Chapter 227: Unexpected Discovery
"Kill him?"
Tamara's voice barely rose above a whisper, yet the temperature in the damp tunnel plummeted. Frost seemed to bite at the edges of the stone. A suffocating, invisible weight crashed down from the ceiling. Peter Pettigrew's knees gave out with a wet thud, driving him deep into the filthy, foul-smelling mud.
"Who gave you the audacity to command me, Wormtail?"
Tamara stared down at the trembling lump of flesh. The pitch-black of her irises bled out, instantly replaced by a soul-shuddering, venomous crimson. Disgust twisted her delicate features.
"Who gave you permission to leave the Forbidden Forest without my consent? To come scurrying here and eavesdrop like the sewer rat you are?"
The pathetic, fawning smile plastered across Peter's face shattered. Pure, unadulterated terror took its place. He pressed his belly into the muck, violently shivering as fat drops of cold sweat carved tracks through the grime on his cheeks.
"Mas... Master, please! Appease your anger!" he squeaked, his voice cracking. "I was only... I was only thinking of your safety!"
"For my safety?" A sharp, mocking laugh escaped Tamara's lips. It was the coldest sound Peter had ever heard. "Put away your clever little tricks, Wormtail. Do you honestly believe I cannot see through your pathetic, transparent schemes?"
She took a slow step forward, the heel of her shoe sinking into the mud inches from his nose.
"You heard whispers from those lowly rodents. You panicked, terrified that Black—currently hiding in the castle—would rush into the Forbidden Forest and rip your throat out. You were not considering me at all."
The truth hit Peter's sore spot. He convulsed, pressing his forehead so hard into the freezing mud he could taste the grit, not daring to draw a loud breath. As the Dark Lord, she had absolutely no obligation to explain her grand designs to a cowering rodent.
Tamara slowly crouched down. The oppressive, suffocating aura of Lord Voldemort flared, enveloping Peter entirely.
"Remember your place," she whispered, the crimson in her eyes glowing in the gloom. "Whether Sirius Black lives or dies is for me to decide. It is not a matter for a rat hiding in the gutters to dictate."
She stood back up, brushing an imaginary speck of dust from her robes.
"If I catch you leaving the Forbidden Forest without my explicit permission again, I will personally flay you alive and nail your pelt to the door of the Shrieking Shack. Now, get back to the forest."
It was the greatest pardon he could have hoped for. Peter scrambled backward on his hands and knees, his body shrinking and twisting until a gray rat with a missing toe took his place. He vanished miserably into the pitch-black depths of the tunnel, his tiny claws scraping frantically against the stone.
Scurrying through the dark, damp pipes, Peter's tiny heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird. He had never intended to leave the deep shadows of the Forbidden Forest. But just two days prior, frantic squeaks from the local field mice had warned him of a massive black dog prowling near the Shrieking Shack.
Peter knew instantly it was Sirius.
Blind panic had driven him from his hiding spot. He had desperately hoped to use the hand of the great Dark Lord—to trick her into casting a Killing Curse and permanently erasing the massive threat of Sirius Black!
But his brilliant plan had crumbled into dust. And in its wake, a chilling seed of doubt took root in the darkest corners of his mind.
'Something is not right...'He didn't stop running until he reached a hollowed-out tree root at the very edge of the Forbidden Forest. Curled into a trembling ball, his mind raced.'Master has changed. She would never have shown such hesitation before. If this were twelve years ago, anyone who dared threaten her—or even a mere pure-blood traitor—would have been met with a flash of green light. No questions. No hesitation!'
Why spare Black? This was not the Dark Lord who had slaughter and absolute dominance etched into her very bones!
Driven by a desperate need for answers, Peter kept his Animagus form and crept toward the towering silhouette of Hogwarts Castle. He slipped through cracks in the masonry, mingling with the swarms of fat, lazy rats near the kitchens and the damp corridor corners. He twitched his whiskers, using the crude language of beasts to trade gossip with the castle's permanent rodent residents.
'Squeak... That black-haired Slytherin girl?'A plump brown rat, lazily nibbling on a stolen biscuit crumb, twitched its nose and passed the chatter along.'She is wonderful! I hear the two-leggers talking. They say she saved everyone in the Chamber of Secrets! She even helps the little ones from other houses with their magic!'Another rat chimed in, scratching its ear.'Yes, yes! The two-leggers call her the perfect student. They say she is kinder than an angel!'
Listening to the mindless chattering of his peers, a block of solid ice formed in Peter's gut. The chill rushed from his tiny paws straight to his skull.
Kind? A good person? An angel?!
These sickening, ridiculous words were actually being used to describe the most brutal, heartless Dark Lord in history?!
Peter shivered violently, a terrifying realization blooming in his mind.
'Inside that girl's body... Master's soul truly resides there.'He huddled deeper into the shadows, despair washing over him.'But... she has lost it! She has lost Master's cruelty! Her decisiveness! She has been infected, assimilated by these pathetic, weak human emotions!''A Dark Lord who worries about the lives of others? A Dark Lord who tries to please these miserable children? How could she possibly protect me?!'
