Chapter 81: Rest
When Tamara regained consciousness, she was met with a blinding, dizzying expanse of stark white. The air hung heavy, thick with the sharp tang of medicinal brews and a cloyingly sweet, almost suffocating floral scent—the unmistakable, sterile aroma of the Hogwarts Hospital Wing.
She attempted to twitch a single finger.
Instantly, a bizarre sensation cascaded through her entire nervous system. It wasn't the sharp bite of pain, nor the hollow ache of weakness. Instead, it was a molten, burning heat surging through her veins. The residual essence of the Philosopher's Stone was currently rampaging through her underdeveloped, fragile body, forcibly and violently remodeling her blood vessels and bone marrow. Every beat of her heart felt leaden and immensely powerful, thudding against her eardrums like the relentless strike of a war drum.
'Dammit...'
Tamara let out a raspy, barely audible curse through gritted teeth. The sensation of her core temperature rising uncontrollably was utterly miserable. She felt like a common garden slug tossed into a bubbling cauldron, left to simmer for three days and three nights.
"Oh! Thank goodness, you are finally awake!"
A stern yet deeply relieved voice pierced through the ringing in her ears.
Madam Pomfrey swept toward the bedside like a bustling whirlwind of white aprons and efficiency, a smoking vial of potion clutched firmly in her hand.
Just behind the matron, an old man sat quietly in a high-backed wooden chair. His long, silvery-white beard cascaded down his robes, and behind his half-moon spectacles, those piercing blue eyes watched her with a gentle, scrutinizing warmth.
Albus Dumbledore.
Tamara's heart seized. Her muscles instinctively coiled tight, but a fraction of a second later, she forced them to go slack. The mask slammed into place. She immediately shifted her demeanor, adopting the fragile, bewildered facade of a helpless victim.
"Professor..."
She struggled to prop herself up on her elbows, her voice trembling just the right amount, but Madam Pomfrey's hands were already on her shoulders, pressing her firmly back into the plush pillows.
"Stay down, Miss Riddle!" Madam Pomfrey ordered loudly, her tone brooking absolutely no argument. "Your body is like a brittle little cracker about to crumble into dust right now. Stay exactly where you are!"
Dumbledore offered a slow, reassuring nod, a soft smile touching his lined face. "Listen to Poppy, Tamara. You gave us all quite a fright this time."
"My body..." Tamara lifted a trembling hand to touch her burning forehead, her eyes wide and deliberately innocent. "I feel like I have a terrible fever... Is it because of that stone...?"
"It is far more than just a simple fever, child," Madam Pomfrey muttered. She drew her wand, tracing complex diagnostic patterns over Tamara's prone form. As the glowing magical signatures hovered in the air, the matron's expression darkened into a severe frown.
"While I cannot be entirely certain of the exact physiological effects that Philosopher's Stone had on you, your current symptoms clearly indicate that your Magic Circuits are undergoing a catastrophic overload."
She rounded on Dumbledore, her voice dropping an octave, laced with a sharp, protective anger directed at the Muggle world. "Albus, I must speak plainly. This child's physical foundation is simply abysmal."
She gestured sharply toward Tamara's thin, bony wrist resting on the white sheets. "Severe early-life nutritional deficiencies, compounded by deep-seated magical congestion caused by a long-term oppressive environment..."
Madam Pomfrey let out a heavy sigh, her eyes softening as she looked back at the girl. "Although her life force is exceptionally resilient—unbelievably so, considering the circumstances—this physical shell is far too fragile to handle such strain."
"This constitution will cause her growth cycle to be much slower than that of an ordinary witch or wizard."
"Slow?" Dumbledore asked, leaning forward slightly, his hands steepled together.
"Yes, slow," Madam Pomfrey explained, her tone clinical yet sympathetic. "To maintain this massive internal magical operation and simultaneously repair the deep-seated bodily deficits, her body will instinctively slow its outward development to lock in essential energy."
She paused, choosing her next words carefully. "In other words, she might enter... the developmental stage of puberty much later than her peers. However, with a strict regimen of sufficient nutrition, this recovery process won't be entirely stalled."
Madam Pomfrey spoke with a degree of medical subtlety, but everyone present in the room possessed enough intelligence to read between the lines. If Tamara wanted to develop into a mature woman, it was going to take a considerable amount of time.
Yet, Tamara was the only one who didn't 'understand'the tragedy of this diagnosis. Beneath her wide, innocent eyes, she was sneering viciously.'These absolute quacks.'
Delayed development? What a joke. This was clearly her physical vessel undergoing a high-level, fundamental evolution! The assimilation of the golden bloodline demanded an astronomical amount of energy. To adapt to this near-divine blood, her body naturally suppressed useless, mundane metabolic processes.
This was the very definition of 'concentration is the essence'! It was an incredibly small price to pay for eternal, unyielding power. As long as she could ascend to greater heights, any physical delay was perfectly acceptable.
"It is alright, Madam," Tamara whispered, arranging her features into an expression of well-behaved, sensible bravery. She offered a weak, grateful smile. "As long as I can survive... I really do not mind growing a bit slower."
Dumbledore studied Tamara's pale, calm face. The shadow of guilt in his ancient blue eyes deepened considerably.
He could not help but think of Tom Riddle. Both orphans. Both possessing terrifying, generational talent. Yet, Tom had chosen to compensate for his own perceived deficiencies by inflicting pain upon others, while the fragile girl lying before him had chosen to sacrifice her own life force to protect Harry.
