Chapter 155: Scapegoat
The Slytherin long table was a cacophony of clinking silver and idle morning chatter, but to Tamara, today's breakfast dragged on with agonizing slowness.
She sat at the far end of the polished wood, a goblet of untouched pumpkin juice resting near her elbow. Beneath the heavy fabric of her robes, her fingers remained curled tightly around the smooth glass of a crystal vial hidden deep within her pocket.
She was waiting.
Seconds bled into minutes. The Great Hall bustled with the usual morning rush. Owls swooped overhead, dropping parcels, while students milled about, their voices rising and falling in a chaotic tide. Yet, the one person she was looking for—a little red-haired girl who usually bounded over with a greasy sandwich and a foolish, eager grin—never materialized.
'Damn it...'
Tamara stared at the empty gold-rimmed plate before her, a faint crease forming between her brows.
Beside her, Draco Malfoy was carefully slicing a heavily peppered sausage, his mouth running without pause. "Why hasn't that silly Weasley girl come to bother you today? I was rather looking forward to seeing her embarrass herself again. Honestly, the way she follows you around like a stray Kneazle... Tamara, are you even listening?"
"Shut up, Draco."
Tamara stood up abruptly, the bench scraping loudly against the stone floor. Her dark eyes swept over the crowded hall. Given Ginny's obsessive persistence—a direct result of being deeply influenced by the diary's remnant soul—the girl would have shown up on time even if it were raining cursed blades from the enchanted ceiling.
Unless the remnant soul had sensed danger and struck first.
Ignoring Draco's offended gasp, she turned on her heel and strode briskly toward the massive oak doors of the Great Hall.
Draco froze, his silver fork clattering against his plate. He scrambled up, abandoning his breakfast to chase after her like a loyal, albeit confused, shadow. "Wait for me! Where are you going?"
Just as Tamara crossed the threshold, preparing to head toward the second-floor corridor, a sudden rush of wind tore through the entranceway.
A figure sprinted frantically from the opposite end of the hall, moving with such reckless speed that he nearly knocked a sleepy knight out of his portrait frame.
It was Harry Potter.
He was drenched in cold sweat, his chest heaving violently. His round glasses sat askew on the bridge of his nose, and his Gryffindor robes were tangled around his knees. Instead of his usual hesitation when approaching the Slytherin crowd, he charged directly at them like a bludger off its trajectory.
"Potter?" Draco instinctively stepped in front of Tamara, his chin tilting upward as he slipped into his habitual, mocking drawl. "What is it? Rushing around like a headless fly this early in the morning—"
"Get out of the way, Malfoy!"
Harry did not even spare the blonde boy a glance. He shoved past Draco's shoulder and stopped inches from Tamara, gasping for air.
"Ginny is missing."
Tamara's brow twitched. She had anticipated this exact scenario, yet hearing the confirmation made her fingers curl into tight fists against her sides.
"What happened?" she asked, her voice dropping to a cool, demanding whisper. "Explain clearly."
"She disappeared sometime this morning. No one in the tower knows where she went." Harry swallowed hard, his green eyes wide with panic as the words spilled out in a frantic rush. "Just now, Ron and I were searching the second floor... we found a trail of blood."
"Blood?"
"Yes. It trailed all the way from the Gryffindor common room down the stairs, ending right outside that abandoned girls' bathroom." Harry dragged a trembling hand through his messy hair. "We suspect... we think it's Ginny's blood. Her disappearance has to be connected to that bathroom!"
Tamara narrowed her eyes, the gears in her mind turning with lethal precision.
Just as expected.
The remnant soul had smelled the Soul Separation Potion. It knew its cover was blown. Stripped of the luxury of time, it had abandoned its theatrical 'Heir of Slytherin' demonstrations. Now, like a cornered, rabid dog, it had dragged its hostage down into its subterranean lair, intending to forcibly drain the last drops of Ginny's life force to complete its resurrection.
It was a desperate race against the clock.
Naturally, Tamara had absolutely no intention of letting the remnant soul succeed.
Not out of any bleeding-heart desire to save Ginny Weasley, but entirely for her own survival. That diary held the sixteen-year-old Tom Riddle—the most arrogant, vicious, and unchecked period of her past life.
If that parasitic fragment managed to drain the girl's life force and forge a physical body, there would be two Voldemorts walking the earth. One would possess a complete, unrestricted body brimming with the raw, peak magical power of youth.
The other would be her. A little girl bound by a sickeningly cheerful, damned moral system, punished with agonizing electric shocks for merely thinking about casting an Unforgivable Curse.
Tamara knew her own mind better than anyone. According to the Dark Lord's absolute logic of singularity and supreme authority, the very first thing a resurrected Riddle would do upon waking would certainly not be to thank his original self.
He would devour her.
He would slaughter her—the main soul, weakened and shackled by the system—to complete his own fractured soul puzzle and eliminate the only true threat to his reign.
'You think you can step on my corpse to rise up?'Tamara's grip tightened around the wand concealed in her sleeve. A chilling, murderous intent flared in the depths of her pitch-black eyes.'Dream on.'
The three of them stood locked in a tense, heavy silence, the air crackling with unspoken urgency as they prepared to rush the second floor.
