Chapter 94: Another Choice
Since Albus Dumbledore had seen fit to hire an absolute joke to serve as a Hogwarts Professor, Tamara felt a certain civic duty. As the future prefect of Slytherin—and the inevitable future master of Hogwarts itself—she had an obligation to provide this new employee with a deep, unforgettable onboarding experience.
Even though a polite, angelic smile graced Tamara's delicate features, the sheer, abyssal darkness swirling in her eyes made Hermione instinctively shrink back in worry. The two girls squeezed their way down the crowded, creaking staircase to the first floor of Flourish and Blotts.
At the bottom of the steps, Gilderoy Lockhart had just concluded his public harassment of Harry. The poor savior looked thoroughly miserable. His face was flushed a brilliant crimson, his raven hair resembled a freshly ravaged bird's nest, and his round glasses dangled precariously from the tip of his nose. A massive, heavy stack of The Collected Works of Gilderoy Lockhart had been forcibly shoved into his slender arms.
"How truly touching! Ah, the heavy burden of fame!" Lockhart sighed dramatically at Harry's retreating back, flashing that blinding, trademark smile with its impossibly white teeth.
Then, his predatory gaze swept through the bustling crowd of witches. He was clearly hunting for his next victim—or rather, the next convenient prop to elevate his own glorious image.
That was when his eyes locked onto Tamara.
She stood on the lower steps, draped in a simple, dark gray cloak. Her pale, delicate little face radiated a cold, gloomy aura that clashed violently with the fanatical, swooning atmosphere of the bookstore. Her black eyes were bottomless, devoid of the starry-eyed adoration he was so accustomed to receiving.
Lockhart's eyes practically sparkled with greedy inspiration.
This was perfect material! If he couldn't transform this tragic, gloomy little orphan into a sunny, cheerful beacon of hope, how could he possibly call himself Witch Weekly's Most Charming Smile Award winner? He could already see the headline flashing across the front page of the Daily Prophet: Lockhart and the Lost Girl He Redeemed—A Touching Journey from Darkness to Light.
"Oh! Look who we have here!" Lockhart boomed, striding through the parting crowd. His forget-me-not blue robes billowed dramatically behind him, dragging a suffocating, heavy cloud of lavender and peppermint perfume in his wake.
He completely ignored a bewildered Hermione, zeroing in straight for Tamara.
"This poor child looks... well, a bit too weighed down by the sorrows of the world, doesn't she?" Lockhart winked broadly at the surrounding reporters and the gaggle of swooning housewives. Without waiting for permission, he reached out a manicured hand, intending to sling his arm right over Tamara's delicate shoulder. "Come now, little girl! Don't look so utterly miserable! Let Gilderoy bring a little sunshine into your dreary life!"
Tamara stared at the hand reaching toward her. Deep within the pitch-black abyss of her eyes, a violent, bloody spike of murderous intent flared to life.
[Ding! Triggered Sudden Event: The Professor's "Care".]
The System's cheerful, patronizing voice chimed directly into her brain.
[Gilderoy Lockhart thinks you are a problem girl lacking confidence and sunshine, and is attempting to showcase his affinity through a photo.]
[Option A: Cooperate with his performance, show an admiring and shy smile, and say loudly: "Oh! Professor Lockhart, you are like my sun!" Reward: Lockhart favorability +20.]
[Option B: Refuse to cooperate and counterattack, but please note: as the host of the Virtue System, attacking a Professor in public will be considered a serious violation!]
[Punishment: In a pitiful and broken voice, request Molly Weasley to take you in for a night.]
Tamara stared at the nauseating text of Option A. Her pale lips twitched, curling into a microscopic, cruel arc.
'Sun? This preening peacock thinks he is worthy of being my sun?'
Beneath the heavy fabric of her cloak, her slender fingers tightened abruptly around the smooth wood of her wand. Her trimmed nails dug deep into her palm, drawing crescent moons in her flesh. A surge of bone-chilling, absolute killing intent churned frantically in her chest. It was a dark, ancient instinct. An instinct belonging entirely to Lord Voldemort.
With just a single thought. Just one beautiful, blinding flash of emerald green light. She could turn this glittering buffoon—this arrogant fool who dared to reach his filthy, unworthy hand toward her shoulder—into a very real, very permanent corpse.
"Avada..." The first syllables of the fatal curse danced eagerly on the tip of her tongue, tasting of ash and sweet release.
[Warning! Detected host's extremely dangerous murderous intent!]
The System's warning interface flashed a frantic, blinding red directly across her retinas.
Tamara drew in a slow, jagged breath. She swept her gaze over the frenzied reporters, the blinding bursts of the photographer's flashbulbs, and the packed crowd of witnesses. Cold, calculating reason washed over her like a bucket of ice water, forcibly suffocating the bloodthirsty impulse.
Slaughtering a famous wizard in the middle of Diagon Alley was wildly unwise. Jeopardizing her grand, careful plan for rebirth over a brainless clown was simply unacceptable.
