The final day of exam week arrived swiftly, and Hogwarts Castle lay smothered beneath a suffocating wave of heat.
The air itself felt heavy—thick with the scent of parchment, ink, and fatigue. Students poured out of the History of Magic examination hall, their faces pale and drained after hours of frantic writing. The marble staircases echoed with their sluggish footsteps, carrying with them the lingering smell of anxiety and overworked minds.
Tamara Riddle walked among them.
Unlike the others, her expression held no trace of exhaustion—only a thin veil of boredom. Her crimson eyes flickered with faint disdain as she recalled the questions.
Turning a rat into a snuffbox? Reciting the steps for brewing a Forgetfulness Potion?
A cold sneer formed in her thoughts.
Even a troll could pass such an exam with minimal training. To call this a test of a wizard's ability is an insult.
She did not linger with the crowd or wander toward the grounds like the rest. Instead, she turned sharply and made her way toward the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom on the third floor.
Because she had received a signal.
A faint, almost imperceptible cry for help—one that only she could recognize.
During the exam, Professor Quirrell had lingered near her desk longer than necessary. As he passed, he had brushed against her parchment, leaving behind what seemed to be an accidental smear.
But Tamara knew better.
That was no ordinary stain.
It was blood—infused with unicorn essence and threaded with the unmistakable scent of death.
Her lips curved slightly.
So… the moment has finally arrived.
Without hesitation, she pushed open the classroom door.
The room was dim, the curtains drawn tightly shut, suffocating any trace of sunlight. The faint smell of garlic—once used as a crude deterrent against imagined threats—had turned sour.
Now, it reeked of decay.
Like flesh abandoned and left to rot.
The classroom was empty—at least at first glance.
Then came the sound.
A harsh, ragged gasp.
"Cough… cough…!"
Tamara's gaze shifted toward the shadows behind the podium.
There, curled into himself like a dying animal, was Quirinus Quirrell.
His robes hung loosely from his skeletal frame. His body trembled uncontrollably, as though his very bones were struggling to hold together. When he lifted his head, Tamara narrowed her eyes.
His face was barely recognizable.
It had turned grayish-white, mottled with deep purple patches of livor mortis. The discoloration spread outward from beneath his turban—whose once-vibrant hue had darkened into something ominous.
The signs were unmistakable.
His life force was being drained—violently, relentlessly.
The entity within him was no longer content with borrowed sustenance.
It had begun feeding directly on its host.
"You've… come… Miss Riddle…"
His voice grated like dry sand scraping against stone. He tried to rise, but his strength failed him, and he collapsed back onto the floor.
"Save… save me…"
His trembling hand reached out, clutching weakly at the hem of her robes.
"He's going to act tonight…!"
Tamara remained exactly where she stood—three steps away. Neither approaching nor retreating.
She observed him the way one might observe an insect struggling on the verge of death.
"Tonight?" she asked flatly. "Because Dumbledore has been called away?"
"Yes… yes…" Quirrell gasped, desperation flooding his voice.
"It's a trap… a diversion… He can't wait any longer… If he doesn't obtain the Stone… he'll consume my soul completely…"
His voice broke.
"I'll die… I'll become nothing more than a shell…"
Tears streamed from his hollow eyes, streaking through the grime on his face.
"You said… you said you had a way…"
He clung to that fragile hope like a drowning man grasping at driftwood.
"As long as you save me… I'll serve you… I'll do anything… Even kill Dumbledore…!"
Tamara looked down at him.
"A dog?" she repeated softly.
A trace of amusement flickered across her lips.
"Are you even worthy of that title?"
She knelt, lifting his chin with the tip of her wand.
"Even dogs have breeds, Professor."
Her voice was cold—precise.
"You, however… cannot even protect your own body. You allowed yourself to become a vessel for something that is now rotting you from within."
Her eyes hardened.
"You don't qualify as a stray."
Despair flooded Quirrell's expression.
But then—
"However…"
Her tone shifted.
A cruel smile curved her lips.
"I am currently in need of… a disposable asset."
Quirrell blinked, stunned.
"A… what?"
