Chapter 71: Suspicion
The next day.
A thick, eye-watering stench of garlic permeated the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
The moment the bell rang, the students scrambled over their desks, rushing out of the heavy oak doors as if fleeing a toxic gas chamber.
Professor Quirrell remained behind, frantically tidying the stacked books on his podium. His hands trembled so violently that parchment spilled over the edges. From time to time, his twitching eyes darted toward the doorway, jumping at every shadow as if he were deathly afraid of something lurking just out of sight.
Ever since the bloody encounter in the Forbidden Forest that night, his fear of Tamara Riddle had seeped deep into his very marrow.
"Professor Quirrell."
A cold, perfectly pitched voice chimed behind him, striking his ears like a binding curse.
Quirrell stiffened abruptly. The heavy textbook in his hands slipped from his sweaty grip and hit the stone floor with a dull thud.
He turned around by agonizing inches. Tamara Riddle stood in the dead center of the empty classroom. She held her polished holly wand loosely at her side, wearing the exact same serene, pleasant smile that had been starring in his worst nightmares.
"M-Miss Riddle?" Quirrell stammered, his shoulders hunching as his body involuntarily shrank back against the blackboard. "Is there... s-something I can help you with?"
"No need to be so nervous, Professor."
Tamara stepped forward. The soft click of her leather shoes against the stone floor felt like a metronome syncing with his racing heartbeat.
"I just have some academic questions I would like to ask you."
"A-Another day, then." Quirrell scrambled sideways, desperately trying to bypass her without getting too close. "I have u-urgent business..."
"Urgent business finding a unicorn for your master?"
Tamara's voice dropped an octave, shedding all its sugary sweetness. It became a blade of pure, freezing ice.
Quirrell's face drained of all color, turning a sickly, waxy gray. His hand shot up, subconsciously reaching for the back of his turban, but he yanked it away a second later as if the fabric itself had burned him.
"I d-don't know what you're t-talking about..."
"Stop pretending, Quirrell."
Tamara halted mere inches from him. Her bottomless black eyes locked straight onto his dilated, panicked pupils.
"He is dormant right now, isn't he?"
Quirrell's breath hitched violently.
After being brutally wounded by Tamara's magic that night in the forest, the main soul fragment had been forced into a deep, comatose sleep just to preserve its miserable remnants of strength. The Quirrell standing before her, though still a pathetic slave, was at least a slave with temporary, independent consciousness.
"...What do you want?" Quirrell asked. The stutter vanished, replaced by a raw, gravelly tone thick with vigilance and absolute terror.
"I want to save you."
Tamara murmured the words softly, letting them drip with dark, intoxicating temptation.
"Save me?" Quirrell let out a dry, broken wheeze that might have been a laugh. "With just you?"
"I know your pain."
Tamara began to pace around him in a slow, predatory circle. Her voice slid over his frayed nerves like silk over glass.
"Being parasitized every single day. Feeling your life force being sucked dry. Being forced to drink that cursed, filthy blood... how much longer do you really think your mortal body can hold out? A month? Or two?"
She paused right behind him, leaning in close.
"When he finally gets his hands on the Philosopher's Stone and successfully resurrects, do you honestly believe he will still need your broken, rotting shell?"
"You will die, Quirrell. Thrown away like useless trash."
Quirrell's entire frame shuddered violently.
She had hit the absolute center of his deepest terror. He craved the dark power his master promised, yes, but above all else, he did not want to die.
"I have a way."
Tamara stopped in front of him again, casually tossing out the poisoned bait.
"I can help you rip him out of your head. I can even... teach you truly deep Dark Arts, the kind of magic you dream of, without you having to pay the price of your own life."
"As long as you... listen to me."
Quirrell slowly raised his head. His bloodshot eyes were a storm of agonizing struggle.
On one side was a cruel, demanding Dark Lord. On the other was this unfathomable, terrifying eleven-year-old girl.
It was a choice between two devils.
"W-What do you need me to do?" he asked, his voice trembling once more.
"It is very simple."
Tamara leaned closer, her lips hovering near his ear to whisper.
"I want to know every single detail of his plans. Everything about the Philosopher's Stone, the traps guarding it, the timeline... everything."
"Also, the very second he wakes up, you must tell me immediately."
