February at Hogwarts was still bitterly cold.
Although the three restless brats from Gryffindor already knew the secret of Nicolas Flamel and the Philosopher's Stone, that knowledge did not mean they would immediately rush into the forbidden corridor on the fourth floor to take risks.
After all, they were only first-year students. Facing Cerberus, the monstrous three-headed dog, stirred in them not heroic resolve, but pure fear—unless they were given a truly compelling reason to act.
And Tamara Riddle was the most patient of hunters.
Like a spider resting at the center of its web, she waited quietly for her prey to brush against the trembling thread called Justice.
"No rush."
Tamara sat alone in a secluded corner of the library, casually flipping through a reference book on Defense Against the Dark Arts. A faint, cold smirk curved her lips.
"That foolish main soul hasn't made a move yet."
According to the logic of the damned system governing her actions, only when Quirrell attempted to steal the Philosopher's Stone and actively threatened the safety of the school would her intervention qualify as righteous guardianship.
So for now, she only needed to wait.
Wait for that idiot Quirrell to make a mistake.
Wait for him to be driven into a corner by Professor Dumbledore's carefully arranged traps.
Patience was never a burden to her.
On Wednesday afternoon, Tamara had just finished Transfiguration class and was walking alone down a quiet corridor that led toward the dungeons.
The castle was unusually silent at this hour. Most students were either in class or lingering outside in the courtyard despite the cold. The torches along the stone walls flickered softly, casting long, distorted shadows across the floor.
"R-Ri… Miss Riddle."
A stuttering voice, heavy with the unmistakable scent of garlic, called out from behind her.
Tamara stopped.
She turned slowly and saw Professor Quirrell standing several paces away. As always, he was wrapped in an oversized purple turban and layers of mismatched robes. He looked as though a stiff breeze might knock him over.
"Professor?"
Tamara raised an eyebrow, allowing just the right amount of confusion and polite surprise to appear on her face.
"Is something the matter?"
Since the very first class of the term, Quirrell had deliberately avoided her. He would flee almost immediately after lessons ended, as though proximity to her caused him physical discomfort. They had not spoken alone in weeks.
Quirrell remained half-shrouded in shadow. His usual timid expression seemed exaggerated today—almost theatrical.
But his eyes.
His eyes were not timid.
They were fixed on her with an intensity that carried a faint, unsettling chill.
"I… I wished to ask you about… about your Charms homework," Quirrell stammered, taking a cautious step forward. His voice dropped lower, as though sharing something forbidden.
"I heard… Professor Flitwick is quite… impressed with you."
"It is my honor, Professor."
Tamara subtly tightened her grip on the wand concealed within her sleeve.
"Yes… an honor…"
Quirrell's lips twitched.
Then, suddenly, he laughed.
It was wrong.
The sound was twisted, sharp, and entirely unlike his usual nervous chuckle.
"Then… do you have any… particular thoughts about that corridor on the fourth floor?"
Tamara's heart skipped once.
So.
He was testing her.
Or rather—the main soul behind him was testing her.
Though fragmented and half-mad, that soul was far from foolish. It sensed a threat.
"I'm afraid I don't understand what you mean, Professor."
Tamara took a small step backward, widening the distance between them.
"That area is restricted. Professor Dumbledore made that quite clear."
"Restricted… heh… restricted…"
Quirrell murmured the word repeatedly, as though savoring it. His eyes began to gleam with something feverish.
Then he moved.
Abruptly, violently.
He lunged forward, and a wand appeared in his hand as though conjured from thin air.
"Some truths…" he hissed, voice no longer trembling, "once discovered… result in death."
The killing intent was unmistakable.
Raw. Undisguised.
Tamara's pupils contracted.
The main soul intended to act here?
In a school corridor?
"Truly insane," she thought coldly.
Fine.
If you wish to die, I will grant your wish.
Her expression shifted instantly. The meek, obedient student vanished. In her place stood something cold and merciless.
She prepared to draw her wand.
The Basic Magic Potion in her possession would restore only ten minutes of magical power—but ten minutes would be more than enough to eliminate a half-decayed fragment clinging to a cowardly host.
And this counted as self-defense.
The system would not interfere.
"Quirrell."
A deep voice, heavy with warning, cut cleanly through the corridor.
