On the night of the end-of-term feast, the Great Hall of Hogwarts shimmered beneath a sea of green and silver. Long banners bearing the silver serpent crest of Slytherin hung proudly from the high walls, illuminated by hundreds of enchanted candles drifting lazily in midair. Their warm glow reflected off polished goblets and plates, casting a regal sheen over the entire hall.
It was a celebration of dominance.
For the seventh consecutive year, Slytherin House had claimed the House Cup.
At the long Slytherin table, the atmosphere was electric. Students cheered loudly, laughter and chatter blending into a triumphant roar. Goblets clinked, plates were pushed aside, and voices overlapped in excited celebration.
Draco Malfoy stood near the center, holding a goblet high. With a golden spoon, he tapped repeatedly against its rim, producing a sharp, ringing sound in an attempt to command attention.
"Quiet! Quiet, everyone!" he called, clearly eager to deliver yet another speech about Slytherin's supremacy—his third of the evening.
But not everyone shared his enthusiasm.
At the head of the table sat Tamara.
That seat, reserved for the house's greatest contributor, should have marked her as the center of attention. Yet she seemed entirely detached from the celebration. While others reveled, she remained composed—almost indifferent.
Her right hand methodically cut into the lamb chops on her plate, reducing them into increasingly smaller pieces. Her movements were steady, almost mechanical. Meanwhile, her left hand, hidden beneath the wide sleeve of her robes, gently brushed against a small wound on her finger.
That wound was the result of an experiment she had conducted just the night before.
In the quiet solitude of the dungeon bathrooms, she had used a silver knife to slice her fingertip, carefully collecting a single drop of her blood—a rare golden liquid that only manifested three times each month.
Just one drop.
When it fell into a vial containing an otherwise ordinary Basic Magic Potion, the reaction had been immediate and violent. The liquid boiled intensely, its dull color transforming into a radiant golden-red in an instant. From it radiated an intoxicating surge of pure magical energy.
It was nothing short of miraculous.
A substance that would drive any master of alchemy into obsession.
"Perfect…" Tamara had murmured to herself at the time, a flicker of greed igniting in her eyes.
With this discovery, combined with the forbidden knowledge she possessed, she could redefine the limits of potion-making. Her mind had already begun racing with possibilities—enhanced Polyjuice Potions, more potent Veritaserum, creations never before seen.
Even now, seated amidst celebration, those thoughts lingered, pulling her attention away from the present.
Then, suddenly, the noise in the hall began to fade.
One by one, voices quieted.
At the staff table, Albus Dumbledore had risen to his feet.
Even during such a festive moment, his presence commanded respect. His sharp gaze swept across the hall, silencing the last whispers.
"Another year has passed!" he began, his tone warm yet authoritative. "Before we indulge in this feast, I must ask for a moment of your attention."
He spoke of the year's events—its joys, its hardships, its triumphs. His words were familiar, almost ritualistic, yet they carried a subtle weight.
As he spoke, his eyes drifted—lingering, however briefly, on the Slytherin table.
On Tamara.
She paused her cutting.
That feeling again.
Being watched.
"Now," Dumbledore continued, "as it stands, the House Cup scores are as follows: Gryffindor, 312 points; Hufflepuff, 352 points; Ravenclaw, 426 points; and Slytherin, 472 points."
Thunderous applause erupted. The Slytherin table practically shook with excitement. Draco grinned widely, even turning toward Gryffindor to make exaggerated, mocking gestures.
"Yes, yes, well done," Dumbledore said, raising a hand for silence. "However… recent events must also be taken into account."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Excitement gave way to tension.
At the Slytherin table, smiles faltered. Draco's expression froze, an uneasy feeling settling over him.
Tamara, however, remained calm.
A faint, cold smile tugged at her lips.
Go on, old man. Reward your savior.
She had never cared about the House Cup.
"I have a few final points to award," Dumbledore announced.
He began with Ron Weasley—fifty points for his skill in chess. Then Hermione Granger—another fifty for her quick thinking and logic.
The Gryffindor table erupted in cheers.
Their score surged forward, closing the gap.
Then came Harry Potter.
"For his courage," Dumbledore said, his voice resonating through the hall, "I award sixty points."
The hall exploded with noise.
The scores were now tied.
Tamara continued cutting her food, though the lamb had long since been reduced to unrecognizable fragments.
Predictable.
"Courage," Dumbledore continued, "takes many forms. Therefore, I award Neville Longbottom ten points."
That pushed Gryffindor ahead.
The hall erupted again—this time in celebration from nearly every table except Slytherin.
Silence fell there.
Draco slammed his goblet down in frustration.
Tamara remained still.
Then—
"However…"
Dumbledore's voice cut through the noise once more.
The hall fell silent again.
"There is one more student," he said, his tone shifting, "who demonstrated exceptional wisdom… and a remarkable spirit of sacrifice."
All eyes turned toward Slytherin.
Toward Tamara.
"Miss Tamara Riddle."
Her knife stopped.
Slowly, she looked up, meeting Dumbledore's gaze.
There was no suspicion in his eyes now—only approval.
It made her feel ill.
"For her actions in the face of danger," he continued, "for protecting her fellow students at great personal risk… I award Slytherin one hundred points."
A stunned silence followed.
Then—
Chaos.
The Slytherin table erupted in deafening celebration. Students shouted, laughed, and cheered. Draco leapt onto the table, pounding his goblet triumphantly. Pansy lunged forward, attempting to embrace Tamara.
But Tamara herself did not move.
She did not smile.
She did not react.
Inside, her stomach churned.
Spirit of sacrifice?
Protecting others?
Each word felt like an insult.
A mockery.
She was the Dark Lord.
A being of fear and destruction.
And now she was being praised—for heroism?
It was absurd.
Humiliating.
Yet she endured it, maintaining her composure.
Across the hall, Dumbledore continued to watch her.
Not with warmth alone—but with scrutiny.
He was observing.
Measuring.
Comparing.
Her reaction—or lack of it—told him more than any words could.
No pride. No excitement. No vanity.
Only calm.
And beneath it—
Disdain.
"Interesting," he thought.
A Slytherin who did not crave recognition was far more dangerous than one who did.
Still, his expression remained unchanged.
"With that," he concluded, "we must adjust the decorations."
With a clap, the hall transformed. Red and gold banners vanished, replaced once more with green and silver.
Slytherin had won.
"That's your glory!" Draco shouted, exhilarated.
Tamara simply set down her utensils.
The faint clink echoed against her plate.
Boring.
Her gaze drifted toward the Gryffindor table.
Harry Potter was smiling—grateful, despite the outcome.
She raised her goblet slightly.
A perfect, hollow smile formed on her lips.
"Thank you for
your generosity, Headmaster."
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