Chapter 149: Soul Stripper
The air in the Potions classroom was perpetually thick and foul. It hung heavy in the lungs, saturated with the pungent stench of stewed horned slugs, pickled rat spleens, and the damp, suffocating rot of ancient stone that had accumulated over centuries in the Hogwarts dungeons.
A final, sickly wisp of purple smoke curled upward from a brass cauldron just as the bell tolled, signaling the end of the agonizing hour. Instantly, the room erupted into frantic motion. Students scrambled to shove brass scales and crushed roots into their satchels, surging toward the heavy oak door as if fleeing a medieval torture chamber.
Given the widespread panic currently gripping the castle, not a single soul wished to linger in the subterranean gloom for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. This was especially true when subjected to the looming presence of Professor Severus Snape, whose sallow face was currently darker than the soot-stained bottom of a pewter crucible.
Amidst the stampede, Tamara Riddle remained seated. She unhurriedly drew a pristine linen cloth across the blade of her small silver paring knife, wiping away a smear of greenish fluid before smoothly tucking the tool into her sleeve.
She was in absolutely no hurry.
As arguably the most composed individual within the entirety of Hogwarts, she deeply savored this quiet, intoxicating sense of superiority. It was the exquisite feeling of being the sole awakened predator in a den of blind, panicking sheep.
Just as she smoothed the crisp folds of her robes, preparing to trail out as the final departure, a low, silken voice slithered through the emptying room.
"Miss Riddle."
Tamara halted her graceful stride. She turned slowly, her expression a mask of placid innocence, entirely unsurprised.
Severus Snape stood rigid behind his heavy wooden lectern, his billowing black robes wrapping around his gaunt frame like the wings of an oversized bat. Those hollow, fathomless black eyes swept over the abandoned, potion-stained desks before locking onto Tamara's face with the intensity of a physical weight.
There was none of the visceral loathing he usually reserved for the Potter boy in that dark stare, nor the biting impatience he readily dispensed to dunderheads. Instead, his gaze held a deep, surgical scrutiny. Beneath the cold exterior lay a distinct edge of wariness—a calculated testing that the Potions Master was trying his absolute hardest to conceal.
"Professor?" Tamara tilted her chin just a fraction, her voice soft, her expression the very picture of calm, open curiosity.
Snape stepped out from the shadow of the lectern. His boots clicked softly against the flagstones as he paced toward a towering shelf lined with murky glass jars. He turned his back to her, seemingly engrossed in the grotesque, floating form of a bloated horned toad suspended in yellowish formaldehyde.
"The castle has become somewhat... empty lately, hasn't it?" he murmured. The pointed weight of his words echoed off the damp stone walls of the vacant classroom. "Dumbledore has left. And the gamekeeper, Hagrid, has been taken away."
Snape pivoted abruptly. His dark robes flared as those sharp, obsidian eyes attempted to carve straight through Tamara's mental defenses.
"Some feel fear because of this sudden vacuum of power. Some feel despair... but I do not seem to observe such vulgar, common emotions upon your face, Miss Riddle."
He took a slow, deliberate step toward her. His voice dropped to a dangerous, silken whisper.
"On the contrary... I seem to detect a distinct hint of... anticipation in your eyes."
Tamara held the gaze of the man looming before her.
'Ah, Severus,' she mused internally, a dark, cold amusement curling in her chest. Once, he had been one of her most capable, useful Death Eaters. From her lofty perspective, the subtext dripping from his words was laughably transparent.
That meddlesome old madman, Albus Dumbledore, was finally out of the picture. The suffocating mountain that had weighed down upon the necks of Dark Wizards for decades had been temporarily shifted. As a servant who had once knelt and sworn eternal loyalty to her true self, Snape was subtly testing the waters. He was assessing the shifting tides of power, attempting to confirm if she—the proclaimed Heir of Slytherin—was truly prepared to seize the reins and take over everything.
"Fear is the privilege of the weak, Professor," Tamara replied, her tone as smooth as glass. A faint, highly meaningful curve touched the corners of her delicate mouth.
She did not flinch or look away from his piercing scrutiny. Instead, she met it head-on, her voice laced with heavy implication.
"To those possessing the vision to see the board clearly, this current, so-called chaos is nothing more than a necessary cleansing before the dawn."
"Cleansing?" Snape repeated, his pupils contracting into tiny black pinpricks.
"Exactly."
Tamara raised her hand, her slender, pale fingers slowly curling inward, grasping at the cold dungeon air as if physically clutching an invisible, absolute authority.
"The old, stagnant order is collapsing. It is an inevitable conclusion."
She let her hand drop gracefully back to her side. "Though, I admit, the process may seem a bit noisy and... out of control at this precise moment."
