Chapter 74: A Cry for Help
The final day of exam week arrived soon enough, and Hogwarts Castle was steeped in a suffocating heat.
The smell of parchment and ink clung to the marble staircases, mixed with the lingering atmosphere of hundreds of students who had just finished frantically scribbling through their History of Magic exam.
Tamara Riddle emerged from the examination room with the crowd, an undisguised look of boredom on her face.
Turning a rat into a snuffbox. Reciting the three standard steps of the Forgetfulness Potion.
She let out a cold, contemptuous sneer in her heart.
This so called exam, which even a troll could pass with a little training, is simply an insult to the Dark Lord's intelligence. Only an old fool like Dumbledore would think such childish nonsense could test a wizard's true level.
Instead of joining the other students on the grounds, she turned at once toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor.
Because she had received a signal.
An extremely subtle cry for help that only she could understand.
During the exam, Professor Quirrell, acting as proctor, had lingered near her desk. As he pretended to pass by, he had left an almost invisible smear of blood on the edge of her parchment.
It was no ordinary bloodstain.
It carried a plea for help mixed with Unicorn blood and the scent of approaching death.
It seems the time has come.
Tamara pushed open the classroom doors.
The light inside was dim. Every curtain had been drawn shut. The garlic smell that had once been used to ward off vampires had changed into something far fouler.
It now reeked of decay.
Like a corpse left out for three days.
The classroom was empty, but behind the podium, hidden in the gloom, came the sound of heavy, ragged breathing.
Cough... cough, cough...
Quirinus Quirrell was curled in a corner. The robes he usually kept wrapped tightly around himself now hung loose, and his whole body looked as thin as a skeleton.
When he looked up, Tamara's eyes narrowed slightly.
Quirrell's face could barely be called a face anymore.
It had turned a sickly grey white, mottled with livid purple patches. The flesh along the edges of his large purple turban had already darkened into something ominously black.
That was the result of his life being drained by force.
The main soul was no longer satisfied with Unicorn blood. It had begun feeding directly on the host's vitality.
"You came... Miss Riddle..."
Quirrell's voice rasped like two sheets of sandpaper scraping together. He struggled to stand, then slid helplessly back to the floor.
"Save... save me..."
He reached out a withered hand, trembling as he caught at the hem of Tamara's robes.
"He's going to make his move tonight..."
Tamara stood three paces away, neither approaching nor retreating.
She looked down on him like a judge seated above a dying insect.
"Tonight?"
Tamara raised a brow, her tone flat. "Because Dumbledore has gone to the Ministry of Magic?"
"Yes... yes..." Quirrell gasped, his eyes full of despair.
"It's a trap... a diversion... he can't wait any longer... if he doesn't get the Philosopher's Stone... he's going to devour my soul... and take my body completely..."
"I'll die... Miss Riddle... I'll become a walking corpse..."
Tears streamed from Quirrell's hollow eyes, mixing with the grime on his face and making him look even more pitiful.
"You said... you said you had a way..."
Like a drowning man clutching at driftwood, he stared up at her.
"As long as you can save me... as long as I don't die... I'll be your most loyal dog! No matter who it is... even Dumbledore... if you give the order, I'll kill him!"
Tamara looked down at this Ravenclaw, a man who had once possessed some talent, now reduced to such a miserable state.
"A dog?"
She let out a contemptuous laugh.
"Are you even qualified?"
Tamara crouched and used the tip of her wand to tilt Quirrell's chin up, forcing him to meet her eyes.
"Even dogs have breeds, Professor Quirrell."
"Something like you, a piece of trash too weak to protect even your own body, infested by a fragment of soul until you rot, is not even fit to be a stray dog."
A deathly despair flashed through Quirrell's eyes.
"However..."
Tamara's tone shifted. A cruel, amused smile curved her lips.
"While I have no shortage of dogs, I do happen to need a disposable piece on the board."
"A disposable piece?" Quirrell echoed blankly.
"Exactly."
Tamara rose and looked down at him again.
"I accept your proposal."
"Tonight, I will go."
"But understand one thing, Quirrell."
Her voice turned cold, carrying an authority that allowed no resistance.
"I am not going there to save you. I am going to take what belongs to me."
"If you survive, that is your luck. If you die, it only proves that you truly are worthless."
"Do you understand?"
Quirrell nodded shakily, and a flicker of hope returned to his eyes.
No matter the reason, as long as she was willing to come, he still had a chance.
