Norbert grew fast—absurdly fast.
In barely two weeks, he had transformed from a palm-sized black lizard into a two-foot-long fire-breathing menace with jagged wings and needle-like teeth. His appetite matched his growth: relentless, ravenous, and violently unpredictable.
If this dragon was to become a future cornerstone of her legion, Tamara knew she had to ensure his smooth transfer. That meant frequent visits to Hagrid's hut—visits that tested both her patience and her tolerance for chaos.
In the midst of all this, she finally received the long-awaited reply from Albania.
The letter began simply:
"To… My Lord."
It had been written in rare invisible ink, only revealed by a specific incantation. Tamara concealed herself behind her bed curtains and whispered the spell, illuminating the parchment in the dim glow of her wand.
"When I saw that familiar mark upon the parchment, my hands trembled. It has been ten years. I knew you would not abandon your servant."
"Pyrites has been guarding that land. Though only a few blind Runespoors and a temperamental pack of Hippogriffs remain, I have waited faithfully for your summons."
"Regarding the Norwegian Ridgeback you mentioned… what a magnificent gift. I have prepared a warm cavern and await the little one's arrival."
"Your most loyal servant,
Pyrites."
Tamara let the parchment burn between her fingers, watching the ashes scatter into nothingness. A satisfied smile curved her lips.
Pyrites.
That eccentric old lunatic who preferred beasts to humans had not disappointed her.
"Very good," she murmured.
Once Norbert reached Albania, that desolate place would become one of her hidden trump cards.
But before that happened, she had to survive him.
That afternoon, at Hagrid's hut.
"Come on, Norbert, good boy! Eat your meat!"
Hagrid waved a dead rat enticingly before the dragon. Norbert, however, seemed unimpressed. He snorted, then spat a burst of flame that singed half of Hagrid's beard. Without warning, he twisted around and snapped at Ron's hand.
Ron yelped as sharp teeth sank into his finger.
"Oh, heavens!" Hagrid exclaimed, wrestling the dragon down. "He's just not in a good mood today."
"He's never in a good mood!" Ron shouted, clutching his bleeding finger. "He's a monster!"
"Don't say that about him!" Hagrid protested, deeply offended.
"Let me."
Tamara stepped forward, holding a wooden bucket filled with fresh chicken blood mixed liberally with brandy.
"Norbert," she called softly.
The dragon paused.
At the sound of her voice, his slitted orange eyes narrowed, focusing on her with wary suspicion.
Even with her passive Magical Creature Affinity, this was still a dragon. And not just any dragon—a teething, ill-tempered hatchling.
She extended the bucket carefully.
Snap.
Norbert lunged and bit down hard on her finger.
Though his milk teeth were still small, they pierced skin easily.
"Hiss…"
Pain shot up her hand, sharp and immediate.
A dangerous crimson flicker ignited in Tamara's eyes.
For a split second, instinct roared louder than reason. She wanted to draw her wand. To unleash Crucio. To teach this ungrateful reptile the meaning of pain.
"I'll skin you and make gloves out of your hide—"
[Ding! Warning! Host detected developing violent tendencies toward a youngling.]
The system's voice rang sharply in her mind.
[Please remain calm. This is only a child.]
[Only gentle, maternal affection can influence it. Violence is prohibited.]
[Mission: Dragon Mommy's Compulsory Lesson.]
[Requirement: Do not use force. Calm Norbert until he releases you.]
[Reward: Norbert Loyalty +10, Life +3.]
"Maternal affection?!" Tamara nearly laughed in disbelief.
Her finger felt like it might snap in half, and the system wanted her to show motherly love?
"Do you expect me to sing him a lullaby?"
[If you are willing, that would be acceptable…]
"Shut up."
Her jaw tightened. Slowly, deliberately, she suppressed the urge to draw her wand.
She inhaled deeply and looked down at the hatchling still clamped onto her finger.
"…Good boy," she forced out through clenched teeth.
The words felt foreign. Bitter.
She did not pull her hand away. Instead, she reached out with her free hand and gently stroked the top of Norbert's scaly head.
It was a bizarre sight.
The Dark Lord stood bleeding, softly petting the creature that had wounded her, her expression trembling between fury and forced tenderness.
"Let go… good boy…" she murmured, voice strained.
She nudged the bucket beneath his snout.
The thick scent of blood and alcohol filled the air.
Norbert's nostrils flared. Slowly, he released her finger and plunged his head into the bucket, greedily gulping down the mixture.
Tamara withdrew her hand at once. Blood trickled down her finger, her face pale from pain.
"Tamara! Are you alright?" Hermione rushed forward.
"Don't touch it."
Her voice was cold again—controlled. She raised her wand and cast Episkey. The wound sealed, though the throbbing lingered.
Hagrid watched in awe, tears glistening in his eyes.
"You're incredible, Tamara," he said thickly. "He bit you, and you were still gentle with him. You're just like his… his mother!"
He blew his nose loudly into a handkerchief the size of a tablecloth.
"Before, I was the only one who believed Norbert was a good boy. Now someone understands! You're my soulmate, Tamara!"
Tamara stared at his shining, emotional face and felt faintly ill.
She wasn't sure whether to refute "soulmate" or "mother" first.
"…I just didn't want to waste the brandy," she said flatly.
Turning toward the door, she paused.
"Saturday night. Don't be late."
"And prepare more brandy. I don't want him waking up mid-transfer and burning someone alive."
"Don't worry!" Hagrid called enthusiastically.
Outside, the cold air bit at her skin.
She examined her finger. Though healed, phantom pain lingered.
[Ding! Mission Complete: Dragon Mommy's Compulsory Lesson.]
[Norbert Loyalty +10. Life +3.]
[Current Life: 17]
[System Evaluation: How does it feel to be a mother?]
She froze.
Mother.
The word echoed strangely inside her mind.
Not warmth. Not comfort.
Alienation.
Her fingers instinctively brushed the wand hidden in her sleeve. The smooth, cold wood grounded her, steadied her.
What did "mother" mean to Tom Riddle?
A frail woman who died at the doorstep of an orphanage.
A shameful origin.
Abandonment.
Death.
It was the emptiest part of her life. The most foreign. The one she had never understood—and never wished to.
For a brief, terrible moment, panic flickered in her chest, like being dragged toward an abyss filled with thick, suffocating emotion.
"…Stop."
Her mental voice was quiet but firm.
"Do not use that word for me again."
She inhaled slowly, crushing the feeling before it could bloom.
"That is weakness."
"I do not need such things. Neither does he."
Through a crack in the hut's window, she glimpsed Norbert hiccupping as faint smoke curled from his nostrils.
Her gaze hardened.
"This is not affection," she told herself.
"It is an investment."
Once he reached Albania, Pyrites would shape him properly. Loyalty would not be nurtured through sentiment—it would be forged through understanding strength.
Still…
Somewhere deep within, an unfamiliar echo lingered.
The sensation of small teeth biting down.
The instinct to retaliate.
And the choice—however forced—not to.
Tamara flexed her fingers once more.
"Investment," she repeated softly.
Nothing more.
Then she turned and walked away from Hagrid's hut, her expression once again as cold and impenetrable as iron.
If you'd like, I can:
Make it darker and more psychologically intense
Add deeper internal monologue for Tamara
Refine it into a more published-novel style
Or reduce it slightly while keeping quality high
Just tell me your preference.
For more chapters
patreon.com/Jackssparrow