Trigger Warning. There are allusions to WW2 In this chapter and the Nazis' Genocide.

C14 Repercussions

The air was cold and oppressive.
The room reeked of garlic.
The curtains were closed obscuring the view of any curious or not-so-curious onlookers. Multiple security and privacy spells were stacked on top of each other, some of them were at enormous levels of mastery, while others among them, were more simple and amateurish in nature, as if a magic apprentice had been the one who had cast them, despite everything, not even a fly really had the interest of spying on that room.

Quirrell was working over a burning cauldron while Tanya absentmindedly swung her dual-core wand, performing calculations and equations in her mind. While said wand emitted a slight colored light.

It had been a couple of days since Halloween night.
After the incident that night, after doing addition and subtraction Gryffindor's house lost 5 points in total, taking into account the subjugation of the troll and the ambush of Ron and Harry. The boys, for their part, were not expelled despite the insistence of the parents' association led by Lucius Malfoy. Instead, the punishment they received was helping Hagrid in the forbidden forest… There was not an intention to downplay the danger of the forbidden forest but such a punishment…it felt so disappointing and unfair. Where Dumbledore had declared that everyone deserves a second chance. Tanya was inclined to exact retribution upon her enemies, often repaying them twentyfold what was due. She firmly believed that without a severe reprimand, individuals were prone to repeating the same mistake multiple times.

In the infirmary, the situation regarding Neville's eye was still uncertain. However, there was a glimmer of hope as a healer from St. Mungo's Hospital had arrived to provide special support for the case. Tanya learned about this during her second visit to the infirmary, which was meant to be her first and only official visit. It was also the day she met Miss Augusta Longbottom.

At first contact, Tanya found it challenging to read the personality of the old woman who appeared jovial yet harbored a silent but brave flame in her gaze. Whether this flame denoted anger or pride remained beyond Tanya's comprehension. Despite this initial ambiguity, their interaction was friendly. However, the old woman's discomfort was evident when she expressed surprise at her grandson serving tea to a Slytherin girl. Tanya, being aware of her own… unknown blood purity as Tanya Smith of Slytherin, was sensitive as how the pure-blood witch may react. Nevertheless, she couldn't decipher why the old woman's discomfort didn't escalate further upon hearing her last name Smith. Despite these uncertainties, Tanya somehow managed to gain the trust of the Longbottom family that day.

With a sigh Tanya raised her head, putting aside her contemplations, and canceling the calculation she was using on her wand. She stole a glance at the busy Quirrell from the corner of her eye, relishing her words for a moment before speaking.

"Lucius Malfoy has just answered my letter about the mirror, and although he has conveyed his inexorable emotion, he will not be of help in deciphering the magic of the mirror." It was implicit, from the beginning to the end, that the words 'philosopher's stone' were never written by Tanya or found their way into any context beyond the professional sphere she shared with Quirrell.

Perhaps Lucius Malfoy would be much more motivated to put resources into deciphering the mirror's magic if such a legendary artifact were to be mentioned. Regrettably, the presence of three individuals with knowledge of the stone not only meant three competitors vying for its resources but also three potential adversaries ready to betray one another at the slightest opportunity.

Quirrell finished preparing his concoction and while he took off his gloves and put away the used materials, he then spoke in a condescending tone.

"Frankly speaking, it's rather astonishing to me that a supposedly reincarnated witch wouldn't possess her own owl."

Tanya frowned, apparently privacy only went as far as a teacher's authority. In any case, she wasn't exactly trying to conceal the fact that she lacked her own owl. However, what she was most likely to hide was what was preventing her from getting one, namely her lack of capital.

"I was never very fond of communication by owl, I find them very easy to intercept or follow."

Unaltered, as if he had expected a similar response. Quirrell left the potion on the fire and walked slowly around the room.

His footsteps, dry and calm on the soft carpet, yet filled with a slight inaccuracy to them.

As if the man walked at a pace slightly faster than he breathed, as if his eyes wandered slightly further than would be normal.

"Wizards and witches who distrust even owls are rare."

He continued walking, his steps awkwardly hesitant, his words tinged with a natural anxiety yet also laden with impatience and annoyance.

"You mentioned something before, something curious, you said that the method you used to avoid death would not work on me…"

The being ceased its restless crawling across the room, fixing its gaze upon Tanya's eyes. Those almost silvery-blue orbs gleamed with a brilliant intensity, yet held an opacity reminiscent of a sapphire tarnished by countless journeys through the mud! Despite their doll-like appearance, they exuded a fierce intensity, akin to the gaze of a hunting dog. If only they concealed the lurking wolf beneath the sheep's facade more adeptly... she would epitomize the ideal Slytherin.

