Chapter 170: Robbery
After leaving the orphanage, Quirrell took Tamara onto the international magical train, the Eurostar Express.
Compared to the Hogwarts Express, a steam train filled with the chatter of underage wizards, this magical train, which catered specifically to adult wizards, was clearly much quieter.
With money paving the way, they booked a top tier luxury sleeper compartment.
The Dark Lord, of course, was not short on money.
But Tamara had no worldly greed for gold coins themselves.
In her eyes, wealth was merely a tool, a ladder leading to the peak of power, not the ultimate goal.
She had once thrown piles of gold into expensive Dark Arts experiments, rare cursed relics, and the war expenses required to keep the Death Eaters running without the slightest hesitation.
So much so that by the end, this Dark Lord, who had struck terror into the wizarding world, actually had very few Galleons left in hand.
As for paying salaries to subordinates?
In Lord Voldemort's philosophy of rule, that was simply a joke.
Being able to serve the great Dark Lord was itself the highest honour for the Death Eaters.
So when Tamara saw Quirrell pull out a heavy bag of Galleons in front of the conductor without the slightest trace of heartache to buy this expensive compartment, a rare flash of doubt crossed her slightly arched brows.
"Where did you get the money?"
Tamara walked into the compartment, casually glanced at the luxurious interior decorations, and asked in a cold tone.
Quirrell immediately bowed respectfully and replied in that thin, trembling voice.
"Re... reporting to Master, this is the salary from my past six months or so serving as a professor at Hogwarts."
"And some savings accumulated from my previous travels. As long as I can serve you, everything I have is yours."
Hearing this, a mocking sneer tugged at the corner of Tamara's mouth.
That old fox Dumbledore, who prided himself on his wisdom, would never have imagined that the salary he personally approved for the Defense Against the Dark Arts professor would end up funding the Dark Lord's private train journey through Eastern Europe.
The brass door of the compartment, embedded with a Silencing Charm, was locked tightly, completely cutting off all outside gazes and noise.
Tamara closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the air inside the compartment, which carried a faint scent of agarwood.
The next second, the Tamara Riddle who always maintained the air of a top student at Hogwarts vanished.
She casually tossed her black robes aside and cast a Sleeping Charm to knock out the stupid cat that kept shrieking from time to time.
After doing all this, Tamara slowly sat back on the dark red velvet sofa with a lazy, arrogant, and dangerous posture.
Her long legs were crossed, one hand resting casually on the armrest, her index finger rhythmically tapping the leather surface.
Those pitch black eyes, which she usually kept slightly lowered to feign innocence, were now fully raised, with chilling cruelty and coldness swirling within them.
"Take off that stupid hat, Quirrell."
Tamara glanced down at the uneasy Aunt Quirina, her voice carrying a tone of casual intimidation.
"In my presence, you no longer need to play that ridiculous old woman."
"Ye... yes, Master."
Quirrell, as if granted a great reprieve, hurriedly took off the wide brimmed hat and clumsily used Scourgify to remove the thick layer of foundation from his face, restoring his original pale, thin features.
But he still did not dare to sit down. He merely bowed his head respectfully and stood to the side in front of the sofa.
"Speak."
Tamara picked up a cup of black tea from the table and took a light sip.
"How is the situation over in the Albanian forest?"
Hearing the Dark Lord's inquiry, Quirrell immediately focused all his attention and poured out the information he had gathered in Eastern Europe over the past few months.
"Master, the outskirts of that black forest have been somewhat tense lately. Since... the Philosopher's Stone incident last year, that old fox Dumbledore has clearly alerted the International Confederation of Wizards."
Quirrell cautiously observed Tamara's expression, swallowed, and continued.
"The local Ministry of Magic's Aurors found a large number of animal carcasses in the forest, all dead in extremely bizarre ways, even leaving behind heavy traces of Dark Arts. So they sent people in to search a few times, but they found nothing and quickly retreated out of fear of the miasma deep inside."
Tamara's expression did not change. She nodded, signalling for Quirrell to continue.
Quirrell carefully watched Tamara's expression again. Seeing that she showed no major reaction, he swallowed and went on.
