The next day, a thick, pungent smell of garlic filled the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom.
When the bell rang, students rushed out as if fleeing a toxic gas leak. No one lingered. No one dared.
At the front of the room, Professor Quirrell stood alone, nervously tidying the books on his podium. His hands trembled slightly, and every few seconds, his eyes flicked toward the door, as though he expected something—or someone—to appear at any moment.
Ever since that night in the Forbidden Forest, fear had rooted itself deep within him. It had grown, spreading through his bones like frost. And the source of that fear had a name.
Tamara.
"Professor Quirrell."
A cold, clear voice rang out behind him.
He froze instantly. The book in his hand slipped and hit the floor with a dull thud.
Slowly, stiffly, he turned around.
There she stood.
Tamara Riddle stood calmly in the center of the empty classroom, her holly wand loosely held in her hand. A faint smile curved her lips—a smile that had haunted his nightmares for days.
"M-Miss Riddle?" he stammered, instinctively shrinking back. "Is there… something I can help you with?"
"No need to be nervous, Professor."
Her voice was soft, almost gentle—but each step she took toward him felt like it pressed against his heartbeat.
"I just have a few academic questions."
"Perhaps… another time," Quirrell said hastily, attempting to move past her. "I have urgent business to attend to—"
"Urgent business?" Tamara interrupted, her tone dropping sharply. "Like finding a Unicorn for your master?"
The temperature in the room seemed to plummet.
Quirrell's face went deathly pale. His hand instinctively twitched toward the back of his head, but he pulled it back immediately, as if burned.
"I—I don't know what you're talking about…"
"Stop pretending."
Tamara stepped closer, her black eyes locking onto his.
"He's dormant right now, isn't he?"
Quirrell's pupils shrank violently.
After that disastrous encounter in the Forbidden Forest, the being attached to him—his "master"—had been forced into a deep slumber to preserve what little strength remained. For the first time in a long while, Quirrell had a fragment of independence.
But even that freedom was fragile.
"…What do you want?" he asked, his voice no longer stuttering, but filled with tension and fear.
"I want to save you."
The words were soft. Tempting.
"Save me?" Quirrell let out a dry, disbelieving laugh. "You?"
"I understand your pain."
Tamara began to circle him slowly, her voice gliding through the air like silk over a blade.
"Being parasitized every day. Having your life force drained. Forced to drink that cursed blood just to survive… Tell me, Professor—how long can your body last?"
She paused behind him.
"A month? Two?"
Quirrell's body trembled.
"When your master gets what he wants—when he obtains the Philosopher's Stone and returns to full strength—do you think he'll still need you?"
Silence.
"You'll be discarded," she continued quietly. "Like a broken tool."
The words struck deep.
Quirrell's breathing grew uneven. This was his greatest fear—the truth he had tried desperately to ignore.
He wanted power.
But he didn't want to die.
"I… I have a way," Tamara said, stopping in front of him again.
"A way to free you."
His eyes flickered.
"I can remove him from you," she continued. "And in return, I can teach you real Dark Arts—power without the cost of your life."
She leaned slightly closer.
"All you have to do… is listen to me."
Quirrell stared at her, torn.
On one side was a ruthless master who would eventually discard him.
On the other stood a girl whose depth he could not measure.
It was not a choice between good and evil.
It was a choice between two devils.
"W-What… do you want me to do?" he asked at last.
"It's simple."
Tamara leaned close and whispered into his ear.
"I want to know everything."
"Your master's plans. The Philosopher's Stone. The traps guarding it. Every detail."
She straightened slightly.
"And when he wakes up… you tell me immediately."
Quirrell said nothing.
The weight of betrayal pressed heavily on him. The consequences were unimaginable.
"I… need time," he said finally.
He didn't dare agree.
"Of course."
Tamara stepped back, smiling faintly.
"Take your time, Professor. But remember—you don't have much left."
Her gaze dropped to his hand.
"Look."
Quirrell followed her eyes.