Tanya stood up and walked towards one of the walls of the room, staring at an empty wall, her back straight and rigid.

"Quirrell... Magic is such a wonderful power, capable of killing so many people in such a short time."

The two-faced man's gaze became curious—painted in a subtle and discreet way—immovable despite everything, and innocuous before the turned back of the girl who looked like a doll.

"However, if there is one thing, the least that these months at Hogwarts have taught me, it is that magic can conjure myriad wonders, countless ways of experiencing life. Yet, no matter how enchanting life or magic may be, all things meet their end eventually. We are left with no choice but to forge our own path, empowered to dictate the terms of our existence, including how we choose to live and how we confront death... With that said, why do you resist the embrace of mortality? Why do people shy away from the gentle caress of death?"

Even with her face nailed to the wall, that blessed girl, who spoke in a trembling tone, seemed to have her own answer.

"It's fear, isn't it? Fear of dying, fear of leaving everything behind, fear of what lies beyond death—the uncertainty that haunts people's hearts."

The stone wall became a blue sky, the floor turned into a blue sky, the carpet under their feet transformed into a blue sky; they both floated amidst the blue expanse... But that sky felt wrong, akin to an illusion superimposed on reality. Whether the two-faced man was frightened, unaffected, or even exalted by this phenomenon remained inscrutable—whether he was, or he was not, he betrayed no hint of emotion.

"Or perhaps, it's not merely fear, but the frustration of departing this world without having bestowed upon it one's all—the anger that everything painstakingly built will crumble to dust, that all the effort poured into life was futile."

Feathers fell from the sky, each one a canvas of blood, sweat, and tears, soaked in smoke and ash. Muddy, dirty, broken. Decadent, putrid, stinking. Lackluster.

"So many reasons to repudiate death. And yet we cradle it in our hands, refine it with care, and grow more proficient in its application."

From somewhere beneath the pristine clouds, a plume of black smoke rose ominously, trailing like a soul fleeing a burning city.

"A bullet or a spell, soon, are too expensive to kill people."

To the sky, suddenly, hundreds, if not thousands, of columns of smoke ascended into the heavens. Yet, these were not born from smoldering cities but from numerous fields adorned with furnaces, burning ceaselessly as corpses fueled their flames.

"But who are we to decide who lives and who dies?"

Suddenly, everything below them was obliterated in a single mighty explosion—a blast so potent that smoke and heat appeared to engulf them.

"I have stared death in the face far more times than I care to admit"

When the smoke dissipated, they found themselves no longer amidst the heavens, but within a peculiar cathedral—a shrine to a deity unknown to this world, yet simultaneously the most venerated entity upon its surface. The edifice lay in ruins, as if struck by a bomb and consumed by flames, as though assailed by a barrage of bullets from without. And upon the ground lay a solitary corpse.

Forgotten, with scarcely perceptible wounds in her chest, one arm absent, sprawled on her back upon a patch of dried blood… The young woman appeared almost as if in slumber upon the floor, as though poised to awaken at any moment, cleanse herself of blood and ash, rise to her feet, grasp a weapon, and ready herself to kill once more.

The corpse lay before the young blonde girl, the Rhine devil, the empire's hunting hound, the tarnished silver. That ancient body, frozen in time, seemed destined to remain benign for eternity, like a saint blessed by God... Yet soon, decay set in, and worms devoured its innards, disgorging a viscous concoction teeming with every pestilence and plague known to humanity.

At the sight of the corpse, the girl, newly bestowed with life, uttered no words. Instead, she continued to twirl her wand in her hand with nonchalance, as if toying with a pencil, as though the scene before her held no relevance to her. And then, abruptly, everything ceased.

Tanya stopped spinning the dual-core wand and the illusion vanished as quickly as it appeared. For the first time since she began her monologue Tanya turned and looked Quirrell in the eyes.

"I couldn't care less about your reasons for seeking life beyond death. Perhaps you're nothing more than a child throwing a tantrum, lacking the courage to face your end on your own terms. Or perhaps, like me, you crave control over your own fate. Maybe you lack a loved one to witness succumb to old age, or maybe you harbor ambitions unattainable within a single lifetime. Whatever your motives, you have options: you can kneel and pray, or you can provoke a supernatural entity—a god or demon—until they deem death too merciful for you. And just like that—voilà!—you have a new lease on life."

