Chapter 190: Don't Overwork Yourself
Afternoon shadows stretched long and thin across the Ancient Runes classroom. The air in here felt even heavier and far gloomier than the stifling Arithmancy lecture from that morning. Heavy velvet curtains choked off most of the sunlight, leaving only the erratic, flickering glow of tallow candles to illuminate the space.
Professor Babbling, a witch whose thick spectacles magnified her eyes to comical proportions, paced the podium. She possessed a fanatical obsession with ancient ruins and was currently gesturing wildly, passionately dissecting a string of fifteenth-century sacrificial runes.
Tamara rested her chin on her hand, listlessly twirling a pristine eagle-feather quill between her fingers. She had mastered this rudimentary drivel half a century ago. Fifty years had passed, and the curriculum had not evolved a single inch.
Boredom driving her, she let her gaze drift lazily across the aisle.
Hermione Granger looked absolutely dreadful. The insufferable Gryffindor know-it-all, who usually sat with her spine rigid enough to snap, was currently slumped over her desk. Her nose practically brushed her parchment.
Tamara narrowed her eyes, a cold, calculating gleam replacing her boredom. If her memory served her right, the third-year Divination and Muggle Studies classes were scheduled for this exact hour. Granger had previously boasted about signing up for every single elective. At the time, Tamara had dismissed it as the arrogant, empty bragging of a Mudblood desperate to prove herself.
Yet, looking at the girl's trembling hands and hollow cheeks, it seemed she truly was attending two, perhaps three classes simultaneously.
Such a feat fundamentally shattered the basic laws of time and space.
Tamara's gaze sharpened, slicing toward the slightly open collar of Granger's school robes. There, catching the dim candlelight, a thin gold chain rested against her collarbone.
A Time-Turner.
Tamara's pupils constricted to pinpricks. A violent surge of shock, immediately swallowed by ravenous greed, flashed across her dark eyes. That senile old fool Dumbledore had actually authorized a Time-Turner—a highly restricted artifact heavily guarded by the Ministry of Magic's Department of Mysteries—for a Mudblood? And for what? Just so she could attend a few useless filler classes?
It was a reckless, unforgivable waste of a divine instrument.
Tamara's breathing hitched for a fraction of a second. If an artifact capable of bending the very fabric of time fell into her hands... she would possess an absolute, flawless margin for error. The forbidden experiments she could conduct would be limitless.
'I must have it,' Tamara concluded, her mind already spinning a web of flawless, untraceable schemes to pry the artifact from the girl's neck.
Just as she began calculating the precise psychological levers to pull, Professor Babbling's voice spiked in volume, shattering the quiet drone of the classroom.
"Alright, settle down! Let us examine this artifact!"
With a dramatic flourish, Professor Babbling yanked a black cloth off a pedestal on her desk, revealing a jagged, ancient stone tablet marred by dark crimson patterns.
"This is a sacrificial tablet, unearthed from the deepest trenches of the Black Forest just last month. It carries incredibly ancient, lingering defensive curses. Miss Granger! If you please, attempt to translate the core runes etched into the third line."
Hermione jolted as if struck by lightning. She scrambled to her feet in a blind panic, blinking her bloodshot eyes furiously as she squinted at the podium.
"This... this is 'Ehwaz'..." Hermione's voice wavered, thin and airy. "It represents... the sacrificer's trust in the gods..."
Professor Babbling's brow furrowed. A distinct shadow of disappointment crossed her magnified eyes.
Tamara sneered inwardly. Idiotic girl. That was clearly 'Eihwaz'—the rune of the yew tree, symbolizing death and absolute defense. The Mudblood was so exhausted she could no longer distinguish between the most basic, visually similar characters.
Tamara leaned back, preparing to relish the rare spectacle of the Gryffindor golden girl humiliating herself.
[Ding! Detected that a diligent student is on the verge of collapsing from overwork!]
The sickeningly cheerful, haunting voice of the system detonated inside her skull.
[The sea of learning is boundless, but the body is the capital of revolution! As the guiding light of Hogwarts, please show your camaraderie and awaken her Wisdom with gentle guidance! And relieve her fatigue!]
[Reward: Life +1.]
[Punishment: If you stand by and do nothing, the system will forcibly take over your body, walk over to Hermione Granger in public, and sing her a soulful lullaby.]
Tamara's jaw locked. A vein pulsed dangerously at her temple.
Amidst the bewildered, wary stares of her fellow Slytherins, Tamara rose from her seat, her expression dark enough to summon a thunderstorm.
"Professor, please allow me to supplement Miss Granger's translation."
She stepped out from her desk, her strides elegant, measured, and carrying a faint, suppressed murderous intent.
Hermione shrank back, her eyes wide with terror as Tamara approached. She braced herself, fully expecting a vicious, mocking dressing-down.
But Tamara did not even spare her a glance. She stared straight ahead at the stone tablet, her voice low, steady, and dripping with quiet authority.
"That is not 'Ehwaz', but 'Eihwaz'. It represents death and absolute defense. The inscription reads: By the shadow of death, refuse all prying eyes of the living."
