Chapter 98: Farewell
The first rays of morning sunlight filtered through the grimy, dust-caked windows, casting long, pale streaks across the cramped attic of The Burrow.
Tamara opened her eyes.
There was no grogginess, no slow transition from the world of dreams. Almost the instant her eyelids parted, the razor-sharp alertness and icy detachment belonging to the Dark Lord flooded back into her veins. The image of the gentle, understanding older sister she had so carefully feigned last night—a performance solely dedicated to fishing for a certain dark artifact—vanished without a single trace.
She turned her head slowly against the lumpy pillow, casting a sidelong glance at Ginny. The youngest Weasley was sleeping completely defenseless on the narrow cot next to her. The little red-haired girl had her fists tightly bunched in the corner of her frayed quilt. A thick, crystal-clear line of drool hung from the corner of her parted lips as she mumbled the name Harry in an incoherent, dreamy slur.
'Fool.'
Tamara mouthed the word silently to the ceiling, her dark eyes entirely devoid of warmth. They held only a chilling, abyssal coldness.
She threw back the heavy, mismatched covers, her movements fluid and utterly silent. Staying even a single night in this rickety house—a place practically overflowing with poverty, suffocating crowding, and nauseating, so-called familial warmth—was already pushing the absolute limit of her endurance.
Right now, her only desire was to return immediately to the dilapidated but blissfully quiet walls of Wools Orphanage. She needed to stand in a cold washroom and cast the strongest Scouring Charm her magical core could muster, washing herself from head to toe until her skin was raw, scrubbing away every lingering microscopic trace of the impoverished, sentimental atmosphere she had been forced to endure here.
Tamara dressed with practiced, silent efficiency. Before turning to the door, she cast one final, calculating look at the worn pillow where Ginny's head rested. Beneath that stuffed fabric lay the diary.
Though it was a mild pity she could not simply take the horcrux with her right now, the groundwork was complete. As long as the seed of dark influence had been planted in the girl's fragile, star-struck mind, the harvest was merely a matter of time.
Tamara slipped out of the room and silently descended the winding, dangerously creaky wooden staircase. She moved with the weightless grace of a serpent, avoiding every loose floorboard by pure instinct.
The kitchen was dark and quiet.
Only the absurd, multi-handed clock hanging on the peeling wallpaper emitted a rhythmic, metallic ticking. Most of its hands were currently pointed to the segment representing sleep.
Tamara glided over to the soot-stained fireplace and reached out, her pale fingers dipping into the small clay pot on the mantle to grab a handful of Floo Powder.
Freedom was mere seconds away. As long as she threw this ash into the grate and spoke the name of that old, reliable fireplace in Diagon Alley, she could completely escape this suffocating den of red-haired blood traitors.
However.
[Ding! Detected that the host is attempting to leave without saying goodbye.]
[Warning: As the host of the Virtue System, leaving without saying goodbye after receiving warm hospitality from the hosts is extremely rude and arrogant. This does not conform to the basic qualities of a perfect guest.]
[Mission: Please give a formal and polite farewell to the hostess, Molly Weasley, and express your gratitude.]
[Reward: Love +1]
[Penalty: Brag about your wonderful time at The Burrow in the Slytherin common room.]
Tamara's hand, tightly clutching the gritty Floo Powder, froze dead in mid-air.
The silence in the kitchen was suddenly broken by a faint, sharp sound. It was the sound of her own molars grinding together with enough force to crack bone.
Just then.
"Oh! Dear?"
An exclamation of genuine surprise echoed from the archway behind her.
Tamara spun around on her heel. Beneath the long sleeve of her robes, her wand slid forward, stopping just a fraction of an inch from dropping fully into her palm. A lethal curse sat on the very tip of her tongue.
She stopped herself just in time. Standing in the doorway was Molly Weasley, wearing a massive, faded dressing gown and clutching a heavy iron frying pan. The matriarch was clearly up early, preparing to tackle the monumental task of making breakfast for her chaotic brood.
Molly blinked, looking in utter surprise at the fully dressed Tamara, then glanced down at the packed trunk sitting neatly by the girl's feet, and finally at the fireplace.
"Merlin, where are you going? It's only half-past five!" Molly quickly lowered her voice to a harsh whisper, casting an anxious look up the stairs, terrified of waking the children. "Breakfast isn't even ready yet. I even specifically prepared those little pastries you like..."
Tamara took a slow, deep, agonizing breath.
Since the system had blocked her escape, she had absolutely no choice but to perform.
