Chapter 36: A Slip of the Tongue
Friday night descended upon Hogwarts Castle, bringing with it a rare, heavy tranquility. While the vast majority of the student body wasted their evening lounging in their respective common rooms, gorging on sweets, and cheering for the impending weekend, Tamara Riddle walked alone. Her footsteps echoed softly against the stone floor of the fourth-floor corridor. Idiots, the lot of them. Let them rot in their complacency. She had an appointment at Professor Flitwick's office.
Tonight marked her inaugural attendance at the exclusive Charms Club.
She pushed open the heavy oak door. A wave of stifling, cinnamon-scented warmth washed over her face. Unlike a standard classroom, Flitwick's office lacked the rigid rows of desks and chairs. Instead, it had been transfigured into a cozy, intimate salon. A fire crackled merrily in the hearth, casting dancing shadows across the walls. Dozens of small, luminescent orbs in jewel tones drifted lazily through the air, illuminating the circular tables where several older students sat huddled in low, intense discussion.
Tamara's sharp eyes swept the room, cataloging the occupants. Penelope Clearwater, the Ravenclaw prefect, a fifth-year. Percy Weasley, the Gryffindor prefect, also a fifth-year. Scattered among them were a handful of stressed-looking seventh-years, their wands twitching as they practiced non-verbal spells in preparation for their upcoming N.E.W.T.s, the Nastily Exhausting Wizarding Tests.
The moment Tamara crossed the threshold, the low hum of conversation died. Wands lowered. Heads turned. A collective stare of sheer bewilderment locked onto the petite, eleven-year-old girl standing in the doorway.
"Oh! Come in, come in, Miss Riddle!" Professor Flitwick squeaked. He stood perched atop a precarious stack of heavy tomes, waving his short arms with frantic excitement. "Everyone, halt your work for just a moment. Let me introduce our club's youngest member in history—Tamara Riddle!"
Percy Weasley's nose wrinkled. He pushed his horn-rimmed glasses higher up his nose, his expression souring. "A first-year?" he muttered, his voice dripping with bureaucratic skepticism. "Professor, is this... strictly within the regulations? The theoretical frameworks discussed in the Charms Club usually involve high-level, complex spellcraft. Surely this is inappropriate."
'Shut your mouth, you pompous blood-traitor,' Tamara thought, her smile remaining sickeningly sweet.
"Rules are meant to serve wizards, Mr. Weasley, not hinder them," Professor Flitwick countered, his tone firm despite its high pitch. "Once you witness Miss Riddle's absolute mastery over the Levitation Charm, you will fully comprehend why I made an exception to invite her. Come, Tamara, take a seat right here."
Tamara offered a polite, deferential nod to the room at large. She ignored the lingering glares of doubt and glided over to the plush armchair beside Flitwick, sitting with the perfect, rigid elegance of a pureblood heiress.
"Today, we have a rather special topic." Professor Flitwick clapped his hands together.
A large, heavy brass chest shot out from behind a towering stack of encyclopedias. It hit the floorboards with a heavy thud. The iron latch snapped back, and the heavy lid popped open automatically.
Instantly, a frantic, high-pitched buzzing filled the salon. Inside the chest writhed hundreds of old, oxidized metal keys. Each one had been magically grafted with a pair of delicate, translucent silver wings, fluttering wildly like trapped cicadas, desperate to escape their brass prison.
"Flying keys?" Penelope leaned forward, her brow furrowed in curiosity.
"Exactly!" Professor Flitwick beamed, practically bouncing on his book-step. "Professor Dumbledore entrusted me with a highly specific task. I need to layer Anti-Capture Charms and High-Speed Flight Charms onto this entire batch. It is quite the undertaking for one wizard, so I thought I would enlist the aid of my brightest students."
Tamara's breath hitched. Her eyes locked onto the buzzing mass of metal and wings.
Flying keys.
Dumbledore's special task.
A cold, sharp thrill shot through her veins. A faint, imperceptible smirk tugged at the very corner of her mouth before she smoothed her features back into wide-eyed innocence.
