Chapter 83: New Master
The cold water of the Black Lake lapped against the jagged rocks on the shore, the rhythmic splashing sounding exceptionally loud in the dead of night.
Tamara stood alone in the thick, clinging mud. A heavy black cloak draped over her small frame, the hood pulled low. She had no need for a lighting charm. Her eyes, long adapted to the suffocating darkness, easily tracked the miserable, squirming figure dragging itself across the shoreline like a half-drowned dog.
Quirrell wasn't dead yet.
But he was hovering right on the edge of the abyss. He was soaked to the bone, his once-fine purple robes clinging to his emaciated frame like tattered, rotting rags. The ridiculous turban that had wrapped around his head for the past year was gone. In its place, the back of his skull lay exposed—flattened, grotesque, and covered in a web of horrific, weeping scars. These were the brutal marks left behind when the main soul had been violently ripped away.
He lay prone in the freezing silt, coughing up lake water violently as his fingers clawed at the mud, desperately trying to drag his broken body toward the treeline of the Forbidden Forest.
Pure, unadulterated terror drove him. A fear that seeped deep into his marrow.
He had to escape. Escape Hogwarts, escape Dumbledore, and above all else, escape that terrifying little girl who had somehow driven the Dark Lord himself away!
"Where exactly do you think you are going, Professor Quirrell?"
The voice was soft, cold, and pierced straight through the rolling mist to echo directly above his head.
Quirrell's entire body locked up. Like a chicken snatched by the neck, he twitched, struggling to lift his heavy head from the sludge. He stared up at the figure that had been haunting his every waking nightmare.
Under the pale moonlight, Tamara's delicate, porcelain face looked exceptionally eerie. Her pitch-black eyes stared down at him, utterly devoid of the warmth or innocence that should belong to an eleven-year-old child.
"No... no... please, don't kill me..."
Quirrell violently trembled, his teeth chattering as he begged for his life. He rolled over in the muck, scrambling backward on his hands and feet like a cornered rat.
"I don't know anything... I swear I didn't see anything... please..."
"Shut up."
Tamara chided softly.
Just those two syllables acted like a physical blow. Quirrell's mouth snapped shut instantly. The ingrained instinct to obey a superior, a subservience etched deep into his very soul, paralyzed his vocal cords. He didn't dare make another sound.
Tamara looked down at the pathetic wreck of a man shivering at her feet.
Although he was a cowardly, useless waste of space, in her current predicament, an adult wizard servant with a foundational grasp of the Dark Arts still held significant value. Especially since he was now officially a dead man. Both the Ministry of Magic and that old fool Dumbledore believed him to be missing or deceased. That made him the perfect, untraceable subordinate.
"It seems that when that old relic fled, he didn't bother taking his most loyal dog with him."
A cruel, mocking curve formed at the corner of Tamara's lips.
"He abandoned you, Quirrell. Left you to rot."
Quirrell's sunken eyes dimmed. It was the harsh, bitter truth. He had sacrificed everything for his master. He had offered up his body, his magic, and his very soul, only to be discarded like a piece of useless trash the moment things went wrong, left behind to wait for death.
"But I am different."
Tamara reached into the folds of her cloak and withdrew a small crystal vial. Inside sloshed a thick, ruby-red liquid—a highly potent Blood-Replenishing Potion she had casually pilfered from Madam Pomfrey's private stores.
She tossed it without a second thought.
The glass vial traced a perfect parabola through the foggy air, landing with a soft thud in the mud right beside Quirrell's trembling hand.
"Drink it."
Quirrell stared at it, stunned. He looked from the glowing red potion up to Tamara's impassive face.
"This is..."
"Poison," Tamara interrupted, her tone deadpan and frigid. "It will help you die much quicker."
Quirrell's hand shook violently. But as he caught the faint, cruel glint of amusement dancing in Tamara's dark eyes, a sudden realization hit him. He grabbed the vial, bit off the cork stopper with his mud-stained teeth, and tilted his head back, gulping down the contents in one desperate breath.