Tanya erupted into a dry, manic laughter, as though she'd heard the greatest joke in the world, her expression contorted with madness. She laughed and laughed, the sound echoing through the room.

And then, as abruptly as it began, the laughter ceased, lasting nearly a minute. Tanya's demeanor shifted, her face turning cold and solemn as she exited the room, leaving behind a few parting words.

"You mentioned needing my assistance in the Forbidden Forest? I'll be there."

.-.-.-.

.-.-.-.

Cold sweat trickled down Quirrell's forehead, his hand trembling slightly as his gaze remained fixed on the door Tanya had just closed behind her.

In contrast to Quirrell's perturbed demeanor, Lord Voldemort commented in his ear with monotony, "She did not answer the question... Instead, she diverted the subject, providing me with information, but only a limited amount—just enough to captivate my attention."

Quirrell turned to the door, his thoughts echoing in his mind, "Master... Who is Tanya really?"

Voldemort felt a flicker of doubt stir within the original owner of his body. Despite this, the question remained undeniably pertinent. Who is Tanya Smith? Or rather, who was she?

From her manner of speech, Voldemort inferred that she had indeed experienced death on multiple occasions and had undoubtedly taken more lives than she could recall. Was this her secret to immortality? The colossal genocide of hundreds, if not millions, of individuals—so many corpses, so much blood that the boundary between ground and hell blurred.

Quirrell trembled at the thoughts swirling through Lord Voldemort's mind. The dark lord allowed him a glimpse into his thoughts on this occasion, intending to share his theories.

Quirrell, though a fairly experienced wizard in his own right, had never taken a life with his bare hands—at least not yet. He simply hadn't had the opportunity; he had always been too weak to stand up. Voldemort found this fact startling. He had constantly reminded Quirrell of his promise to grant him power—the power the weak man sought.

However, the prospect of massacres on such a massive scale, the idea of death stretching as far as the eye could see, was likely disturbing to the poor man, no matter how dark his heart may have been.

Even Voldemort had his own limits when it came to envisioning destruction.

Destroying cities with a simple spell or devastating countries with an explosion were fantastical feats, even for the dark lord. If there was one thing that infuriated Lord Voldemort to his core, it was the adeptness with which Muggles devised methods to kill one another.

He recalled the illusion in the sky where they had met and, for a moment, recognized the ground beneath them.

Corpses littered the ground beneath the clouds, fields of extermination stretching as far as the eye could see.

Second Great Muggle War.

And to think that the great wizard of the time, Grindelwald, never caused as much death as a simple Muggle with a funny mustache.

For a mage, succumbing to gunshot wounds was nearly impossible; an experienced mage could evade artillery or explosions by vanishing into thin air.

So who was Tanya, and how on earth did she die? If he could answer that question, perhaps, just perhaps, he would truly master death. And once he did, nothing could hinder him from turning his ambitions into reality.

However, at the moment, his body was weakening; he would have to drink unicorn blood once again if he wanted to survive long enough to obtain the Philosopher's Stone.

Tanya might be many things—possessing numerous secrets and considerable power—but there was one aspect of her that Voldemort could respect: her ambition. In her pursuit of her goals, she demonstrated a willingness to kill unicorns and infiltrate Hogwarts for gold and the elixir of eternal youth. Voldemort had no trouble comprehending that aspect of her character, at least.

Meanwhile, Quirrell stared into space, lost in thought. Within him, a small emotion stirred—an emotion he couldn't quite identify. No, it wasn't that he couldn't recognize it; rather, he refused to acknowledge and admit its presence. Yet, it felt as familiar to him as breathing.

.-.-.-.

.-.-.-.

POV Tanya.

After flinging insults and staging a distracting spectacle to divert the attention of that damn evil wizard, a few days elapsed. Fortunately, Quirrell and Tom didn't press me further on the matter of reincarnation, and it's preferable to keep it that way for the time being. Frankly, directly informing them that achieving reincarnation simply requires dying and irritating being X enough for him to decree that death would be too merciful for you... doesn't strike me as the most prudent course of action.

This whole reincarnation ordeal feels more like a curse than anything else, but I refuse to throw in the towel and allow everything to end like it did last time. So, wherever you are, whatever game you're playing, being X, rest assured—I will never waver. And when it comes to deciding how I'll meet my end, that choice will be mine and mine alone.