"Perfect! Absolutely flawless! Five points to Slytherin!" Professor Babbling clapped her hands together in sheer delight.
As polite applause rippled through the classroom, Tamara leaned down slightly, her hands moving over Hermione's desk under the guise of helping the flustered girl organize her scattered parchment.
With a flick of her wrist, a small, transparent glass vial slid from her sleeve. She pressed it firmly into the center of Hermione's palm.
It was a Lesser Invigoration Potion she had brewed casually while working on far more advanced concoctions—laced with a microscopic, diluted drop of golden bloodline residue. To the Dark Lord, it was worthless dregs. To an ordinary wizard, it was a top-tier elixir capable of instantly soothing frayed nerves and inducing a deep, restorative sleep.
The system only demanded she provide academic guidance and relieve the girl's fatigue. But Tamara's mind operated on a far sharper edge. If she simply lunged and ripped the Time-Turner from the Mudblood's neck, the system would undoubtedly strike her with a punishment severe enough to cause permanent social death.
Brute force was out of the question. She needed Granger to hand it over willingly. Perhaps even with tears of overwhelming gratitude.
Tamara leaned in close, her lips hovering mere inches from Hermione's ear.
A crisp, cool scent of cedar instantly washed over Hermione's exhausted senses, cutting through the stale air of the classroom.
"Your time... seems to pass much faster than others', Granger."
Tamara's voice was a silken, eerie whisper, carrying a heavy, suffocating pressure that suggested she saw through every layer of the girl's secrets.
Hermione's pupils dilated in sheer panic. It wasn't just the terrifying realization that her greatest secret had been laid bare. It was the proximity. Tamara was far too close. She could feel the faint warmth of the Slytherin's breath brushing against the shell of her ear, sending a strange, tingling numbness down her spine.
"If I were you, Granger," Tamara murmured, her tone dropping so low it existed only for the two of them. "I would drink this potion immediately. Then, I would return to my dormitory and sleep for a full twelve hours, rather than sitting here, overdrawing your already meager, pitiful life force."
Tamara closed Hermione's trembling fingers around the vial, straightened her posture, and glided back to her seat.
Hermione remained frozen, staring blankly at the strange, luminescent liquid swirling inside the glass. Her mind was a chaotic, tangled mess.
If any other Slytherin had handed her a mysterious potion, Hermione would have thrown it away immediately. Who knew what vile poison it contained?
But this was Tamara.
Tamara Riddle would never stoop to such crude, low-handed methods to harm her. If the high-and-mighty Slytherin princess truly wanted her dead, she wouldn't need a tiny glass vial to do it.
The crushing, agonizing fatigue throbbing deep within her brain shattered the last of her hesitation. Hermione pulled the cork free, tilted her head back, and swallowed the potion in one gulp.
The effect was instantaneous.
A powerful, soothing wave crashed over her nervous system. Hermione's head lolled heavily to the side, and she slumped onto her crossed arms, plunging into a deep, incredibly sweet sleep.
[Ding! Reward issued: Life +1. Current life: 37.]
[System Evaluation: Although your mouth is like a poisoned knife, this bottle of potion filled with love is the real deal! Host, you are truly too cute!]
'Scram,' Tamara spat silently into the void of her mind.
The surrounding Gryffindors finally noticed their friend collapsing and began to rise, alarm written across their faces. Before they could shout, Tamara turned her head toward the podium, her voice the picture of calm concern.
"Professor, Miss Granger appears to have fallen asleep due to excessive academic strain. I merely provided her with a mild soothing draught."
"Oh, the poor dear. She truly pushes herself too hard. Let her rest. Miss Riddle, you acted wonderfully." Professor Babbling beamed, casting a deeply appreciative look at Tamara for displaying such touching camaraderie toward a rival house.
"Since you possess such a deep understanding of ancient inscriptions, Miss Riddle, why don't you come up to the front?" Professor Babbling gestured enthusiastically toward the dark artifact. "Try touching the tablet with your magic. There is a very ancient, lingering dark intent trapped within it. Attempt to sense it. It will greatly benefit your study of runic structures."
A few muffled, suppressed snickers echoed from the back rows.
Several arrogant upperclassmen had already attempted to interact with the tablet before class began. The moment their fingers brushed the stone, the lingering, malicious curses had violently repelled them, leaving them dizzy, nauseous, and in one case, vomiting into a waste bin.
They watched Tamara from the corners of their eyes, eagerly waiting for the haughty, untouchable Slytherin genius to make a complete fool of herself. Watching the mighty fall was, after all, a basic human instinct.
Tamara let out a cold, mental scoff.
Testing the Dark Lord with a crumbling piece of garbage from a few centuries ago?
Her expression perfectly placid, Tamara stepped up to the podium. Without a single ounce of hesitation, she extended her pale, slender right hand and pressed her palm flat against the dark crimson patterns etched into the stone.
However.
The moment her skin made contact, things did not proceed as Tamara had anticipated.