Her mind flashed to the ancient Basilisk slithering blindly through the plumbing, and to that pathetic, crazed remnant of her own soul currently wreaking havoc. A sharp, fleeting flash of pure disdain cut across her crimson-tinted eyes.
"But this mess is only temporary." Tamara looked up at Snape, her gaze radiating an absolute, arrogant certainty. "Order will eventually return to these halls, Professor."
She took a half-step closer, lowering her voice to match his conspiratorial tone. "And it will be an order that is far more perfect, vastly purer, and significantly more... in line with the true standards of Salazar Slytherin."
To Snape's highly trained ears, however, those softly spoken words carried a chilling, metallic weight.
He stared down at the girl standing before him. She was merely twelve years old, yet the sheer, unadulterated ambition and cold-blooded ruthlessness bleeding through that youthful, angelic face were a terrifying mirror image of the monster he had served years ago.
She was actively enjoying this disaster. She was eagerly anticipating the absolute fall of the school's current regime. Perhaps... she was even the unseen hand pulling the strings behind the entire bloody affair.
Yet, a massive, jagged contradiction tore at Snape's logic, leaving him deeply conflicted. If she truly was this deeply evil, this deeply saturated in the Dark Arts... why in Merlin's name did she repeatedly throw herself into harm's way to save the Potter boy? Why would she willingly allow herself to be battered, bruised, and hospitalized just to shield her insignificant classmates from harm?
This bizarre, irreconcilable fragmentation in her behavioral logic caused the seasoned double agent's mind to spin into a vortex of deep, agonizing self-doubt.
"...I hope so," Snape finally managed to squeeze through his clenched teeth after a suffocatingly long silence. He abruptly withdrew his aggressive, probing aura, wrapping his mental shields tightly around himself as he reverted back into the gloomy, unapproachable Potions Professor.
"Then, as a member of Slytherin house, I sincerely hope that while you eagerly anticipate this new order, you do not forget your current identity."
He turned away, his voice flat and dead. "The nights have not been peaceful lately. I do not wish to stumble upon your cold corpse in some dark corridor. Nor do I wish—to find you in the act of creating corpses yourself."
It was a stark warning. It was also the definitive end of his dangerous little test.
"Thank you for your touching concern, Professor," Tamara replied, sinking into a flawless, elegant curtsy that mocked the very concept of submission. She turned smoothly toward the heavy oak door. "I will be sure to... act entirely within my capabilities."
Leaving the oppressive chill of the dungeons behind, Tamara handled the winding stone staircases until she reached the Hogwarts Library. She bypassed the populated study tables, slipping silently into the deepest, dustiest section of the Restricted Section's outer perimeter—a shadowy, forgotten corner where the sunlight rarely reached and students never dared to linger.
"That utterly damned Weasley..."
Tamara slammed a massive, leather-bound tome titled 'Soul Deconstruction and Reshaping' onto the scarred wooden table. The heavy thud kicked up a localized cloud of ancient dust.
Over the past several days, that pathetic little red-haired girl's behavior had escalated from mildly annoying to completely, suffocatingly unbearable. Ginny Weasley had taken to following her like a lost, imprinted duckling. Bringing her extra portions of treacle tart at dinner, leaving aggressively cheerful wildflowers on her desk, and even attempting to sneak into the Slytherin dormitories to wash Tamara's robes.
That cloying, sticky gaze filled with hero-worship. That pervasive, sickeningly sweet care. It was like being wrapped tightly in a suffocating net of spun sugar, threatening to slowly strangle the greatest Dark Lord of the age in a repulsive bed of so-called 'love'and'friendship'.
And the absolute worst part? Whenever Tamara felt the urge to draw her wand and blast the freckled nuisance through a stone wall, that accursed Virtue System would instantly chime in her skull. It would invent increasingly bizarre, patronizing excuses about 'cultivating bonds'and'nurturing youthful gratitude', threatening her with agonizing electrical shocks if she dared to reject the girl's nauseating kindness.
"This simply cannot continue," Tamara hissed to the empty aisle. A sharp, venomous flash of pure ruthlessness ignited in her crimson eyes. "I must rip that parasitic remnant soul out of her."
As long as she dealt with that ghostly, diary-bound fragment of her past self currently possessing Ginny, the little blood-traitor would return to normal. The possession was clearly exacerbating the girl's emotional instability. Remove the soul fragment, and the lunatic pestering would cease.
But the glaring problem remained: how exactly does one extract a parasitic soul fragment from a living host?
Forcibly strip it away with dark magic? 'Tempting,' Tamara thought, tapping her pale fingers against the book's cover. But if she violently tore the soul out, Ginny's fragile mind would shatter, leaving the girl a drooling vegetable. And the moment that happened, the Virtue System would undoubtedly unleash a punitive electrical storm directly into Tamara's brain, likely frying her into a matching idiot.
