buried in the restricted section of the library, unraveling deep magical theories.
Instead, Tamara Riddle found her path blocked in the courtyard corridor.
"Hagrid wants to see you."
Harry Potter stood before her, scratching his perpetually messy black hair with an awkward, lopsided grin. A few paces behind him, Ron Weasley stood stiffly, his eyes locked in a wary glare on the blonde boy standing just over Tamara's shoulder—Draco Malfoy.
Harry and his little Gryffindor entourage made a habit of visiting Hagrid's hut. The overly enthusiastic half-giant would inevitably force cups of scalding tea and rock cakes—pastries so dense they could double as bludgeoning weapons—into their hands, trapping them in hours of mindless chatter.
"He said he was curious about you, and... well, I thought since we're friends now, maybe we could go have a cup of tea together," Harry offered, his tone painfully sincere.
Ever since Draco had tricked the Gryffindor boys into that midnight duel, they had received a harsh awakening regarding the sinister nature of Slytherin House. But Tamara? Tamara had braved the dark corridors in the dead of night just to look for them out of worry. In their naive, simplistic minds, she was the sole beacon of goodness in a den of snakes.
Before Tamara could even formulate a polite dismissal, Draco wrinkled his nose. His upper lip curled in deep disgust, as though someone had just shoved a rotting flobberworm under his chin.
"That big oaf?" Draco sneered. "That pathetic gamekeeper living in a wooden shack? Merlin's beard, Potter, your taste is truly beyond saving. The place must be crawling with fleas and mud."
"Who are you calling a big oaf, Malfoy?!" Ron snapped, his freckled face instantly flushing a violent shade of red.
Tamara watched the petty squabble with dead, expressionless eyes.
'Go to Hagrid's hut?'
What a spectacular joke. She had zero interest in stepping foot in such a filthy hovel. More, that was Hagrid. The very same oaf Tom Riddle had personally framed fifty years ago. Why on earth would she ever willingly seek him out?
"No."
Her refusal was cold, sharp, and immediate. She turned on her heel, her dark robes flaring. "I have more important things to do."
She didn't even make it a full step.
[Ding! Warning! Detected that the host is attempting to evade historical responsibility!]
That painfully familiar, overly cheerful mechanical voice exploded inside her skull, laced with a harsh, threatening crackle of electric static.
[Triggered Special Bond Quest: Debt of History.]
[Quest Background: Fifty years ago, it was 'you' who despicably opened the Chamber of Secrets, released the Basilisk, caused the death of a student, and ultimately framed Rubeus Hagrid, who was just an innocent student at the time.]
[Result: Hagrid was expelled from Hogwarts, his wand snapped, his life ruined, leaving him to spend the rest of his days as a lowly gamekeeper.]
[Although your current body is Tamara, the sins of the soul cannot be escaped! This is an ineradicable stain on your life's resume!]
[Quest Objective: Accept the invitation, go to Hagrid's hut, and eliminate Hagrid's hostility towards the surname 'Riddle.'Raise his favorability to'Friendly.']
[Failure Penalty: Dream of Hagrid's massive, weeping face every single night for a month.]
Tamara's footsteps slammed to a dead halt.
A muscle in her left eyelid twitched violently.
The system's graphic description of the penalty triggered a wave of genuine, physical nausea deep in her gut. A month. Thirty days of a sobbing half-giant invading her sleep.
'...Damn it all to hell.'
She cursed viciously in the dark confines of her mind.
"Tamara?" Draco blinked, looking at the girl who had frozen mid-stride. "Let's go. Don't waste your breath on these two idiots."
Tamara took a slow, measured breath, forcibly shoving the boiling disgust down into the darkest pits of her stomach. When she turned back around, her features had smoothed into a mask of polite, gentle consideration.
"I've reconsidered."
She looked at Harry, her voice perfectly calm. "Since it is an invitation from an elder, it would indeed be terribly rude of me to refuse."
"What?!" Draco's jaw dropped. "You're actually going?"
"You should head back, Draco," Tamara said, waving a dismissive hand. "Take that book I borrowed from the library back to the dormitory for me."
"But—"
"That's an order."