After all, against the terrifying master behind his head, he had no room to resist. But the girl before him, though no less frightening, at least had a body, a mind, and motives he could grasp.
And she had no desire to possess him.
"Then... then what should I do?" Quirrell asked weakly.
"Proceed exactly as planned."
Tamara's tone remained cold.
"Lead him through the obstacles. Wear down his strength. Make him think victory is within reach."
"Only when he believes he has already won will he be easiest to kill."
When she finished speaking, Tamara turned and left the classroom.
The afterglow of sunset stretched across the corridor, laying long shadows over the stone floor.
She did not head straight back to the dungeons.
Instead, she slipped into an empty corner and drew out a sheet of parchment and a quill.
If there is going to be a play, there must be actors.
She calculated quickly in her mind.
If Dumbledore's suspicion of her had not already risen so high, Tamara would never have introduced a third party into the game.
But now she needed Harry to serve as cover.
More importantly, if she appeared directly in front of Quirrell, that insane main soul would certainly target her first.
She needed someone to draw the fire, consume the main soul's magic, and conveniently help distract Dumbledore.
And in this school, who was more suitable than those three Gryffindors, full of righteous stupidity, incapable of minding their own business, and already marked by Dumbledore as useful reserve heroes?
Tamara quickly wrote a single line on the parchment.
Tonight. Third floor. Conspiracy.
No signature. No explanation.
For Harry Potter, that was enough.
That boy had too much curiosity and too much belief in his own duty to save the world. Give him the slightest hint, and he would rush in like a shark smelling blood.
"Go, savior."
Tamara folded the note into a paper crane and blew lightly on it.
"Find Harry Potter."
The paper crane flapped its wings and flew off, vanishing down the corridor.
Tamara watched it disappear, her eyes glinting with calculation.
"Clear the road for me."
"When you and that senile fragment have both fought yourselves half to death..."
"I will arrive to clean up the mess."
In the Gryffindor common room, the paper crane flew in through the window and landed neatly on Harry's knee.
"What's this?"
Harry opened the note in confusion.
The moment he caught the faint scent clinging to the parchment, his heart skipped.
"It's her..."
Harry murmured under his breath.
"Who?" Ron leaned over at once.
"Tamara!" Harry showed them the note, excitement already rising in his voice. "This is Tamara's handwriting!"
"Tonight, third floor, conspiracy." Hermione read the line, and her expression changed. "Conspiracy? Is she saying someone is about to move against the Philosopher's Stone?"
"Definitely." Harry shot to his feet, his eyes hardening with determination. "Tamara is warning us. She must have found out something."
"I knew it. Even if she's in Slytherin, she's on our side."
"Then what are we waiting for?" Ron jumped up too. "This is inside information. We need to move!"
"But..." Hermione hesitated. "Could it be a trap? Maybe we should tell Professor McGonagall."
"It's no use, Hermione."
Harry shook his head urgently.
"Professor McGonagall doesn't believe anyone can steal the Philosopher's Stone. If we go to her now, she'll just think we're making things up again and send us back to bed."
Then Harry pointed to the note, reaching the most convincing part of his argument.
"And think about it. Tamara wrote this. She's smart. If telling a professor would work, she would've done it herself instead of risking sending us a warning."
That line struck exactly where Hermione was weakest.
In her heart, Tamara's judgment already seemed more trustworthy than that of some of the teachers.
If even Tamara, who always calculated everything, had chosen to ask them for help...
"You're right..."
Hermione bit her lip. The hesitation in her eyes slowly gave way to firm resolve.
"If even she thinks it's urgent... then we have to go."
So the three first year wizards, driven by absolute trust in their guardian angel, set out without a backward glance toward the trap that awaited them.
Meanwhile, the true mastermind sat in the Slytherin common room, elegantly sipping hot cocoa as she waited for the show to begin.
[Ding! Detected that the host has successfully induced key characters into the dungeon.]
[System evaluation: What touching trust! You firmly believe your friends can overcome difficulty, which is why you are willing to let them go first. This is the vision of a true leader, knowing when to yield the stage to those who still need to grow.]
[Task update: The Final Oriole.]
[Please enter the battlefield at the proper moment and display the noble helplessness of having no choice but to intervene and save them.]
Tamara set down her teacup and watched the fire flicker in the hearth.
"Noble?"
She laughed softly.
"If I end up standing over the corpse of the main soul with the Philosopher's Stone in hand, and Potter still looks at me with tearful gratitude..."
"Then yes. That would be rather noble."
.....
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