Chapter 43: The Mutual Aid Society
The pressure of impending exams hung heavy in the Slytherin common room, though one would hardly know it from the scene by the hearth.
A roaring fire crackled merrily in the grand stone fireplace, doing its best to banish the perpetual, damp chill that seeped in from the murky depths of the Black Lake just beyond the enchanted windows. The heavy oak study tables had been carefully cleared. In place of scattered inkwells and crumpled notes, dark green velvet cloths draped elegantly over the wood, playing host to gleaming silver tea services and neatly stacked mountains of parchment.
Tamara Riddle occupied the widest, most luxurious wingback armchair directly before the hearth. She cradled a delicate porcelain cup of black tea in one hand, her posture a picture of lazy, aristocratic grace. Sprawled across her lap was that utterly idiotic black cat she had named Nagini. The feline purred like a broken engine, shamelessly soaking up the adoration of several first-year girls who took turns fawning over it and stroking its sleek fur.
"This is the true meaning of the Mutual Aid Society."
Tamara lowered her teacup. The porcelain base met the silver saucer with a single, crisp clink.
The sound was barely louder than a whisper, yet it cut through the low hum of chatter. The common room fell instantly, completely silent. Dozens of eyes turned toward the armchair.
"Here, we share our resources. We exchange our knowledge," Tamara continued, her voice smooth, warm, and dripping with practiced sincerity. "Slytherin is powerful because we understand how to forge individual strength into a single, collective blade."
Behind her gentle smile, she sneered.
'Mutual Aid Society.' What a pathetic, saccharine title. This was nothing more than an early indoctrination camp for future Death Eaters. More practically, it was a desperate measure to ensure her so-called subordinates did not humiliate her when exam scores were posted. The Dark Lord could not be seen leading a gaggle of illiterate dunderheads.
Yet, these foolish eleven-year-olds swallowed every word like gospel. They were practically vibrating with devotion. Children inherently craved order. They naturally gravitated toward power. And Tamara, with her flawless grades, immense magical talent, and perfect pure-blood poise, slotted neatly into the empty throne of their adolescent fantasies.
She reached for her thick History of Magic textbook, fully intending to drill the goblin rebellions into their thick skulls, when a sharp, shrill argument shattered the cultivated peace.
"That is my seat, Parkinson."
Daphne Greengrass stood with her chin tilted up, her icy blue eyes glaring daggers at the dark-haired girl occupying the plush cushion to Tamara's immediate right. The blonde pure-blood radiated aristocratic haughtiness.
"Does it have your name carved into the upholstery?" Pansy Parkinson shot back. She refused to yield a single inch, crossing her arms over her chest like a territorial hen guarding a pile of premium grain. "Besides, I am Tamara's best friend. It is only natural that I sit closest to her."
Daphne let out a short, elegant scoff.
"Best friend? Please, do not make me laugh, Pansy. You look less like a friend and more like a glorified maid. The Greengrass family would never stoop to clinging to someone with such an utter lack of dignity."
"Who are you calling a maid?!" Pansy shrieked. Her face flushed an ugly, mottled red. Her hand instantly dropped to her robes, fingers wrapping around the handle of her wand.
"Enough."
She did not shout. She did not even raise her voice. It was a single, calm word.
Yet, the sheer weight behind that syllable carried a dark, suffocating pressure. The two girls, seconds away from hexing each other into oblivion, froze as if struck by a Body-Bind Curse.
Tamara rose slowly from her armchair. Nagini let out a highly offended yowl, scrambling off her lap and darting beneath a nearby sofa.
The soft click of Tamara's dragon-hide shoes echoed against the stone floor as she stepped between the two combatants. Her dark, unreadable gaze swept from Pansy's furious, blotchy face to Daphne's rigid, pale features.
The rest of the common room held its collective breath. Not a single silver spoon clinked. Everyone watched, wide-eyed, silently placing bets on who their leader would favor. Would she back Pansy, the fiercely loyal lapdog? Or would she side with Daphne, the heiress to the Sacred Twenty-Eight with vast political capital?
"Look at yourselves," Tamara murmured. She laced her tone with a heavy, sorrowful disappointment. "What exactly do you look like right now? Two mountain trolls squabbling over a rotting carcass?"
The color drained from both girls' faces in perfect unison.
"Slytherin does not have the luxury of meaningless internal strife." Tamara reached out, her pale fingers coming to rest gently on Pansy's trembling shoulder. "Pansy. Your loyalty and your fierce passion are incredibly valuable. They make you a sharp, dangerous sword. But if you constantly swing that blade at your own people, it ceases to be loyalty. It becomes sheer stupidity."