Everything froze.
Quirrell's arm jerked as if struck by lightning. The madness vanished from his face in an instant, replaced by the familiar stuttering cowardice.
From the far end of the hallway, Severus Snape approached, robes billowing behind him like a rolling thundercloud.
He moved silently, yet his presence pressed heavily against the air.
Snape positioned himself between Tamara and Quirrell without hesitation.
His dark eyes flicked briefly to Tamara—assessing, measuring—before locking onto Quirrell with cold hostility.
"P-Professor Snape?" Quirrell stuttered, fingers twitching near his turban. "Y-you… what are you doing here?"
"That," Snape replied smoothly, voice dripping with contempt, "is precisely what I should be asking you."
He stepped closer, gaze sharp as a blade.
"Alone. In a corridor. With a first-year student. Discussing what, exactly?"
His eyes seemed to peel away layers of deception with surgical precision.
"N-nothing! It was just… just homework!"
Quirrell's voice cracked. He avoided eye contact, shoulders shrinking inward.
"Is that so?"
Snape gave a soft, humorless laugh.
He did not press further.
Instead, he turned his back on Quirrell—an unmistakable gesture of dismissal—and faced Tamara.
"Miss Riddle."
His expression was complicated. Suspicion lingered in his gaze. He did not trust her.
But he trusted Quirrell even less.
"If you would accompany me," Snape continued, tone formal and controlled, "I believe we need to discuss your recent performance in Potions."
The excuse was transparent.
It was an extraction.
A strategic removal from immediate danger.
Tamara studied him.
She had been prepared to unleash a curse powerful enough to scar the corridor walls.
But it seemed unnecessary now.
"Of course, Professor."
She inclined her head obediently.
Before moving, however, she glanced at Quirrell—offering him a faint, deliberately provocative smile.
"Good afternoon, Professor Quirrell."
Quirrell's jaw tightened. His eyes flashed with venom as he glared at Snape.
But he said nothing.
He turned sharply and retreated down the corridor, robes fluttering like a fleeing bat.
Silence returned.
Only Tamara and Snape remained.
Snape did not speak at once. He continued watching the direction Quirrell had vanished, brows drawn together in deep suspicion.
"Thank you, Professor," Tamara said softly.
She allowed a trace of vulnerability into her voice.
"I'm not certain why… but Professor Quirrell's expression just now felt rather frightening."
Snape turned sharply toward her.
"Stay away from him," he said, voice low and cold.
"No matter what he tells you. No matter what he promises."
His eyes narrowed.
"Do not trust him."
He did not believe Tamara was an innocent child.
But he knew, with absolute certainty, that Quirrell was dangerous.
"I understand, Professor."
Tamara nodded meekly.
Inside, she found the situation amusing.
Snape likely believed Quirrell was attempting to recruit her. Or perhaps manipulate her for some unknown scheme.
He had no idea that the true master of the man stood parasitically attached to the back of his head.
It appeared Snape did not yet know that the main soul of Lord Voldemort resided behind Quirrell's turban.
Which meant the earlier incident—the bite from the three-headed dog—had been Snape's own investigation, not a maneuver orchestrated by the main soul.
Interesting.
Although ignorant of the truth, Snape had instinctively chosen to stand opposite the decaying fragment of the Dark Lord.
He had intervened.
On her side.
"This is acceptable," Tamara evaluated silently.
"As long as you continue making the correct choices, Severus, your previous offense may yet be forgiven."
Snape, of course, remained unaware of the silent judgment being passed upon him.
Something about the encounter unsettled him. He could feel it.
But he could not yet identify the source.
"Return to your common room," Snape ordered curtly.
"And refrain from wandering deserted corridors."
"Yes, Professor."
Tamara gave a respectful curtsy.
She turned and walked away, her footsteps soft against the stone.
But the moment her back was to him, the softness vanished from her eyes.
A cold glint flickered there instead.
"Quirrell…"
She let the name linger in her thoughts.
Though corrupted by that fragmented soul, Quirrell remained loyal to the Dark Lord.
Such loyalty should not be wasted on a rotting parasite.
He should serve a stronger master.
Not remain a puppet for something that could barely cling to existence.
The web trembled.
And the spider waited.
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