Chapter 152: The Soul-Stripping Brew
The journey back to the castle grounds proceeded with an almost insulting lack of friction. Thanks to the Bloody Baron's attentive oversight, that wretched old Squib, Argus Filch, was currently destined to spend the remainder of the night trapped in a third-floor broom closet, frantically counting mop handles in sheer terror.
Tamara halted her steps just before the portrait hole guarding the Gryffindor Common Room. She turned slowly. 'Let us hope these two imbeciles possess at least a fraction of self-preservation,' she thought, her internal sneer sharp enough to cut glass. Outwardly, she leveled a chilling, imperious stare at the two boys.
"I would like to believe," she murmured, her voice a silken thread of absolute authority, "that even with brains rivaling a mountain troll, the two of you know how to keep your mouths firmly shut."
She let the silence stretch, her gaze sweeping over Harry and Ron. "If I hear so much as a whisper of tonight's events echoing through the corridors tomorrow..."
"We swear! We absolutely won't say a word!" Ron blurted out instantly, shaking his head so violently it resembled a frantic rattle drum. The way the Weasley boy stared at Tamara now bordered on religious fanaticism, as if she were Merlin himself descending from the heavens. If Tamara ordered him to swallow a bucket of live slugs at this exact second, the ginger fool would likely only hesitate for a heartbeat before grabbing a spoon.
"See that you don't," Tamara replied, allowing a soft, dismissive scoff to escape her lips. She didn't bother sparing another glance for the so-called Savior. Harry stood there, his green eyes shining with sickening gratitude, his mouth half-open as if preparing to spew some utterly nauseating, sappy speech. Before he could ruin her mood further, Tamara spun on her heel, her robes billowing gracefully as she melted into the suffocating darkness of the corridor.
Eighth floor. The mix of Barnabas the Barmy.
Tamara paced smoothly in front of the blank stretch of wall, her mind focused with lethal precision. 'I need an absolutely hidden, fully equipped Potions laboratory,'she commanded silently.'No interruptions. No prying eyes.'
A polished wooden door materialized from the solid stone. Pushing it open, she stepped into a haven of dark magic and science. The heavy, familiar scent of dried herbs, crushed roots, and the comforting, warm breath of a cauldron's low-burning fire washed over her.
"This will suffice," she whispered to the empty room.
She wasted no time. Her hands moved with the practiced, elegant lethality of a master Potioneer. Slicing. Grinding. Extracting. The silver blade flashed in the dim light. She uncorked a crystal phial containing the freshly harvested Acromantula venom, letting the thick, milky fluid drip into the bubbling cauldron. It hit the surface with a vicious, grating sizzle, spitting acidic vapor into the air. Finely diced Mandrake roots followed in rapid succession. Finally, she reached into the folds of her robes and withdrew a slender, heavily enchanted vial. Inside swirled her own blood, a captivating, never-congealing liquid gold.
Tamara drew her yew wand, tapping the rim of the glass with a sharp clink. A single, perfect drop of blood, glowing like molten gold, levitated from the vial. With a precise flick of her wrist, she guided the golden droplet into the churning center of the cauldron.
The violent, frothing concoction instantly went dead silent. The chaotic bubbling smoothed out into a glass-like surface, shifting into a strange, abyssal inky green. A faint, ethereal layer of golden light danced across the top, illuminating the dark room with a sinister glow.
Soul Separation Potion, Improved Version. Complete.
Tamara dipped a long-handled silver ladle into the cauldron, scooping up a small measure of the viscous liquid. She held it up to the firelight, a dark, maniacal glint flickering in her crimson-tinted eyes.
'If this brew possesses the sheer malice required to forcibly strip my remnant soul from that pathetic Weasley girl's body...'A cruel smile played on her lips.'Then surely, it can drag out this parasitic, saccharine nightmare infesting my own mind.'
To the Dark Lord, this so-called Virtue System was nothing more than a highly advanced, exceptionally annoying spiritual parasite, a curse bound to her soul. And if it was a spiritual entity, it would absolutely be vulnerable to the corrosive agony of this potion.
"Come out, little parasite," she whispered, her voice dripping with venomous anticipation. "Let me see exactly what you are."
Without a single shred of hesitation, and harboring a deep, vengeful thrill of pleasure, Tamara brought the silver ladle to her lips.
She knew the risks. The concoction was violently toxic, capable of melting a lesser wizard's mind into sludge. But she was Lord Voldemort.
Her soul, fractured as it was, possessed a terrifying durability. She could withstand this impact. At worst, she would suffer a few days of debilitating weakness. 'If I can purge this sickeningly cheerful voice from my head,'she thought fiercely,'even sacrificing half my life force would be a bargain!'
She swallowed. The liquid was simultaneously icy and bitterly foul, sliding down her throat with the searing agony of a red-hot iron rod. It hit her stomach like a lead weight.
One second passed.
Two seconds.
The expected agonizing separation of spirit and flesh did not occur.