Draco's neck shrank into his collar. His face twisted with a mix of utter incomprehension and deep reluctance, but he didn't dare argue. He obediently clutched her heavy tome to his chest, shot Ron one last venomous glare, and stalked off toward the dungeons.
The trek down to the gamekeeper's hut was nothing short of miserable.
The ground grew softer and damper the closer they got to the edge of the grounds, the mud threatening to ruin her polished leather shoes. The crisp autumn air was tainted here, heavy with the scent of decaying leaves unique to the Forbidden Forest, mixed with the faint, rank musk of large, unwashed beasts.
"Here we are," Harry announced, stepping up to the massive wooden door. He raised a fist and knocked heavily.
Deep, thunderous footsteps echoed from within the shack, immediately followed by the frantic, booming barks of a massive dog.
"Coming! Coming! Back off, Fang!"
The heavy door creaked open.
Rubeus Hagrid's colossal frame practically blotted out the sun, filling the entire doorway. He wore his signature, oversized moleskin overcoat, a battered copper kettle clutched in one of his massive hands.
"Harry! Ron! Come on in!" Hagrid boomed, his bushy, bearded face splitting into a warm grin. Then, his dark, beetle-like eyes shifted, landing on the slender, black-haired girl standing quietly behind the two boys.
As Hagrid's gaze focused on that exquisite, pale face—a face carrying a faint, chillingly familiar trace of aristocratic arrogance—his wide smile instantly froze.
"And this is..."
"This is Tamara, Hagrid," Harry chimed in quickly, oblivious to the sudden tension. "Tamara Riddle. The Slytherin I told you about, the one who's always helping other students."
Clang!
The heavy copper kettle slipped from Hagrid's thick fingers, slamming against the wooden floorboards with a deafening crash. Scalding hot water splashed violently across the threshold, soaking into the wood and his heavy boots.
Hagrid didn't even flinch at the heat. He didn't spare the kettle a single glance.
Earlier that week, Harry had mentioned a Slytherin girl who went out of her way to help her peers, someone well-regarded by everyone. Hagrid, assuming the best, had casually mentioned he wouldn't mind meeting her. After all, the Slytherins he usually dealt with were nothing but trouble.
But he had forgotten to ask for her last name.
Now, he stared fixedly at Tamara. In a fraction of a second, the simple, honest warmth vanished from his black eyes, replaced by a raw, suffocating mix of terror, hyper-alertness, and a deep, unhealed agony.
"Riddle?"
Hagrid's voice cracked, coming out as a dry, raspy wheeze. Without realizing it, his massive body shrank back half a step. "You... you're from that... Riddle family?"
Memories buried for fifty years crashed over him like a tidal wave.
A handsome, dark-haired boy wearing a gleaming prefect's badge. A brilliant top student who stood tall and pointed an accusing finger, claiming Hagrid was raising a monster. The boy who pinned a classmate's murder on him... The name that had utterly destroyed his life.
Harry and Ron jumped, startled by the half-giant's extreme reaction.
"Hagrid? What's wrong?" Harry asked, his brow furrowing in alarm.
Tamara watched the towering man tremble. Deep down, she felt absolutely zero guilt. There was only a cold, detached sense of annoyance—an expected irritation at having to deal with the ghosts of her past.
But the system was watching. For the sake of the quest, the performance had to continue.
"It's just a coincidence, Mr. Hagrid."
Tamara's expression remained perfectly serene, her voice clear, gentle, and utterly harmless. "Riddle is a very common surname in the Muggle world. I grew up in an orphanage. I don't actually know who my family is."
She lied without so much as a blink.
It was, perhaps, the Dark Lord's greatest natural talent.
"A coincidence..." Hagrid panted heavily. He stared down at her for a long, agonizing moment, his eyes desperately searching her delicate features, trying to find the shadow of the monster who had ruined him.
But... she was just a girl. Exquisite, yes, and carrying a certain cold elegance, but still just a young girl.
"Yeah... maybe it's just a coincidence," Hagrid muttered, his massive hand coming up to wipe the cold sweat from his face. He forced a strained, unnatural smile and finally bent down to retrieve the fallen kettle. "Sorry, I... lost my composure a bit there. It's just... that surname brings back some mighty bad memories."
He stepped aside, gesturing awkwardly into the dimly lit hut. "Come in. Come in quickly."
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