Chapter 123: Confronting the Defective Clone
Ever since that utterly absurd confession of feelings, Ginny Weasley had practically transformed into a different person.
She no longer scurried along the stone walls trembling like a frightened quail. Instead, a sickeningly sunny disposition had taken root. The little Gryffindor would even go out of her way to greet Tamara openly in the crowded hallways, beaming with bright, naive smiles.
Seated elegantly at the Slytherin table, Tamara took a slow sip of her tea, her crimson gaze discreetly sweeping across the Great Hall toward the noisy Gryffindor benches.
To the clueless professors and oblivious students, this sudden change merely looked like a shy young girl finally stepping out of her shell. But to Tamara—a master of the darkest, most insidious arts known to wizardkind—the truth was glaringly obvious. Ginny was steadily breaking free from the diary's parasitic control.
The foolish little redhead had actually replaced her imaginary 'kind big brother Tom'with the very real,'powerful and gentle Sister Tamara'. Her toxic dependence on the cursed book was waning by the day. She had even stopped pouring her pathetic little secrets into its blank pages.
For the miserable soul fragment trapped inside the diary, this was a catastrophic blow. Without a constant, steady stream of emotional vulnerability and life force to gorge upon, he could never gather enough power to resurrect.
'The time has come.'
Tamara set down her silver cutlery with a soft, aristocratic clink. She picked up a pristine linen napkin and delicately dabbed the corners of her mouth, hiding a cruel, calculating smirk.
The current iteration of Ginny Weasley harbored a near-blind, fanatical admiration for her. A little gentle coaxing, a few honeyed words of false concern, and the naive girl would practically beg to hand over that ragged, dangerous diary.
Just as Tamara was carefully plotting the next phase of her deception, a sudden shift caught her eye.
Across the hall, Ginny abruptly slammed her golden goblet of pumpkin juice onto the wooden table. The girl's freckled face drained of all color, turning a sickly, ashen white. Her warm brown eyes glazed over, the pupils dilating until they swallowed the irises. Moving with the jerky, unnatural stiffness of a poorly strung marionette, Ginny stood up. She didn't even spare a glance at Ron, who was currently stuffing his face with bacon beside her, before staggering blindly out of the Great Hall.
Tamara's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits.
Perfect.
Without a single moment of hesitation, she smoothed the front of her robes, stood up with practiced grace, and slipped out the heavy oak doors, melting into the shadows to follow her prey.
A biting, unnatural cold permeated the stone walls of the second-floor corridor, carrying the faint, metallic scent of stagnant water. Tamara stalked Ginny from a moderate distance, her footsteps entirely silent against the flagstones.
The small figure ahead moved with agonizing slowness, her boots dragging sluggishly across the floor. It wasn't until she reached the dreary entrance of the perennially flooded girls' bathroom—Moaning Myrtle's domain—that Ginny's erratic march abruptly ceased.
"Come out."
The voice that tore its way out of the twelve-year-old girl's throat was utterly wrong. It was cold, raspy, and dripped with a venomous arrogance that belonged to a teenage boy. It echoed off the damp stone walls, carrying a chilling, unnatural resonance.
Tamara merely raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
She felt absolutely zero panic at being discovered. Instead, she stepped out from the concealing shadows with a languid, almost lazy grace. She crossed her arms over her chest, her posture as relaxed and utterly unbothered as if she were taking a leisurely evening stroll through her own private rose garden.
"Miss Weasley, as your..." Tamara let the silence stretch for a fraction of a second, deliberately emphasizing her next words with a mocking, playful lilt, "...object of admiration. I find it absolutely necessary to remind you that if you intend to use the facilities, you would do well to avoid that insufferable crybaby, Myrtle. She does so love to flood the stalls."
Ginny—or rather, the parasitic entity known as Tom Riddle—slowly pivoted on her heel.
Those eyes, once a warm and lively brown, had completely transformed. They were now a dead, hollow void, burning with a twisted, suffocating malice.
"You again."
Controlling the small, frail body, Tom glared fixedly at the older girl.
Over the past few weeks, he had been subjected to absolute torture. He had been forced to endure endless, nauseatingly detailed diary entries about 'how wonderful, how perfect, how absolutely brilliant Sister Tamara is'. To Tom, a starving predator desperately clawing for enough life force to resurrect, the sickening adoration overflowing from Ginny's ink was a direct insult. It was like a stray dog snatching a bloody piece of meat right off his plate.