Dark, corpse-like spots had begun to spread across the back of his hand.
His breath caught.
"That," Tamara said calmly, "is your countdown."
She turned and walked toward the door.
The seed had been planted.
Fear would water it. Desperation would make it grow.
And she had no concern that Quirrell would report her. Doing so would only seal his fate.
However—
Just as she opened the door, she stopped.
A tall figure stood there, blocking her path.
Silver-white beard.
Half-moon spectacles.
And eyes—clear, sharp, and impossibly deep.
Albus Dumbledore.
Tamara's heart skipped.
Damn.
When had he arrived? How much had he heard?
"Ah, Miss Riddle," Dumbledore said pleasantly. "What a coincidence."
His tone was warm. Too warm.
"I was just looking for Professor Quirrell to discuss the upcoming exams. It seems you've finished your conversation?"
"Yes, Headmaster."
Tamara adjusted instantly. Her posture softened, her expression brightened—perfectly composed.
"I had some questions about theory. Professor Quirrell was very helpful."
"Is that so?"
Dumbledore's gaze shifted past her to Quirrell, who stood pale and sweating.
"It must have been a rather… intense discussion."
"Dark Arts theory can be unsettling," Tamara replied calmly.
"Indeed."
Dumbledore looked back at her. His eyes sharpened slightly.
"Especially for those… with a particular talent."
A pause.
"Sometimes, Miss Riddle, delving too deeply is unwise."
The warning was clear.
Tamara felt the pressure immediately—like an invisible weight pressing down on her chest.
This was the presence of the greatest wizard of the age.
Even without a wand, he was overwhelming.
She couldn't confront this directly.
The system alarm rang in her mind.
[Danger: Trust crisis detected.]
[Recommendation: Activate skill—Harmless.]
She reacted instantly.
Her expression shifted.
The cold calculation vanished, replaced by confusion and vulnerability.
"I'm sorry, Headmaster…"
Her voice softened. Her fingers nervously twisted her robe.
"I just… want to be stronger."
Her gaze lowered.
"In the Forbidden Forest… I was scared."
"I don't want my friends to get hurt again."
She hesitated.
"Did I… do something wrong?"
It was flawless.
Dumbledore paused.
He had suspected her. There had been signs—subtle, but unmistakable.
Yet now…
She looked like nothing more than an earnest child.
Perhaps too earnest.
His expression softened.
"No, child," he said gently.
"Wanting to protect others is not wrong. It is… admirable."
He placed a hand lightly on her shoulder.
"Just be careful not to lose your way."
"Go on. Your friends are waiting."
"Thank you, Headmaster!"
Tamara smiled brightly and hurried off.
Only when she turned the corner and was certain she was out of sight did the smile vanish.
She leaned against the wall, exhaling sharply.
Her back was soaked with cold sweat.
"Old fox…"
She wiped her forehead, her eyes turning cold once more.
"That was close."
[System: Crisis resolved.]
[Evaluation: Perfect execution.]
[Reward: Suspicion reduced by 5%.]
"How much now?" she asked inwardly.
[Current suspicion level: 55%.]
Her expression froze.
"What?!"
She hadn't done anything overt.
"For six months I've behaved perfectly," she thought, frustration rising. "Studying, following rules—I've been more disciplined than a Hufflepuff!"
"I even saved people. Protected classmates. Fought a Dark wizard!"
[Host, you've forgotten something.]
The system's tone shifted.
[He is Dumbledore.]
[He doesn't need proof.]
[Your name is Riddle.]
[That alone is enough.]
Silence.
A chill crept up her spine.
So all this time…
Her "perfect disguise" had meant nothing.
He had been watching her. Always.
Every class.
Every corridor.
Every glance.
"…Heh."
A faint, cold laugh escaped her.
"I underestimated him."
Her fists clenched.
"Fine."
"If you refuse to believe I'm good…"
Her eyes hardened.
"Then I'll perform."
"I'll act until the day you die."
"And you'll never catch me."
If Chapter 71: Suspicion
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