"You will get better, Tamara," Dumbledore said softly, his tone carrying a heavy, resolute weight. "Hogwarts will provide you with the absolute best care. We will help you regain, bit by bit, the things you were denied in that orphanage."
"Thank you, Professor," Tamara murmured, lowering her head to let her dark bangs conceal the utter disdain flashing in her eyes.
'Regain? Unless you plan to piece that Philosopher's Stone back together and hand it directly to me, keep your empty, pathetic promises to yourself, old man.'
"Alright, visiting hours are strictly over," Madam Pomfrey announced, clapping her hands once and immediately ushering the Headmaster toward the heavy oak doors. "The patient requires absolute rest and her medicine."
Dumbledore stood, his robes swishing softly against the stone floor. He reached out, gently patting Tamara's shoulder. "Rest well. I shall see you at the End-of-Year Feast."
With that, he quietly exited the ward, the heavy doors clicking shut behind him.
Only Tamara and Madam Pomfrey remained in the quiet, sterile room.
With a flick of her wand, Madam Pomfrey summoned a silver tray that floated smoothly to the bedside table. Resting upon it was a crystal goblet emitting thick, purple smoke, and beside it... a massive glass of warm milk.
"Drink this." Madam Pomfrey pointed a stern finger at the smoking goblet. "This is a Draught of Peace. It will help soothe the rampaging magic currently tearing through your system."
Tamara wrinkled her nose but obediently grabbed the goblet, tipping it back and gulping down the potion. It tasted as foul and bitter as Troll bile, burning all the way down to her stomach.
Then, her dark eyes shifted, locking onto the glass of milk.
"This isn't necessary, is it?" Tamara shrank back against her pillows, her face twisting in genuine distaste.
She loathed milk. That heavy, fatty, cloying smell made her stomach churn violently.
"You must drink it." Madam Pomfrey's attitude shifted from caring nurse to unyielding iron warden. "This is a specially formulated nutritional milk, heavily fortified with a calcium potion. Since we have established you suffer from delayed development, we must begin supplementing your diet immediately."
"I do not want to drink it." Tamara narrowed her eyes, attempting to channel the terrifying, oppressive gaze of a Dark Lord to intimidate the matron into submission. "Take it away."
However, Madam Pomfrey's authority within the walls of the Hospital Wing was absolute. Even Dumbledore bowed to her medical dictates, let alone a bedridden first-year student.
"Drink it, Miss Riddle, or shall I pour it directly down your throat?" Madam Pomfrey planted both hands firmly on her hips, looking entirely prepared to cast a Petrificus Totalus at a moment's notice.
Just as Tamara gathered her magic, fully prepared to fight to the death for her dignity—
[Ding! A friendly reminder.]
That damn, overly cheerful system popped up in her mind.
[Please follow the doctor's orders, host.]
[According to the system scan, your current height is approximately 148cm.]
[While not particularly short for a first-year girl—perhaps even slightly above average—still...]
[You wouldn't want to have to stand on a wooden stool just to point your wand at Harry Potter's nose during a dramatic duel in the future, would you?]
'Shut up!'Tamara roared internally, her mental voice dripping with venom.'Height does not equate to power! Even if I am shorter than Potter, I can still grind his miserable head into the dirt beneath my heel!'
Madam Pomfrey observed the rapid, shifting expressions crossing Tamara's pale face and naturally assumed the child was simply terrified of the bitter taste.
"Miss Riddle?" The matron tapped her foot. "If you do not drink it willingly, I will be forced to use a Force-Feeding Charm."
"...I will drink it," Tamara forced the words out through tightly gritted teeth.
She reached out, her fingers snatching the glass of milk with a jerky, aggressive motion. The sheer tragedy of her movement made it look as though she were about to down a goblet of lethal poison.
The warm liquid slid down her throat, carrying that thick, unpleasant, milky aroma. Tamara held her breath, squeezing her eyes shut, and downed the entire glass in one continuous, desperate gulp, nearly choking herself in the process.
"That is much more like it." Madam Pomfrey nodded in deep satisfaction, smoothly plucking the empty glass from Tamara's trembling fingers. "One glass every morning and every evening from now on. I will instruct the House-elves to deliver it to you specifically."
"Rest well, you poor thing." Madam Pomfrey leaned over, tucking the thick blankets snugly around Tamara's shoulders before turning on her heel and marching toward her office.
Tamara lay stiffly in the bed, her mouth completely coated in the nauseating, lingering taste of dairy.
She stared blankly up at the vaulted stone ceiling, feeling the immense power churning deep within her core—slowly but surely becoming a resilient, permanent part of her. She closed her eyes, a cold sneer curving her lips inward.
'Once I have fully digested this power...''This fragile shell will eventually become the absolute perfect vessel to carry my will. As for the current humiliation and these pathetic compromises...''It is merely a necessary step to make that inevitable moment of triumph even more flawless.'
[Ding! That's the spirit!]
[Reward: Another cup?]
'Get lost...' Tamara coldly spat out the single command in her mind.
The nauseating smell of milk still clung to her breath, serving as a constant, mocking reminder of the sheer humiliation she had just endured.
Tamara completely ignored the system's continued, perky chatter. She simply turned over with an expressionless face, pulling the heavy quilt all the way up to her chin, presenting Madam Pomfrey's departing figure with a cold, utterly resolute view of the back of her head.
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