But what truly made his phantom skin crawl was the suffocating aura this 'Tamara' casually projected. It felt intimately familiar, yet deeply threatening. It was the distinct, unmistakable scent of his own kind. A predator of the darkest arts. And worse... it felt undeniably heavier, older, and vastly more powerful than his own fragmented existence.
Faced with this terrifying lack of control, the defense mechanisms buried deep within Tom's fractured soul violently triggered.
For a creature as naturally paranoid and obsessively controlling as Tom Riddle, feeling suppressed by an unknown variable was intolerable. He would never choose to show caution. He would never retreat. Instead, to mask the burning shame of his own sudden fear, he instinctively ripped away his carefully crafted mask of charming elegance. What remained was the raw, unfiltered exposure of his underlying tyrannical, megalomaniacal nature.
He needed to arm himself with the most extreme, abrasive arrogance imaginable, desperately attempting to rebuild his shattered sense of superiority by verbally crushing his opponent.
Operating Ginny's vocal cords, Tom narrowed his stolen eyes and let out a harsh, derisive snort.
"Interesting magical fluctuations." He looked Tamara up and down, his gaze dripping with condescension. He didn't look at her like a worthy opponent, but rather like a filthy, ignorant thief who had just stumbled into a dragon's den. "Though I have no idea which miserable rat hole you crawled out of... I must say, you are quite brave."
The pitch of his voice dropped, turning icy and dripping with unearned arrogance.
"You actually dare to covet my possessions right in front of my face?"
He took a heavy step forward. Despite wearing the soft, freckled face of a twelve-year-old girl, he threw his shoulders back, striking a grandiose pose as if he were a dark king presiding over his conquered realm.
"Did you honestly think playing house with this pathetic, stupid little girl would earn you a share of my spoils?" A cruel sneer twisted Ginny's lips. "Know your place, filth. Within the walls of this castle, no one has ever dared to defy the great Heir of Slytherin."
Tamara stared at him. For a fleeting second, she looked as though she had just heard the funniest joke in the history of the magical world.
But then, the amused curve of her lips froze entirely.
She stared at the manifestation of this sixteen-year-old boy—his chin tilted so high it practically pointed at the ceiling, his face plastered with an utterly inexplicable, blinding overconfidence. A wave of deep, indescribable biological cringe crawled up Tamara's spine.
[Oh my, Host! Who hasn't had their embarrassing days of edgy, youthful arrogance?]
The System's sickeningly cheerful, perky voice chimed directly into her cerebral cortex at the exact perfect moment. It sounded like it was munching on popcorn while watching a prime-time comedy special, absolutely dripping with schadenfreude.
'Shut up,' Tamara hissed coldly in her mind, taking a slow, deep breath to steady her rising mortification.
She refocused her gaze on her flamboyant, theatrically edgy past self, her crimson eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated contempt.
"You spent months lurking in a book, and you couldn't even maintain control over a pathetic little Gryffindor troll. You actually let her affections shift elsewhere." Tamara's voice was flat, devoid of any warmth. "As a sentient memory, your professional competence is an absolute disgrace to the name of Slytherin."
"Shut up!"
Tom shrieked, his ultimate sore spot struck with pinpoint accuracy. The fragile, arrogant pride stemming from the Dark Lord's turbulent youth detonated instantly.
"Since you have so eagerly delivered yourself to my door, do not blame me for tearing you apart! It just so happens that your life force smells infinitely more delicious than this stupid girl's!"
Before the final syllable even left his mouth, Ginny's wrist snapped forward with lethal speed.
The wand clutched in her hand belonged to a Weasley—battered, old, and worn. Yet, the wood was yew. The exact same wood as the wand Voldemort had lost to the ashes of history. Driven by the dark, suffocating magic of Tom Riddle's soul, the wand, a symbol of death and rebirth, seemed to awaken as if it had finally encountered its true master. A bone-chilling, razor-sharp silver light erupted from its tip with a violent crack.
"Diffindo!"
