Chapter 119: Refutation
To quickly shift the crowd's attention away from his own humiliating display, Gilderoy Lockhart hastily paired Harry and Draco together.
"Potter, Malfoy, come up!"
Harry and Draco marched onto the elevated dueling platform, the space between them practically crackling with hostility.
Previously, the animosity between the two boys might have merely been the standard, predictable friction of their Houses being mortal enemies, compounded by Malfoy's obnoxious pure-blood posturing. But now, that hostility had mutated into something far more personal.
For Draco, every time he looked at the boy who lived, his mind immediately flashed back to Tamara shedding tears to stop Lockhart's rogue bludger. He remembered how she had been confined to the hospital wing for three whole days—all because of this reckless Scarhead. Just the thought of it made a hot, irrational irritation rise in his chest.
As for Harry, his jaw clenched every time he saw Draco constantly hovering around Tamara, puffing his chest out with that self-important, insufferable attitude.
Standing below the stage, Tamara watched the two idiots puffing out their necks like a pair of brainless fighting roosters. She looked away, a flicker of deep distaste crossing her elegant features.
"One—two—three!" Lockhart's countdown rang out across the Great Hall.
"Serpensortia!" Draco struck the moment the final syllable left Lockhart's lips. A streak of violent black light burst from the tip of his wand.
With a heavy, sickening thud, a massive black snake landed squarely on the stage between them. It instantly raised its diamond-shaped head, flicking its forked tongue to taste the air before letting out a dangerous, rattling hiss, its cold eyes locking onto Harry.
The crowd erupted into screams. Students scrambled backward, shoving each other out of the way, while several younger first-years covered their eyes in sheer terror.
From her vantage point at the edge of the crowd, Tamara looked at the black snake on the platform and slightly arched one perfect eyebrow.
'Sloppy,' she critiqued internally. Through the hyper-critical eyes of the Dark Lord, Draco's magical output just now possessed an unstable, rough quality. Even the tail-end of his incantation carried a distinct hint of feigned composure masking raw impatience.
But, she had to admit, the choice of spell pleased her greatly.
'...Good taste, indeed.'
It was an evaluation that, coming from her, could be considered the supreme compliment for a twelve-year-old wizard. On that habitually pale and indifferent face, an arrogant sneer filled with genuine appreciation briefly surfaced.
"Don't move, Potter! I'll get rid of it!" Snape drew his wand unhurriedly. The silken drawl of his voice made it abundantly clear that he was thoroughly enjoying the sight of Potter standing frozen in terror.
"Let me! Let me!"
Lockhart, ever eager to steal the spotlight, shoved his way forward and waved his wand with a theatrical flourish.
Bang!
Instead of vanishing, the snake was blasted high into the air. It flew over the heads of the screaming students and crashed heavily onto the stone floor near the edge of the crowd.
The blunt-force impact completely enraged the beast.
It hissed furiously, its thick body slithering rapidly across the stone. Its slitted eyes locked onto the nearest target—a paralyzed Hufflepuff student named Justin Finch-Fletchley. The snake coiled its heavy body tight like a spring, baring its venomous fangs, preparing to launch a fatal strike.
At this critical, breathless moment, Harry's mind suddenly went entirely blank.
He didn't know why he was doing it. He didn't think. He merely felt a strange, primal instinct clawing its way up from the depths of his chest, driving him forward.
He took a step toward the furious serpent.
"Leave him!" Harry opened his mouth and shouted loudly.
However, what tore from his throat was not human language. It was a low, blood-curdling, scraping hiss that seemed to vibrate against the very stones of the Great Hall.
Yet, in Tamara's ears, Harry's voice rang out in perfectly clear English: "Leave him."
In that exact fraction of a second, as Voldemort's main soul, Tamara felt the dormant soul fragment buried deep within Harry's scar violently connect with the Parseltongue command. That sickeningly familiar soul fluctuation crashed over her, causing a momentary surge of visceral, skin-crawling annoyance.
On the floor, a miracle occurred.
The enraged black snake actually understood Harry's words. It submissively lowered its diamond head, its thick body going completely limp against the stone floor, entirely drained of its aggression.
Harry breathed a massive sigh of relief. He looked up, offering Justin a reassuring smile, fully expecting gratitude for saving the other boy's life.