'...Consider yourself incredibly lucky,' Tamara hissed coldly in the confines of her own mind.
The crimson glint of madness in her dark eyes slowly receded, replaced instantly by a venomous, razor-sharp calculation. Since she could not simply let him die... she would make him wish he was dead. For a narcissistic clown like Lockhart, a man who valued his public image far more than his own pathetic life, public humiliation would be a torment far sweeter than the grave.
As for the System's threatened punishment? Begging to stay a night in that dilapidated, poverty-stricken Burrow?
'Heh.'Tamara stared up at Lockhart's loathsome, gleaming smile. The scales of cost and benefit in her dark heart tipped instantly. Even if she had to sleep in a literal pigsty, as long as she could watch this glittering idiot plummet from the clouds straight into the mud, the price was an absolute bargain.'Since you want to be the sun so badly...'Tamara's wrist shifted a fraction of an inch. The holly wand, perfectly concealed within the folds of her sleeve, adjusted its angle, locking onto Lockhart's polished, expensive dragon-hide boots.'Then I will let you taste the exact sensation of falling from the sky.'Her wrist flicked with lethal, practiced subtlety. The wand traced a silent, elegant arc against the fabric.'Locomotor Mortis.'
The Leg-Locker Curse was a childish jinx, hardly complex, but under Tamara's careful, overwhelming magical control, it struck with the force of a physical blow.
Lockhart was right in the middle of striking his most dashing, heroic pose, turning his best profile toward the Daily Prophet photographer's heavy camera lens.
Snap.
His legs slammed together instantly, locking tight as if bound by thick, invisible iron wires. Driven by his own forward momentum, his upper body continued its dramatic lean toward Tamara, but his lower half was entirely paralyzed.
Physics took over.
Under the wide, staring eyes of dozens of witches, right in the blinding glare of the photographer's exploding flashbulb, the soon-to-be Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor tipped over like a felled tree.
THUD!
Lockhart's perfectly maintained, million-Galleon face made a violent, highly intimate impact with the dusty, scuffed hardwood floor of Flourish and Blotts.
The entire bookstore plunged into a dead, stunned silence. Even the popping camera flashes ceased, leaving only the lingering smell of burnt magnesium in the air.
Immediately after.
[Haha... Warning! Detected host's malicious attack on a Professor! Violated Virtue Code: Respect for Teachers!]
[Punishment program initiated: Level 2 High-Voltage Shock (Duration: 3 seconds)!]
A violent surge of raw electricity instantly detonated inside Tamara's nervous system, coursing mercilessly through her veins. The sudden, blinding voltage wiped her mind entirely blank for an agonizing second. Her knees buckled.
But this... this was exactly what she needed.
Lockhart scrambled up from the floor in an utterly pathetic heap, clutching his rapidly swelling, bleeding nose. Blood dripped onto his immaculate blue robes. In the split second before he hit the floor, the corner of his eye had caught a fleeting, wooden glint slipping back into the black-haired girl's sleeve.
Humiliated and enraged, he pointed a shaking, blood-stained finger directly at Tamara.
"It was you!" he roared, his charming facade shattering completely. "You evil little witch! You attacked me with a jinx! I saw your wand!"
However, his accusation fell on entirely deaf ears.
At that very moment, Tamara was already trembling uncontrollably, her muscles spasming from the intense, lingering electric shock. Her delicate face had drained of all color, turning as pale as parchment. Beads of cold sweat gathered on her forehead. Her dark eyes—usually so cold and sharp—were now blown wide, dilated and hazy from genuine physiological agony. A thick, glistening layer of unshed tears welled up in them.
She staggered backward, looking exactly as if Lockhart's furious roar had terrified her out of her wits, her frail body slumping limply against the heavy wooden edge of a nearby bookshelf.
"I... I didn't..."
Tamara tried to speak. Thanks to the brutal aftershocks of the electrical current, her vocal cords betrayed her, trembling uncontrollably. The words slipped out as a broken, breathless gasp, sounding exactly like the pitiful whimpering of a frightened, cornered kitten.
[Passive Skill Triggered: Harmless (Beginner)]
[Effect: When eyes are wide and teary, the opponent's alertness decreases by 10%, making it easier to be perceived as an innocent victim.]
To the surrounding crowd, this scene was nothing short of a horrifying moral outrage.
From their perspective, the sequence of events was clear: A grown man, a newly appointed Hogwarts Professor, had clumsily tripped over his own feet, smashed his face on the floor, and then, in a fit of bruised ego and rage, scrambled up to scream vicious accusations at a frail, sickly-pale little girl. A girl who looked barely twelve years old and was currently shaking like a leaf in a hurricane.
"Good heavens!" Hermione was the first to break the silence. She rushed forward, throwing her arms around the swaying Tamara to keep her upright, before turning to glare absolute daggers at Lockhart. "Professor! How could you! Tamara didn't even raise her hand! We all saw you fall on your own!"
