Chapter 140: An Untimely Disturbance
The Hogwarts library was suffocatingly quiet.
Afternoon sunlight slanted through the high, arched windows, casting long, dusty beams across the aisles, yet it did absolutely nothing to warm the damp, heavy scent of aging parchment and dried ink that clung to the stone walls year-round.
Tamara sat alone at a long oak table bordering the Restricted Section, entirely isolated from the usual chatter of studying students. Spread open before her was a massive, leather-bound tome titled Basic Principles of Alchemy. Beside it, a roll of premium parchment was rapidly filling with dense, jagged formulas—a precise, obsessive deduction dissecting the very essence of life.
She was currently mapping out an alchemical reaction formula centered entirely around the golden bloodline.
The Virtue System might have strictly throttled how often she could actually use blood magic, but no pathetic, glowing interface could stop the Dark Lord from tearing its secrets apart on a purely theoretical level.
'If the blood acts as a primary fusing agent, completely bypassing the need for traditional salamander blood...'
The black eagle-feather quill in Tamara's grip flew across the parchment, slashing out complex alchemical runes with vicious speed. Her dark eyes gleamed with a cold, fanatical hunger.
This was no mere academic exercise. It was a ladder. A direct ascent toward absolute power.
If she could just pry open the secrets locked within a single drop of that blood, the system's own mechanics dictated she could infinitely extend her lifespan through specialized blood-infused potions. Yet, Tamara's lip curled in disgust at the thought. Lingering on like a parasite, entirely dependent on brewing schedules and potion efficacy? It was as pathetic and fragile as a candle flickering in a storm. It was survival, perhaps, but it was absolutely not the true conquest of death.
Her mind raced, the arithmancy aligning perfectly. She was seconds away from breaking through the final, critical junction of the formula.
"Tamara."
The voice shattered her concentration like dropping a glass goblet on stone.
Tamara's hand jerked. The quill tip snapped against the parchment, bleeding a thick, ugly blot of black ink straight across her flawless calculation.
For a fraction of a second, the sheer, unadulterated violence flashing behind the Dark Lord's eyes could have incinerated the entire library. Her jaw locked tight. Taking a slow, measured breath, she raised her head. Her pitch-black eyes were dead, entirely devoid of warmth as they fixed upon the intruder.
Ginny Weasley stood at the edge of the table.
The red-haired Gryffindor wore freshly pressed school robes, her hair brushed out carefully. She had her shoulders pulled back, her spine stiffened in a painfully obvious imitation of Tamara's own natural, aristocratic poise. It was a pathetic display. The girl's sickly pale complexion and the white-knuckled grip she maintained on the wooden amulet resting against her chest completely betrayed her suffocating panic.
"Is there something you need?" Tamara's voice was flat, carrying the exact temperature of a winter tomb.
Ginny physically flinched. She swallowed hard, taking a shaky breath before forcing a bright, painfully strained smile onto her face.
"Hi, Tamara. I've... I've seen you in the library every single day lately. You must be exhausted, right?"
Ever since their little chat in the girls' bathroom, the youngest Weasley had been desperately trying to put Tamara's harsh lessons into practice. She wanted to shed her weakness. She wanted to project strength and confidence. Over the past week, she had ambushed Tamara in the corridors countless times, offering overly enthusiastic greetings or clumsily attempting to show off some minor spellcasting progress.
The results were always the same.
Tamara treated her like air. That suffocating, nonchalant detachment chipped away at Ginny's fragile, hard-won confidence with every single encounter.
Worse still, the Slytherin prefect was usually flanked by arrogant sycophants like Draco Malfoy, who formed an impenetrable wall of sneers, keeping a lowly Gryffindor firmly shut out.
But today was a rare, golden opportunity. No annoying Slytherin bodyguards. Just Tamara.
Ginny reached into her pocket and cautiously slid a slightly squashed Pumpkin Pasty, wrapped in a checkered handkerchief, toward the corner of the table. Her brown eyes were wide, practically begging for a scrap of approval.
"I just got this from the kitchens... I thought you might be hungry."
Tamara slowly lowered her gaze to the greasy pastry. A faint crease appeared between her brows.
"I am not hungry. Take it away."
The rejection was mercilessly blunt. Tamara immediately looked back down at her ruined formula, making it abundantly clear she had zero intention of wasting another breath on this tedious interaction.
Ginny's hand froze awkwardly over the table. The hot sting of embarrassment flushed her cheeks, making her forced smile twitch and falter.
Tamara had been exactly like this for days—blowing hot and cold, though heavily favoring the freezing end of the spectrum. Ginny desperately tried to rationalize it. Tamara was simply too brilliant, too busy with advanced magic. It wasn't personal. She was still the same gentle, reliable upperclassman who had comforted her when she was crying.
"Um... actually..." Ginny did not retreat. She bit her lower lip hard, finally working up the nerve to reveal her true reason for coming. "Tamara, I feel... I feel like something is wrong with me again."