"That wandering soul... indeed fled back to the depths of the forest, but he is extremely weak now. He can only survive by possessing snakes, insects, and rats. He does not dare show himself at all."
Seemingly afraid that Tamara would blame him for not pulling the problem up by the roots, Quirrell's face turned pale, and he hurriedly explained with a trembling voice.
"I didn't act rashly... Although that wandering soul is extremely weak, he has no physical form after all. Ordinary Killing Curses and destructive magic cannot completely eliminate a mass of pure soul, and..."
Quirrell's body shook uncontrollably, as if recalling something of extreme terror.
"And once close, I feared he would be driven to desperation and forcibly possess someone again to survive... So I strictly followed your instructions. I only monitored his movements from the edge and never alerted him."
"You did well, Quirrell."
A cold light of contempt flashed in Tamara's eyes.
As she expected, this remnant soul had not given up on returning to the forests of Albania.
Now, whether in terms of sanity, potential, or soul integrity, she had far surpassed that madman struggling to survive in the forest.
But her trip to Albania this time was not to mock that failure.
"What about my camp?"
Tamara set down her teacup, her gaze sharpening.
"The private camp I left in the heart of the forest. Has he laid hands on it?"
This was her primary concern.
In that camp, while there were not many assets, there was Priest and her dragon.
Though they shared the same origin, in Lord Voldemort's dictionary, the word share never existed.
"No, Master! Absolutely not!" Quirrell hurriedly assured her. "I've observed from a distance. That wandering soul is so weak now that he can't even cast a Levitation Charm. He has no way of entering your camp!"
"Very good."
Tamara curled her lips in satisfaction.
As long as the camp remained, as long as those resources and armies were still there, she could once again rule over that dark world in her most perfect form.
The international train slowed to a stop at a small border station in Eastern Europe.
Although the compartment was luxurious, the stuffy air made Tamara feel somewhat irritable.
She frowned, gestured for Quirrell to stay inside, then pushed open the brass door embedded with protective charms and stepped into the narrow carriage corridor for some air.
Bang!
The connecting door to the adjacent standard carriage was suddenly kicked open violently.
Three adult wizards wearing worn leather coats burst in.
They all clutched wands in their hands, their eyes reflecting the greed and ferocity characteristic of exiled Dark wizards in Eastern Europe.
Clearly, these were the train robbers common along the border.
They did not dare force their way into the magically protected luxury compartments, so they could only search for lone victims in the corridors.
"Well now, sorry to disturb... look what we have here? A beautiful little lost lamb?"
The leader, a Dark wizard with a scar on his face, gave a strange laugh, his eyes greedily scanning Tamara as she stood alone in the corridor.
"It's not very peaceful on this border train. Hand over all the Galleons and valuable magical items you have, and maybe, if we're in a good mood, we'll let you live."
The narrow corridor fell into a brief, deathly silence.
Faced with this menacing threat, Tamara did not scream or beg for mercy as they expected. She did not even show a trace of panic.
She simply stood there expressionlessly, her deep black eyes widening for a split second as if she had heard the most absurd joke.
Robbery?
Robbing the Dark Lord?
One really could not blame Tamara for her slow reaction.
In those long and terrifying decades past, even if Albus Dumbledore or the Minister for Magic stood before her, they would only grip their wands in full alert.
Seeking a toll from Lord Voldemort was truly a niche and creative way to die.
So much so that her mind, accustomed to conspiracies and slaughter, failed for a moment to connect these people's foolish behaviour with her own situation.
The beautiful young girl did not react at all, even looking at him as if he were some rare kind of idiot.
Scarface thought she had been paralysed with fear and impatiently rapped the corridor wall with his wand, snarling louder.
"Are you deaf, brat? I told you to hand over your valuables! Don't you understand human speech?"
With the second crude shout, Tamara finally snapped out of her absurd bewilderment.
Not only was there no panic from being robbed, but a cruel and excited smile instead appeared on her pale, exquisite face.
She tilted her head slightly, her slender fingers casually pointing to herself, her tone carrying a somewhat novel surprise.
"Are you... talking to me?"
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