The Severing Charm tore through the damp air, aimed directly at Tamara's pale throat. In the standard Hogwarts curriculum, it was a harmless spell meant for cutting parchment and tailoring fabric. But channeled through the murderous intent of the Dark Lord, it transformed into a vicious, invisible guillotine blade, fully capable of decapitation.
Tamara didn't even bother to draw her wand.
She merely shifted her weight, tilting her upper body a fraction of an inch to the left. It was a micro-movement born of pure, predatory instinct—an anticipation etched deep into her very marrow from decades of surviving brutal, life-and-death duels.
The lethal silver arc whistled past her ear, severing a single strand of dark hair before slamming into the stone wall behind her, exploding into a shower of blinding white sparks.
"Far too crude," Tamara critiqued coldly. Her tone was infuriatingly calm, carrying the detached, clinical composure of a strict mentor instructing a hopelessly clumsy junior. "The killing intent is certainly present. It is indeed at my level; I will not deny you that."
She stared at her enraged, younger 'self' as if evaluating a deeply flawed piece of amateur artwork. She slowly shook her head, clicking her tongue.
"But your wrist movement is far too exaggerated. The wind-up is entirely too long. You telegraphed the strike a full second before casting." A mocking smirk tugged at her lips. "This is a pathetic, low-level mistake that only a sixteen-year-old version of myself would make. Possessing astonishing, generational talent, yet only knowing how to blindly squander it like a brute."
"You are asking for death!"
Tom roared, completely losing whatever shred of composure he had left. Forcing Ginny's small, unathletic body past its physical limits, he lunged forward like a striking leopard. His wand became a blur of motion, slashing through the air so rapidly it formed an impenetrable, deadly shield of dark magic.
Ginny's inherent magical core was pitifully weak, a mere trickle compared to a fully grown wizard. But the monster piloting her flesh was, undeniably, the younger iteration of Lord Voldemort. His spell-casting technique was viciously precise, a flawless execution of lethal intent. Every blinding flash of light, every hissed curse, was aimed directly at Tamara's eyes, throat, and heart.
Finally, Tamara drew her own wand.
It slid into her palm like an extension of her own arm. Logically speaking, against an assault of this mediocre caliber, a simple, well-placed Disarming Charm would instantly end the skirmish. But in that split second, the deeply ingrained muscle memory of the Dark Lord bypassed all rational thought.
In Lord Voldemort's personal dictionary, there was absolutely no room for a lukewarm, pathetic option like 'disarming' when dealing with an insolent, rebellious clone.
There was only one answer to such disrespect.
Torture.
The Cruciatus Curse.
Her immediate, burning instinct was to down a vial of Basic Magic Potion, flood her core with power, and unleash the Cruciatus Curse to violently educate this defective clone on the true meaning of hell. Without conscious thought, a suffocating surge of freezing dark magic rushed from her core, pooling violently at the tip of her wand. The unforgivable incantation, the very symbol of ultimate, mind-shattering agony, danced eagerly on the tip of her tongue.
But before she could vocalize the first syllable, that damned, infernal System in her mind detonated like a sharp sonic boom against her skull.
[Warning! Warning! Detected Host's malicious intent to use prohibited items to cast Unforgivable Curses!]
[The current scene strictly prohibits the use of Black Magic on fellow classmates! Please cease this highly dangerous and naughty behavior immediately!]
Tamara's wand arm froze mid-slash.
It wasn't merely the threat of the System's humiliating electric shocks that halted her, but a sudden, jarring return to cold rationality. Why on earth would she waste a highly precious bottle of magic potion just to swat down a sixteen-year-old defective product? It would certainly be immensely satisfying to hear him scream, yes, but it was entirely unnecessary. A waste of resources.
Tamara inhaled sharply through her nose, forcefully clamping down on her magical core and suffocating the surging tide of dark magic.
Fine. If she was barred from using the Dark Arts, she would humiliate him with the most basic, brainless, pathetic spell in existence.
As another vicious jinx tore through the air toward her face, Tamara raised her wand with an expression of deep, utter annoyance. She flicked her wrist lazily, looking as though she were tossing out a bag of rotting garbage rather than engaging in a magical duel.
"Expelliarmus!"
A brilliant, blinding flash of scarlet light erupted from the tip of her wand. It tore across the corridor, colliding with Tom's dark jinx with mathematical precision. The two opposing magical forces slammed together, detonating in mid-air with a concussive shockwave that rattled the damp stones.