But... If there happens to be a magical stone that promises both wealth and an extended retirement, I might as well set aside thoughts of dying for a few more years. Not that it's a particularly pleasant topic, mind you.

On another note, Neville's recovery is progressing remarkably well. Apparently, Dumbledore finally stirred from his desk for once and not only enlisted a healer from St. Mungo's but secured the best in magical injury treatment.

However, it dawned on me once more that all wizards in this world are utterly mad. And true to form, the healing wizard embodied the very essence of Adelheid von Schugle.

I didn't even realize this until it was too late. When he finished his work, the bastard not only healed an eye that had been butchered and cursed, but he exceeded expectations. Now, Neville's eye gleams with a golden hue. Yet, the cursed thing left a small scar on his cheek... At least I can take solace in the fact that this time I wasn't his guinea pig, and apparently, his eye is better than a normal one.

Neville returned stronger than ever, standing tall on his own two feet. Not bad for a brat. I've done a decent job building his confidence and honing his skills. However, if he managed to get injured, it's evident that the training I've been giving him has been far too lenient.

Perched atop Goyle's shoulders, I peered down at a sweaty and fatigued Neville

"Enough. This time, we're revisiting combat practice. For every blow you receive, you'll restart your physical training."

Without affording him a chance to respond, I lunged at him, delivering a meticulously choreographed yet undeniably forceful blow. If the idiot ends up getting hit, it's entirely his own fault.

Neville's golden eye glimmered faintly as he deftly dodged my attack. Not bad. But how would he fare against a feint? I mimicked the same wide punch as before, only to pivot into a roundhouse kick that connected squarely with the side of his head.

Hmm. That's going to leave a bruise... Perhaps I overdid it.

However, when I saw Neville sit up, a fiery determination burning in his eyes, I couldn't help but smile. It's a pity the bout is already concluded. Next time, I'll make a mental note to avoid hurting his head.

I swiftly wiped the smile off my face and began instructing Neville on how to improve his guard, barking orders like a seasoned drill instructor. The sound nullification spell proved quite handy, regardless of the context.

After wrapping up the morning training session, I made my way to the great hall where... Hermione was seated at the Ravenclaw table? Intriguing. She appeared rather preoccupied with something. Could it be that she's still haunted by the events of Halloween?

I approached her and took a seat beside her, grabbing a plate and serving myself food without uttering a word for a couple of minutes. Eventually, I placed a hand on her shoulder and spoke up.

"Don't worry about what happened that night, you did well."

Hermione glanced at me with a puzzled expression before returning her attention to her potions homework and then to the Ravenclaw girl assisting her.

"...Okay?"

Damn, this girl is tougher than I gave her credit for. When she sought solace in the Slytherin common room, I had assumed she'd be more fragile... Is this my doing? I haven't even properly trained her, yet she managed to take down a troll with her bare hands. Perhaps I need to reassess her abilities.

"Hermione, I'm proud of you."

The girl glanced away, a faint blush coloring her cheeks.

"T-Tanya? Did you hit your head or something?"

The Ravenclaw lowered her head, packing up her belongings and departing. Hermione watched her retreat with a despondent gaze before reluctantly turning her attention back to her homework.

I decided to cover up my blunder and offer assistance with her assignment. In the worst-case scenario, I could always speak to Snape on her behalf. Despite not being one to play favorites on Gryffindors, he seems to have a soft spot for those in his house… And especially for me… But if it works in my favor, I see no rush in disclosing anything

Yes, I'm in no rush...

But as I observe Hermione's focused expression, I'm reminded of the debt still owed. Those accountable for the troll incident must face consequences.

A mere stroll in the woods won't suffice... They require more. And when they venture into the forbidden forest, I'll be there, waiting.

.-.-.-.

.-.-.-.

POV Harry Potter

I drew the curtains around my bed, but Neville wasn't there. He always leaves early, just like Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnigan. They've been doing that since Halloween night. Ron hasn't woken up yet; he's probably still in bed, pretending to be asleep.

If only we could close our eyes and wake up to find out that everything that happened was just a bad dream.

We could have died that night… We could have hurt Neville and Hermione because of our stupidity… Hurt'em so badly…

…

…

Why weren't we expelled? I... I don't want to leave Hogwarts, but... Can I really have a second chance? I don't even know how to begin to make things right... Apologize... Yes... Usually, the Dursleys would scold me if I did something wrong and I should apologize even if I didn't want to. I should at least apologize. And then...

And then...

Continue with life?... Even though I almost hurt someone?

