Chapter 113: Playing the Role
November in the Scottish Highlands brought a bitter, howling gale. Icy rain slashed through the air like thousands of tiny, freezing blades, scraping mercilessly across the Hogwarts Quidditch Pitch. Beneath a heavy, leaden sky, the match between Slytherin and Gryffindor remained locked in a miserable stalemate.
Tamara Riddle sat at the very apex of the Slytherin stands. She was cocooned in a premium dragon-hide cloak, its surface thrumming with a high-level Warming Charm. From her comfortable, dry vantage point, she looked down coldly at the fools shivering in the freezing wind, their voices hoarse from screaming for their respective houses.
'Truly barbaric, boring monkey business,' she sneered inwardly, ruthlessly categorizing the entire sport.
However, the flying broomsticks weren't the primary source of her annoyance today.
"Oh, look at that wind! I must say, if it were me up there, I'd only need to apply a tiny Airflow Vortex Charm to the tail of my broom to perfectly offset the drag from this crosswind!"
A high-pitched, endlessly boastful voice drifted over from less than five meters away.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
The famous Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor had chosen to wear blindingly bright pink robes trimmed with spun gold—a sartorial disaster that clashed violently with the gloomy, rain-soaked weather. To make matters worse, a flamboyant peacock feather bobbed from the brim of his hat. He stood before a gaggle of starry-eyed Hufflepuff girls, gesticulating wildly as he provided his own running commentary of the match, effortlessly weaving in promotions for his entirely fabricated heroic deeds.
"Back when I was watching a match in Transylvania, I once caught a runaway Bludger with my bare hands! That heavy iron ball stopped right in my palm, completely subdued..."
"Simply nauseating." Draco Malfoy rolled his eyes in deep disgust. Sitting beside Tamara, he pitched his voice just loud enough for the surrounding Slytherins and the neighboring Ravenclaws to hear.
In truth, thanks to the seven brand-new Nimbus 2001s that Malfoy Manor had generously donated to the Slytherin team at the start of the term, Captain Marcus Flint had fully intended to hand Draco the prime position of Seeker as a trade-off. But on the first day of school, Tamara had coldly remarked that "only incompletely evolved monkeys would ride wooden sticks to grab a ball in the freezing wind." Hearing that, Draco had rejected Flint's offer without a second thought, thoroughly agreeing with her assessment.
also, ever since he began attending Tamara's after-school tutoring sessions in the Room of Requirement, Draco had banished amateur sports from his mind entirely. He now spent his days desperately practicing his magical output and advanced spellwork. Compared to being a conspicuous, rain-soaked showman in the sky, he craved the raw, obvious magical power that could truly trample Gryffindor underfoot. He absolutely could not afford to lose face in Tamara's class.
"I doubt he can even recite a basic Impediment Jinx properly," Draco muttered, his tone dripping with aristocratic disdain. "My father is right. Dumbledore really is senile, actually finding this kind of trash to teach us."
"Exactly," Pansy Parkinson sneered, curling her lip at the pink-clad professor. "He can't even compare to a single strand of Tamara's hair."
Blaise Zabini leaned in, his dark eyes carrying a rare, sincere respect. "If Tamara were to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts... well, at least those thirty minutes in the Room of Requirement teach us more than listening to this peacock brag for an entire term."
This discussion wasn't deliberately hushed. Across the aisle, Hermione Granger sat on the very edge of the Gryffindor section. Hearing Lockhart's endless self-aggrandizement, she couldn't help but frown deeply.
"He just mispronounced the syllables for a simple Impervius Charm," Hermione whispered to herself, watching the hem of Lockhart's pink robes soak up the muddy rainwater like a sponge. "If he really teaches us how to deal with vampires, we'll probably only learn how to pack ourselves up and deliver ourselves directly to their dinner table."
At that thought, Hermione turned her head, looking across the aisle at Tamara with an incredibly admiring, trusting gaze. 'If Tamara were to teach Defense Against the Dark Arts, we would definitely learn something truly useful this term.'
Catching these whispered conversations over the howling wind, Tamara lowered her eyelashes slightly. No emotion surfaced on her exquisite, pale face, but deep within her pitch-black eyes, a flicker of immense, gratified pleasure danced quietly.
They were just a group of eleven and twelve-year-old children, yes. But this heartfelt esteem, this absolute submission, still greatly satisfied the arrogance and vanity etched deep into the Dark Lord's bones. That old fool Dumbledore would rather hire a piece of trash who couldn't even handle a House-elf than acknowledge the sheer excellence of Tamara Riddle.