Instead, that accursed, perky electronic voice erupted inside her skull, shrieking with an unmatched, piercing alarm that sounded suspiciously like a cat getting its tail stomped by a troll.
[Warning! Warning! High-risk soul toxin detected! Host ingestion confirmed!]
[Alert! External malicious energy attempting to attack System Core Logic!]
[Emergency Defense Mechanism forcibly activated! Initiating toxicity neutralization protocol!]
Tamara felt as though someone had shoved a lit bundle of Dr. Filibuster's Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks directly into her cerebral cortex. The sheer, blinding agony caused her vision to instantly black out. The silver ladle clattered uselessly against the stone floor.
"Get... out..." she hissed through clenched teeth, blood drawing from her lower lip. She marshaled every ounce of her monstrous willpower, attempting to force the potion's corrosive magic to crush the System's defenses.
But she had severely underestimated the sheer, unadulterated stubbornness of this parasitic nuisance.
[Critical Alert! Insufficient energy! Cannot completely neutralize toxin!]
[To protect the Host's precious soul from toxic backlash, the System is forcibly activating: Biological Hibernation Mode!]
[Draining all Host physical stamina for emergency defense shielding in... 3... 2... 1...]
"You despicable piece of—"
Tamara was only halfway through her venomous curse when the world tilted. Every single drop of strength in her muscles vanished into thin air. The bones supporting her weight felt as though they had turned to warm jelly. A suffocating, feverish heat instantly swept through her veins, boiling her from the inside out.
Her knees buckled. With a pathetic, undignified thud, the Dark Lord collapsed miserably onto the cold, unforgiving stone floor.
It was far worse than mere powerlessness. A terrifying, scorching heat threatened to evaporate her very existence, accompanied by a nauseating wave of vertigo as the System ruthlessly clamped down on her soul to suppress the poison.
"Damn it all..." Tamara gasped, her chest heaving as the edges of her vision blurred into a hazy gray.
'I feel absolutely wretched,'she thought, her mind sluggish.'I have been reduced to the state of a Flobberworm boiled alive in a kettle.'
She forced her arm to move, desperately trying to reach for her yew wand lying just inches away on the floor. Her fingers twitched, pathetically weak, unable to muster the strength to lift so much as a goose feather.
Above her, the cauldron continued to bubble over the magical fire. Pop. Pop. Thick, noxious steam carrying a foul, fishy scent and the heavy weight of extreme toxicity began to permeate the enclosed space of the laboratory.
For Tamara, whose senses were currently dialed to an agonizingly sensitive extreme by the System's interference, the environment was pure torture. With every shallow breath she took, the corrosive potion steam acted like countless red-hot, microscopic needles, traveling through her nasal cavity and stabbing directly into the exposed, defenseless depths of her soul.
A strangled gasp escaped her throat. Intense dizziness and a deep, soul-tearing nausea surged upward, forcing her to drag her heavy, unresponsive body across the floor.
She had to get out. If she remained in this room for another minute, she wouldn't need the damned System to kill her. The fumes of her own masterful concoction would melt her brain first.
"Must... get... out..." Tamara bit down hard on her lower lip, the sharp tang of copper flooding her mouth, using the physical pain to anchor her fading consciousness.
She reached out a violently trembling hand, her perfectly manicured fingernails digging desperately into the cracks of the stone floor, dragging herself toward the doorway inch by agonizing inch.
Meanwhile, high up in Gryffindor Tower.
The boys' dormitory was shrouded in silence, save for the soft snoring of Neville and Seamus. Harry Potter lay in his four-poster bed, tossing and turning, utterly incapable of finding sleep.
Every time he closed his eyes, his mind was hijacked by the chaotic images of the Forbidden Forest tonight. He saw the sky illuminated by roaring fire, the terrifying silhouettes of flying spider limbs, and, most vividly, the slender figure standing fearlessly amidst the inferno. She had spoken such harsh, vicious words, yet she had planted herself firmly between him and certain death.
Suddenly, a bizarre sensation violently seized him.
It wasn't the usual excruciating, blinding pain of his lightning-bolt scar splitting open. It felt entirely different.
It felt like... a heartbeat?
Thump. Thump. Thump.
Harry shot upright in bed, the blankets tangling around his waist as his hand flew to his forehead.
The scar was heating up rapidly. Yet, strangely, the heat wasn't uncomfortable or malicious. Instead, it blossomed into a strange, scalp-tingling warmth. It felt suspiciously like a rush of extreme excitement, or perhaps... the overwhelming sensation of being deeply moved?
His breath hitched. It was the exact same, heart-fluttering sensation he had experienced that day when he and Tamara had been pressed tightly together, hiding in that narrow broom closet to evade Filch's pursuit. A blush crept up his neck in the dark.
[System Backend Running: Detecting intense pain signal generated by Horcrux Synchronization...]
[Alert: To maintain Host's angelic image, signal transcoding is now in progress...]
[Pain masking enabled on secondary soul fragment...]
[Replacing pain signal with: High-Frequency Dopamine Simulation Signal...]
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