To reduce Dumbledore's suspicion level—which had climbed to a concerning 55%—Tamara initiated her carefully calculated "model student" rehabilitation strategy. The plan required visible effort, measurable results, and just enough humility to appear genuine. Its first step, however, was something she found particularly unpleasant: accepting a request from Professor McGonagall to tutor Ron Weasley in Transfiguration.
To Tamara, this assignment bordered on punishment.
It was Saturday afternoon. Sunlight filtered faintly through the tall windows of the library, casting long, quiet shadows across rows of ancient bookshelves. In one secluded corner, Ron sat hunched over a wooden table, staring miserably at a small beetle placed before him. His expression was one of deep confusion mixed with frustration.
Today's task was simple in theory: transform the beetle into a button.
"I still don't understand," Ron muttered, his voice heavy with reluctance. "Why does it have to be you? Hermione could've taught me instead."
Tamara didn't even bother looking up from the copy of Intermediate Transfiguration in her hands. "Because Miss Granger has already been driven to tears three separate times attempting to penetrate your exceptionally dense skull, Weasley."
Ron winced.
"And Professor McGonagall," Tamara continued calmly, flipping a page, "believes that if I can get someone like Goyle to produce a barely passable History of Magic essay, then guiding you should be a manageable task."
"That's not exactly encouraging," Ron grumbled.
Tamara finally raised her eyes, her expression flat. "Whether you find it encouraging or not is irrelevant. Begin. Unless you intend to repeat your first year alongside your younger sister."
That struck a nerve.
Ron straightened slightly, gripping his old wand—a worn piece that had clearly seen better days. It had once belonged to his brother Charlie, and a strand of unicorn hair protruded awkwardly from its tip.
"Vera Verto!" he shouted, flicking the wand with excessive force.
A puff of magic followed.
The beetle did not become a button.
Instead, it expanded grotesquely, its body swelling into a strange hybrid—half insect, half button. Its legs twitched erratically, and its surface had a dull, uneven sheen.
"Uh…" Ron scratched the back of his head, clearly embarrassed. "Well… it's sort of round?"
Tamara slowly closed her book and set it aside.
She examined the abomination with visible distaste.
"It's not my fault!" Ron blurted out before she could speak. His ears turned red. "It's this wand—it's old, and it doesn't listen properly!"
Tamara rose from her seat and moved behind him, her presence quiet but imposing.
"The wand is merely a conduit," she said evenly. "The wizard is the determining factor."
Ron frowned. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means," she said, her voice lowering slightly, "that your failure has nothing to do with the wand. It's your mindset."
"My mindset?" Ron repeated, confused.
"You're afraid."
The words landed with surprising weight.
Tamara's tone sharpened—not mocking, but precise, almost analytical. "You're afraid of failure. Afraid of being compared. Afraid of falling short of expectations that were never truly yours to begin with."
Ron stiffened.
"Bill is a prefect. Charlie was Quidditch captain. Percy excels academically. Even Fred and George—despite their antics—are exceptionally talented in their own way." She paused deliberately. "And you, Ron Weasley… feel like you're simply following behind them. Walking paths already carved out."
Ron turned sharply, eyes flashing. "Don't analyze me like that!"
"Then prove me wrong."
Without waiting for a response, Tamara flicked her wand. The malformed creature reverted instantly back into an ordinary beetle, its tiny legs scrambling against the tabletop.
"Forget your brothers," she continued. "Forget expectations. Right now, there are only three things that matter: you, your wand, and that beetle."
Ron hesitated.
"Focus," Tamara said. "Not on avoiding failure. Not on impressing anyone. Focus on the act itself. Visualize the result clearly. A button. Solid. Inanimate. Complete."
She leaned slightly closer, her voice calm but firm. "Magic is the manifestation of will. Nothing more, nothing less."
Ron stared at the beetle.
For the first time, he didn't feel overwhelmed by comparisons or doubt. Instead, he felt something quieter—something steadier.
Determination.
He inhaled slowly, tightening his grip on the wand. The noise of the library seemed to fade away as he centered his thoughts.
"Vera Verto."
This time, the motion was controlled.
Precise.
There was a faint, crisp sound.
The beetle vanished.
In its place lay a black button. Its edges were slightly uneven, and the surface lacked polish—but it was unmistakably complete.
Ron blinked.
"I… I did it?"
He leaned closer, then abruptly jumped to his feet. "I did it! Tamara, look—I actually did it!"
Tamara regarded the button with a measured glance. "Barely acceptable," she said. "But functional."
Despite her neutral tone, there was a subtle shift in her expression—something faint, almost imperceptible.
Ron didn't care.
For the first time, he had succeeded through his own effort. Not luck. Not assistance. His own effort.
"Thanks," he said, a bit awkwardly. "What you said earlier… it helped."
Tamara returned to her seat. "I wasn't trying to help you. I simply don't want Professor McGonagall questioning my competence."
Before Ron could respond, a soft rustling noise came from the cluttered parchment nearby.
A plump gray rat emerged, stretching lazily before sniffing around the table.
"Scabbers!" Ron reached forward quickly. "Don't wander off!"
But Tamara was faster.
She lifted the rat effortlessly by the scruff, holding it at eye level.
"This is your pet?" she asked.
The rat froze.
The moment its eyes met hers, its body went rigid. Its tiny limbs curled inward as if instinctively bracing for something far worse than capture.
Tamara's gaze sharpened.
Recognition.
"Interesting," she murmured.
Ron scratched his head. "He's always been kind of timid."
Tamara's fingers lightly brushed the rat's fur. To an observer, the gesture seemed casual.
To the rat, it felt like a death sentence waiting to happen.
"Comfortable, aren't you?" she whispered under her breath.
The rat trembled violently.
"Living off others. Hiding. Surviving."
Its tiny eyes widened in terror.
Tamara's smile deepened, subtle and cold.
"But useful."
She released it without warning, tossing it back toward Ron, who caught it clumsily.
"Take better care of it," she said.
Ron nodded, though he looked slightly unsettled.
"Lesson's over," Tamara added, gathering her books. "Practice until you can produce a proper button consistently. If not—" she paused briefly, "—I'll handle the transformation myself."
Ron wasn't sure if she was joking.
She turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing softly in the corridor beyond.
Ron looked down at Scabbers, who was still trembling uncontrollably.
"Maybe she's not that bad," he muttered. "Strict, sure… but fair."
The rat's eyes rolled back slightly as it fainted.
Elsewhere, Tamara paused mid-step as a familiar system notification echoed in her mind.
[Side Quest Completed: Turning an Enemy into a Friend (Novice)]
[Ron Weasley's perception of you has improved.]
[Reward: Dumbledore's suspicion level reduced by 1%]
[Current suspicion level: 54%]
Tamara exhaled softly.
"Only one percent?"
Her expression cooled.
"Not efficient enough."
Still, progress was progress—and she intended to accelerate it.
No matter the cost.
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