Peter was terrified of death. It consumed his every waking thought. He had betrayed James and Lily Potter to join Voldemort for one simple reason: Voldemort possessed absolute, crushing power.
But now? If this girl was merely a defective vessel—holding the soul but acting like a weeping saint—she would be useless. The moment his identity was exposed, she would never have the strength to shield him from Dumbledore or Black!
'No... I must see it with my own eyes. I must confirm if she is truly the Dark Lord!'
Late at night.
The eighth floor of Hogwarts Castle lay bathed in heavy silence. Tamara moved silently through the empty corridors, the silvery fabric of Harry Potter's Invisibility Cloak flowing over her shoulders like liquid water.
She needed to seize this perfect opportunity. Under the absolute cover of the cloak, she was heading straight for the Room of Requirement to retrieve Ravenclaw's Diadem. Sealed within that ancient artifact was another precious fragment of her soul. If she could just consume it, her magical core would stabilize further, granting her the raw power needed to finally resist the agonizing punishments of this damned Virtue System.
She approached the mix of Barnabas the Barmy attempting to teach trolls ballet. Tamara halted, her fingers gripping the edge of the cloak, preparing to pull it off.
Suddenly, a mild, conversational voice drifted out from the shadows.
"It is a wonderful night for a stroll. Harry's Invisibility Cloak is quite useful, isn't it?"
Tamara's entire body locked up. Her knuckles turned white as she gripped the silvery fabric.
Slowly, she turned her head. Albus Dumbledore stood casually at the corner of the corridor. Pale moonlight filtered through the narrow stained-glass windows, catching the edge of his half-moon spectacles and reflecting a sharp, inscrutable gleam.
Blaring alarm bells erupted in Tamara's mind.
'This meddling old fox! He was actually waiting for me here?'
"Headmaster Dumbledore."
Tamara took a slow, measured breath. In a fraction of a second, she buried the murderous gloom in her eyes, replacing it with the flawless, wide-eyed surprise and deep respect expected of Slytherin's top student. She pulled the cloak down, letting it pool around her feet.
"I... I just encountered a few bottlenecks while reviewing my Arithmancy notes. I thought a quiet walk might help me find some inspiration."
"Inspiration. Ah, what a wonderful word," Dumbledore murmured, nodding slowly. He didn't call out her obvious lie. Instead, the tone of his voice shifted, carrying a heavy, meaningful weight. "Speaking of inspiration, Professor Lupin submitted a rather fascinating class report to me recently. It concerned the third-year Boggart practical."
Dumbledore leaned forward slightly. His piercing blue eyes seemed to bore straight through her skull, searching the darkest corners of her soul.
"I was told that Miss Riddle's Boggart took the form of... a nun. One radiating holy light, speaking of love and peace?"
The air in the corridor froze solid.
Tamara's breath hitched. A wave of violent, physiological nausea churned in her stomach as the humiliating memory of "Sister Tamara" forced its way to the front of her mind.
But with Dumbledore's calculating gaze pinned on her, Tamara knew she had to deliver an absolutely flawless performance.
"Yes, Headmaster," she said softly. She lowered her eyelashes, her expression shifting into something deeply serious, tinged with a heavy, lingering bitterness. "I know it must sound entirely ridiculous to others, but... it is indeed my deepest fear."
She turned her head slightly, deliberately breaking eye contact to stare out at the cold moonlight spilling across the stone floor.
"I fear the sickening hypocrisy of Muggle religion, Professor."
Her voice dropped, taking on a calm, chilling edge laced with bone-deep sarcasm.
"In the orphanage, I watched those caretakers. They wore their sacred habits, clutched their wooden crosses, and their mouths never stopped murmuring about love, forgiveness, and divine redemption."
She let out a hollow breath.
"But the reality? When the children were starving, shivering in the dead of winter, or bleeding from the older boys' fists... they did nothing. They offered empty prayers and rigid dogmas to brush the suffering away."
It was a masterclass in manipulation. Tamara perfectly repackaged the Dark Lord's inherent arrogance and disgust for Muggles into a tragic, philosophical indictment of hypocrisy.
"I fear that one day, I might lose my independent will. That I might become just like them—a hollow puppet who shouts slogans of kindness, yet stands idly by while real suffering happens right in front of me... and feels entirely self-satisfied while doing it."
Dumbledore listened in absolute silence. The seconds stretched on until he finally let out a long, soft sigh.
"A very... pragmatic, and deeply deep insight, Miss Riddle."
The ancient headmaster did not push back. Instead, the hard edge in his eyes softened into a complex mixture of relief and genuine pity.
"I only hope that your fierce persistence for truth and self-reliance will always guide you along the path of light. Take care that your hatred for hypocritical good does not push you into the arms of genuine evil."
He paused, letting the heavy words settle between them.
Then, the oppressive atmosphere vanished. A sudden, mischievous twinkle returned to his blue eyes as he gestured toward the silvery fabric pooled at her feet.
"However, I must admit, I was quite surprised to see you wearing that particular cloak. You know, it is Harry's most cherished possession."
Dumbledore offered a sly wink, his tone shifting into that of an old man thoroughly enjoying a bit of schoolyard gossip.