The murderous, cold expression she had worn just a second prior vanished into thin air the exact moment she turned her face toward the light. It was instantly replaced by a masterclass in subtle acting—a deep sense of apology, quiet maturity, and just the right hint of tragic vulnerability. She looked exactly like a child who had been hurt by the world and desperately wanted to avoid causing trouble for anyone else.
"I am so sorry, Mrs. Weasley."
Tamara lowered her eyelashes, her voice soft, polite, and laced with a perfectly calibrated tremor of regret.
"I must leave. There are some urgent matters at the Orphanage that require my attention, and the rest of my school luggage is still there."
"But you could at least have breakfast before you go! Arthur could send you through the network..."
"No, please, there is no need."
Tamara shook her head gently. She lifted her dark, bottomless eyes to look at Molly with an expression of utter, devastating sincerity.
"You have already looked after me so much. This night... it was the most peaceful night's sleep I have had in years."
Though the words were as fake as a brass galleon, they struck Molly Weasley right in her maternal heart. The older woman's breath hitched.
"I simply cannot cause you any more trouble." Tamara straightened her back slightly, lifting her chin to display a stoic strength that completely belied her young age.
"I have hands and feet; I am used to taking care of myself. Besides, today is the first day of school, and you have such a large, wonderful family to look after. It will be very hectic here this morning."
She offered a small, brave smile. "I also want to... go back early and prepare quietly by myself. I need a little time."
Molly stood frozen, the heavy frying pan drooping toward the floor.
She stared at the pale, thin, yet fiercely stubborn girl standing by the hearth. A child who had nothing, who came from a cold, loveless Muggle institution, yet absolutely refused to be a burden to anyone.
What a sensible, beautiful child!
Despite having such a pitiful, tragic background, she was so independent! So considerate of others! When Molly compared this quiet grace to her own twin sons, who did nothing but invent new ways to cause explosions and headaches all day, Tamara Riddle was simply an angel descended from the heavens!
"Oh, you sweet dear..."
Molly's eyes instantly welled up with red-rimmed tears.
She practically dropped the frying pan on the counter, rushed across the kitchen, and enveloped Tamara in an embrace that was nothing short of suffocating.
"You really are a strong, good child. You must take very good care of yourself, do you hear me? If you need anything at school—anything at all—you must write to us, or tell Ron and Ginny!"
"...I understand. Thank you, Mrs. Weasley."
Tamara stood rigidly, buried deep within the folds of Molly's massive, flour-scented dressing gown. She could feel her ribs actively protesting against the crushing pressure, her mind screaming a litany of unforgivable curses.
After finally managing to gently pry herself free from the maternal vice grip, she found Molly forcing a large, heavy paper bag into her hands. It radiated heat, filled with freshly toasted corned beef sandwiches and several polished red apples.
"Eat these on the way, promise me. Don't you dare go hungry."
"I will. Goodbye, Mrs. Weasley."
[Ding! Mission complete. Reward: Love +1]
[Current Love: 21]
The absolute second the system's perky voice faded from her mind, Tamara practically fled. She grabbed a fresh handful of Floo Powder, hurled it violently into the grate, and stepped into the roaring green flames.
As the magical fire swallowed her, she cast one final, sweeping look at this Burrow—a wooden shack overflowing with stupidity, poverty, and nauseating warmth. Her lips curled into a cold, sharp smile of pure relief.
'Never again.'
...
10:50 AM.
King's Cross Station.
While the entire Weasley family was currently engaged in a chaotic, panic-stricken rush against the clock, sprinting wildly through the crowded Muggle station with their rattling trolleys, Tamara was already a world away.
Dressed in her pristine, perfectly tailored Slytherin school robes, she sat comfortably in the plush velvet seats of a private, first-class compartment on the Hogwarts Express.
The enclosed space was filled with the rich, elegant aroma of freshly brewed black tea.
Draco Malfoy sat directly opposite her, leaning forward with rapt attention. Pansy Parkinson, Vincent Crabbe, and Gregory Goyle occupied the adjacent seats, maintaining a respectful distance. The way the four Slytherins looked at Tamara was akin to gazing upon a war hero who had just returned in glorious triumph from deep behind enemy lines.
"So..." Draco lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, his pale pointed face flushed with a mixture of disgust and intense admiration. "What exactly did you discover in that... that blood traitor's den? Were they plotting some sort of conspiracy against Slytherin?"