Harry squeezed his way out of the crowd, his green eyes flashing with righteous indignation. He stepped firmly in front of Tamara, shielding her from the bleeding wizard, and pointed an accusing finger at Lockhart's billowing hem. "I saw it too! You clearly tripped over your own overly long robes! How can you possibly blame Tamara for your own clumsiness?"
"No... it really was her..." Lockhart mumbled, his speech thick and slurred through his crushed, bleeding nose. He looked around wildly at the hostile faces. "My legs... they couldn't move just now... I swear it!"
"Enough!"
A booming roar, thick with absolute maternal authority, shattered the tension.
Molly Weasley—the very same housewife who had been swooning over Lockhart just moments prior—now charged forward like a fiercely protective, enraged lioness. She shoved the rambling, bloody Lockhart aside with a meaty shoulder and looked down with utter heartbreak at the tiny, shivering girl clutched in Hermione's arms.
"Look at what you've done! Look at how you've terrified this poor child!" Molly bellowed, pointing a trembling finger at Tamara's pale hand, which was still visibly spasming against her cloak. Molly's eyes turned red with furious tears. "She is just a first-year! A little girl! As a grown man and a Professor, how dare you try to blame your own clumsy, foolish mistakes on her!"
Lockhart was left entirely speechless.
He stared at the tight circle of women who, mere minutes ago, had been his most devoted, adoring fans. Now, every single one of them was glaring at him with a cold, piercing contempt that clearly screamed, 'So that is the kind of pathetic man you truly are.' Suddenly, his shattered nose throbbed with a pain far worse than the physical impact.
And as for Tamara?
Even though her muscles were still locked in painful, involuntary twitches from the System's high-voltage punishment, her dark heart swelled with a deep, twisted, intoxicating sense of satisfaction.
It hurt. Merlin, it truly hurt. But this agonizing pain was merely the acceptable price of refusing to bow her head to a preening idiot.
[Ding! Punishment settlement in progress... Since you chose Option B, please immediately execute the additional punishment task: Request Molly Weasley to take you in for a night.]
[Countdown: 10 seconds. Otherwise, a second round of shocks will begin.]
The cold, mocking laughter echoing in Tamara's mind came to a screeching, violent halt.
Dammit. She had almost forgotten about the secondary condition.
She gritted her teeth, forcing down a surge of revulsion as she looked up at the plump, fiercely righteous Mrs. Weasley. Staying under the roof of a notorious family of blood traitors... this was an absolute, unforgivable betrayal of Slytherin's noble legacy.
But as she watched the merciless red countdown flashing across her vision...
'...This is merely a tactical retreat. Enduring a temporary humiliation for the sake of a far greater, darker goal.' Tamara swiftly fabricated a comforting excuse for her bruised pride.
She fought a brutal internal war to control her trembling vocal cords. Slowly, she reached out one pale, ice-cold little hand, her fingers gently, hesitantly curling into the worn fabric of Molly's robes.
"Mrs... Mrs. Weasley..."
Tamara tilted her chin up. Those pitch-black eyes, usually as cold and unforgiving as winter frost, were now brimming with genuine, unshed moisture from the electric shock. She looked as delicate and fragile as spun glass, ready to shatter at the slightest breeze.
"I... I'm so scared..." Her voice carried a raw, natural tremor, entirely authentic thanks to the lingering pain. "That Professor... the way he looked at me... his eyes were so scary..."
"I don't want to go back to the Orphanage..." A single, perfect tear slipped down her pale cheek. "It's so cold there... and there is no one to protect me..."
She sniffled, her grip on Molly's robes tightening just a fraction.
"Can I... please, can I stay at your house... just for one night?"
That single, trembling sentence was a devastating emotional nuclear bomb, engineered with terrifying precision to obliterate any mother's defenses.
Molly Weasley's warm heart instantly shattered into a thousand bleeding pieces.
"Oh! Oh, of course! Of course you can, you sweet, brave girl! My poor, poor child!"
Molly lunged forward, pulling Tamara into a crushing, fiercely protective embrace. The sudden, suffocating warmth and the overwhelming scent of flour and knit wool nearly made Tamara's eyes roll back in sheer, unadulterated horror.
"You are coming home with us! You're staying at The Burrow tonight! You can share a room with my Ginny! I'll make you the best, warmest bowl of French onion soup and a massive slice of treacle tart! I promise you, no one will ever dare hurt you while I'm around!"
Over Tamara's shoulder, Molly shot Lockhart a glare so incredibly fierce and venomous it practically screamed, 'Just you wait until I write to Dumbledore.'
Lockhart stood frozen, clutching his bloody nose. He felt like he was trapped in a bizarre, waking nightmare. He was the victim! He was the one who had been maliciously jinxed! So how in the name of Merlin's baggy trousers had he ended up as the villain of this story?!
Just as this utterly absurd farce was about to conclude with Tamara's flawless, total victory, the brass wind chime above the bookstore's entrance jingled sharply.
A cold, drawling voice—dripping with aristocratic arrogance and biting sarcasm—sliced effortlessly through the heavy tension in the room.
"My, my... it certainly is lively in here today."
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