Chapter 125: Help Me
The aftermath of the bathroom commotion left Tamara in a foul, simmering mood. True, she had successfully humiliated her pathetic, sixteen-year-old diary self. True, she had temporarily paralyzed the Horcrux's little schemes. Yet, the lingering sensation of the Virtue System's invisible chains wrapped tight around her throat left her deeply, violently frustrated. She was Lord Voldemort, yet she was being treated like a misbehaving toddler on a leash.
As for the collateral damage known as Ginny Weasley...
The fragile little girl had taken a rather spectacular hit from the iron helmet. The sickening crunch of her fracturing shoulder had echoed quite nicely down the corridor. Naturally, Madam Pomfrey's foul-tasting Skele-Gro could mend the shattered bone, but the incident itself remained far too bizarre for the school staff to ignore.
A first-year witch, discovered unconscious in a deserted corridor, bearing a severe blunt-force trauma injury.
When she finally regained consciousness, Ginny could only offer a pale, stammering explanation about sleepwalking and taking a nasty tumble down the moving staircases. The excuse was so utterly flimsy that even Filch's miserable cat wouldn't believe it.
Given that the youngest Weasley had spent the better half of the semester wandering the castle in a pale daze, this sudden, violent injury thoroughly terrified her fiercely protective parents.
Arthur and Molly Weasley rushed to Hogwarts overnight. Completely ignoring Madam Pomfrey's professional protests, they insisted on pulling Ginny out of school early. They dragged her back to The Burrow for the Christmas holidays, desperately hoping the familiar environment would soothe her fractured little mind.
For this, the frantic couple had even abandoned their long-anticipated plans to visit their eldest son, Bill, in Egypt.
Staring up at her parents' tear-streaked, worried faces, Ginny had opened her mouth a dozen times. She desperately wanted to confess. She wanted to tell her mother about the little black diary, to tell her father about her secret, understanding friend named Tom.
She wanted to scream that every time she woke up from her missing hours, something horrific and inexplicable had struck the school.
Yet, every single time the confession reached her trembling lips, her father's stern admonition echoed violently in her ears.
"Never trust anything that can think for itself if you can't see where it keeps its brain!"
The words paralyzed her. If her parents discovered she had broken the rules, that the string of misfortunes plaguing Hogwarts might actually be connected to her...
Her parents would look at her with bitter disappointment.
Hogwarts would expel her in disgrace.
Headmaster Dumbledore would cast her out into the cold.
And worst of all... Tamara, that gentle, brilliant, powerful sister-figure she idolized, would look at her with absolute disgust.
This fear was not born of mere speculation.
Deep within the murky, fragmented swamp of her recent memories, Ginny had caught a glimpse of the truth. On that very night, the exact second the excruciating agony of her shattering shoulder had spiked, her submerged consciousness had breached the surface for a few fleeting seconds.
Through half-lidded, pain-filled eyes, Ginny had seen Tamara.
The usually elegant, endlessly kind Slytherin senior had been standing perfectly still in the shadows of the corridor, looking down at her broken body. Those striking dark eyes held absolutely zero warmth, zero concern. They contained only an undisguised, heart-wrenching coldness. Pure, unadulterated revulsion.
'She must have sensed it too...'Ginny thought, her chest tightening with absolute despair.'She sensed the dark, ugly monster hiding inside me. That is why she looked at me like I was filth.'
The suffocating terror of losing her family, her school, and her idol completely sealed the eleven-year-old girl's lips.
She could only sit in the carriage, her knuckles turning white as she desperately clutched her battered old schoolbag. The black diary sat heavy and silent deep inside it.
Ginny lacked the courage to throw the cursed book away, utterly terrified it would crawl back to exact a bloody revenge. Yet she lacked the bravery to confess to anyone, paralyzed by the fear of being branded the culprit.
And for Tamara, the Weasley family's sudden retreat was intensely irritating news.
Ginny fleeing the castle meant Tamara had temporarily lost any viable opportunity to retrieve her Horcrux.
That damned Virtue System, possessing an uncanny ability to sense its host's murderous mood, chose that exact moment to make its obnoxious presence known.
[Ding! Detected host successfully repelled the evil diary-man, demonstrating exceptional Courage!]
[Courage +5!]
[Current Courage: 39]
Tamara stared at the cheerfully bouncing, glowing blue numbers floating in her vision. Her upper lip curled into a sneer.
