Chapter 245: Deadly Good Things
The weekend air above the Quidditch pitch vibrated with an ear-splitting roar. Scarlet and bronze banners thrashed against the wind, painting the stands in a chaotic sea of Gryffindor and Ravenclaw colors. Far beneath the feverish clamor of the crowd, Tamara Riddle stood swallowed by the damp shadows of the stadium corridors. Her pale fingers delicately rotated a glass bottle of pumpkin juice.
Within that deceptively innocent, sweet orange liquid, she had perfectly dissolved a custom-brewed Soul Separation Potion, crafted carefully from her own golden bloodline.
She was not a fool. Forced administration was a crude tactic beneath her. The boy who lived might be a thick-headed Gryffindor, but the ancient blood magic lingering in his veins was a notoriously stubborn obstacle.
Therefore, the great Dark Lord preferred a far more elegant strategy. Boiling a frog in warm water. She intended to slip a few drops of the potion into Potter's daily meals. This trace amount would not trigger a violent magical rejection. Instead, it would seep silently into the jagged crevices of his lightning-bolt scar, acting like a slow, paralyzing venom. Once the dosage reached a critical threshold, the potion would completely dissolve the stubborn fleshy anchor tethering her precious soul fragment to Potter's pathetic body.
At that precise moment, she could simply pluck what was rightfully hers.
The plan was practically flawless. The only minor inconvenience was that Tamara did not know the exact volume of potion required to completely strip the soul away. But that hardly mattered. The Dark Lord possessed an abundance of patience.
A satisfied, chillingly beautiful sneer curled her lips.
She slid the poisoned pumpkin juice deep into her sleeve, smoothed her features into the sickeningly sweet, concerned expression of a devoted classmate, and turned her steps toward the Gryffindor locker room.
Up ahead, Oliver Wood's muffled, fanatical pre-match shrieks echoed through the wooden door, sounding less like a sports captain and more like a deranged general sending his troops to a slaughter. Tamara stopped just outside the locker room and took a slow, measured breath. She rehearsed the casual, gentle smile she would use when handing Potter the spiked drink, ensuring he would consume it without a single shred of suspicion.
However.
Just as her knuckles brushed the rough grain of the door, a violent tremor erupted against her ribs.
The Pocket Sneakoscope tucked inside her inner robe pocket suddenly felt as though it had been plunged into a boiling cauldron. It spun frantically against her lining, emitting a high-pitched, vibrating buzz that only she could feel.
'Damn it!'
Tamara's perfectly crafted angelic mask cracked. A rare spike of genuine panic flared in her dark eyes. What was this defective piece of glass doing?! Had it reacted to the Soul Separation Potion hidden in her sleeve? Or worse, had the wretched toy actually detected the pure, concentrated malice she was currently harboring toward Harry Potter?!
If that idiot opened the door right now, this shrieking spinning top would expose her assassination attempt on the spot!
For the first time in her two lives, the great Dark Lord experienced the utterly humiliating absurdity of nearly being caught red-handed. She stumbled two steps backward, her hand slamming hard against her chest to muffle the burning, vibrating lump of glass through her robes. She channeled a desperate pulse of magic into the fabric, trying to smother the alarm.
In her frantic state, she completely ignored the fat, missing-a-toe rat scurrying quietly through the damp corner of the corridor.
Just then, the heavy wooden door swung inward.
Harry stepped out, already clad in his scarlet Quidditch robes, his fingers wrapped tightly around the polished handle of his Firebolt. He stopped dead. His green eyes blinked behind his glasses, taking in the sight of Tamara standing rigidly in the dim corridor, her face unusually pale, her hand clutching her chest as if she were having a heart attack.
"Tamara? What are you doing down here?"
He closed the distance between them in three long strides. His brow furrowed, his gaze sweeping over her stiff posture with obvious concern. "You look awful... are you feeling unwell?"
"I..."
Tamara stood frozen. The Sneakoscope was practically drilling a hole into her ribs, burning hotter by the second as it gorged itself on her murderous intent. Her heart hammered against her chest. Under Potter's earnest, sickeningly concerned stare, she did not dare move the hand hiding the poisoned pumpkin juice. If she pulled it out now, she was absolutely certain the damned Sneakoscope would shatter from the sheer force of its own alarm the second Potter touched it.
"I am perfectly fine."
