Chapter 74: A Cry for Help
The final day of exam week descended upon Hogwarts Castle like a suffocating, sweltering blanket. A stifling heat baked the ancient stone walls, trapping the heavy scent of dry parchment, spilled ink, and the nervous sweat of hundreds of frantic students over the marble staircases. The History of Magic exam had just concluded, releasing a flood of exhausted youths into the corridors.
Tamara Riddle drifted out of the examination room with the dispersing crowd. Her delicate face carried an undisguised look of utter boredom.
'Turning a rat into a snuffbox? Reciting the three standard steps of the Forgetfulness Potion?'A cold, contemptuous sneer echoed through the dark corridors of her mind.'This so-called exam could be passed by a brain-damaged Troll with half a day of training. It is nothing short of a direct insult to the Dark Lord's intelligence. Only a senile old fool like Dumbledore would actually believe such pathetic child's play could measure a Wizard's true caliber.'
While the rest of the student body rushed out toward the sunlit grounds to frolic like mindless sheep, Tamara turned her steps elsewhere. She headed straight for the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor.
She had received a signal. An extremely subtle, desperate cry for help that only she possessed the senses to decode.
During the exam, Professor Quirrell had served as a proctor. He had spent an unusual amount of time lingering near her desk, his shadow falling over her neatly written answers. When he finally pretended to casually stroll past, he had left behind an almost invisible, smeared bloodstain on the very edge of her parchment.
It was no ordinary blood. It carried the cursed, silvery sheen of Unicorn blood, heavily laced with the unmistakable, cloying stench of impending death.
'It seems... the time has finally come.'
Tamara pushed open the heavy oak doors of the classroom. The interior was suffocatingly dim. Every curtain had been drawn tight against the summer sun. The pungent, eye-watering smell of garlic—originally hung in thick braids to ward off imaginary Vampires—had mutated into something far worse.
It had curdled into the nauseating, sweet stench of rotting meat. Like a corpse left to bloat in the sun for three days.
The classroom appeared empty, but from the deep shadows huddled behind the heavy wooden podium came the wet, ragged sound of heavy gasping.
"Cough... cough, cough..."
Quirinus Quirrell was curled into a tight, pathetic ball in the corner. His tweed robes, usually wrapped so tightly around his frame, now hung loose and baggy. His entire body had withered down to a skeletal husk.
As he weakly lifted his head, Tamara narrowed her dark eyes.
Quirrell's face could scarcely be called a human face anymore. The skin was a sickly grayish-white, mottled with spreading patches of purple livor mortis. The decay was most prominent where the skin met the edges of his massive purple turban, the flesh there taking on a necrotic, ominous black hue.
This was the inevitable price of having his life force forcibly drained. The main soul attached to the back of his head was no longer satisfied with the cursed half-life provided by Unicorn blood. It had begun to directly cannibalize its host.
"You've come... Miss Riddle..."
Quirrell's voice grated like two pieces of coarse sandpaper rubbing together. He braced his trembling arms against the floorboards, struggling to stand, only to slide powerlessly back down into the dust.
"Save... save me..."
He reached out a hand. It looked exactly like a withered chicken claw, the skin pulled taut over knobby joints. His trembling fingers weakly grabbed at the pristine hem of Tamara's robes.
"He... he is going to make his move tonight..."
Tamara stood exactly three paces away. She neither stepped forward to offer comfort nor stepped back in disgust. She simply looked down, a high-and-mighty judge coldly observing a dying ant twitching at her feet.
"Tonight?" she repeated, her tone entirely flat. "Because Dumbledore has been called away to the Ministry of Magic?"
"Yes... yes..." Quirrell panted, his sunken eyes wide with absolute despair. "It's a trap... a diversion... but he cannot wait any longer... if he does not get the Philosopher's Stone tonight... he is going to devour my soul completely... and take full possession of my body..."
"I will die... Miss Riddle... I will become a mindless walking corpse..."
Thick, dirty tears leaked from Quirrell's hollow eye sockets, cutting tracks through the grime and dead skin on his face. He looked exceptionally pathetic.
"You said... you promised you had a way..." He stared up at her, a drowning man desperately clutching at a razor blade, hoping it was a lifeline. "As long as you can save me... as long as I do not die... I will be your most loyal dog! No matter who it is... even Dumbledore... if you give the order, I will kill him for you!!"