A blazing warmth instantly exploded in his stomach. The heat rushed through his veins, chasing away the freezing chill of the lake water. His stiff, numb limbs began to regain sensation, and the suffocating dizziness of impending death rapidly receded.
It was a Blood-Replenishing Potion. And a top-grade one at that.
Quirrell collapsed back against the ground, hot tears streaming down his filthy cheeks, mixing with the grime and silt.
"Why... why save me...?" he asked, his voice a hoarse, broken rasp.
"Because you are useful."
Tamara's answer was blunt, stripped of any pretense.
"I want you to be my dog, Quirrell. Since your old master doesn't want you anymore, it is time to change to a new one."
She stepped forward, the heel of her shoe sinking slightly into the mud. She drew her holly wand and pressed the tip under Quirrell's chin, forcing his head up so he had no choice but to meet her gaze.
"I can give you protection. I can give you power. And I can even... give you a chance for revenge."
Quirrell stared into those bottomless black eyes. Within them, he saw a dark, suffocating will that was infinitely purer, infinitely more terrifying than the fractured remnant soul that had parasitized the back of his head for the past year.
He was a weak man. He knew this. He needed to attach himself to the strong just to survive in this world. And right now, an absolute, overwhelming power was standing right in front of him.
"I... I am willing..."
Quirrell lowered his head, his body shaking like a leaf in the wind, and pressed his lips to the mud-stained tips of Tamara's leather shoes.
"Master..."
"Very good."
Tamara withdrew her wand, flicking it sharply to clear away non-existent dust, her face twisting in brief disgust at the display.
"Now, listen closely. You cannot stay in Britain. Dumbledore will soon turn this entire area upside down searching for you. I want you to go to Albania."
Hearing the name of that cursed place, Quirrell violently flinched. That was the exact forest where he had first encountered Voldemort. The place where all his endless nightmares had begun.
"There is a dark forest there," Tamara continued, her voice dropping into a low, dangerous register. "Deep within those woods, there is a hidden camp. A man named Peritus is currently guarding a dragon for me, along with a group of followers simply waiting for my summons. Go there. Find Peritus. Tell them that a new era is coming."
"And..." A vicious, cold light flashed across Tamara's eyes. "That escaped main soul. That parasitic waste of magic will undoubtedly return to those woods to linger and hide. I want you to keep a very close eye on him for me. If he tries to control my dragon, or if he dares to lay a single finger on my camp... then drive him away ruthlessly. Do not let him get anywhere near that place!"
Quirrell's eyes widened in sheer disbelief. Drive away his former master?
"But... I cannot defeat him..."
"Right now, he is nothing but a weak, pathetic wandering soul. He couldn't even beat a field mouse," Tamara sneered, her lip curling in absolute disdain. "If you cannot even handle him in that state, then you might as well go drown yourself in the lake right now."
Quirrell's body shook. He remembered the past year of living as a miserable host—a torturous existence worse than death. And he remembered the main soul abandoning him to die without a single second of hesitation.
That venomous, burning resentment of utter betrayal slowly began to eclipse his cowardice. He had already died once tonight anyway.
"I understand..."
Quirrell slowly raised his head. In his murky, bloodshot eyes, a dark, ugly light ignited. It was pure hatred. He gripped the tattered hem of his robes so tightly his knuckles turned stark white, grinding his teeth together.
"If he dares to show his face... I will make him regret treating me that way. I will... tear him apart for you."
Tamara looked down at the crazed, desperate look in Quirrell's eyes with deep satisfaction. This was exactly how a useful tool should look.
She casually bent down and picked up a smooth, black pebble from the rocky shore. She made no grand gestures, merely tapping the wet surface of the stone lightly with the tip of her holly wand.
Accompanied by a harsh, tooth-grating sound of magical friction, the solid stone began to twist and elongate, melting and reforming like hot wax. In the blink of an eye, the unremarkable pebble had transformed into a heavy black badge.
Carved into the cold metal surface was a terrifying, unmistakable crest—a slender python slithering out of the mouth of a skull.