Tamara snapped her face away. She ground her teeth together, forcing her lips into a tight, strained curve that barely passed for a smile. She kept her arm clamped firmly to her side. "I was merely... passing by."
"Passing by?"
Harry looked up and down the isolated, dead-end corridor reserved strictly for the Gryffindor team. He looked back at the Slytherin girl. Her dark eyes were darting nervously, and she looked exactly like someone who had just been caught stealing from the kitchens. A tiny, foolish spark of hope ignited in his chest. Had she actually sneaked down here just to see him before the match? But after suffering through her sharp tongue so many times, he knew better than to voice that thought aloud and invite another merciless verbal thrashing.
"Right. I see." Harry took a deep breath, biting the inside of his cheek to stop a massive grin from spreading across his face. His green eyes shone as he looked at her. "Well... thanks for passing by here, Tamara. I will do my best out there!"
Looking at Potter's dopey, starry-eyed expression, looking for all the world as if he had just downed a cauldron of Amortentia, Tamara felt a suffocating knot of revulsion lodge in her throat.
But with the Sneakoscope still searing her skin, she could only afford a cold, dismissive scoff. "Do not flatter yourself, Potter. You will be lucky if you do not fall to your death today."
She spun on her heel, her dark robes billowing behind her, and practically fled down the corridor.
Only when she had retreated far into the shadows beneath the towering stands did the frantic buzzing in her pocket finally cease. The glass cooled. Tamara slumped against the damp stone wall, her expression twisting into a mask of pure fury. She yanked the Pocket Sneakoscope out, glaring daggers at the spinning top that had single-handedly ruined her flawless scheme.
"You wretched, miserable piece of white magic garbage."
She sneered, her eyes flashing with disgust. "So my malice and intent to steal Potter's soul are enough to trigger you? A magical tool that backstabs its own master's thoughts. How utterly pathetic."
She shoved the glass top back into her pocket. The first dose would have to wait. Clearly, if she wanted to murder Potter in peace, she needed to throw this cursed toy into the Black Lake first.
Half an hour later, the match was a brutal aerial dogfight.
Tamara sat rigidly in the Slytherin stands, her face a mask of gloomy indifference as she tracked the blurs of red and blue across the sky. Her poisoning attempt had failed, but watching Potter weave effortlessly through the clouds on his Firebolt managed to soothe her irritation. As long as the boy remained a functional, living vessel, her soul fragment was safe. She would find another opportunity to force that pumpkin juice down his throat.
"Potter has spotted the Golden Snitch! He is accelerating! Sweet Merlin, the speed of that Firebolt is like a crack of lightning!"
The commentator's magically magnified voice shook the stadium. The crowd erupted into a unified, deafening roar. Harry was flattened against the broom handle, diving in a sheer vertical drop toward the pitch, his fingertips stretching out, mere inches from the fluttering golden wings.
And then, disaster struck.
A horrific, piercing screech of grinding magical friction tore through the air. The Firebolt, previously diving with absolute precision, violently jerked sideways. It bucked in mid-air, thrashing like a wild beast struck by a stray curse, before tilting aggressively backward.
"What is happening?!"
The stadium-wide cheer choked off, instantly replaced by a chorus of terrified shrieks. Harry was left dangling awkwardly from the handle, his knuckles turning stark white as he fought to maintain his grip. The priceless racing broom had transformed into a mechanical bull, bucking and twisting hundreds of feet above the unforgiving ground, determined to throw its rider to his death.
"Look! The flawed Scarhead is finally finished!"
Draco Malfoy leaped to his feet in the front row, pointing a pale finger at the struggling figure in the sky, his face split into a mask of hysterical laughter. "This is definitely the last time he ever shows off! I bet he splatters like a dropped tomato when he hits the ground!"
Hearing Draco's cruel mockery, Tamara did not offer her usual reprimand. Instead, a slow, chillingly beautiful smile curved her lips. She leaned back against the wooden bench, crossing her arms comfortably. A predatory gleam danced in her dark eyes.
If Harry Potter plummeted to his death right now, turning into a pile of crushed bones and mashed organs on the grass, it would be a glorious occasion. Even if it meant losing her carefully laid plans to extract the soul fragment safely, a dead Potter was a highly acceptable trade. The great Dark Lord even entertained a delightfully optimistic theory. If Potter's mortal vessel was completely obliterated upon impact, perhaps the pure soul fragment trapped beneath his scar would simply float out of the wreckage, ripe for the taking.
