Chapter 110: Rules Are for the Weak
The first pale rays of dawn filtered down through the murky depths of the Black Lake, casting a sickly, shimmering green light across the stone walls of the Slytherin dungeons. Tamara Riddle stood entirely expressionless before the grand fireplace in her private dormitory.
Heaped within the heavy iron grate at her feet lay dozens of pounds of utterly repulsive Muggle romance novels. She had been forced to lug the wretched things all the way back from Gryffindor Tower the previous night, a humiliating labor that still made her blood boil.
She gave her holly wand a sharp, disdainful flick. A silent, wandless Fire-Making Spell roared to life. In mere seconds, the towering pile of rubbish—adorned with garish covers of weeping, bare-chested men and swooning women, reeking of cheap ink and cheaper sentiment—was entirely consumed, reduced to violently scattering grey ash.
The newly awakened Nagini had already reverted to her usual, infuriatingly silly self. The terrifying, frenzied state that had gripped the creature last night had vanished without a single trace.
At this precise moment, the black cat had her rear end stuck high in the air, batting her paws wildly as she hopped back and forth in front of the hearth. She was trying to catch the floating embers before they landed. Missing a particularly large flake of ash, she tumbled clumsily across the expensive Persian carpet, burying her nose in a pile of black soot. She let out a loud, entirely unbothered sneeze.
Finally, seemingly bored of her little game, the feline padded over to Tamara's boots. With practiced ease, she flopped heavily onto the stone floor, rolling onto her back to shamelessly expose the soft patch of white fur on her belly.
Tamara stared down coldly at the idiotic animal acting spoiled at her feet. Her gaze shifted to her perfectly polished leather boots, now thoroughly dusted with grey ash and shedding cat hair. A familiar, dangerous throbbing began to pulse at her temples.
Half an hour later, the sterile scent of potions filled the Hogwarts hospital wing.
Madam Pomfrey stood over a pristine white bed, her wand raised, running a diagnostic charm over the bouncing black cat for the third consecutive time. The matron's expression shifted rapidly from sheer shock, to utter bewilderment, and finally settled into a state of deep professional self-doubt.
"This... this is simply a medical miracle!" Madam Pomfrey murmured to herself, her voice trembling with disbelief. "She was completely petrified by the darkest of magic last night! The curse was absolute! How on earth did you do it, Miss Riddle?"
"I truly do not know, Madam." Tamara stood quietly to the side. Her deep, dark eyes were carefully arranged to display the exact, perfect ratio of lingering exhaustion and overwhelming relief.
"I just placed her on the bedside table and stayed awake with her through the night. When the sun rose this morning, she had simply recovered. Perhaps... perhaps she just pulled through on her own?"
Tamara offered a slow, vulnerable blink, directly triggering the passive effects of her [Harmless] skill.
Madam Pomfrey frowned, her brow furrowing as she pondered the impossible. Eventually, relying on decades of medical experience, she forced out a barely plausible rationalization.
"I suppose felines, as highly magical creatures, naturally possess a certain innate resistance to specific curses... Oh, Merlin be praised, it is truly a blessing amidst this terrible misfortune!"
Tamara nodded with perfect, angelic obedience. In the dark recesses of her mind, she let out a cold, mocking sneer. 'Excellent. The foolish woman did the work for me. That saves me the tedious effort of weaving a more elaborate lie.'
"However, you poor, dear child, you look far too pale. Staying up all night worrying must have completely drained your magical reserves."
Madam Pomfrey abruptly changed the subject, giving her wand a sharp wave. A tall glass of steaming fresh milk, emitting a thick, cloyingly sweet scent, floated steadily through the air and hovered right under Tamara's nose.
"Drink it. Every last drop. I will not permit you to leave this ward until I see that glass empty," the matron commanded, her tone adopting that strict, motherly authority that brooked absolutely no refusal.
The gentle relief painted on Tamara's face froze over instantly.
No student in the history of Hogwarts could say no to Poppy Pomfrey when she was in her element. Not even the Dark Lord.
Trapped under the matron's stern, unyielding gaze, Tamara reached out and grasped the warm glass. It was an act of supreme humiliation. She held her breath, tilted her head back, and forced the thick, warm liquid down her throat. All the while, her mind raged, viciously casting the Cruciatus Curse a thousand times over upon the memory of her sixteen-year-old self who had caused this mess.
Thanks to the chilling message smeared in blood across the second-floor corridor walls and the horrifying petrification incident from the previous night, the entirety of Hogwarts had plunged into an unmatched state of panic.
Hushed, fearful whispers echoed through every stone corridor. The Chamber of Secrets had instantly transformed into a forbidden, taboo subject that absolutely everyone was obsessively discussing.
By the time afternoon arrived, Tamara's patience had worn dangerously thin. She originally intended to retreat to the Library, seeking a quiet, isolated corner to calm her murderous mind. Instead, right between two towering rows of ancient bookshelves, she practically collided with Hermione Granger.
The insufferable Miss Know-It-All looked utterly unhinged, pacing the aisle like a caged Kneazle. Her brown hair was significantly bushier and more chaotic than usual. She was completely barricaded behind thick, heavy volumes of school history and massive Herbology dictionaries, and two deep, bruised-looking dark circles hung heavily beneath her eyes.