Tamara elegantly picked up her porcelain teacup, her slender fingers curling perfectly around the handle. She brought it to her lips and gently blew on the rising steam.
Her gaze drifted lazily across the bustling, noisy platform outside the glass window, watching the frantic parents and crying children with utter detachment.
"Conspiracy?"
She gave a light, breathy chuckle. The sound was soft, yet it carried an undisguised, heavy contempt that made the temperature in the compartment seem to drop a few degrees.
"Draco, you think far too highly of them."
She took a slow sip. "That place is filled with nothing but overflowing, nauseating sympathy and entirely worthless passion."
She set the teacup down on its saucer with a sharp, definitive clink. Her black eyes, resembling two bottomless pools of stagnant, dangerous water, shifted away from the window and fixed directly onto Draco. The young Malfoy immediately stiffened under the weight of her stare.
"They genuinely believe... that love and warmth are the ultimate weapons. They pride themselves on it."
"But in reality..."
Tamara leaned forward slightly, resting her arms on her knees. Her voice dropped an octave, becoming low, smooth, and dangerously enticing.
"That so-called warmth is merely charity handed down from the strong to the weak. Yet, the weak treat it as the very oxygen required for their survival. They gorge themselves on it. And once that supply is cut off, they will simply suffocate and die."
She let the words hang in the air, watching the Slytherins absorb the philosophy.
"This is Gryffindor's fatal weakness. They are hopelessly addicted to that cheap sense of huddling together for warmth. Because they fear the coldness of true loneliness, they have absolutely no choice but to press their bodies together, exactly like a frightened, pathetic flock of sheep waiting for the slaughter."
Draco listened, utterly enthralled. His mouth was slightly open.
Though he did not possess the life experience to fully grasp the dark depths of what she was saying, he felt the sheer power behind the words. It was simply too logical! Too deep!
This was a thousand times more sophisticated than the dry, bureaucratic political nonsense his father usually spouted over dinner!
Without a second thought, Draco pulled a small, leather-bound notebook and a quill from his robes. He began jotting down these dark words of wisdom furiously, fully intending to memorize them so he could use them to absolutely destroy Harry Potter's morale later.
Meanwhile.
At King's Cross Station, standing squarely between Platforms 9 and 10.
Harry and Ron were gripping the handles of their loaded trolleys, standing before the solid, unyielding brick barrier wall. Both boys were covered in a cold sweat.
Just moments ago, they had watched the rest of the Weasleys charge through the magical gateway without issue. But when they had lined up and broken into a run to follow, the front of Harry's trolley had slammed heavily into solid brick with a deafening, metallic crash. Hedwig's cage had rattled violently, the owl screeching in protest.
"What's happening?" Ron rubbed his bruised shoulder in absolute panic, his blue eyes wide with terror. "The wall is sealed! It's completely solid!"
"We're going to be late! The train leaves at eleven!"
Surrounding Muggle commuters were already beginning to cast strange, irritated looks at the two boys making a scene with an owl and a pile of old-fashioned trunks. A station guard in a high-visibility vest was frowning deeply, adjusting his hat as he started walking purposefully toward them.
In the past, Harry might have felt entirely helpless. He would have stood there, shrinking under the stares of the Muggles, waiting passively for Mr. Weasley to realize they were missing and come back through the barrier to save them, or perhaps trying to find a magical owl to contact the school.
But at this exact moment.
In this desperate, humiliating second of being physically shut out by the magical world he belonged to.
In his mind, every single word the pale, black-haired girl had spoken to him in the moonlit garden last night suddenly echoed with crystal clarity.
Her voice had been cold, dismissive, yet it rang out in his memory like a crack of thunder.
'Living by relying on the kindness of others is essentially begging.''A true sense of belonging is never something obtained through the charity of others. It is taken.'
Harry stared at the cold, mocking brick wall. His hands, still resting on the handle of his trolley, slowly tightened into white-knuckled fists.
Wait longer?
Wait for the Weasleys to notice and come back to save them?
Wait for Dumbledore to realize the Boy Who Lived was missing and send an adult to fetch him?
Stand here on a Muggle platform like a helpless, lost little boy, begging for an adult's intervention?
'No.'
Harry said the word to himself in his heart.
He thought of Tamara's dark, ambitious eyes. He thought of the sheer, unapologetic power she radiated.
If it were her standing here... she would never wait. She would never accept being locked out.
She had told him, directly to his face, that the strong do not wait for charity.