The Dark Mark of the Death Eaters.
"Take it. They will see this and know you are my messenger."
Tamara casually tossed the heavy badge into Quirrell's waiting arms.
"Go, Quirrell." Tamara turned her back on him, her black cloak snapping sharply in the sudden gust of night wind. "Do not disappoint me. Otherwise, next time, I really will feed you to the Giant Squid."
Watching that small, imposing figure slowly blur into the thick mist, Quirrell tightly clutched the metal badge and the empty potion vial against his chest. He scrambled up from the freezing mud, his legs shaking, and bowed deeply toward the direction Tamara had vanished.
Then, without another word, he turned and plunged into the deeper darkness of the forest.
Tamara's mood was exceptionally pleasant.
Having successfully resolved the hidden danger of Quirrell's survival and perfectly laid down a crucial chess piece for her future plans, tonight's operation had been practically flawless.
She reached up to adjust her hood, letting her black cloak trace an elegant, dramatic arc in the night wind. She prepared to return to the castle in the shadows, a hidden mastermind concealing her brilliant deeds.
However.
Just as her leather shoes stepped out of the Black Lake's thick mist, passing by a massive, moss-covered boulder...
"Pfft..."
A violently suppressed, yet entirely audible snicker abruptly shattered the heavy, dramatic atmosphere.
Tamara's footsteps halted instantly. Her hand shot toward the wand concealed in her sleeve with lethal speed, her gaze turning as sharp as a butcher's knife.
"Who's there?!"
"Oops, looks like we've been spotted, George."
"Yeah, seems our Concealment Charms still need a bit more practice, Fred."
Accompanied by two highly exaggerated, comical sighs, two identical mops of bright red hair popped out from behind the boulder.
The Weasley twins.
They had obviously snuck out of Gryffindor Tower for a midnight stroll of their own, and were currently staring at Tamara, their faces turning red from the sheer effort of stifling their laughter.
Tamara's heart plummeted into her stomach. Pure, unadulterated killing intent surged through her veins.
What exactly had they seen? Quirrell? The transfiguration of the Dark Mark? Her grand speech about ruling the world?
If that were the case, she would seriously have to consider turning these two Weasley pests into floating corpses at the bottom of the Black Lake...
However, in the very next second, Fred's words caused her hand—which was tightly gripping her wand—to freeze completely.
"Don't be so nervous, our brave first-year hero."
Fred jumped out from behind the rock, throwing his arms wide in an exaggerated, theatrical gesture, looking exactly like a stage actor.
"We were just passing by. We really didn't expect to have the absolute honor of enjoying the Slytherin Queen's... um... midnight monologue?"
"Monologue?" Tamara frowned, her lethal intent momentarily stalling in confusion.
"Yeah," George chimed in, leaping out to stand beside his brother. He immediately puffed out his chest, mimicking Tamara's earlier imposing posture. He reached out affectionately toward the completely empty surface of the Black Lake, dropping his voice into a hilariously deep, raspy whisper.
"'Go... do not disappoint me... otherwise I'll feed you to the Giant Squid...'"
After delivering the line, he spun around and winked broadly at Fred.
"Heavens above, those lines are so edgy! It's like they were copied straight out of chapter four of The Curse of the Vampire Count!"
"And that dramatic turn!" Fred immediately picked up the routine, spinning in place to make his oversized school robes flare out. "The angle of that cloak flick! Simply exquisite! You must have practiced that in front of the mirror for hours this week, right?"
Tamara: "..."
She stood completely stunned.
Slowly, mechanically, she glanced back over her shoulder.
Because of the sharp angle of the shoreline and the incredibly thick fog rolling off the water, Quirrell's prone figure had been completely blocked from view by the jagged rocks. And he had already crawled away into the forest in absolute silence.
So... from the Weasley twins' perspective... the grand, terrifying scene that had just played out looked exactly like this:
Tamara Riddle, refusing to sleep in the middle of the night, had run all the way down to the Black Lake. Standing entirely alone, facing absolutely thin air, she had struck an overbearing, villainous pose and started shouting edgy lines like "be my dog" and "don't disappoint me" at the water.