"Tamara!" Hermione gasped, her eyes widening as if she had just spotted a descending angel. She immediately leaned across the table, dropping her voice to a frantic whisper. "Thank Merlin you're here! Is your poor cat alright?"
"She is perfectly fine," Tamara replied, her voice a masterclass in gentle, practiced patience. "What exactly are you looking for?"
"I'm looking for clues about the Chamber of Secrets." Hermione bit her lower lip hard, her brown eyes blazing with that reckless, infuriating stubbornness so characteristic of a Gryffindor. "Harry told us how hard last night's event hit you. We have to help you! We must find out who this hidden Heir of Slytherin really is!"
A microscopic twitch seized the corner of Tamara's left eye. 'Idiots. You are looking right at her.'
"But I've already searched through every single relevant book in the general section!" Hermione continued, her voice rising in pitch before she caught herself and whispered again. "Every single record mentioning the Chamber has been checked out! I am absolutely certain the real answers are hidden in the original, unedited copy of Hogwarts: A History located in the Restricted Section!"
She thumped her fist against the wooden table in sheer frustration.
"By all rights, I should just go to Professor Lockhart and get a library permission slip signed. But when I remember that he is nothing but a preening buffoon—a complete fraud who couldn't even handle a cage of Cornish pixies—I feel physically ill! Asking that man for a signature is simply an insult to my intelligence!"
Having spent so much time observing Tamara—a genuinely powerful, impossibly elegant, and flawlessly composed honor student—Hermione had long since shattered her rose-tinted glasses regarding Gilderoy Lockhart. Next to Tamara's quiet brilliance, the Defense professor was nothing more than a boasting clown.
Right on cue, that hauntingly cheerful, synthetic voice exploded within the confines of Tamara's mind.
[Ding! Detected a precious student thirsting for knowledge facing a terrible academic dilemma!]
[System Task: Guide of Knowledge! Please assist Hermione Granger in entering the Restricted Section to satisfy her noble desire to seek the truth! Task Reward: Wisdom +1]
[Failure Penalty: During the next Defense Against the Dark Arts class, you must stand upon the professor's podium and shout at the top of your lungs: "Everyone, eyes on me! I declare that Gilderoy Lockhart is the greatest Professor in the entire world!"]
Tamara slowly closed her eyes. She drew in a long, measured breath, fighting a desperate, agonizing battle to suppress the tidal wave of pure, unadulterated killing intent surging through her veins.
If this wretched System had demanded she duel a fully grown Hungarian Horntail, or ordered her to dive into the freezing depths of the Black Lake to rip a Giant Squid apart with her bare hands, the once-feared Dark Lord would not have even blinked. She would have welcomed the slaughter.
But this... this penalty was a fate worse than death.
Tamara opened her eyes and looked down at the distressed Gryffindor beside her. She would much rather help this mudblood uncover the so-called truth about the Chamber of Secrets than ever utter those cursed words.
The irony of it all tasted like ash on her tongue. As the true, undisputed Heir of Slytherin, she was more intimately familiar with the layout of the Chamber of Secrets than she was with her own dormitory's bathroom!
She knew exactly where her ancient, scaled pet was slumbering at this very second. She knew the precise Parseltongue syllables required to command the rusted snake carving on the copper tap in the second-floor girls' lavatory. She even knew the deepest, darkest secrets left behind by Salazar Slytherin himself regarding the splitting of the human soul. She knew it all!
Yet, Tamara could not breathe a single word of it.
Not only was she forced to play the role of the ignorant victim, but now she was being blackmailed by a glowing blue interface into helping a Gryffindor break into the library to steal a book.
"...If it is truly to uncover the truth," Tamara finally said, her voice dropping to an impossibly calm, silken register. "Then we have no need for that kind of bureaucratic scrap of paper. Besides..."
Tamara cast a slow, sweeping glance around the quiet Library. Her dark eyes gleamed with a chilling, hidden amusement.
"The real truth is rarely laid out neatly on a Library shelf."
"But Tamara..." Hermione protested, her brow furrowing with genuine anxiety. "I haven't gotten an authorized signature from Professor Lockhart yet. Without a teacher's permission, Madam Pince will absolutely not let us anywhere near the Restricted Section. She guards that gate like a Cerberus!"
Hearing the sheer panic in the girl's voice, Tamara sneered inwardly. 'A signature? Permission?'
The very concept was laughable. When did she, the greatest Dark Lord of the age, ever require a preening buffoon's permission to walk the halls of her own castle?
"Granger."
Tamara leaned in slightly. The ambient light caught the depths of her black eyes, flashing with the dangerous, absolute arrogance of a supreme predator.
"Rules are merely shackles designed to bind the weak," she whispered, her tone smooth and hypnotic. "In this Castle, as long as you possess enough strength, you do not need anyone's permission."
She straightened her posture, looking down at the bushy-haired girl with an authority that brooked absolutely no argument.
"Meet me at the Library entrance. Midnight tonight."
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