Pansy's chin dropped to her chest. She bit her lower lip so hard it nearly bled. "I am sorry, Tamara..."
Releasing the dark-haired girl, Tamara pivoted gracefully toward Daphne.
"And you, Daphne." She met the blonde's wavering gaze. "The pride and reserve of the Greengrass family are commendable traits. But you must understand that true dignity is never achieved by stepping on the throats of your comrades."
Daphne swallowed hard, her haughty facade cracking.
"If you truly look down on Pansy, then prove your superiority with your magical strength. Not with the surname your ancestors handed to you."
Tamara took a step back, ensuring the entire room could see her.
"In my—" She caught herself, softening her expression. "In our team... everyone has their designated place. Pansy is a woman of action. She strikes first and strikes hard. Daphne excels at social grace, strategy, and intellect. You are all like fingers on a single hand."
She raised her own hand, slowly curling her pale fingers into a tight, white-knuckled fist.
"Only by clenching together can you generate the force required to crush the enemy's bones." She let her fist drop. "Now. Shake hands."
It was not a request.
Pansy and Daphne exchanged a highly reluctant glance. The animosity still simmered in their eyes, but under the crushing, absolute authority radiating from Tamara, neither dared to disobey. They slowly extended their hands, their fingers clasping in a stiff, brief shake.
"Sorry," Pansy muttered at the floor.
"...Sorry," Daphne echoed, stubbornly turning her head toward the fireplace.
[Ding! Detected that the host has successfully resolved an internal team conflict.]
[System Evaluation: You have applied superb leadership skills, not only settling a petty dispute but actively strengthening team cohesion. What an incredible display of big-picture thinking! You go, girl!]
[Reward: Charisma +1.]
[Notice: Current Charisma value has exceeded standard thresholds. The excess points have automatically been converted into the passive aura: 'Leadership Charisma'.]
Tamara settled back into her plush armchair, her heart as cold and untroubled as the Black Lake outside.
Big-picture thinking? Please. This was merely the most rudimentary, infantile level of manipulation. The art of controlling lesser minds dictated that one must allow subordinates to maintain a moderate, healthy level of vicious competition. By stepping in as the grand, benevolent arbitrator at the boiling point, she ensured that both sides remained entirely dependent on her ultimate authority. Divide, manage, and conquer.
"Alright," Tamara said, her voice returning to its usual pleasant cadence. "Now that this minor misunderstanding is resolved, let us continue with our review."
She cracked open her heavy textbook, the parchment pages rustling loudly in the quiet room. But before she could even read the first heading, Draco Malfoy, who had been practically vibrating with pent-up frustration all evening, finally snapped.
"Tamara, that blasted Potter has been far too annoying lately!"
Draco slammed his expensive eagle-feather quill onto the table. A few drops of black ink splattered across the velvet cloth. "I am absolutely going to write to my father. I'll have him pressure the Board of Governors to kick Potter out of this school for good!"
He puffed out his chest, looking incredibly pleased with his own brilliant plan. "My father says that with just a little political maneuvering, we can make things incredibly difficult for Dumbledore..."
Always 'my father.'
Tamara closed her textbook. The heavy cover fell shut with a dull, ominous thud.
She slowly turned her head, fixing her dark eyes on Draco's smug, pointed face. A dangerous flash of pure annoyance flickered behind her polite mask. Lucius Malfoy was a slippery, shrewd opportunist who knew exactly when to bow and when to bite. Yet, somehow, the man had managed to raise a son who was utterly, hopelessly useless.
"Draco."
Tamara began to tap her index finger against the leather armrest. Tap. Tap. Tap. The rhythmic sound seemed to sync with the sudden, nervous pounding of Draco's heart. "How old are you this year?"
"E-eleven," Draco stammered. His smug smile vanished, replaced by a look of utter confusion.
"Eleven. Not three."
Tamara leaned forward. The shadows cast by the fireplace seemed to stretch and warp around her. Her pitch-black eyes locked onto Draco's pale grey pupils, projecting an overwhelming, suffocating wave of pressure directly onto his narrow shoulders.
"Your very first reaction whenever you encounter the slightest inconvenience is always, 'I am going to tell my father.' Do you have any idea how pathetic that sounds? You sound like an unweaned giant baby wailing for a pacifier."