But so what?
In the hearts of these students, she had already usurped the professor personally appointed by the Headmaster. She didn't need that ridiculous, cursed title. She herself was the absolute academic authority of Hogwarts. The thrill of mentally stripping Dumbledore of his control made Tamara's mood exceptionally pleasant.
However, this rare good mood did not last.
BANG!
A dull, explosive crack suddenly echoed from mid-air, cutting through the sound of the rain. The students in the stands let out a collective gasp of horror.
Tamara lazily lifted her gaze toward the gloomy sky above the pitch. A heavy, pitch-black Bludger was acting like a rabid dog. It completely ignored the other players, bypassed the Slytherin Beaters entirely, and doggedly chased a single red-robed figure on a lethal, unyielding trajectory.
Harry Potter.
That Bludger had clearly been tampered with. Its speed was startling, tearing through the rain with a vicious whistle. Every sharp turn it made carried a clear, murderous intent, as if it wouldn't stop until it smashed the Savior's head into a bloody pulp.
"Whoa! Potter's in trouble!" Draco whistled, leaning over the railing with malicious excitement. "Hit him! Hit him! Knock him off his broom!"
Harry dodged frantically, darting clumsily through the wind and rain. He forced his Nimbus 2000 into several thrilling, desperate death rolls in mid-air. The heavy iron ball clipped past his ear, bringing a violent gust of wind that made the spectators' scalps tingle.
Tamara watched the one-sided pursuit with cold, calculating eyes. The corners of her mouth curled up slightly.
'Who did this?'She sifted through her mind, calculating the motives of everyone in the castle, but couldn't find a logical culprit.'It doesn't matter.'
Whoever it was, as long as they made Potter suffer, she was more than happy to sit back and watch the show. If this rogue iron ball managed to snap Potter's neck, she would practically forge an Order of Merlin, First Class, and award it to the Bludger herself.
Just as Tamara settled into her seat, preparing to leisurely enjoy this Passion of the Savior, the mechanical voice she hated to her very core boomed in her mind like a death knell.
[Ding! Emergency high-risk event triggered!]
[Detected that your close friend, the rising star of the wizarding world—Harry Potter, is under lethal threat from a Bludger!]
[As a moral benchmark of Hogwarts and a confidante big sister to your classmates, how can you stand by and watch your friend fall in the wind and rain?]
[Forced Task: Friendly Beater!]
[Task Requirement: Please use magic immediately to covertly and precisely shatter that crazy Bludger and save your friend!]
[Task Reward: Love +2]
The cold, amused smile on Tamara's lips froze instantly.
Sitting in the freezing stands, listening to that sickeningly perky notification echo in her skull, an unmatched sense of absurdity and cold panic suddenly coiled around her heart like a venomous snake.
'Close friend?'
Tamara's breathing hitched. She snapped back to reality, and the fragmented memories of the past six months flashed through her mind like a rapidly spinning carousel.
Enduring the noisy chatter of these fools on the Hogwarts Express.
Fighting the main soul in the Forbidden Forest to protect them.
Patiently tutoring them in the Room of Requirement.
Even traveling to that poverty-stricken, dirt-floored Burrow to comfort a little red-haired girl whose head was stuffed with adolescent crushes...
'What was she doing?'
She, Tom Marvolo Riddle. The greatest, most cruel Dark Lord in wizarding history.
Had she actually been subtly playing the role of a good person for the past six months?!
She had originally convinced herself it was all an act. She was just using the system's ridiculous rules to farm points and seek benefits for herself. She was just treating these naive children as convenient stepping stones, tools she could discard into the mud at any given moment.
But unknowingly, this fragile, beautiful shell, combined with this damned system, was stripping away her original tyranny bit by bit. It was reshaping her behavioral logic, boiling the frog in warm water!
This wasn't just the imprisonment of her physical body.
This was the systematic alteration of her soul!
Tamara's pupils contracted violently into tiny pinpricks. A surge of pure, unadulterated rage that almost burned away her reason instantly flooded her dark eyes.
She could endure temporary physical weakness. She could endure the foul stench of Muggles. But she absolutely could not tolerate being domesticated into a saint overflowing with weak, pathetic compassion!
[Warning! Detected that the target's vital signs are dropping rapidly! Please act as soon as possible, Host!]
'Impossible.'