Quirrell stared at the floor, the silence stretching out in the garlic-choked room.
"I... I need to think about it."
He did not dare agree immediately. The price for betraying Lord Voldemort was a fate far worse than death, and he simply lacked the Gryffindor courage to make the leap.
"Of course."
Tamara smiled warmly, stepping back to give him air.
"Take your time, Professor. But you really do not have much time left. Look at your hand..."
Quirrell jerked his gaze downward. There, spreading across the pale skin of his knuckles, were ugly, purplish-black spots of necrotic tissue. Corpse spots.
"That is your countdown to death."
Leaving the words hanging in the heavy air, Tamara turned on her heel and walked toward the classroom door.
The seed had been planted.
Blind fear and the primal desire for survival would water that seed until it took root and sprouted. She was not the least bit worried about Quirrell running his mouth to anyone. Unless, of course, he wanted a one-way ticket to Azkaban before his body finished rotting.
However.
Just as she pushed open the heavy oak door and stepped into the corridor.
A tall figure entirely blocked her path.
A long silver-white beard, half-moon spectacles, and a pair of piercing azure eyes that seemed capable of stripping away every lie in the world.
Albus Dumbledore.
Tamara's heart slammed violently against her ribs.
'Damn it!''When did this old bee get here? How much did he hear?'
"Ah, Miss Riddle."
Dumbledore looked down at her with a pleasant smile, his tone the very picture of amiable grandfatherly warmth.
"What a coincidence. I was just looking for Professor Quirrell to discuss the upcoming final exams. It seems you two have finished your chat?"
"Yes, Headmaster."
Tamara violently wrestled her facial muscles into submission. Even before the system's annoying chime could prompt her, she had flawlessly snapped into her standard, flawless honor-student mode.
"I just had some complex questions regarding Defense Against the Dark Arts theory, and Professor Quirrell was very helpful in answering them for me."
"Is that so?"
Dumbledore's gaze drifted over Tamara's head, landing squarely on Quirrell, who was currently standing in the middle of the classroom, pale as a ghost and sweating profusely.
"It seems that must have been a very... deep question. Professor Quirrell looks quite exhausted."
"Researching the Dark Arts is always a chilling endeavor, isn't it?"
Tamara countered smoothly, keeping her voice light and perfectly innocent.
Dumbledore slowly withdrew his gaze from the trembling professor and looked back down at the young girl.
The look in those blue eyes shifted, becoming heavy with unspoken meaning.
"Indeed."
He spoke softly, the words carrying a strange, vibrating weight. "Especially for those... who possess a special talent for it."
"Sometimes, exploring too deep is not a wise choice, Miss Riddle."
"Curiosity not only kills the cat, but it also has a habit of making brilliant young witches and wizards lose their way."
It was a warning.
He was directly hinting that he had noticed the cracks in her mask.
Perhaps it was the bloody aftermath in the Forbidden Forest. Perhaps it was her chilling resemblance to Tom Riddle. Or perhaps it was simply the unnatural perfection of her daily behavior.
Tamara felt an invisible, crushing pressure suddenly envelop the corridor.
'Is this the sheer gravity of the greatest White Wizard of the current age?'
He had not even drawn his wand, yet just the weight of his focused attention made the air feel too thick to breathe. She could not possibly resist this head-on.
[Ding! Extremely dangerous trust crisis detected.]
The system's perky alarm blared directly into her skull.
[Recommendation: Immediately use skill: Harmless.]
Tamara cursed viciously in the darkest corners of her mind, but her physical body was terrifyingly obedient in executing the system's survival tactic.
She blinked. In a fraction of a second, the cold, calculating abyss in her dark eyes completely vanished.
It was instantly replaced by a wide, clear, and painfully innocent gaze, shimmering with a touch of lost vulnerability.
She shrank in on herself, looking exactly like a frightened first-year girl staring up at the imposing Headmaster in utter confusion.
"I am sorry, Headmaster..."
She lowered her head, her small fingers nervously twisting the black fabric of her robes. Her voice cracked, sounding incredibly soft and deeply aggrieved.
"I just... I just want to become a little stronger."
She let out a shaky breath. "Because last time, in the Forbidden Forest... I was so scared. I do not want to see my friends get hurt ever again."