And then, to top it all off, she had narcissistically flicked her cloak at the empty fog.
"..."
Tamara felt a vein throb violently at her temple.
Very good.
Her darkest secrets were perfectly safe.
But at this exact moment, her supreme dignity as the greatest Dark Lord in history felt as though it had just suffered a devastating, catastrophic blow from an entirely different dimension.
"You... you absolute idiots."
Tamara ground her teeth together so hard her jaw ached, her pale face cycling rapidly through various shades of blue, white, and furious red.
"That was... that was a rehearsal for the Drama Club!"
She practically squeezed the pathetic, lame excuse through the gaps in her teeth.
"Oh—a rehearsal!"
Fred and George looked at each other, both wearing identical, highly punchable expressions of total understanding.
"Of course, of course it's a rehearsal," George smirked, leaning against the boulder. "After all, who else would give a passionate villain speech to the Giant Squid at two in the morning? Unless, of course, she's planning to run for King of the Black Lake."
"Or maybe," Fred added, stroking his chin thoughtfully, "it's because she's been playing the perfect little hero so much lately that the pressure is just too high. She simply had to come out here to release her nowhere-to-be-placed... dark, tortured soul?"
"Hahahahahaha!"
The two of them finally lost the battle against their self-control, bending over and bursting into a fit of wicked, echoing laughter.
"Shut up!"
Tamara was utterly mortified. She felt as though she had never been so thoroughly humiliated in her entire, two-lifetime existence.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
A flash of angry red light shot from the tip of her wand.
"Whoa! Someone's angry! Run for it!"
The twins reacted with terrifying speed, springing away like two highly agile monkeys. They easily dodged the Leg-Locker Curse, breaking into a dead sprint toward the distant silhouette of the castle. Even as they fled for their lives, they didn't forget to look back over their shoulders and shout into the night:
"Don't be mad, Your Dark Majesty! Your acting is truly spectacular!"
"We'll be eagerly looking forward to your grand performance at the end-of-term feast! Hahahaha!"
Watching those two obnoxious red-haired figures disappear into the shadowy grounds, Tamara stood frozen in place, forcing herself to take two long, deep breaths.
She could physically feel her cheeks burning with heat, her heart pounding erratically against her ribs from the sheer offense of it all. That pathetic, mortal emotion called shame—mixed heavily with blinding anger—was spreading like wildfire through her young body, desperately trying to dominate her reason.
But this wasn't right.
This wasn't her.
Tamara slowly closed her eyes, instantly constructing a massive, impenetrable Occlumency barrier within her mind.
She was Lord Voldemort. The absolute master who had transcended death itself.
This new body was indeed perfect. Far more perfect than her original, ruined flesh. It possessed boundless vitality, incredibly keen perception, and even... these utterly superfluous, irritating emotions.
But for the great Dark Lord, these feelings were nothing more than redundant impurities. They were the weak, pathetic comforts that only fragile mortals required. She was the Dark Lord. She absolutely would not get flustered just because two teenage blood-traitors had offended her.
A few seconds later.
When Tamara finally opened her eyes again, the chaotic, furious ripples in her dark gaze had been completely smoothed away, replaced once more by a chilling, dead silence.
She didn't need this pathetic feeling of being alive. She only needed absolute coldness. Absolute control.
'Drama Club rehearsal... is it?'
Tamara smoothly withdrew her wand, sliding it back into her sleeve as a cold sneer echoed in her mind.
Fine. At the very least, those two bumbling idiots had managed to invent the perfect, foolproof excuse for the bizarre scene they had just witnessed, saving her the immense trouble of having to hunt them down and obliterate their memories.
"Consider yourselves incredibly lucky, Weasleys."
Tamara reached up, calmly tidying her long, dark hair that had been tousled by the night wind, before turning her steps back toward the towering silhouette of Hogwarts Castle.
"I am in a rather good mood today. I don't quite feel like killing."
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