Chapter 108: An Accident
Late at night, the sprawling stone corridors of Hogwarts Castle fell into a suffocating, dead silence.
Deep within the damp chill of the Slytherin dungeons, Tamara Riddle stood motionless beside her desk. Her pitch-black eyes stared blankly down at the stiff, unblinking form of a black cat laid flat across the polished wood.
She had played her part flawlessly tonight. By weeping over the tragic loss of her beloved pet, she had projected the fragile vulnerability of a perfect, heartbroken victim. The performance had been so utterly convincing that the Slytherin prefects, entirely out of misplaced sympathy for their uncrowned queen, had petitioned Professor Snape. They had secured her a private dormitory—free from the prying eyes of useless roommates—so she could process her deep grief in peace.
It was exactly what she needed. Solitude was a luxury for a Dark Lord forced to play the saint.
She certainly possessed zero inclination to actually save the wretched creature right now. Tamara knew the rules of this absurd game perfectly well: if a supposedly ordinary student miraculously cured a beast petrified by ancient, high-level Dark Magic, Albus Dumbledore would be inviting her up to the Headmaster's office for lemon drops and a thorough Legilimency probe by breakfast.
Worse still, if she revealed such capability, every petrified Mudblood in this miserable school would be dumped at her doorstep for endless moral extortion.
'Just stay here and be a quiet, stiff little ornament,'she thought coldly, her gaze sweeping over the cat's rigid whiskers.'At least until those incompetent professors finally manage to cultivate a batch of Mandrakes.'
With a fluid flick of her wrist, a slender silver knife slid from her sleeve into her waiting palm.
Her only interest in this feline corpse was the residual magical signature clinging to its fur. By dissecting those faint, lingering fluctuations, she could precisely calculate exactly how much life force that arrogant, sixteen-year-old soul fragment had managed to leech away from its host. She needed to know exactly how dangerous her own diary had become.
Tamara narrowed her eyes, leaning in close. She pressed the cold silver edge against the cat's stiff forehead, intending to scrape away a few strands of fur heavily eroded by the curse.
But the moment the metal made contact, the situation spiraled out of control.
The Basilisk's petrification was exceptionally domineering. The dark magic had transfigured the delicate feline hairs into something as impenetrable as dragon scales.
More fatally, the diary had left behind a sinister, coiled trap of residual magic—a blatant show of force from her younger self. The instant Tamara applied pressure to the blade, the magic within her and the magic clinging to the cat recognized each other. Two sources of power, originating from the exact same soul yet fiercely repelling one another, collided in a violent, invisible shockwave.
A sharp, stinging numbness shot up Tamara's wrist. The silver knife jerked violently, slipping across the hardened fur and slicing deep into her own left index finger.
"Hiss..." She sucked in a sharp breath.
Driven by the volatile clash of pure magic, a single drop of blood welled up from the cut. It did not look like normal blood. It emitted a faint, radiant glow, shimmering like liquid molten gold. Before she could stop it, the golden droplet flew uncontrollably from her wound and landed squarely on the tip of the black cat's rigid nose.
This was the cursed golden bloodline forcibly shoved into her veins by that wretched System. It contained an ocean of pure, untainted magic, making it an unimaginably precious alchemical catalyst. Recognizing its value as a top-tier magical medium, Tamara had developed a habit of secretly bleeding herself every month, carefully extracting and storing the golden liquid in specialized, rune-carved potion vials.
Yet, driven by a Dark Lord's bone-deep paranoia and relentless caution, she always ensured one final, concentrated drop remained circulating within her heart. It was her absolute trump card—a fail-safe designed for a near-death counterattack or a fatal crisis.
And now.
This irreplaceable, life-saving trump card... had just been casually flung onto the nose of a stupid, petrified feline because of a damned magical rebound!
Tamara's pupils constricted into tiny, furious pinpricks. "Damn it—"
Her hand shot out to wipe it away, but she was a fraction of a second too late.
The golden droplet seemed to possess a sentient hunger of its own. It instantly seeped into the black cat's pores, vanishing beneath the hardened skin. A heartbeat later, a brilliant, warm golden halo rippled outward from the cat's snout like a tidal wave. Wherever that holy light passed, the dull, gray stiffness of the Basilisk's curse melted away, dissolving as rapidly as fresh snow beneath a blazing summer sun.