Instead, he was met with a face contorted in extreme fear and revulsion.
"What game are you playing?!" Justin screamed, his face deathly pale as he scrambled backward on his hands and knees.
Harry looked around in utter confusion. The smile slid off his face.
The entire Great Hall was dead silent. Every single person was staring at him with strange, terrified, and deeply suspicious eyes.
"Parseltongue..." someone in the crowd whispered tremulously, the word dropping like a stone in a quiet pond.
"That's the mark of Salazar Slytherin... He's the Heir who opened the Chamber of Secrets!"
Hearing those words, the cold smirk on Tamara's face—who had been standing comfortably on the outskirts ready to enjoy the show—instantly shattered.
In its place rose a surge of absurd, blinding rage. A chilling, suffocating killing intent bled into the air around her, as if a filthy boot had just stomped directly onto her sacred territory.
Ridiculous!
She, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the last noble bloodline of Salazar Slytherin, was the true master of the Chamber of Secrets!
And now, this pathetic flock of stupid mudbloods and pure-blood degenerates were actually bestowing her proud, exclusive birthright upon a half-baked brat who couldn't even cast a Disarming Charm properly?!
This was not merely a theft of her bloodline; it was the ultimate, unforgivable insult to her dignity as the Dark Lord! A boy with a brain full of flobberworm mucus like Potter deserved to be called the Heir of Slytherin?!
Just as the disgust and rage in Tamara's heart churned wildly, her fingers twitching with the overwhelming urge to draw her wand and subject every single fool in this room to the Cruciatus Curse—
[Ding! Campus bullying high-risk warning!]
[Your close friend Harry Potter is currently facing severe misunderstanding and malicious isolation from the entire school! As his most trusted best friend, how can you stand by and watch?]
[Please step forward immediately and use your Wisdom and eloquence to clear his name! Protect his fragile heart!]
[Reward: Wisdom +1]
[Punishment: If you refuse to execute, the system will activate the "Gryffindor Hymn"!]
[For the next 24 hours, before you speak every time, you must first loudly add the prefix: "Oh! Gryffindor's Courage is the world's greatest treasure! I love Gryffindor forever!"]
'Shut up, you noisy piece of trash,' Tamara cursed through violently gritted teeth in her mind.
Even without this damn system task threatening her with a fate worse than death, she would absolutely never allow the crown of "Heir of Slytherin"—a crown that belonged solely to her—to be placed on the head of her nauseating arch-enemy today!
She had to tear this label off Potter immediately.
Just as the suffocating atmosphere in the hall fell into a total deadlock, a set of unhurried, rhythmic footsteps broke the silence.
Tamara walked calmly up to the subdued black snake. She didn't even bother to pull out her wand. She merely gave a casual, dismissive wave of her slender hand.
"Finite Incantatem."
The black snake instantly dissolved into a wisp of dark smoke, vanishing without a trace.
Then, Tamara turned around. She surveyed the terrified, whispering students with the exact look one would give an exceptionally slow troll.
"Have all of your brains been stepped on by a mountain troll?"
Her voice wasn't loud, but it carried a heavy, icy authority that instantly quelled the entire room.
Tamara crossed her arms, her dark eyes sweeping over the crowd as she spoke coldly. "Potter faced Quirrell, who was possessed by the Dark Lord, in the underground chambers last year."
"This kind of severe soul trauma, tainted by deep Black Magic, will cause a person to experience temporary magical disorder when placed in a state of sudden danger. It leads them to unconsciously mimic certain traits of the perpetrator."
Tamara began to fabricate the lie flawlessly, her expression remaining an impenetrable mask of academic superiority.
"If any of you had bothered to flip through even two volumes of advanced magical literature, you would know that You-Know-Who was also an extremely rare Parselmouth."
She shot a contemptuous, withering glare at the student who had screamed the accusation earlier.
"Potter was merely triggered by a Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder response from deep within his soul due to the shock of the snake's attack just now."
Tamara paused, letting the silence stretch before her tone dropped to a chilling absolute zero.
"To treat a victim suffering from Black Magic trauma as the evil Heir who opened the Chamber of Secrets... you are not only entirely lacking in basic magical common sense, but you are also appallingly stupid."
The Great Hall fell into a dead silence once more.