She looked up through her eyelashes, a single tear threatening to spill. "Did I... do something wrong?"
This sequence of calculated emotional strikes was practically a fatal blow.
Dumbledore physically stiffened, clearly taken aback.
He had indeed been harboring deep suspicions that Tamara Riddle was plotting something sinister, or that she had already been seduced by the whispers of the Dark Arts.
But looking down at this tiny girl with her clear, tear-filled eyes—a girl who claimed she was only studying so hard to protect her housemates, and who now looked utterly pitiful because she thought she was being scolded... his battle-hardened heart wavered.
Maybe... she really just wanted to protect her friends a little too fiercely?
Maybe... even though she carried the dark shadow of that person, her core was actually good?
Even if Dumbledore did see terrifying flashes of his old student's demeanor in her, she was, ultimately, only an eleven-year-old child.
The piercing sharpness in Dumbledore's azure eyes slowly melted away.
He reached out a wrinkled hand and gently patted Tamara's trembling shoulder.
"No, my child."
His voice lost its heavy edge, returning to a gentle, comforting rumble.
"Wanting to protect your friends is a beautiful virtue; it is the purest manifestation of love."
"You have not done anything wrong. Just... be careful with your methods, and please, do not let yourself fall into danger."
He offered a warm smile. "Go on, go have some lunch. I imagine your friends are waiting for you in the Great Hall."
"Thank you, Headmaster!"
Tamara looked up, beaming with a sweet, blindingly innocent smile that reached all the way to her eyes.
Then, like a happy, carefree little bird, she turned and skipped lightly down the stone corridor.
It was not until she turned the sharp corner of the hallway, absolutely confirming that Dumbledore's line of sight was broken.
That sweet, angelic smile vanished instantly, wiped away like chalk from a board.
Tamara slumped against the cold stone wall and let out a long, ragged breath. Her back was completely soaked in a layer of freezing sweat.
"Old fox..."
She wiped the dampness from her forehead, the familiar, freezing cruelty bleeding back into her dark eyes.
"I almost slipped up."
"But... friendship and love are indeed the absolute best weapons against Albus Dumbledore."
[Ding! Crisis resolved.]
[System Evaluation: Perfect acting! You have successfully used your exquisite acting skills to dispel Dumbledore's suspicion.]
[Reward: Dumbledore's suspicion level reduced by 5%.]
Tamara blinked, her breathing finally evening out. 'How much is it at now?'
[Current suspicion level: 55%.]
Tamara froze. Her mind blanked. She clearly had not done a single evil thing in public!
'On what basis is he suspecting me?!'She roared incredulously in the confines of her mind, a volatile cocktail of genuine outrage and lingering fear boiling in her chest.'For over half a year, I have gone to bed early and woken up early every single day! I have listened attentively in every class! I have behaved even more like a sickeningly good person than a bloody Hufflepuff!''I even saved that damn savior several times! I fought a Dark Wizard to protect my useless classmates!'
[Host, you seem to have forgotten one crucial detail.]
The system's usually perky voice dropped into a tone that was strangely meaningful and patronizing.
[He is Albus Dumbledore.]
[He does not need hard evidence. He only needs to know that your surname is 'Riddle', and to witness that occasional, uncontrollable flash of excellence and absolute arrogance.]
[Your very existence is the greatest suspicion.]
Tamara stood paralyzed against the wall.
An unmatched, bone-deep chill crawled slowly up her spine, sinking into her very soul.
It turned out... for the past half year, her self-proclaimed flawless disguise was, in that old man's eyes, nothing more than a clumsy, entertaining circus act.
He had been watching her.
Operating on a base of sixty percent suspicion. In every single class, at every meal in the Great Hall, every time they casually passed each other in the corridors... he had been quietly, ruthlessly scrutinizing her every move.
"...Heh."
After a long, suffocating silence, Tamara let out a very soft, freezing laugh. But this time, the smile lacked its usual arrogant composure.
"It seems... I still vastly underestimated the greatest White Wizard of our age."
She clenched her fists at her sides, her trimmed nails digging so deeply into her palms that they nearly drew blood.
"Good. Very good."
"Since you so desperately refuse to believe I am a good person..."
"Then I will perform for you."
"I will perform until the day you die, and you will never, ever catch me in the act."
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