"A consumable," she clarified, rising to her feet.
"I accept your proposal."
Hope flared weakly in his eyes.
"I will be there tonight."
But her next words froze his breath.
"I am not going to save you."
Her voice carried absolute authority.
"I am going to claim what is mine."
She looked down at him as one might regard a tool.
"If you survive, consider it fortune."
"If you die… it merely confirms your worthlessness."
"Do you understand?"
Quirrell nodded frantically.
To him, even this was salvation.
As long as she appeared—no matter her intentions—there was still a chance.
"Then… what should I do?" he whispered.
"Proceed as planned."
Her answer was immediate.
"Lead him through every obstacle. Drain his strength. Let him believe victory is within reach."
Her eyes gleamed faintly.
"The moment of triumph… is when prey is easiest to hunt."
With that, she turned and left.
The corridor outside was bathed in the fading glow of sunset. Long shadows stretched across the stone floor.
Tamara did not return to the dungeons.
Instead, she stopped in a quiet, deserted corner and pulled out a piece of parchment.
"If there is to be a performance," she murmured, "there must be actors."
She thought quickly.
Ordinarily, she would never introduce unnecessary variables into her plans. But circumstances had changed.
Dumbledore's suspicion had grown.
She needed a distraction.
More importantly—she needed bait.
If she confronted the entity directly, it would target her immediately.
That would be inefficient.
No—she needed someone to draw its attention first.
Someone reckless.
Someone predictable.
Someone expendable.
Her quill moved swiftly across the parchment:
Tonight. Third floor. Conspiracy.
No signature.
No explanation.
It didn't need one.
For Harry Potter, this was more than enough.
His curiosity—and his compulsive need to "save the world"—would do the rest.
Tamara folded the parchment into a delicate paper crane and breathed lightly upon it.
"Find Harry Potter."
The crane fluttered to life and vanished down the corridor.
She watched it go, her eyes gleaming.
"Clear the path for me."
"When you and that parasite tear each other apart…"
Her smile deepened.
"I will claim what remains."
Inside the Gryffindor common room—
A paper crane slipped through the open window and landed neatly on Harry's knee.
"What's this?" he muttered.
He unfolded it.
The faint scent lingering on the paper made his heart skip.
"It's her…"
"Who?" Ron asked, leaning closer.
"Tamara."
Harry's voice carried unmistakable excitement.
"Tonight, third floor, conspiracy," Hermione read aloud, her brow furrowing.
"Conspiracy?" she repeated. "Is she warning us about the Stone?"
"Of course she is!" Harry stood abruptly.
"She must have discovered something!"
Ron immediately followed.
"This is inside information! We can't ignore it!"
Hermione hesitated.
"Or it could be a trap…"
She frowned.
"Maybe we should inform Professor McGonagall."
"It won't work," Harry said firmly.
"She doesn't believe anyone can steal the Stone."
He held up the note.
"And think about it—Tamara wrote this. If telling a professor was enough, she would've done it herself."
That argument struck its mark.
Hermione's hesitation wavered.
In her mind, Tamara's judgment carried weight.
More than most professors.
"You're right…" she admitted quietly.
"If she thinks it's urgent… then we have to act."
The three of them exchanged determined looks.
Then, without another word, they set off toward the third floor—
Unaware they were walking straight into a trap.
Meanwhile—
In the Slytherin common room, Tamara sat comfortably before the fireplace, a cup of hot cocoa resting in her hands.
The flames danced in her eyes.
She waited.
Patiently.
Calmly.
Like a hunter watching prey wander into a snare.
A soft chime echoed in her mind.
[System Notification: Key targets successfully guided into the dungeon.]
[Evaluation: Impressive manipulation. Your trust in others to struggle and grow demonstrates exceptional leadership.]
[Task Updated: The Final Oriole.]
[Objective: Enter the battlefield at the optimal moment. Display reluctant heroism.]
Tamara chuckled softly.
"Noble, is it?"
She took a slow sip.
"If I take the Stone… step over a corpse… and still receive gratitude…"
Her eyes gleamed.
"Then yes."
"That would be quite noble."
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