Deep within the chaotic, fragmented memories of the feline mind, Bella only recalled wandering the damp stones of the first-floor corridors earlier that night. Suddenly, her unnervingly keen animal senses had caught a trace of something impossible. A familiar, intoxicating, yet strangely hostile aura.
It was the distinct scent of the Dark Lord—her glorious Master—but it absolutely did not belong to the girl she currently served.
Driven by a fanatical instinct etched deep into her very soul, the black cat had melted into the shadows, silently tracking the scent. She trailed the dark magic all the way to the flooded corridors outside the second-floor girl's bathroom. Crouching behind a stone pillar, Bella had watched with her own eyes as that pathetic, red-haired Weasley girl moved with eerie, frantic jerks, smearing eye-searing crimson blood across the ancient walls.
Bella had arched her spine, baring her razor-sharp claws. She had been fully prepared to pounce and tear the throat out of the little fool daring to act so wildly in her Master's territory.
But just as her hind legs coiled to spring—a pair of massive, ancient, yellow vertical pupils had abruptly reflected in the murky puddles on the floor.
And then, the world went black. She became nothing more than a senseless, heavy block of stone.
So, when the overwhelming warmth of the golden blood forcibly dragged her back to consciousness, the first thing Bella's dazed eyes registered was Tamara's familiar, beautiful face looming over her.
Inside her already scrambled, none-too-clear feline brain, a set of highly twisted, utterly deranged logic unique to Bella began to rapidly process the situation.
'Why didn't Master petrify that stupid red-haired girl? Why was I the one chosen to endure this glorious punishment?'A strange, electric shiver suddenly ran through her furry black body.'Oh! This must be some kind of special, intimate treatment!'
In Bella's fanatical, deeply disturbed perception, even a brutal curse from the Master was a supreme, unmatched honor. It proved that in the Dark Lord's eyes, she was still the most special servant of all! She was the only one worthy of Master's personal, hands-on discipline!
Any lingering grievance instantly evaporated, transforming into a morbid, overwhelming sense of adoration.
"Meow—!!"
As if injected with a lethal dose of adrenaline, Bella sprang up from the wooden table. Her limbs trembled with sheer ecstasy as she lunged directly at Tamara, frantically rubbing her sleek head against the girl's bleeding fingers.
A string of morbidly excited, high-pitched cries tore from her throat.
'Master! You finally noticed me! Punish me again! Break me! Whatever is your dark will!'
Unfortunately, this deep, cross-species declaration of absolute loyalty fell upon Tamara's ears as nothing more than a string of deafening, piercing yowls.
Tamara did not speak cat. Her entire mind was currently fixated on the agonizing loss of her fatal drop of golden blood. Staring down at this overly energetic, incredibly stupid animal, she felt a massive migraine pulsing behind her eyes.
She had actually cured a Basilisk's petrification because of a pathetic, low-level physical mistake!
'If Dumbledore asks about this tomorrow...'
Tamara's brilliant mind spun into overdrive, rapidly weaving a flawless, airtight alibi. She would tell everyone it was a complete, unrepeatable fluke. She would claim the cat had only seen the reflection, meaning it wasn't fully petrified, making it theoretically curable. She would say the stiffened animal had accidentally rolled off the edge of the desk, crashing directly into a cauldron she had been using to brew a standard Pepperup Potion. The volatile mixture of basic potion residues, combined with the beast's own severe magical stress response, had miraculously shattered the incomplete curse.
It was a freak, one-in-ten-million magical reaction. It absolutely, positively had nothing to do with Tamara Riddle possessing any miraculous, ancient healing capabilities.
And if that convoluted lie failed... she would simply widen her dark eyes, activate her System-mandated Harmless aura, let a single tear slip down her cheek, and pretend to know absolutely nothing. She could bluff her way through anything.
"Shut up, you noisy fool," Tamara hissed, violently shaking the cat's clinging head off her hand with utter disgust. A dangerous, freezing light flickered in the depths of her pitch-black eyes. "If you ever dare run around the castle like a headless fly again, I will personally gut you and turn you into a permanent desk specimen."