If only... If only... If only Hermione had stayed away from Tanya, none of this would have happened. Or maybe... Maybe it's my fault for turning down Tanya's friendship. But her eyes are so full of malice, they remind me of a hungry dog's gaze, and they terrify me. Her outstretched hand seems like a trap. What if I've been bewitched? What if what Ron said is true, and she's using dark magic?

I don't know what to think.

"Ugh... Days, Harry."

I shuddered at Ron's voice, my only friend. His face was contorted and swollen, a few dried tears streaking his cheeks.

"Good morning, Ron. It's a bit late for breakfast now, and remember, we have detention with Hagrid later."

Ron's face drained of color, cycling through several emotions before settling on shame.

"Alright."

We fell into silence for a moment before I spoke up.

"R-Ron... I think we should apologize to Hermione and Neville."

Ron's expression flickered uncertainly.

"Why? For telling the truth about Tanya?"

"For nearly getting a troll to attack them..."

Ron fell silent, his gaze drifting away. We remained in silence for a while before he finally responded.

"Alright…"
…

However, we didn't get a chance to apologize during the first few classes. Every time we tried to approach them, someone would interrupt us, or the teacher would call us for something or other.

At lunchtime, we searched for Hermione and Neville at the Gryffindor table... But they weren't there.

They were sitting next to Tanya at the Slytherin table.

I started walking towards them, but Ron tried to stop me.

I ignored him and continued forward, making my way to the Slytherin table without pausing for anything... Until those piercing blue eyes fixed on me with coldness and intensity. Suddenly, my resolve wavered, and I felt the urge to flee, to run as fast as I could.

"But I can't leave without apologizing and clearing things up first..."

However, my feet refused to obey; the hidden ferocity behind Tanya's flat gaze was terrifying, like a beast about to pounce on its prey.

I attempted to take a step forward, only to trip—apparently, my cloak had somehow become entangled in... air?

Beneath Tanya's robe, I caught sight of the glint of a wand—a wand that wasn't the one she typically used in classes...

I crashed face-first into the table, and the next thing I knew, I was being rushed to the infirmary with a fork lodged in my eye.

Yet, I felt no pain, nor relief when the nurse tended to me; I couldn't even comprehend the question of what had happened to me.

All that consumed me was fear, and the sinister smile that crept onto Tanya's face.

No one noticed Tanya's concealed wand, no one realized that I hadn't tripped over my own cloak…

She... She didn't hesitate for a moment to do that... She smiled when she hurt me... It was as if she wanted to take the fork in her hands and twist it slowly... She... I...

I'm terrified.

I'm petrified.

I want to go back home; I wish I had never even heard of Hogwarts in my life...

The door to the infirmary creaked open, and I buried myself deeper under the covers.

Footsteps approached my bed, and my heart raced faster and faster, my mind replaying the image of Tanya's sadistic smile endlessly.

"Harry... Are you okay?"

I was trembling... Trembling with fear... However, my mouth betrayed me, defying my fear.

"H-Herminie, I-I'm sorry, I didn't mean to, s-sorry."

I apologized... And we both stayed silent for a few minutes. Before she left the room without saying anything.

.-.-.-.

.-.-.-.

Author's note.

Sorry for taking so long to update, so many things happened in real life, illness, exams, injuries, exaggerating so I can play Elden ring, etc.

If you notice the cap a little darker than usual... Well, that's just a byproduct. Actually, Tanya's monologue at the beginning of the chapter was five times longer initially because I wrote it while I was feverish in bed... Well, "wrote" might not be the right word, it was more like I hallucinated it. I couldn't quite grasp the idea until later when I was well enough to get out of bed, so the monologue isn't as lengthy as it was originally.

I wrote this partly to leave things open to interpretation, but mostly because I find it amusing that as evil as Voldemort is, Tanya has racked up so many kills that some of Voldemort's deeds seem rather tame in comparison.

It's essentially an introspection on Tanya's character from my perspective.

Quirrell is a bit disturbed by Tanya's vivid depictions of massacres.

Harry is undergoing character development like none other.

As for me, I should probably start writing the Quidditch chap that I've been putting off for months now. It would be a good break after everything that's happened.

Sincerely.

"Writing is a tiring hobby"

J-More

P.S. This chap was ready a week ago but I was busy with the last part of Harry wanting to apologize and I accidentally traumatized him.

P.S.2. I love incorporating so much symbolism into Tanya and Quirrell's scenes, only to have the next thing in the chapter be Tanya having a misunderstanding. XD