Her voice dropped to a frantic whisper, laced with raw, unconcealable terror.
"The amulet you gave me is wonderful, it really is... but lately, I've started losing time again. Just feeling dazed." Ginny's fingers flew up to trace the edges of the wooden plaque, her eyes darting nervously around the empty library aisles. "I'm so scared. Is that thing... is it still inside my head?"
In truth, Ginny did not even know if the dark presence was actually back, or if she was just so starved for reassurance that her mind was playing tricks on her. She stared at Tamara with desperate, pleading eyes, hungering for a single word of comfort. A definitive denial from the strongest person she knew. If Tamara said she was safe, she would believe it.
Tamara did not even bother to look up.
Her mind was already sinking back into the complex arithmancy regarding the rejection between soul and flesh. The trembling, pathetic ramblings of a traumatized teenager sounded like nothing more than a fat, annoying blowfly buzzing near her ear.
"You are overthinking it," Tamara replied, her tone entirely perfunctory. She dipped her quill and smoothly drew out an Ancient Rune representing Separation beside the ink blot. "It is just your imagination."
'Imagination, or just the pathetic echoes of a hollowed-out vessel,' Tamara sneered internally.
She had personally devoured the core of that arrogant sixteen-year-old soul. Whatever lingering shadows remained inside the Weasley girl's mind were nothing but irrational, mindless dregs wriggling on pure instinct. Brainless garbage. It posed absolutely zero threat.
More, she was the Dark Lord. She was destined to conquer death itself. She possessed neither the obligation nor the microscopic shred of patience required to play wet nurse to a hypersensitive child jumping at imaginary monsters under the bed.
"But... it feels so real..." Ginny pressed, stepping closer to the table. "When I woke up yesterday morning, I swear I felt—"
"Enough."
Tamara set her quill down. The sharp clack of wood against the table echoed loudly.
She finally looked up. Her dark eyes were pools of freezing contempt, radiating the sheer irritation of a predator forced to acknowledge an insect. When she spoke, her voice was a biting lash, dripping with condescension.
"I was under the impression that during our last conversation in the bathroom, you had finally learned how to face your problems independently."
Ginny shrank back.
"But if your grand attempt at 'becoming stronger' is simply finding a new target to cling to, dumping your pathetic little nightmares onto my lap like unwashed laundry..." Tamara let out a soft, chilling sneer. Her gaze scraped across Ginny's ashen face like a rusted blade. "Then consider every piece of advice I gave you void. You are exactly as weak as you were before."
Ginny stood paralyzed. Her mouth opened and closed silently, desperate to defend herself, to explain that she wasn't trying to be a burden.
Tamara afforded her no such luxury.
Picking up her quill, she dipped it back into the inkwell and severed the conversation with brutal finality.
"I am busy. I do not have the time nor the inclination to play house with you. If you truly believe your mind is unraveling, Madam Pomfrey resides in the hospital wing. Fixing broken children is her job. It is not mine."
[Ding! Warm reminder from the Virtue System!]
The aggressively perky, meddlesome electronic voice chimed directly into her cerebral cortex, accompanied by a faint, warning buzz of static.
[Host, was your wording perhaps a bit too harsh? When dealing with a highly sensitive adolescent girl, perhaps you should employ a gentler method of encouragement! A soft pat on the head or offering her a piece of sweet candy would yield much better results!]
'Shut your mouth,'Tamara snapped back coldly in her mind, her outward expression remaining entirely impassive as she continued writing.'I am teaching her independence. If she shatters over a minor verbal setback, she will simply drop to her knees and cry while waiting for death the moment she encounters genuine Dark Magic. I am doing her a favor. I am forcing her to face reality.'
[System is performing a logical judgment...]
The static hummed for a tense second.
[Judgment passed. Although the host's methods were undeniably crude, 'spare the rod and spoil the child' is a recognized educational philosophy! The host's core objective is to promote the psychological growth and resilience of a peer... This barely fits the Virtue System's criteria. No penalty will be applied!]
Tamara kept her eyes glued to the parchment, the corners of her lips curling into a dark, mocking smirk.
'Promoting psychological growth?'
What a spectacularly convenient excuse.
The reality was far simpler: she was utterly sick of pretending. That entire nauseating 'reliable big sister' routine had been a calculated performance designed solely to extract that damned diary. She had needed to reclaim the soul fragments and raw magical power that rightfully belonged to her from that arrogant, foolish Horcrux.
Now, the diary was securely in her possession. That insufferable sixteen-year-old echo of Tom Riddle had been thoroughly chewed up, digested, and assimilated into her own core.
Objective achieved.
Which meant this trembling little pawn named Ginny Weasley had entirely outlived her utility.
Why on earth should the Dark Lord waste another second of her precious time playing such a sickeningly sweet role? Why coddle a pathetic child whose only talent was weeping?
It was a complete and utter waste of life.
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