The dormant, evil forces trapped within the stone—slumbering for hundreds of years—violently awakened. The moment they brushed against the sheer, bottomless abyss of Tamara's soul, they produced a frantic, deafening magical resonance.
The tablet, which had previously only emitted a faint, unsettling chill, suddenly erupted in a blinding, piercing explosion of crimson and pitch-black light.
Thick, oily black mist geysered from the cracks in the ancient stone. The shadows whipped through the air, wrapping around Tamara's pale wrist like countless desperate tentacles. They clung to her submissively, fervently, trembling as if bowing in absolute worship to a darkness far older and far more terrifying than themselves.
The temperature in the classroom plummeted to absolute zero in the span of a single heartbeat.
Thick, jagged frost spiderwebbed across the windowpanes. Students shrieked, scrambling backward over their desks. Even Professor Babbling let out a cry of terror, stumbling back three paces. Her face drained of all color as she frantically drew her wand.
"Miss Riddle! Let go! The curses are out of control!" Babbling screamed over the rushing wind.
Tamara stood perfectly still at the center of the maelstrom. She felt the desperate intimacy, the absolute submission of the black mist pressing against her soul. A fleeting, intoxicating thrill of arrogance and dark pleasure danced in her eyes.
This was the true essence of dark magic. It yielded only to absolute power. It bowed only to pure, unadulterated darkness.
Then, the disaster struck.
[Warning! Warning! Highest level alert!]
The system's shrill, mechanical alarm shrieked so loudly inside her head it nearly shattered her eardrums.
[Detected that the host is emitting an extremely dangerous, extremely evil Dark Lord aura!]
[This terrifying imagery completely violates the core principles of the virtue system: "gentle, friendly, and sunny"!]
[Emergency defense plan activated: Holy Halo Max—Absolute Purification!]
'You dare—!' Tamara roared in her mind, a surge of pure, murderous fury rising in her chest.
But the system's forced override was absolute. It offered no quarter, no chance for resistance.
At the exact moment the entire class watched in paralyzed horror, fully expecting the brilliant Slytherin to be swallowed whole by the ancient evil... a miracle occurred.
A blinding, incandescent white light—radiating absolute warmth, peace, and sickening holiness—detonated from within Tamara's body without a single warning.
The light was so blindingly pure, so utterly inviolable, it looked as though a seraphim had torn through the ceiling and descended upon the mortal plane.
Faced with this overwhelming, utterly unreasonable surge of holy radiance, the black mist that had been fervently worshiping Tamara let out a silent shriek. It dissolved instantly, vaporizing like dirty snow cast into a roaring furnace.
But the humiliation did not end there.
The blinding power of the Holy Halo surged down her arm, pouring directly into the ancient stone tablet.
Crack. Crack. CRACK.
The dense, heavy stone that had safely harbored dark magic for centuries began to violently fracture. Under the forced, merciless purification of the holy light, the artifact disintegrated from the inside out.
Right before the wide, disbelieving eyes of the entire class, the priceless historical tablet crumbled into a pathetic pile of fine, white ash. The powder drifted lazily off the pedestal, dusting the floorboards, completely devoid of any magical signature.
The blinding white light finally faded.
The classroom, which just seconds ago had felt like the deepest level of a frozen hell, was now bathed in a sensation akin to a warm spring breeze. The heavy, gloomy air was suddenly permeated with the crisp, clean scent of green grass after a light rain.
Dead silence reigned.
Five seconds passed. Then, a deafening, roof-shaking thunder of applause and breathless gasps erupted from the students.
"Merlin's beard..." Professor Babbling whispered. Though clearly pained by the total destruction of a newly unearthed historical artifact, her eyes were shining with overwhelming emotion. Tears actually spilled over her thick glasses. "Incredible... this is simply a miracle!"
She stepped forward, her voice trembling with awe. "Miss Riddle! To think you possess such an impossibly pure soul of light! Even the most malicious, deeply entrenched dark magic can only dissipate and be completely purified in your presence!"
Tamara stood frozen on the podium. Her right hand still hovered in the empty air where the tablet had been.
Faint, glittering motes of the holy light the system had forced upon her still clung to her robes, slowly drifting away like dandelion seeds.
She listened to the fanatical, breathless whispers echoing around the room. Pure soul. Child of light. Angel.
She slowly lowered her gaze to her hands. These were the hands that had orchestrated massacres. Hands that had casually snapped wands, created mountains of corpses, and torn apart countless souls without a second thought. And now, they were glowing with a sickeningly sweet, holy white light that represented love and peace.
The muscles in Tamara's face twitched, a stiff, jerky spasm she barely managed to control.
She stared down at the pathetic pile of white ash on the floor.
A wave of deep humiliation and visceral nausea—a sensation entirely worse than being force-fed ten kilograms of raw Flobberworm mucus—heaved from the pit of her stomach straight to the crown of her head.
Yet, as she slowly lifted her chin and met the starry-eyed, worshipful gazes of the pathetic sheep sitting below the stage...
Tamara forced the corners of her mouth upward, squeezing out an excruciatingly perfect, angelic smile.
"It is truly... my honor."
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