"For him to willingly lend it to you... It seems there is a rather heartening friendship blossoming between Gryffindor and Slytherin after all."
Hearing those words, Tamara's stomach violently revolted. She desperately wanted to projectile vomit her dinner directly onto the old fool's garish robes.
But Dumbledore was still watching her. Gritting her teeth so hard her jaw ached, Tamara forced a painfully bright, angelic smile onto her face.
"Mr. Potter is indeed very... generous, Professor."
Dumbledore seemed immensely satisfied with this answer. He chuckled heartily, giving her a warm nod before turning toward the marble staircase.
"It is quite late. Go back to your dormitory and rest early, child."
Tamara stood perfectly still, watching Dumbledore's back until he completely disappeared around the bend of the stairs.
The instant he was gone, the sweet, innocent disguise shattered like cheap glass. A vicious, arrogant sneer twisted her lips.
'Senile old fox. Did you really think you could see through the great Lord Voldemort with such pathetic, elementary probing?'
Yet, despite mocking Dumbledore's dullness, Tamara wasn't foolish. The old man was prowling the castle. Tonight was no longer a safe window to retrieve the Horcrux. Without a second of hesitation, she swept the rippling Invisibility Cloak back over her head. Her figure melted smoothly into the shadows, abandoning the eighth floor.
However, neither the Dark Lord nor the Headmaster had noticed they had an audience.
Tucked deep within the darkest recess of the corridor corner, a gray rat with a missing toe had witnessed the entire exchange.
Peter Pettigrew's beady eyes bulged with unbelievable shock and crushing disappointment.
She actually didn't attack him?! That was Albus Dumbledore! Lord Voldemort's absolute greatest enemy!
At such a point-blank distance, if that were the true Master—even with compromised magical strength—she would have unleashed a lethal curse without a fraction of a second's hesitation! At the very least, she would have leaked a chilling, suffocating aura of killing intent!
But what did this pathetic girl do?
She played the role of a well-behaved little student! She stood there discussing love, peace, and philosophy with Dumbledore, and even smiled about a blossoming friendship with Harry Potter?!
'She really has grown weak... She has been completely corrupted by the soft comforts of Hogwarts!'
Peter trembled violently. A blinding panic—the absolute terror of being abandoned to the wolves—drove him into a frenzy. His emotional state became so erratic he couldn't even maintain his Animagus form.
Flesh bubbled and bones cracked as he morphed back into a short, balding man, gasping for air against the stone wall.
"This is not my Master!" he wheezed, clutching his head. "Such a weak, pathetic vessel has no right to rule the Death Eaters! Let alone protect me!"
Trapped in the empty eighth-floor corridor, Peter began to pace back and forth like a headless fly, moving frantically opposite the mix of Barnabas the Barmy.
"I must find the real Master..." Peter murmured in absolute despair. He paced anxiously, his breathing ragged. Large drops of cold sweat dripped from his chin, splattering against the cold stone floor. "I need to find that great, brutal Dark Lord... I need him to protect me..."
He dragged his dirty fingernails across his scalp.
"Let me find the real Dark Lord! I need the real Dark Lord!"
Eyes squeezed shut, Peter neurotically repeated the desperate plea under his breath. Blinded by panic, he unknowingly walked back and forth in front of that exact stretch of blank wall three times.
Responding to his singular, desperate demand, a soft click echoed through the silent corridor.
Peter shuddered violently. He snapped his eyes open in terror, freezing in his tracks.
Right in front of him, on the solid stone wall that had been completely bare seconds ago, a highly polished wooden door had materialized out of thin air!
"Wha... what is this...?" Peter gasped, his rat-like eyes widening.
A base, scurrying instinct drove him forward. Swallowing the dry lump in his throat, his trembling hand reached out and pushed the brass handle.
The heavy door groaned open.
Presented before Peter's eyes was a cavernous room so vast it seemed to stretch into infinity. It was a towering, maze-like city built entirely from mountains of hidden junk, broken furniture, and discarded artifacts accumulated over centuries of Hogwarts history.
But Peter was in no mood to marvel at scrap metal and dusty books.
The very second the door opened completely, the faded Dark Mark branded into his left forearm erupted. A blinding, searing sting lanced through his veins!
"Hiss...!"
Peter violently clutched his left arm, dropping to one knee as he gasped in agony. But this sting was not mere physical torture. It was a resonance. A dark, magnetic pull echoing from the very depths of his soul.
The aura bleeding out from the depths of the room was far too familiar. Far too terrifying!
It bypassed his conscious mind, forcing his weak, trembling legs to stand. Like a puppet on strings, he was drawn involuntarily into the endless maze of hidden things.
He walked for what felt like hours, turning down narrow alleys of towering junk, until finally, his footsteps dragged to a halt.
He stood before a crumbling vanity table piled high with tarnished trinkets. There, resting quietly amidst the forgotten trash, sat an ancient, tarnished tiara. It was thick with centuries of dust, yet in the oppressive darkness, it pulsed with an eerie, ghostly blue light.
Ravenclaw's Diadem.
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