"It must be a gentle method," she muttered, her tone dripping with sarcastic venom. "A delicate, loving procedure that the idiotic System won't flag as malicious harm."
Tamara flipped open the heavy tome, her slender fingers flying rapidly across the brittle, yellowed parchment pages, scanning the dense, archaic runes.
Suddenly, her rapid page-turning stopped. Her gaze locked onto a line of twisted, jagged text near the bottom margin: Soul Separation Potion.
It was an incredibly obscure, highly volatile Black Magic concoction, historically used by ancient necromancers to violently expel possessing evil spirits from a living host's body.
There was, of course, a rather severe side effect. The violent chemical reaction often caused the host's nervous system to completely shut down, leaving them in a comatose state or, in worse cases, turning them into a mindless, hollow puppet.
"But... if I alter the base. If I add my own blood..." Tamara narrowed her eyes, her brilliant, twisted mind rapidly deconstructing and rebuilding the complex arithmancy of the potion's formula.
Her blood, currently coursing with potent magic, was a flawless alchemical medium. It was the highest-grade fuser and stabilizer known to magical theory. Using her own blood as the primary binding agent, mixed with the highly corrosive yet intensely nerve-numbing venom of a mature Acromantula, and finally anchoring the volatile mixture with the restorative properties of stewed Mandrake roots...
"I can brew an absolutely perfect batch of Soul Separation Potion."
A genuinely cruel, deeply excited smile stretched across Tamara's face, revealing a flash of white teeth in the dim library light.
The modified brew would still be incredibly agonizing to consume. It would likely leave the irritating Weasley girl bedridden, vomiting, and physically drained for at least a fortnight. But honestly, what did a little physical suffering have to do with her?
"This isn't harm," Tamara whispered to the empty air, her voice taking on a mockingly pious tone. "This is necessary medical treatment."
She placed a hand over her heart, her eyes dancing with dark amusement. "I am merely helping my... dearest, sweetest friend break free from a vile evil spirit's wicked entanglement. I am selflessly saving her poor, innocent soul."
Tamara closed the heavy book with a satisfying snap. She stood and walked over to the narrow, leaded glass window, her fingers tapping a rhythmic, predatory beat against the stone sill.
"...I am still missing one critical ingredient, however."
Acromantula venom.
And not just any stale, bottled venom sitting on a dusty apothecary shelf. It had to be exceptionally fresh. Highly corrosive, unoxidized venom extracted directly from the pulsing venom sac of a living, thrashing beast. Only a toxin of that raw, unbridled potency possessed the chemical violence necessary to burn away the adhesive magical barrier fusing the remnant soul to the host's life force.
She could theoretically source such a vile substance from the shadowy dealers down in Knockturn Alley. But that processed, heavily diluted, and aged venom retained far too little biological activity to achieve the precise, surgical effect she required.
If she wanted the absolute best, she would have to harvest it herself.
Tamara turned her gaze outward, staring through the grimy glass toward the sprawling, undulating sea of black trees bordering the castle grounds.
The Forbidden Forest.
The oafish half-giant, Hagrid, had been hauled away to Azkaban. Dumbledore was exiled from the grounds. This meant the vast, dangerous expanse of the forest was currently operating in a completely unmonitored, lawless state.
And according to her careful, long-term observations of the groundskeeper's idiotic habits, Hagrid had actively cultivated an entire, thriving colony of Acromantulas deep within those woods. It was practically a sprawling, natural dark pharmacy that Merlin himself had conveniently prepared just for her.
However, dealing with her internal parasite required a delicate touch. To be absolutely certain she wouldn't be paralyzed by a sudden voltage spike mid-hunt, Tamara posed a calculated question in her mind.
'System,'she called out, mentally injecting a tone of deep, civic concern.'Cleansing the grounds of these... highly dangerous magical creatures that actively threaten student safety... that wouldn't count as a violation of the Virtue Code, would it?'
[Ding! The System is currently judging your inquiry!]
The perky, aggressively cheerful voice chimed instantly in her skull, accompanied by a bright blue holographic interface that only she could see.
[Target Analysis Initiated: Acromantula.]
[Biological Trait Scan Complete: This specific species is classified as inherently cruel, possesses near-human intelligence, and exhibits a strong, documented preference for consuming fresh human flesh.]
[Contextual Note: Although their natural hunting instincts were temporarily suppressed due to Rubeus Hagrid's specialized rearing methods, biological logic analysis confirms they only explicitly promised 'not to eat Hagrid'.]
[Current Status Update: Rubeus Hagrid has officially vacated the school premises. The sole behavioral constraint has been removed! For the remaining students of Hogwarts, this constitutes a starving, unmonitored, and critically high-risk biological colony!]
[Judgment Result: PASSED!]