'So,'she mused internally,'this is the third layer of defense protecting the Philosopher's Stone.'
The puzzle pieces were snapping together with beautiful precision. The first trial was that oaf Hagrid's overgrown mutt, the Cerberus named Fluffy, guarding the third-floor trapdoor. The second trial was undoubtedly Professor Sprout's Devil's Snare. Tamara had overheard the Herbology professor complaining bitterly in the greenhouses just days ago about a particularly aggressive, light-fearing specimen she had been forced to transplant.
And now, the third trial sat buzzing in a brass chest right in front of her.
"Professor, what exactly are we supposed to do with them?" a tall seventh-year boy asked, drawing his wand.
"It is quite simple—catch them!" Professor Flitwick gave his wand a sharp flick.
The hundreds of winged keys erupted from the chest in a blinding silver cloud. They swarmed the office like a hive of enraged wasps, ricocheting off the ceiling, darting between the floating orbs, and zipping past ears with high-pitched shrieks of displaced air.
"I need to test their evasive agility!" Flitwick shouted over the din. "If any are defective and easily snatched, the charm work must be completely redone!"
Total chaos descended upon the cozy salon.
Chairs scraped backward. The older students leapt to their feet, wands slashing through the air. Shouts of "Accio!" and "Immobulus!" rang out, flashes of red and blue light illuminating the room as they tried to snatch the bullet-fast keys from the air.
It was a miserable display.
Flitwick's spellcraft was no joke. He had layered complex evasion mechanics into the enchantments. The keys seemed to anticipate the very trajectory of the incoming spells, banking sharply, diving under magical beams, and slipping through grasping fingers with mocking ease.
Percy Weasley's face was flushed a blotchy, ugly red. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he swung his wand like a madman. Ten minutes in, and the Gryffindor prefect had only managed to corner two pathetic specimens.
Tamara remained seated in her plush armchair, utterly unbothered by the frantic flailing around her. She didn't even draw her wand at first. Instead, she rested her chin on her hand, her dark eyes tracking the chaotic flight paths with cold, calculating precision.
'What an exquisite magical circuit,' she noted, a rare flicker of genuine appreciation crossing her mind. The evasion patterns weren't random. The keys moved as if they possessed a rudimentary, hive-mind self-awareness.
Suddenly, a heavy, ancient silver key whistled past her left ear, ruffling her dark hair.
Tamara's eyes snapped to it. Its left wing was slightly crumpled, causing a microscopic stutter in its flight posture. A weak link.
She finally moved.
She didn't bother with Summoning Charms or Freezing Spells—magic she supposedly hadn't learned yet as a mere first-year. Instead, her fingers curled around her holly wand, raising it in a smooth, practiced arc.
'Wingardium Leviosa.'
She didn't utter a single sound. The incantation echoed solely within the dark confines of her mind.
But for a witch of her caliber, that was more than enough.
She wasn't attempting to make the key 'fly.' That would be redundant. Instead, she channeled a dense, suffocating pulse of her vast magical reserves directly into the air surrounding her target. She inverted the spell's core principle, weaponizing the levitation effect to create a localized, crushing reverse force field.
The silver key, hurtling at breakneck speed, suddenly hit an invisible wall. It looked as though it had plunged into a vat of thick, invisible glue.
Its crumpled wings beat frantically against the air, producing a shrill, desperate whine. But the metal body was locked in place, suspended dead in the center of the room, entirely paralyzed by the sheer weight of Tamara's magical pressure.
"Come here," she murmured softly.
With a lazy, elegant flick of her wrist, she reeled it in.
Guided by the tip of her holly wand, the struggling silver key drifted reluctantly through the air, dropping perfectly into her waiting palm.
Snap.
Her fingers closed around the cold metal. The silver wings fluttered feebly against her skin, thoroughly defeated.
"Perfect!" Professor Flitwick's squeak cut through the noise of the room. He nearly toppled off his stack of books in his excitement. "Using the Levitation Charm to generate a localized reverse drag field to snare a high-velocity target? Sweet Merlin! That requires not only immense magical density but terrifyingly precise spatial anticipation! Miss Riddle, you've just caught the most evasive one in the entire batch!"
