Chapter 5: Tavern Acquaintance
August in London, and Charing Cross Road was as busy as ever.
Muggles swarmed along the pavement in clothes so brightly coloured it made the eyes ache, clutching little boxes called Walkmans and hurrying about like startled insects. The exhaust from passing cars pressed against Tom Riddle's lungs until even breathing felt like an insult.
Tom Riddle, that was.
Or rather, Tamara.
"A nest of lower beings," Tamara murmured.
She stood between a record shop and a large bookshop, staring at the shabby wooden door that did not exist to Muggle eyes. Her mouth curled into a sneer as if the air itself had offended her.
Dumbledore had offered to accompany her, of course. He had simply underestimated two things. The Dark Lord's independence, and the depth of hatred Tamara felt for that old bee.
She had used a nauseatingly sweet excuse.
"I want to experience the surprise of my first contact with the magical world myself."
With that, and with a quiet nudge from the [Harmless] skill, she had successfully convinced Dumbledore that she was a poor, unfortunate girl who was also stubbornly self reliant. The old fool had merely handed her a ticket and a detailed route map, then strode off to attend to his important business with absolute confidence.
"If he knew who I was," Tamara snorted, "he would regret it enough to pull out his entire beard."
She pushed open the door to the Leaky Cauldron.
The pub was as dim and filthy as ever. The air was thick with sherry, old tobacco, and that musty tang unique to wizarding places that had never learned the virtue of fresh air.
Once, Tom Riddle would have found it pungent.
Now, it smelled like freedom.
A few elderly wizards huddled in a corner with pipes. Behind the bar, old Tom wiped a glass that was already clean, as if the gesture itself was habit.
No one paid any attention to the little girl who slipped inside.
Tamara started towards the courtyard out back, aiming for the hidden passage into Diagon Alley, when the system's voice rang in her mind.
[Ding! Special plot character detected!]
[High energy warning ahead: Encountered suspicious Defence Against the Dark Arts professor.]
[Triggered side quest: A Friendly Greeting.]
[Quest Description: As a future Hogwarts student, how can you not say hello when you see a professor? Please show Professor Quirrell your politeness.]
[Quest Reward: Charisma +1.]
"Quirrell?" Tamara halted.
Her eyes swept the dim room and settled on a table in the corner.
A young man sat there, pale faced and tense, wrapped in a thick purple turban. He looked as though he had only just crawled out of a long fever, or as though something had frightened him so badly his bones had not stopped shaking.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Tamara's pupils narrowed. With the memories of a past life, she knew precisely what role this man played this year.
He was the host.
The vessel for Lord Voldemort's main soul.
The part of herself that had murdered Harry Potter's parents, then been reduced to a wandering wraith ten years ago when the Killing Curse rebounded.
It was very likely on the back of Quirrell's head at this very moment, or curled inside him like rot in a fruit.
A surge of emotion rose in her, tangled and unpleasant. Excitement. Contempt. Wariness, deep enough to sting.
The former self had fallen so far it was forced to parasitise a cowardly, mediocre wizard, clinging on like a tumour.
"How pathetic, Lord Voldemort," Tamara mocked silently. "Look at you now."
She walked towards Quirrell.
As the distance closed, the aura that made her soul tremble grew stronger. Rotting leaves. Garlic. A cold undertow of Dark magic that felt like winter seeping into the bones.
It was the call of the same origin, a resonance between fractured pieces.
Quirrell sensed someone approaching and looked up in alarm. The glass in his hand tipped, almost spilling.
"Who… who is there?" he stammered.
To hide what was on the back of his head, Quirrell had to remain in this disgraceful state at all times.
Tamara stopped by the table and stared at him without expression.
[System Tip: host, please smile. You must be polite at all times.]
Tamara took a slow breath, swallowing down the urge to tear his head off.
Her face rearranged itself with practised speed.
A sweet, well behaved smile bloomed, full of respect for an elder. The sort of smile that made adults think they were safe.
"Hello, sir."
The girl's voice was bright and pleasant, like silver bells.
"Excuse me, are you a Hogwarts professor? Your robes look… very special."
Quirrell blinked, stunned. In this crowded, shabby pub, he clearly had not expected such a beautiful little girl to approach him first.
"Er… y yes," he said, fingers twitching towards the turban as if he could tug it lower. "I… I am Quirinus Quirrell. Hogwarts'… Defence Against the Dark Arts professor."
At that moment, Tamara felt the cold presence around Quirrell shift.
Something inside him had stirred.
It was scrutinising her through Quirrell's terrified eyes.
The gaze of the main soul.
A faint sting spread across Tamara's chest. A mutual repulsion between identical fragments, perhaps, or a warning carried by magic itself.
She did not retreat. If anything, she enjoyed it.
Dancing on the edge of a blade had always suited her.
"Wow," Tamara breathed, clasping her hands together. Her eyes widened, bright with admiration, stars practically sparkling in them.
"Defence Against the Dark Arts. That must be the coolest class at Hogwarts. My name is Tamara, and I am a first year this year."
Quirrell stared at her, unsettled by something he could not name. A primitive instinct told him to fear the girl standing in front of him.
"That… that is good," he managed, voice thin. "I hope you will like… the class."
He avoided her pitch black eyes. The back of his head prickled with discomfort.
"Professor, you do not look very well," Tamara said, concern in her tone. She even extended a pale little hand, as if to touch Quirrell's sleeve.
"Do you need help?"
Her fingers were about to brush his robes.
Zzt.
A sharp, current like sting burst at her fingertips.
It was not the system's punishment.
It was the pull and shove between two fragmented souls, attraction and rejection happening at the same time.
Quirrell recoiled as if he had been burned. He sprang up so violently that his chair scraped the floor, and the glass toppled over, spilling across the table.
"No. D do not touch me!" he shrieked, loud enough to make the entire pub turn.
Behind the bar, old Tom frowned.
"Professor Quirrell," he called, unimpressed. "Nightmares again?"
Quirrell did not answer. He only stared at Tamara with rising horror.
Whatever was inside him was warning him.
"S sorry," Quirrell babbled. "I… I have things to do…"
He snatched up the books on the table and hurried for the exit as if fleeing for his life, not daring to look back.
Tamara remained where she was, watching him stumble away. Slowly she withdrew her hand, which had been hanging in mid air.
The sweet smile faded from her face. In its place came a colder expression, thoughtful and sharp.
[Ding! Quest complete: A Friendly Greeting.]
[Since you successfully greeted the professor, extra reward: a slight increase in Insight.]
[Host, your aura is too strong. Even the professor was frightened by you.]
"He was not frightened by me," Tamara said calmly.
She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wiped the finger that had nearly touched Quirrell's robe, as though she had brushed something filthy.
"He was frightened by the thing on the back of his head."
The main soul was still weak. So weak it could not even recognise its own fragment. It could only sense danger and recoil.
Good.
That meant that before it fully revived, she had time.
Time to plan. Time to grow. Time to devour it.
Tamara's mouth curved.
There could only be one Dark Lord in this world.
And that was her.
"Just you wait, Quirrell," she thought, eyes narrowing, "and you parasite hiding on the back of your head."