Without her even realizing when it started, this forced kindness, this humiliating disguise, had actually begun to seep into her muscle memory like a chronic poison. It was corroding her soul's darkest instincts! She had actually, through subtle, daily influence, become a guardian who would instinctively react to a distress signal!
A wave of towering rage and indescribable panic exploded in Tamara's chest.
'I am Voldemort!''I am the Dark Lord who transcends death! I am the purest darkness in this world!' she roared hysterically in the confines of her own mind.'That idiot scurrying around like a panicked monkey in the sky is the one destined by prophecy to kill me! He is the nemesis I dream of grinding into fine ash!''Why should I save him time and time again?!'
[Host, please correct your values. Standing by and watching someone die seriously violates the core principles of virtue.]
The system's voice had lost its usual sickening cheerfulness, replaced by a cold, mechanical pressure that brooked no defiance.
[If you insist on refusing to perform the rescue task, the system will initiate the punishment program.]
'Then bring it on!'Tamara sat rigidly in the wind and rain, clutching the metal railing in front of her so hard her perfectly manicured nails almost dug into the solid steel. A terrifying, absolute resolve rose in her eyes.'Today...'Tamara made a solemn vow in her heart, grinding out each word with venomous intent.'Even if you electrocute me to death right here, I will absolutely not act.''I want to see with my own eyes as he falls from that pathetic broom!''I want to see his neck snap, and watch that Bludger smash his ridiculous skull into pieces!'
[Instruction confirmed. Host refuses to perform the task.]
[Punishment program: Initiated.]
Without a single warning.
A violent, terrifying surge of electricity—far exceeding the voltage of any previous punishment—suddenly detonated from the base of Tamara's spine!
Her body stiffened abruptly. A muffled groan, sounding like a dying beast, escaped her throat. This wasn't the ordinary, irritating numbness she was used to. This was a sharp, agonizing torment, as if every single nerve fiber in her body was being plucked out with tweezers and charred over an open blue flame.
Her face turned as white as parchment in a thousandth of a second, drained of every drop of color. Fine beads of cold sweat instantly erupted across her forehead, mixing with the freezing rain and dripping frantically down her tightly clenched jawline.
The intense current forced her muscles into uncontrollable spasms. Her legs went completely weak, threatening to slide her out of her chair and onto her knees in front of everyone.
But she didn't fall.
The terrifying willpower of the Dark Lord—a monster who had personally experienced the tearing of her own soul and crawled back from the abyss of death—erupted with an astonishing resilience.
She bit down on her lower lip with vicious force. Her sharp teeth instantly pierced the delicate skin, and a streak of dark red blood flowed down the pale corner of her mouth, adding a ghastly, eerie beauty to her exquisite face.
Tamara pressed her entire body weight onto the hands death-gripping the railing, her knuckles turning a ghostly, translucent white from the sheer exertion.
She was resisting.
Using a fragile mortal's shell to endure this rule-based punishment from an unknown, all-powerful dimension!
"Tamara? What's wrong?"
Draco, sitting right beside her, finally noticed the drastic shift in her demeanor. He turned his head, his pale eyes widening in horror as he took in the violently trembling, deathly pale girl.
"You look terrible! Is it too cold?!" he asked, panic edging into his voice.
"Don't... touch me..."
Tamara's voice was hoarse, sounding as though her vocal cords had been rubbed raw by sandpaper. Every syllable was squeezed out from between her clenched teeth, as if she were leaking blood with every breath.
She didn't turn her head to look at him. Her pitch-black eyes, now heavily bloodshot from the extreme physiological pain and glazed with a layer of unshed, agonizing mist, stared fixedly at the gloomy sky.
Up there, Harry Potter was finally being driven into a dead end by the rogue iron ball.
CRACK!
The Bludger smashed violently into the tail of Harry's broom, sending a shower of splintered wood flying into the rain.
Harry let out a sharp cry in mid-air, his body losing balance as the Nimbus 2000 teetered dangerously.
'Fall...'
Tamara felt the electricity inside her, a current that seemed intent on tearing her very atoms apart. She felt the overwhelming limpness that threatened to drag her into unconsciousness.
But the corners of her mouth, fighting against this extreme, paralyzing pain, slowly and with immense difficulty, tore open into a smile.
It was a crazed, delightful, chilling smile, overflowing with pure, unadulterated malice.
In the twisted intersection of excruciating pain and euphoric ecstasy, she cursed him silently.
'Go to hell, Savior.'
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