Since the established rules of the station had blocked his path, then he would simply break the rules. Since this brick wall refused to let him through, he would find another way to Hogwarts!
An unmatched, feverish impulse—a wild mixture of Gryffindor recklessness and newfound, misguided ambition—surged violently in his chest.
Harry snapped his head around to look at Ron. Behind the round lenses of his glasses, his bright green eyes were burning with a fierce, manic light that Ron found deeply unfamiliar and slightly terrifying.
"Ron," Harry's voice was frighteningly firm, devoid of its usual hesitation. "We can't just stand here waiting like idiots."
"That's what the weak do."
Ron was stunned, his mouth hanging open. "Then... then what do we do, Harry? The train is literally about to leave!"
Harry slowly turned his head, his gaze piercing through the crowds of Muggles, looking out through the station's glass doors toward the distant parking lot. He pictured the pale blue, slightly battered chassis of the Ford Anglia.
"The car."
Harry pointed a finger toward the street.
"We fly there."
...
Ten minutes later.
The Hogwarts Express had already departed the dreary outskirts of London and was currently chugging steadily through the expansive, cloud-swept skies of the Scottish Highlands.
Inside the quiet luxury of the Slytherin compartment, Pansy Parkinson was carefully peeling the skin off green grapes and placing them onto a small silver plate for Tamara.
Suddenly, a loud commotion erupted from the narrow corridor outside their door.
"Good heavens! Look at the sky!" a frantic voice yelled.
"Is that... is that a bloody car?!"
Draco frowned deeply, annoyed by the disruption. He set down his quill, stood up, and leaned his upper body over the table to press his face against the cold glass of the window.
The very next second, his jaw nearly unhinged.
"Merlin's sagging beard! That's the Weasleys' piece-of-junk Muggle car!"
Draco screamed, his voice cracking with a mixture of shock and malicious excitement. "No wonder it was so quiet on the platform today! They're actually driving a flying car to chase the train? Are they completely insane? They'll definitely be expelled for this! My father will hear about this before dinner!"
Tamara paused. She turned her head slightly, her dark gaze passing through the glass window to look out into the gray expanse.
There, wobbling violently through the thick clouds and occasionally flickering into a state of semi-invisibility, was the battered blue Ford Anglia.
Even from this distance, her enhanced vision could clearly make out the boy with the taped glasses sitting in the driver's seat. Harry Potter was clutching the steering wheel with a death grip, his face plastered against the windshield, wearing an expression that was equal parts sheer terror and an inexplicable, adrenaline-fueled exhilaration.
Tamara froze. She simply stared at the spectacle in the sky.
Then, on her pale, aristocratic face—a face that always maintained an absolutely flawless, elegant mask of control—a deep, incredibly rare expression of utter speechlessness appeared.
She had indeed taught Harry Potter to break the rules. She had told him to take control of his own destiny, to stop relying on adults, and to start thinking like a strong person.
But she had meant using cunning methods. Using political strategy. Using magical power to manipulate the board and occupy a high position in this cruel, unforgiving world.
She did not mean... hotwiring a rusted Muggle piece-of-junk car that looked ready to fall apart at any given second, and blatantly violating the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy at thousands of feet in the air in broad daylight!
Does this supposed Savior of the Wizarding World have absolutely nothing but fluxweed rattling around inside his skull?
'...Fool.'
Tamara slowly withdrew her gaze. She picked up her porcelain teacup again, a deep sense of exhaustion washing over her. She felt as though her brilliant, philosophical words of dark wisdom had been entirely wasted on a stray dog.
"What's wrong, Tamara?" Pansy asked curiously, pausing her grape-peeling to look at her leader's deadpan expression. "Don't you think it's funny? They're going to be ruined!"
"Funny?"
Tamara gave a sharp, cold snort. Her tone was dripping with the heavy, bitter contempt of a master deeply disappointed by a student's absolute lack of potential.
"I originally thought he had finally learned to use his brain to break the rules."
"But it seems I vastly overestimated him."
She cast one final, dismissive look at the Savior currently fighting a losing battle against the wind currents outside, and delivered her final verdict.
"Gryffindor's so-called Courage is nothing but reckless stupidity. It is driven entirely by a pathetic desire to perform, as if they simply cannot wait to show the entire world exactly how foolish they are."
"Just wait and see."
Tamara took a slow, elegant sip of her Earl Grey tea, her eyes narrowing at the rim of the cup.
"Rather than worrying about being expelled, they had better pray to whatever gods they believe in that they can actually make it back to the school alive."
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