Several students in the room winced, but no one dared to laugh.
"But... but using family influence is a legitimate form of strength!" Draco tried to argue back, though his voice lacked its usual arrogant bite.
"using?"
Tamara let out a low, chilling sneer. "You do not use your family, Draco. You depend on them. You hide behind them."
She tilted her head, her gaze boring into his soul. "What happens if one day Lucius is no longer around to shield you? What happens if the Malfoy family suddenly loses its wealth and political protection? What exactly could you do then? Are you going to cry to your enemies and remind them who your father is while they point their wands at your chest?"
Draco opened his mouth, but his throat worked soundlessly. The blood drained from his face. The mere thought of such a scenario completely paralyzed him.
"A true Slytherin does not hide behind their father," Tamara whispered, the words slicing through the quiet room. "A true Slytherin makes themselves into the one others hide behind."
She stood up, her dark robes dragging silently across the stone floor as she closed the distance between them. Her voice slowed, taking on a dark, hypnotic allure.
"You must learn to use your own brain to solve your problems, Draco. If Harry Potter makes you unhappy, then use your own spells to break him. Use your own schemes to frame him. Use your own grades to utterly crush him."
She stopped right beside his chair, looking down at him. "Do anything other than acting like a mindless megaphone, constantly broadcasting your father's prestige because you have none of your own."
Tamara reached out. Her pale index finger lightly tapped against Draco's temple. The cool, almost icy touch of her skin made the boy's breath hitch.
"This," she murmured, her finger lingering against his skull, "is your most powerful weapon."
She pulled her hand back. "If you are content to merely be Lucius Malfoy's son, you will always be a second-rate wizard. What I want to see... what I expect to see... is a Draco Malfoy who can force me, and everyone else in this room, to look at him with genuine respect."
Draco stared blankly up at her.
No one had ever spoken to him like this. His mother coddled him. His father bought him expensive brooms and taught him how to sneer at the poor. But no one had ever demanded that he be strong for his own sake.
The burning flush of shame slowly faded from his cheeks, replaced by the sudden, roaring ignition of an unmatched ambition. His pale eyes locked onto Tamara's pitch-black gaze, and he nodded, his jaw setting with newfound resolve.
"I understand, Tamara." Draco took a deep, shuddering breath. The childish petulance vanished from his expression, replaced by a cold, hard determination. "Next time... next time, I will handle Potter myself."
"Very good."
Tamara smiled. It was a beautiful, terrifying expression.
[Ding! Detected that the host is conducting deep moral and ideological education.]
[Mission Accomplished: Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime!]
[System Evaluation: You have not only corrected a classmate's toxic habit of relying on nepotism, but you have also ignited his spirit of independence and self-reliance! You are practically a shining beacon for the wizarding education world! Ten points to Tamara!]
[Reward: Wisdom +1.]
[Current Wisdom: 24.]
Tamara glided back to her armchair and picked up her teacup, her mood significantly improved.
The system's overly enthusiastic evaluations were always nauseating enough to curdle milk, but she could not argue with the results. She had no use for a gaggle of spoiled, second-generation heirs who only knew how to cry for their mommies and daddies when things got difficult. She needed a vanguard of ruthless, independently thinking elites who were loyal to absolutely no one but her.
"Now then," Tamara said, her tone brisk and professional as she reopened her heavy textbook. "Let us return to page twelve."
She took a graceful sip of her lukewarm tea, her dark eyes sweeping over the dozens of faces staring back at her. Every single pair of eyes was wide, shining with a potent mixture of absolute awe and terrified admiration.
"Regarding the theoretical construction of foundational magic circuits, some scholars believe..."
Her calm, steady voice filled the quiet common room once more. Outside the thick glass of the enchanted windows, the dark, freezing waters of the Black Lake continued their slow, eternal churn against the stone foundations of the castle.
[Akarin's Note:
Enjoying the story? Dropping a quick review, comment, or Power Stone means the world to me and keeps these daily updates flowing!
Want to read 50 chapters ahead or just want to help keep a shameless translator alive? (My livelihood actually depends on this, haha 😭). You can support me directly here:
(P.S. Just remove the brackets and replace the [.] with a regular dot . to use the links!)
✨ Patreon (50 Advanced Chapters): patreon[.]com/AkarinTL
☕ Ko-fi (Support / Sponsor): ko-fi[.]com/AkarinTL
🔗 All My Links: linktr[.]ee/AkarinTL
Thank you so much for reading and keeping this project alive!]