Bella opened her mouth, wanting to let out two more whimpers of devoted grievance.
But Tamara's patience had entirely evaporated. With a lazy, perfunctory flick of her wand, she cast the spell.
"Stupefy."
A silent flash of red light struck the black cat squarely between the ears. Bella's yellow eyes rolled back into her skull, and she slumped heavily onto the polished wood, instantly emitting faint, rhythmic snores.
Tamara exhaled a long, slow breath, casually dragging her wand over her bleeding fingertip to seal the cut. Since this furry little hot potato had been accidentally resurrected, she needed to immediately assess her current standing. Within the walls of Hogwarts, even the tiniest, most insignificant abnormality was enough to attract the piercing gaze of that old, bearded madman.
'System,'Tamara commanded sharply in her mind.'Immediately pull up Albus Dumbledore's current suspicion level toward me. I need to know if my little accident tonight has triggered any alarms on his end.'
[Ding! Query successful!]
The System's sickeningly cheerful, perky electronic voice instantly chimed in her head:
[Albus Dumbledore's current suspicion level toward you is: 10% (Though a baseline level of suspicion is entirely inevitable given your naturally gloomy personality and striking appearance, this value firmly falls under the category of 'Extremely Trusting and Filled with an Elder's Warm Affection'!)]
Tamara's brow furrowed so sharply it ached. A rare flash of genuine, unfiltered astonishment pierced through the cold depths of her dark eyes.
How could it possibly be that low?
She had certainly worked tirelessly to make Dumbledore lower his guard through a series of sickeningly sweet, perfect disguises. But just prior to the Halloween feast, that old man's suspicion meter had still been hovering right at the edge of the dangerous warning line! How could there be such a massive, cliff-like drop in his paranoia?
'What exactly happened? When did his suspicion level plummet like that?' Tamara demanded, her mental voice sharp as a razor.
[Oh, Host, did you already forget?] The System's voice took on a leisurely, almost musical cadence, clearly fishing for praise. [It happened just a few days ago! Inside the Room of Requirement, you held that deeply moving, cross-house extracurricular tutoring session! You helped students from all four houses with such boundless love and patience! Once Headmaster Dumbledore learned of your selfless dedication, his lingering prejudice against you completely melted away like butter in a pan!]
Room of Requirement.
Those three words hit Tamara like a bucket of ice-cold water, instantly drenching her from the crown of her head straight down to the soles of her feet. She felt a terrifying, paralyzing chill surge violently up her spine.
The Room of Requirement was supposed to be Hogwarts' deepest, most absolute secret space! How in the name of Salazar Slytherin could Dumbledore possibly know what she was doing inside it?!
Portraits? Ghosts? Or... did some fundamental aspect of that magical room tie directly into Dumbledore's hidden surveillance network?
That decrepit old bastard actually had a reach that long!
If she hadn't been wasting her time tutoring those drooling imbeciles... If she had actually used that opportunity to blatantly recover Ravenclaw's Diadem...
Tamara's fingers clamped around her wand. She gripped the polished wood so tightly her knuckles turned a stark, bone-white from the sheer, intoxicating mixture of extreme fear and towering rage.
'Such fatal intelligence!'Tamara roared in her mind, her jaw locking so hard her teeth ground together.'Dumbledore's suspicion level dropping significantly based on my actions in a hidden room means he is actively tracking my movements! Why didn't you alert me the exact second this happened?!'
[Ding...]
The System's voice suddenly shifted, adopting a highly aggrieved, obnoxiously pretentious tone.
[How can you possibly blame me, Host? At that exact moment, I had just finished issuing your virtue rewards and was fully prepared to broadcast this hidden log! But you quite fiercely shouted 'shut up' at me in your mind.]
[As an incredibly considerate, top-tier System that absolutely obeys its Host's commands, I respected your boundaries! Since you didn't want to hear my voice, I naturally had to swallow those critical updates right back down into my digital stomach~]
Tamara stood frozen in the center of the dungeon, her chest heaving violently beneath her robes.
If this damned System possessed a physical form, she swore upon her very soul that she would use the cruelest, most agonizing Dark Magic ever invented to slowly tear it into ten thousand bloody pieces.
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