Minds raced. It was true; Harry Potter had just fought You-Know-Who last year. Wasn't it perfectly logical that he might suffer some lingering, dark side effects?
"So that's how it is..." Hermione breathed a heavy sigh of relief as realization dawned on her. Her eyes instantly filled with deep, watery sympathy as she looked toward the stage. "Poor Harry..."
Even Snape narrowed his dark eyes slightly at this moment.
Although the Potions Master knew full well that Tamara was spouting absolute, unadulterated nonsense, he surprisingly did not step forward to refute her. He merely crossed his arms, choosing to remain a silent spectator.
A massive crisis that was seconds away from leaving Harry facing total isolation from the entire school was thus effortlessly dismantled by Tamara, using nothing but her absolute authority and a silver tongue.
Tamara turned her head and gave a cold, sidelong glance at Harry Potter, who was still standing frozen on the stage with a completely dazed expression.
She said nothing to him.
She didn't even spare him a single extra look.
She simply tilted her chin up proudly, her dark hair shifting as she turned around decisively.
"Let's go, Draco," Tamara's voice was icy, laced with an undisguised distaste for the room at large. "The stupidity in here is suffocating."
Draco, who had been sulking because Tamara was "helping Potter out of a jam again," felt his grey eyes instantly light up upon hearing this command directed exclusively at him.
He immediately raised his golden head proudly, shot Harry a glare dripping with pure superiority, and followed closely behind Tamara, striding out of the Great Hall like royalty departing a peasant gathering.
Harry stood there blankly, watching Tamara's resolute, noble silhouette disappear through the heavy oak doors.
In his already thoroughly brainwashed perception... she had protected him once again.
And to protect his pitiful, fragile self-esteem, she hadn't even said an extra word to him. She had simply used her actions to shield him from all the malice, the rumors, and the terrifying accusations of the entire school.
'She really is a... good person,' Harry thought, his chest tight with overwhelming gratitude.
Later, after the disastrous Dueling Club had officially ended.
Tamara walked alone through the dim, damp corridor leading down to the Slytherin Dungeons.
Recalling the sickeningly worshipful look Harry had just given her—a look that practically screamed he would throw his life away for her on command—Tamara let out an extremely disdainful sneer in the privacy of her own mind.
'What a simple idiot.'
She awakened the system in her mind.
"System, query Potter's current favorability toward me."
After a brief, uncharacteristic silence, the system provided the answer:
[Ding! Query successful. Current Harry Potter's favorability/Loyalty toward you is: 8/10.]
[Current Courage: 34, Wisdom: 37]
Tamara's footsteps paused slightly against the cold stone. Her brow furrowed in deep displeasure.
"Only eight?"
Her absolute, consuming desire for control as the Dark Lord made her feel a sharp sting of dissatisfaction.
"The way he was looking at me just now, he clearly looked like a dog ready to die for me at any given moment." She muttered, her eyes narrowing at the flickering torchlight. "Why isn't it ten? Exactly what level do I have to reach for this damn progress bar to be full?"
However, this time, the usually cheerful, sickeningly positive system fell into an unusually eerie silence.
After a long, heavy while, the system spoke. Its voice was hesitant, stripped of its usual perky bells and whistles.
[As a system dedicated to cultivating virtue, I must warn you with extreme seriousness.]
[You had better pray that his favorability toward you never reaches 10.]
Tamara was genuinely stunned. "What do you mean?"
[In the complex emotional judgment of human beings, 8 represents absolute Loyalty. A willingness to go through fire and water for you.]
[But once it reaches 10...]
[What that represents will no longer be pure Loyalty.]
Tamara fell silent for a moment.
In the dim, echoing corridor, only the flickering orange light of the torches on the damp walls illuminated the pale, flawless profile of her face.
"So what?"
Tamara slightly raised her chin. A terrifying flash of the Dark Lord's boundless conceit ignited in the depths of her dark eyes.
"System, you underestimate me far too much."
"Whether it is awe, fanaticism, or what you call 'impure' Loyalty... as long as it is an emotion that can be used, there is absolutely no difference to me."
She nonchalantly adjusted the silver cufflinks on her sleeves with her slender, pale fingers, a cold smile playing on her lips as she murmured to the empty air.
"In this world, there is nothing I cannot control."
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