It was merely a first-year Disarming Charm, but backed by the sheer, crushing density of Tamara's magical reserves, the resulting kinetic force was monstrous. It was absolutely nothing a second-year student should be capable of producing.
Tom felt a violent, bone-rattling shock tear through the web of his thumb. His lethal, perfectly aimed strike was actually being physically crushed and pushed back by this absolute garbage of a spell.
"Expelliarmus?" Tom let out a shrill, piercing laugh, the sound scraping unpleasantly against the stone walls. "You are actually using such a pathetically weak spell?" He sneered, his stolen eyes flashing with cruel triumph. "Just how terrified are you of damaging this fragile little body?"
Tamara completely ignored his grating mockery. She stared down at the tip of her own wand, a flicker of deep, visceral distaste twisting her elegant features.
To be reduced to using Dumbledore's favorite little parlor trick in a genuine fight... it was a permanent, humiliating stain on the Dark Lord's illustrious career.
"You do not even dare to cast a single, decent piece of dark magic! It seems you are nothing but a bluffing, cowardly waste of breath!"
Barking out his derision, Tom slashed his wand horizontally. A heavy ceramic vase resting on a nearby pedestal violently shattered. With a flick of his wrist, he sent the jagged, razor-sharp shards hurtling through the air like a swarm of glass locusts, aiming to shred Tamara's robes and pin down her movements.
A terrifying, glacial flash of pure violence ignited in Tamara's crimson eyes.
This insolent little parasite was actually daring to mock Lord Voldemort for lacking proficiency in the Dark Arts?
Good. Very good.
"To dismantle a pathetic, defective product like you," Tamara's voice dropped to a deadly, hissing whisper, "I do not require a single drop of dark magic."
Just as Tom drew breath to scream his next curse, Tamara's wand snapped downward, aiming not at his chest, but directly at the slick stone floor beneath his boots.
"Locomotor Mortis!"
The Leg-Locker Curse shot forward in a streak of purple light. But it wasn't aimed at the girl's flesh. The spell slammed directly into the heavy fabric at the hem of Ginny's school robes. Instantly, the thick material fused and locked tightly together, creating an inescapable bind around her ankles.
Tom, who was currently strafing at high speed to dodge her line of sight, had absolutely zero time to react. His leading foot caught violently against the magically fused fabric. The sudden, brutal restriction completely shattered his momentum, sending him pitching forward in a desperate, flailing stumble.
In that singular, fatal moment of lost equilibrium—
Tamara's wand was already tracking its next target. She pointed the yew wood directly at the massive, decorative suit of knight's armor standing silently by the corridor window.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Accompanied by her frigid, perfectly enunciated incantation, the solid iron helmet—weighing easily thirty pounds—ripped itself free from the armor's neck. It whistled through the damp air like a fired cannonball, hurtling with terrifying, calculated precision straight toward the hand Tom was using to grip his wand.
A sickening, heavy thud echoed down the hall.
Although Tom desperately wrenched Ginny's neck aside to avoid a lethal blow to the skull, he couldn't move the rest of her body in time. The massive iron helmet slammed brutally into the girl's fragile right shoulder.
The blinding, explosive pain instantly short-circuited the twelve-year-old body's nervous system. All remaining balance vanished. Ginny's small frame collapsed, crashing heavily onto the unforgiving stone floor. The impact jarred her fingers loose, and the yew wand clattered uselessly out of her grasp, spinning away into the shadows.
The victory was absolute.
Tamara lowered her wand, her expression entirely unreadable. Her boots clicked softly against the stone as she walked, step by deliberate step, toward the groaning girl lying on the floor. She stopped at Ginny's side, staring down at the pathetic, disheveled manifestation of her past self.
"Do you see clearly now, you arrogant idiot?" Tamara's voice was perfectly calm, devoid of any emotional fluctuation. Yet, the sheer, suffocating weight of her presence pressed down on the corridor like a physical force.
"The true strength of magic does not lie in how evil the spell is," she lectured softly, her crimson eyes glowing in the dim light. "It lies entirely in who is wielding it."
She slowly crouched down, reaching her pale hand into the inner pocket of Ginny's rumpled robes. Her fingers closed around the worn, leather-bound diary.
"And now... it is mine."
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