Tamara stared at this Ravenclaw. He had always been cowardly, yes, but he had once possessed a respectable amount of academic talent. To see him reduced to such a groveling, rotting state...
"A dog?"
A cruel, contemptuous sneer broke across her angelic features.
"Are you even worthy of that title?"
Tamara knelt gracefully, her robes pooling around her. She drew her wand and used the smooth wooden tip to forcefully tilt Quirrell's chin up, making him meet her cold gaze.
"Even dogs have breeds and pedigrees, Professor Quirrell."
"A piece of rotting trash like you... a man who cannot even protect his own mind, allowing a mere remnant soul to infest him until his flesh literally rots off his bones—you do not even possess the basic qualifications to be a stray mutt."
A flash of deathly, hollow despair shattered the last light in Quirrell's eyes.
"However..."
Tamara's tone shifted. The corners of her lips curled into a slow, playful, and utterly cruel arc.
"While I certainly do not lack for dogs, I do find myself in need of a... consumable. Something to scout the path ahead and trigger the traps."
"A... consumable?" Quirrell rasped, stunned.
"Exactly."
Tamara stood back up, towering over his broken form. "I accept your proposal."
"Tonight, I will be there."
"But, Quirrell, you must understand one fundamental truth." Her voice dropped in temperature, carrying the unquestionable, crushing weight of a dark monarch's command.
"I am not going down there to save you. I am going to take what rightfully belongs to me."
"If you somehow survive the night, count it as your own blind luck. But if you die, it only proves my point—that you are indeed nothing but a piece of trash."
"Do you understand?"
Quirrell nodded frantically, his head trembling on his thin neck. A tiny, desperate flicker of hope reignited in his sunken eyes.
It did not matter how she viewed him. As long as she was willing to come, even if her sole intention was to use him as cannon fodder, there was at least a microscopic chance of survival. Facing the terrifying master attached to his skull, he had absolutely zero room for resistance. But this beautiful, terrifying girl standing before him... though her magic felt equally suffocating, she at least possessed a physical form. She could be reasoned with. She could be bargained with.
And most, she did not want to hollow out his skull and wear his skin.
"Then... then what should I do?" Quirrell choked out.
"Proceed exactly as planned." Tamara commanded coldly. "Take him through the obstacle course. Exhaust his magical reserves. Make him believe that absolute victory is right at his fingertips."
"Only when a beast is at its most triumphant, drunk on the illusion of success, is it the perfect time to hunt."
Leaving those words hanging in the foul air, Tamara turned on her heel and swept out of the classroom.
Out in the corridor, the golden afterglow of the setting sun spilled across the cold stone floor, casting long, distorted shadows.
Tamara did not return directly to the Slytherin Dungeons. Instead, she handled to a deserted, shadowed alcove near the courtyard. She smoothly extracted a clean piece of parchment and a self-inking quill from her robes.
'If there is going to be a grand play tonight, there must be actors on the stage.' She calculated the variables in her mind.
If Dumbledore did not already harbor such deep-seated suspicions regarding her true nature, Tamara would never have bothered introducing a chaotic third party into her game. But circumstances forced her hand. She needed Harry Potter to provide the perfect, shining cover for her dark actions.
More, if she simply strolled into the final chamber and presented herself directly before Quirrell, that deranged, paranoid main soul would absolutely attack her first without a second thought.
She needed extras. She needed disposable heroes to draw the fire, absorb the main soul's killing curses, drain his stamina, and conveniently help her manage Dumbledore's inevitable aftermath.
And in this entire school, was there anyone more perfectly suited for the job than those three Gryffindors? They were overflowing with a nauseating sense of justice, deeply addicted to meddling in dangerous affairs, and conveniently groomed by Dumbledore himself as the wizarding world's savior reserve.
Tamara pressed the quill to the parchment and quickly dashed off a single, jagged line of text:
"Tonight, third floor, conspiracy."
No signature. No lengthy explanations.
For Harry Potter, this breadcrumb was more than enough. That boy suffered from a fatal excess of curiosity and a bloated sense of responsibility that screamed, 'Only I can save the world.' Give him a tiny drop of blood in the water, and he would rush over like a starving shark.
"Go, little savior."
Tamara folded the parchment with precise, sharp creases, forming a small paper crane. She lifted it to her lips and blew a soft breath of magic over its paper wings.