The older students stopped their frantic casting, turning to stare at the first-year with a mixture of awe and deep irritation. Percy looked as though he had swallowed a lemon.
Tamara merely smiled, gently stroking the captured key's wing. She tilted her head, her dark eyes wide and brimming with innocent curiosity.
"Professor," she began, her voice soft and melodious. "Such a complex, brilliant defense mechanism... are you preparing to lock away something terribly important? Perhaps a high-security vault at Gringotts?"
Flitwick, still riding the high of academic excitement, had completely dropped his guard. The flattery hit its mark perfectly.
"Oh, no, no, not Gringotts," Flitwick chuckled, waving a dismissive hand. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "It is for... well, you know, a certain restricted corridor over on the third floor. Professor Dumbledore requested that each of the Heads of House provide a unique challenge to secure the area."
"Each of the Heads of House?" Tamara repeated softly, latching onto the critical piece of intel like a starving wolf.
"Indeed," Flitwick said casually, his attention momentarily drifting back to the swarm of keys still terrorizing Percy. "Professor McGonagall transfigured a rather magnificent, giant set of Wizard's Chess. Professor Snape, naturally, constructed a devilish potion puzzle reliant entirely on cold logic rather than magic... oh dear."
Flitwick froze. The wand in his hand dropped a fraction of an inch.
He suddenly realized the magnitude of his slip. He slapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes widening in horror as he looked down at the eleven-year-old girl.
"Oh, my word. I shouldn't have said a single syllable of that," he stammered, his cheeks flushing deep purple with embarrassment. "Please, forget everything I just babbled, Miss Riddle. That information is strictly, highly confidential."
"Of course, Professor." Tamara nodded obediently. Her expression was the very picture of pure, unadulterated innocence. "I didn't hear a single thing."
Just to be absolutely certain, she triggered her system skill.
[Skill Activated: Harmless]
A subtle, softening aura washed over her features. Her dark eyes grew slightly wider, her posture shrinking just a fraction to appear infinitely fragile, sweet, and entirely devoid of threat. Flitwick visibly relaxed, his shoulders slumping in relief.
But in the split second her eyelashes fluttered downward, a cold, predatory gleam flashed in the depths of her eyes.
'Chess and potions,'she thought, a dark thrill humming in her chest.'What an incredibly entertaining little game you've set up, Dumbledore.'
"Miss Riddle?" Professor Flitwick asked gently, noticing her brief silence. "Are you feeling fatigued? That spell must have drained your reserves."
"No, Professor." Tamara looked up, offering him a radiant, angelic smile. She gently placed the paralyzed silver key back into the brass chest. "I was merely thinking..."
She paused, letting the silence stretch for a heartbeat.
"With such incredibly strict and brilliant protection, whatever is hidden down there must be very, very safe."
Professor Flitwick puffed out his chest, nodding with absolute pride. "But of course! No dark wizard could ever hope to break through such exquisitely layered mechanisms."
Tamara smiled in complete agreement. 'We shall see about that, you foolish little man.'
For the remainder of the evening's Charms Club session, Tamara refrained from displaying any further feats of magical prowess. She had acquired exactly what she came for. She spent the next hour sitting quietly in her plush chair, a thick theoretical text resting on her lap, playing the part of the diligent, quiet student to perfection.
By the time the grandfather clock chimed and she finally stepped out of the stifling warmth of the office, the pieces were fully assembled. She now possessed a complete, detailed map of the defenses guarding the Philosopher's Stone right inside her head.
Fluffy. Devil's Snare. Flying Keys. Giant Chess. A Logic Potion.
Child's play.
Walking alone through the dim, echoing stone corridor, Tamara paused by a tall, arched window. She gazed out at the sprawling Hogwarts grounds, shrouded in the pitch-black embrace of the night sky. The wind howled against the glass, cold and biting.
"Halloween is coming soon," she whispered to the empty corridor, her reflection in the glass twisting into a chilling, utterly wicked smile.
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