'Courage?''Courage is a trait reserved for brainless Gryffindor fools charging blindly into danger. What I require is raw power. I need the authorization to unseal Black Magic, not these pathetic, useless little numbers.'
The System, perhaps sensing her rising urge to strangle something and realizing the reward was a bit paltry, immediately popped up a new, glittering mission window. The digital chime almost sounded ingratiating.
[Ding! Side Mission Triggered: Imparting Knowledge, Dispelling Doubts.]
[Mission Description: Your admirer, Hermione Granger, is facing a significant academic dilemma. As a perfect top student, please lend a hand and help her solve her problem.]
[Mission Reward: Unlock Second-Year Charms—Engorgio and Rictusempra.]
[Wisdom +1]
Tamara's initial instinct was to dismiss the glowing blue box outright.
What possible use did Lord Voldemort have for joke charms with such idiotic-sounding incantations?
Could an Engorgement Charm sever a limb?
Could a Tickling Charm torture a man into insanity?
But just as she mentally reached out to crush the prompt, she paused. Her dark eyes narrowed in calculation.
Was Professor Flitwick's Charms practical exam not scheduled for next week?
If her flawless memory served her correctly, those exact two spells were sitting right at the top of the required testing list.
For a Dark Lord who had dedicated an agonizing amount of time to masquerading as Hogwarts' most brilliant, angelic top student, failing a practical exam because she lacked access to low-level curriculum spells would be an absolute humiliation. It would be a disgrace far worse than being temporarily inconvenienced by a crying infant named Harry Potter.
"...Tch."
A soft sound of utter disdain escaped her lips. Reluctantly, Tamara snapped the heavy volume of Black Magic shut and rose gracefully from her chair.
For the sake of maintaining that sickeningly perfect, all-Outstanding report card.
She would endure this indignity.
Deep within the quiet, dusty aisles of the Hogwarts Library.
Hermione Granger sat hunched over a massive, decaying tome, staring dejectedly at the yellowed pages of "Moste Potente Potions". Her usually bushy brown hair was an absolute disaster, frizzed out in all directions like a bird's nest on the verge of structural collapse.
"How is it even possible... a full month?"
The exhausted little bookworm muttered, her eyes tracing the complex brewing instructions with mounting despair.
"The fluxweed absolutely must be picked precisely at the full moon. The bicorn horn requires careful grinding into a fine powder. And the absolute worst part is the lacewing flies... they have to be stewed for a full twenty-one days?!"
Twenty-one days!
By the time this wretched potion was finally ready for consumption, Hogwarts would likely have been completely wiped out by Malfoy and his supposed monster!
Hermione's eyes burned, reddening with a heavy mixture of exhaustion and bitter frustration.
Just as she was on the precipice of giving up entirely, a pale, slender finger suddenly entered her field of vision. It tapped lightly against the solid oak of the desk.
"Miss Granger."
The familiar, cool, perfectly modulated voice sent a violent jolt straight up Hermione's spine.
She snapped her head up, her heart hammering against her ribs. Tamara Riddle stood just behind her chair, her posture impeccably straight. The older Slytherin was looking down slightly, her dark, fathomless eyes calmly observing the chaotic state of the Gryffindor's study space.
"...Tamara?" Hermione gasped, her hands flying out in a blind panic to slam the forbidden library book shut. She was utterly terrified. If the school's most perfect, rule-abiding top student caught her studying restricted, highly dangerous material, she would surely be reported.
But Tamara made no move to stop her. She merely let her gaze drift over the embossed leather cover of the heavy tome. Her beautiful face betrayed absolutely zero surprise, nor did it hold a single ounce of condemnation.
"Moste Potente Potions?" Tamara murmured, raising a single, elegant eyebrow. Her tone was smooth, carrying a distinct hint of casual, patrician approval.
"An incredibly ambitious choice. Tell me, has the second-year curriculum already failed to satisfy your voracious appetite for knowledge?"
"I... I was just... I mean, I was only looking..." Hermione stammered wildly, her cheeks flushing a brilliant crimson as she struggled to formulate a believable lie.
"Come with me."
Tamara cut her off smoothly. She had absolutely no interest in listening to the Gryffindor's pathetic, stuttering excuses. The Slytherin turned on her heel, her dark robes flaring elegantly as she prepared to walk away.
"The air in this section is far too stifling. It is entirely unsuitable for... advanced academic discussion."
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