Suddenly, a series of frantic, uncoordinated footsteps echoed from around the corridor corner, accompanied by the loud, rhythmic squeaking of heavy suitcase wheels.
A moment later, a figure clad in magnificent, shimmering light-purple robes careened into view. His golden hair was slicked back so heavily it reflected the torchlight. He was dragging two massive leather trunks behind him, his posture screaming blind panic. Yet, the absolute second his eyes landed on the trio of students, his terrified grimace snapped instantly into a gleaming, practiced smile.
Gilderoy Lockhart.
Despite his desperate attempt to flee the castle amidst the escalating attacks, Lockhart's ingrained reflexes as a national idol forced him to pause and preen before his audience.
"Oh dear, if it isn't Harry! And... ah, Miss Riddle and Mr. Malfoy."
Lockhart skidded to a halt, awkwardly attempting to kick one of the massive trunks behind the sweep of his voluminous cloak. His voice pitched an octave too high, sounding breathless and entirely unconvincing. "Truly terrifying times, aren't they? The atmosphere in the castle is just so dreadfully tense right now... I was just about to go... ah, go inspect the defensive vulnerabilities of the outer courtyard! Yes, exactly that!"
Even as he spoke, his eyes darted frantically toward the massive oak front doors, his polished boots already pivoting toward freedom.
"Well... if there is nothing else, I really must be off—"
The corridor plunged into a sudden, suffocating silence.
Tamara stood perfectly still. Her dark, fathomless eyes swept slowly over Lockhart's sweating face, reading the absolute cowardice etched into every line of his features. Then, she turned her head slightly, looking at Harry.
Harry, driven by the same instinct, turned to look at her.
Their gazes locked in the cool morning air.
In that fleeting fraction of a second, the two of them—bound by a shared sliver of soul—reached a bizarre, unspoken consensus.
They needed an adult to take the fall.
In Harry's desperate, Gryffindor-tinted view, Lockhart might be a boastful buffoon, but he was still a fully qualified adult wizard. Surely, pushed into a corner, a professor could offer some magical assistance in a life-or-death crisis.
Tamara's reasoning was infinitely colder and far more pragmatic.
If she were at the peak of her power, she would never tolerate dragging a useless piece of dead weight into a battle. But she was far from her peak. The toxic aftereffects of last night's potion still lingered in her veins, reducing her casting speed and magical reserves to less than half their usual capacity.
Harry could not be allowed to die—the system's protective mandates over the 'Savior' would punish her severely—and the Malfoy family was currently her most valuable political and financial pillar. Draco had to stay out of it.
If they descended into the Chamber and found Ginny completely possessed, wielding the raw, unhinged magic of the diary... Tamara needed a meat shield.
She needed a brightly colored, highly visible, slow-moving target to draw the enemy's fire.
More, Tamara stared at Lockhart's flamboyant purple-and-gold robes, a dark glimmer of mockery dancing in her eyes.
She could not be the hero today.
She was utterly sick of the constant, suffocating attention. She was tired of Dumbledore scrutinizing her every breath through a magnifying glass. The old man's suspension was only temporary; the fools at the Ministry of Magic could never keep Albus Dumbledore away from Hogwarts forever. When he returned, he would dissect the events of the Chamber with terrifying precision.
Tamara needed a glittering idiot to stand in the spotlight. She needed a loud, boastful fool to fill the narrative void of 'who defeated the monster.'
And if everything went straight to hell—if Ginny Weasley ended up a cold corpse on the Chamber floor—Tamara needed a fully qualified, adult professor to serve as the perfect scapegoat for the catastrophic failure of the rescue mission.
The absolute perfect material had just hand-delivered itself to her.
Almost simultaneously, the corners of Harry's and Tamara's mouths twitched upward.
"Professor."
Tamara stepped forward, her voice dripping with a honeyed sweetness that masked pure, concentrated venom. She moved gracefully, positioning herself directly in Lockhart's path to the exit.
"What a miraculous coincidence. We find ourselves in desperate need of a... brave, powerful, and internationally renowned Master of Defense Against the Dark Arts such as yourself."
"Wh-what?" Lockhart froze, the leather handles of his trunks slipping in his sweaty palms.
"Ginny has been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. She is in the girls'bathroom on the second floor right now," Harry chimed in, catching Tamara's rhythm instantly. He stepped up beside the professor, looking up at him with wide, expectant eyes, even reaching out to help support the weight of the heavy trunk. "Since you were just on your way to inspect the castle's defenses, why not come with us directly to the source of the danger? After all... you are the hero who wrote'Gadding with Ghouls'!"
"I... well, you see, actually, I..."
A thick bead of cold sweat broke out along Lockhart's hairline, tracing a slow path down his temple. He looked back and forth between the two students. The boy's eager grip on his luggage felt like a shackle, and the girl's perfectly polite smile did not reach her dead, terrifying eyes.
A sudden, chilling realization washed over the fraud. He had just stumbled into a trap far more dangerous than whatever monster was lurking in the Chamber of Secrets.
"Please, do not be modest, Professor."
Tamara's smile deepened into something angelic. Beneath the folds of her robes, the tip of her wand pressed firmly, deliberately, against the base of Lockhart's spine.
"Lead the way."
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