[System Tip: Eradicating such vile dark creatures that pose a major, active threat to campus safety is a shining, noble virtue of Protection and Justice! Not only is the Host permitted to hunt them freely, but the System will also enthusiastically grant bonus Virtue Points based on the total number of pests cleared!]
[Please, for the lasting peace and safety of Hogwarts, feel free to... eliminate these dangerous pests for the good of the people! You can do it!]
A deeply satisfied, undeniably sinister smile stretched across Tamara's face, chilling the air around her.
Finally.
For once in her miserable, reincarnated existence, this damned, moralizing parasite in her head wasn't actively working against her desires.
"Protecting campus safety..." Tamara repeated the phrase softly, letting the words roll off her tongue. Her tone was thick with dark, dripping mockery. "Well. You said it, not me."
She carefully straightened the hem of her robes, brushing away an invisible speck of dust before turning sharply toward the library exit. Her true purpose was entirely rooted in selfish gain—to harvest the rare venom, and, perhaps more, to violently vent the boiling, murderous frustration of being relentlessly tormented all week by that crazy Weasley girl.
But since the System had so graciously draped the pristine, glowing skin of 'Justice' over her shoulders...
Then she wouldn't need to hold back a single, lethal ounce of her power when she finally made her move.
"Since it is officially sanctioned pest control..." Tamara murmured. Her pale fingers lightly caressed the smooth, polished wood of her wand holstered at her side. A feral, bloodthirsty red light flared violently in the depths of her eyes. "...Then there is absolutely no need to leave any survivors."
Late that night, Hogwarts Castle fell into a deep, heavy slumber. Aside from the occasional, echoing footsteps of patrolling prefects and insomniac Professors, the winding stone corridors were completely deserted.
Tamara changed into dark, fitted clothing far more suitable for violent action, throwing her heavy, protective dragon-hide cloak over her shoulders. She slipped out of the Slytherin common room without alerting a single soul. She even took the time to silently knock out Argus Filch's stupid, prowling cat, Mrs. Norris, with a pinpoint Sleeping Charm before the beast could utter a single yowl.
But mere stealth wasn't enough to guarantee an uninterrupted night.
As she stepped out from the deep shadows of the dungeon stairwell, a sudden, bone-chilling wave of spectral cold washed over her.
The Bloody Baron, the resident Slytherin ghost who struck genuine terror into the hearts of nearly all teachers and students alike, was floating quietly beside the damp stone wall. His archaic robes, heavily crusted with shimmering, silver bloodstains, looked exceptionally gruesome illuminated by the pale moonlight filtering through a high window. His hollow, sunken eyes stared fixedly ahead.
Facing this notoriously terrifying specter, Tamara displayed not a single ounce of fear; she didn't even break her smooth, predatory stride. Instead, she tilted her chin slightly, looking down her nose at the floating spirit, and issued a single word. It was spoken in the cold, absolute tone of command that only the true Master of Slytherin could ever possess.
"Baron."
The usually taciturn, aggressive, and deeply sinister ghost froze. Upon hearing that specific, soul-deep resonance in her voice, the Baron actually lowered his grisly head in a display of extreme, uncharacteristic respect. He let out a dull, heavy, and entirely submissive rattle of his spectral chains.
"Go keep an eye on that pathetic Squib caretaker," Tamara ordered coldly, her gaze sweeping over the ghost as if addressing the lowliest of foot servants. "No matter what method you choose to employ—making infernal noises, throwing armor, or simply scaring him half to death... tonight, I do not want to see him anywhere below the third floor. Am I understood?"
The Baron did not speak. He only bowed deeply once more—a deep, obvious gesture of absolute submission. Then, dissolving like a wisp of silver mist caught in a draft, he phased silently through the thick stone wall, floating straight toward Filch's ground-floor office.
Tamara withdrew her gaze, a smirk of deep satisfaction playing on her lips. "Very good."
This was the exact level of deference and treatment the true Heir of Slytherin deserved.
Moving like a phantom herself, she slipped gracefully through the entrance hall, easily bypassing the predictable routes of the patrolling prefects. She snuck out of the castle through a little-known, heavy oak side door that led directly out onto the sloping grounds.
The night air outside was damp and bone-chilling, carrying the rich, heavy scent of wet earth, pine needles, and rotting leaves. Tamara closed her eyes and took a long, deep breath, feeling every dark cell in her body leap with a vicious, predatory joy.
This was the smell of absolute freedom.
She tightened her pale fingers around the grip of her wand. With silent, measured steps, she crossed the dew-soaked grass and stepped lightly into the dense, suffocating darkness of the Forbidden Forest.
'Wait for me, my little spiders,'she whispered softly in her mind. A greedy, unspeakably cruel red light flickered violently in the depths of her eyes, cutting through the gloom.'It is finally time for you to show your worth.'
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