"Find Harry Potter."
The paper crane twitched, flapped its stiff wings, and took flight, quickly disappearing into the shadows at the end of the corridor.
Tamara watched it go, her dark eyes glittering with a cold, calculating light.
'Smooth the path for me, little heroes.''When you and that stupid main soul have battered each other until both sides are bleeding and broken...''I will step in to clean up the mess.'
...
High up in Gryffindor Tower, the common room was buzzing with post-exam relief.
A small paper crane fluttered silently through an open window, handling the chaotic room before landing precisely on Harry's knee.
"What's this?" Harry muttered, setting his Gobstones aside. He carefully unfolded the creased parchment.
As the paper opened, a faint, familiar scent wafted up—a crisp, elegant fragrance of dark ink and something distinctly floral. Harry's heart skipped a heavy beat.
"It's her..." he murmured, his eyes widening.
"Who?" Ron leaned over, nearly knocking over a stack of Exploding Snap cards.
"Tamara!" Harry shoved the note toward them, his voice tight with sudden excitement. "This is Tamara's handwriting! I'd recognize it anywhere."
Hermione leaned in, her brow furrowing as she read the single line. "Tonight, third floor, conspiracy." Her expression instantly hardened.
"Conspiracy? Is she saying someone is going to make a move on the Philosopher's Stone tonight?"
"Definitely!" Harry shot to his feet, his green eyes burning with incredible determination. "Tamara is warning us! She must have discovered something terrible!"
"I bloody knew it!" Ron jumped up right beside him, his fists clenched. "Even though she's a Slytherin, she's always been on our side! This is inside information, mate! We have to act fast!"
"But..." Hermione bit her lip, her logical mind still fighting a rearguard action against the panic. "Could this be a trap? Maybe we should go straight to Professor McGonagall."
"It's no use, Hermione." Harry shook his head, his tone urgent and frustrated. "Professor McGonagall doesn't believe anyone can bypass those protections to steal the Stone. If we go to her now, she'll just think we're making up wild stories again, deduct points, and lock us in our dorms."
"And..." Harry pointed a finger directly at the crisp handwriting on the note, delivering his most powerful argument. "Think about it. Tamara wrote this. She is brilliant. If telling a Professor would actually work, she would have gone to them herself instead of taking the massive risk of sending us a secret message."
That single sentence struck Hermione's weakest point with pinpoint accuracy.
In Hermione's heart, Tamara's intellect and judgment were vastly superior to half the teaching staff at Hogwarts. If the always-calculating, always-perfect Tamara Riddle chose to bypass the authorities and ask them for help...
"You're right..." Hermione whispered. She bit her lip harder, the lingering hesitation in her eyes burning away, replaced by a fierce determination not to fail her idol's trust. "Since even she thinks it's this urgent... then we must go."
Fueled by absolute, blind trust in their beautiful Slytherin guardian angel, the three first-year Wizards packed their wands and set off without looking back, marching straight toward the trap that led to hell.
Meanwhile, deep beneath the lake.
The true mastermind behind the impending bloodbath was sitting comfortably in the plush leather armchair of the Slytherin common room. Tamara elegantly sipped from a steaming cup of rich hot cocoa, her legs crossed, patiently waiting for the grand show to begin.
[Ding! Detected that the host has successfully induced key characters into the deadly dungeon.]
[System Evaluation: What touching, beautiful trust! You firmly believe your dear friends can overcome any difficulties, which is exactly why you rest assured letting them go first into danger. This is the true vision of a great leader—knowing exactly how to yield the stage to those who need to grow more!]
[Task Update: The Final Oriole.]
[Objective: Please intervene in the battlefield at the most appropriate time. Display the utter helplessness, sorrow, and absolute nobility of 'having no choice but to step in and save them'.]
Tamara slowly lowered her porcelain teacup to the saucer with a soft clink. She rested her chin on her hand, watching the green-tinted flames dancing merrily in the fireplace.
"Noble?"
A soft, chilling laugh escaped her lips, echoing quietly in the empty corner of the room.
'If, at the end of this night, I am the one holding the Philosopher's Stone, stepping casually over the main soul's rotting corpse, and I still manage to get praised by a tearfully grateful Potter...'Her smile widened into something truly terrifying.'That would indeed be quite noble.'
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