It would be the perfect, blameless accident.
She prepared to sit back and enjoy the theatrical tragedy of the savior's high-altitude demise.
[Ding! Warning! Critical Danger Warning!]
The system's voice, usually so perky and patronizing, exploded inside her skull with the force of a localized earthquake, its cheerful tone replaced by a blaring, absolute panic.
[Detected critical character's life in imminent danger! Host must take action immediately to ensure Harry Potter's survival!]
The cold smile on Tamara's face froze. Her jaw tightened. Recalling her past successes in arguing with this parasite, she replied in her mind with icy detachment. 'I told you before. Potter is not a helpless princess in a fairy tale, and I am certainly not his fairy godmother. The so-called savior must learn to survive his own problems.'
But this time, her defiance hit a brick wall. The system dropped its cheerful facade entirely, adopting a heavy, oppressive mechanical authority that crushed the air from her lungs.
[Rules Restated: If a key character dies due to a non-destined accident, it will lead directly to the catastrophic collapse of the world line.]
[Penalty: Host will be forcibly stripped of all magical talent and deported back to Wool's Orphanage in the year 1926. You will re-experience your entire childhood as a defenseless, magic-less Muggle.]
Tamara's breath caught in her throat.
[Or...] the system continued, its perky tone returning with a sickeningly sweet edge. [There is a high probability the Host's soul will be eternally exiled in King's Cross station, otherwise known as Limbo. Enjoy the void!]
[Emergency Task Reward: Upgrade all basic spells to intermediate tier.]
Tamara's mind went entirely blank. A cold sweat broke out across her spine. Compared to the ultimate humiliation of returning to that filthy Muggle orphanage without her magic, a fate infinitely worse than death, acting as Potter's fairy godmother was a microscopic price to pay. Even if the system demanded she dive off the stands and catch the boy with her bare hands, the Dark Lord would grit her teeth and do it.
High above, Harry finally lost his battle against the rogue broom. His sweaty fingers slipped from the polished wood. He plummeted, his body a helpless ragdoll falling rapidly toward the solid earth.
Amidst the terrified screams of the entire crowd, Tamara's hand snapped to her sleeve. Her holly wand slid perfectly into her palm. Her dark eyes locked onto the falling boy. In a fraction of a second, her wand slashed through the air with brutal precision.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
A massive, invisible shockwave of magic erupted from her wand tip, slamming into Harry's falling form just feet above the ground. The terrifying kinetic energy of his descent was instantly neutralized. He hung suspended in mid-air, caught in an invisible, unyielding grip. After ensuring the remaining drop would not shatter the boy's fragile Muggle-like bones, Tamara gave her wand a lazy, dismissive flick, unceremoniously dropping the savior onto the soft grass.
For one agonizing second, the stadium was dead silent. Then, it exploded into a deafening roar of relief and revelry.
Amidst the cheering crowd, Tamara sat rigidly in the Slytherin stands, her face dark as thunder. She had been forced to save him again.
[Ding! Detected key character has survived. Task completed!]
The system's voice was back to its usual, infuriatingly perky self, sounding to Tamara like the ultimate, heartless mockery.
[Reward is synchronizing in real-time... Congratulations, Host! All basic spell levels have been upgraded to intermediate!]
The moment the notification chimed, Tamara felt a sudden, violent surge of vast, pure magical power flood her veins, washing through every fiber of her being. The sheer intoxicating rush of power barely managed to suppress her murderous mood. This was her rightful compensation.
Her face remained an emotionless mask as she slid her holly wand back into her sleeve. Her dark eyes fixed intensely on the rogue Firebolt resting innocently on the grass below. Through the thick fabric of her robes, her fingers curled tightly around the Pocket Sneakoscope, which had resumed its frantic, vibrating buzz.
A wretched glass top that had ruined her perfect poisoning plan.
A cursed racing broom that had nearly forced her to restart her life in a Muggle orphanage.
And the most infuriating part? Both of these defective pieces of garbage shared the exact same sender.
The great Dark Lord took a slow, deep breath, her teeth grinding together as she viciously chewed over a single name in her mind.
'Sirius Black...'
Unmasked, venomous killing intent flooded Tamara's pitch-black eyes. A cruel, chilling sneer curled her lips.
"Look at what you sent..." she whispered to the wind, her voice dripping with dark irony. "What deadly good things they are."
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