Chapter 77: Care
The moment Tamara passed through the wooden door, the light around her dimmed at once.
A heavy, dusty smell rushed over her, as though she had stepped into a vast mausoleum.
It was eerily quiet here. There were no monstrous roars and no rustling vines.
But Tamara stopped, her expression growing slightly more serious.
Ahead of her lay a giant chessboard.
The black and white squares stretched deep into the darkness, where enormous stone chess pieces stood in solemn silence, though some had already been smashed into rubble scattered across the floor.
This was Professor McGonagall's trial.
A test of Transfiguration and logical reasoning.
"Wizards' Chess..."
Tamara looked at the wreckage strewn across the board.
The white pieces had clearly suffered heavy losses. Several knights were missing their heads, and the queen's base was cracked.
The black side had won, but many of those pieces had fallen as well.
It was obvious that a brutal battle had just been fought here.
At the edge of the board, Tamara spotted a red haired figure.
Ron Weasley lay on the ground with his eyes shut tight, a large purple bruise swelling on his forehead, his battered wand still clutched in his hand.
Tamara let out a cold sneer.
"Throwing yourself away like a sacrificial pawn just to cover the savior's advance. What a self indulgent sort of stupidity."
She did not spare Ron another glance and stepped onto the chessboard.
However, the instant her foot touched the first black and white square, the room shook.
The previously lifeless board seemed to awaken.
The shattered white pieces from the previous match began rapidly restoring themselves under the influence of magic. Stone fragments flew back into place, severed limbs reattached, and in only a few seconds, a complete white army stood before her once more, blocking the way.
Two stone soldiers, each over three meters tall, crossed their enormous blades in front of her.
Their featureless stone faces radiated cold refusal.
This magical chessboard had a strict reset mechanism.
Even if someone had cleared it a second earlier, the moment a new challenger stepped onto the board, everything began again.
"Please choose a side."
A deep, dull voice echoed through the empty hall.
"If you wish to pass, you must win this game."
Tamara looked at the crossed swords, then at the distant door that led to the next trial.
Play chess?
These stone headed things actually expected her to waste time playing a board game with them?
By the time she finished moving pieces around like an obedient participant, Quirrell would probably have already reached the Philosopher's Stone, and might even have completed his little resurrection feast.
"I do not have time to play with you."
Tamara raised her wand, her gaze sharpening.
"Move."
The stone soldiers did not react. They stood as motionless as before, as if they had not heard her at all.
"You will not?"
Tamara sighed and waved her wand with faint impatience.
"Wingardium Leviosa."
This time, the magic she poured into the spell was even greater than what she had used on Fluffy.
The entire white army rose into the air at once.
Not only the white pieces, but the black ones as well were dragged upward by the same unreasonable force.
Dozens of stone statues, each weighing several tons, were lifted like toys and tossed wildly through the air.
Tamara snapped her wand downward.
The floating pieces were driven together as though crushed by an invisible giant hand.
Kings slammed into queens. Knights smashed into bishops. Castles crashed into soldiers.
Stone fragments exploded in every direction, and the thunder of impact filled the hall.
In only a few seconds, the grand chess army had been reduced to a heap of broken stone suspended in midair.
"Much quieter."
With another casual flick of her wand, Tamara dropped the entire heap to the floor, where it formed a rough path of rubble.
She stepped over the remains of the once imposing army, walking across the shattered board like a tyrant who had just destroyed a kingdom.
When she passed Ron, she did not stop.
An idiot who sacrifices himself for others deserves to die.
However, before she could take more than a few steps, the system shrieked in her head.
[Ding! Warning!]
[Teammate Ron Weasley has been detected in a state of severe unconsciousness, and his vital signs are unstable!]
[As the leader of this unofficial rescue team, how can you ignore an injured comrade? This is simply cold blooded! Heartless! A betrayal of friendship!]
[Mandatory task: Slytherin's Care.]
[Please provide immediate treatment to the injured student and ensure he does not die on this cold floor.]
[Penalty: Guard the student until he wakes up, or until Dumbledore arrives to assist.]
Tamara halted so abruptly that even her sleeve stirred.
"Are you insane?" she snarled inwardly. "He was hit by a chess piece, not Avada Kedavra. He will wake up after sleeping it off."
[life is fragile, host. What if the concussion causes internal bleeding? What if he catches a chill and develops pneumonia?]
The system replied with utterly shameless nonsense.
Tamara took a deep breath and felt her temples begin to pound.
She turned slowly and glared at the unconscious red headed boy with open hostility.
"I sincerely hope Dumbledore thanks me for looking after his student."
Reluctantly, she went back and knelt beside Ron.
Looking at the freckled face streaked with dust, Tamara drew her wand in disgust and pointed it at his head.
"Episkey."
A soft white glow flowed into Ron's forehead.
The ugly purple bruise faded at a visible speed.
But Tamara deliberately controlled the output, healing him just enough to stabilize him without letting him wake fully. The last thing she wanted was to hear Ron Weasley babbling nonsense at her.
"Do not die, Weasley."
She left him with that cold remark and turned away again.
On the floor, Ron let out a faint groan.
He floated in the muddled haze between sleep and waking.
Through blurred vision, he could only make out a dark figure walking deeper into the shadows.
For some reason, that figure felt strangely familiar.
"Ta... Tamara...?"
Ron murmured weakly, then his head lolled to one side and he sank back into unconsciousness.
Beyond the chess chamber, the smell in the air grew even worse.
The stench of a Troll.
And not just any Troll, but the sort that had not bathed for days and had rolled through a rubbish heap for good measure.
"That stinking thing again."
Tamara covered her nose in disgust.
She pushed open the next door.
A Troll really was inside.
It should have still been unconscious. That was Quirrell's work.
But clearly, a Troll's endurance was greater than most wizards imagined.
The instant Tamara stepped into the room, it stirred.
"Roar..."
The Troll rolled over, rubbed the back of its still aching head, and blearily opened its tiny eyes.
The first thing it saw was Tamara trying to pass by.
Morning temper, combined with the pain in its skull, sent it into instant fury.
With a roar, it grabbed the massive wooden club from the floor and lumbered upright, its shadow swallowing Tamara at once.
"ROAR!"
The Troll swung the club downward, bringing a foul gust of air with it.
Tamara looked at the drooling, foul smelling creature and did not even bother to dodge.
"It truly never learns."
She raised her wand, her eyes cold.
In the past, the Troll would already have been reduced to minced meat.
But now she could not use the Dark Arts, nor any especially violent method. She did not want Quirrell or Potter turning back because of noise.
So a statue would have to do.
"Petrificus Totalus!"
A bolt of white light struck the Troll squarely in the chest.
It froze at once, still holding its club aloft.
Its arms snapped stiffly to its sides, its legs locked together, and the entire creature became a gigantic upright slab.
Then, having lost all balance, it toppled.
Rumble.
It hit the floor like a collapsing tower, shaking the room and sending dust everywhere.
Its eyes still rolled in terror, staring at the tiny human before it, but not a single part of its body could move.
Tamara walked over to the Troll's enormous head and looked down at it.
"Quirrell, that useless waste."
She kicked aside the club that had slipped from its hand, her tone thick with contempt.
"If he had already knocked it out, he should have snapped its neck, or at the very least tied it up."
"Leaving a mess like this for those who come after him is a shocking lack of professional ethics."
.....
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