Chapter 176: Letters from Friends
The journey back carried no grand fanfare. Ever since Tamara had painted the Albanian underworld red, wiping out local gangs with ruthless efficiency, the security protocols across all of Eastern Europe had spiked dramatically. Now, standing before the rusted, peeling iron gates of Wool's Orphanage with her battered leather suitcase in hand, she felt the distinct, suffocating sensation of sinking back into a stagnant swamp.
"Oh, good heavens! Tamara?"
The heavy wooden door groaned open. Martha, the orphanage administrator, stepped out onto the porch balancing a large tin basin of damp, washed sheets against her hip. Her eyes widened into saucers at the sight of the black-haired girl standing on the cracked pavement.
Tamara suppressed a heavy, irritated sigh. She had spent the last hour carefully crafting a flawless, airtight lie to explain why her supposed visit to her aunt's house had ended so abruptly.
Yet, before a single word could leave her lips, Martha's own imagination rushed in to fill the void.
The older woman practically dropped her laundry basin, hurrying forward to inspect Tamara's pale, haggard complexion. The lingering physical toll of being crushed by a dragon was still evident on her features, but Martha interpreted it entirely differently. Her face twisted with deep heartache, her voice dripping with righteous indignation and pity.
"You poor, sweet child. Look at you. You are practically skin and bones, and so dreadfully pale." Martha reached out, her rough, calloused hands hovering over the girl. "That so-called aunt treated you terribly, didn't she? I knew it the moment she sent for you. Those distant relatives who suddenly pop out of the woodwork never have an ounce of good intention in their hearts!"
Tamara parted her lips, genuinely caught off guard by the sheer convenience of the woman's assumptions.
"Do not shed a tear over it, child," Martha murmured, gently patting Tamara's shoulder. "At the very least, this place will always be your home."
Home.
The word echoed in Tamara's mind, followed instantly by a vicious, mocking sneer. If this dilapidated, rotting structure—reeking of damp mold, bitter cabbage, and decades of petty bullying—deserved the title of a home, then Azkaban was a five-star luxury resort.
Despite the venom boiling in her chest, she kept her expression perfectly composed. Saving the effort of spinning a web of lies was a welcome convenience. She obediently lowered her dark eyes, allowing her shoulders to slump just enough to project vulnerability, and forced a weak, fragile smile onto her lips.
"Thank you, Mrs. Martha. I am just... a bit tired. I would like to go back to my room and rest for a while, if that is alright."
"Go on, go on. Not a soul has stepped foot in your room since you left." Martha watched the girl's slender back as she moved toward the entrance, unable to stop herself from adding a bit of news. "Quite a few of the children have been adopted or moved out to work recently. Word came down from City Hall just yesterday. In three years at most, this entire orphanage is scheduled to be completely demolished."
Tamara's foot had just touched the first creaking wooden step of the staircase. She froze.
Demolished?
A raw, unfiltered spark of dark pleasure flared in her crimson-tinted eyes. Good. It would be infinitely better if they tore it down brick by brick. Ideally, she would prefer it burned to a crisp by a roaring wave of Fiendfyre. That way, the very last pathetic trace of a weak, sniveling Tom Riddle being brought into this world, along with every nauseating memory attached to this place, would be buried forever in ash and dirt.
Her mood instantly lifted.
She glided down the gloomy, narrow corridor, retrieved her iron key, and unlocked the door to her cramped quarters.
The heavy wooden door swung inward. Her fleeting good mood shattered against the floorboards.
"Damn it..."
A blue vein throbbed violently against her temple. Her already claustrophobic room looked as though it had been struck by a localized paper avalanche. Hundreds of crumpled, scattered parchment envelopes littered the floorboards. They buried her thin mattress, swallowed her small wooden desk, and even formed a precarious miniature mountain against the dusty windowsill.
It was painfully obvious. During the single week she had spent in the Albanian forests, gleefully reliving her former glory as the Dark Lord, the absolute pests of the wizarding world had bombarded her window with owls until the room practically burst.
Her fingers twitched. A single spark of Fiendfyre would reduce this mountain of garbage to white ash in seconds.
Unfortunately, a certain parasitic entity residing in her soul would never allow her to act like the cold-blooded, friend-ignoring monster she truly was.
[Ding! Friendly reminder: Checking and replying to friends' letters in a timely manner is a fine virtue for maintaining healthy friendships! Please be a thoughtful little sweetheart, host!]
The system's perky, sickeningly cheerful voice chimed directly against her eardrums.
Tamara's face darkened into a thunderous scowl. With a sharp, wandless flick of her wrist, she cast a series of rapid Scourgify charms. The chaotic sea of parchment flew through the air, sorting itself into neat, categorized stacks upon her desk.
The first and thickest stack, without a shadow of a doubt, belonged to Hermione Granger.
Tamara casually flicked open the top few envelopes. The progression of the Gryffindor girl's emotional state was documented with clinical precision. The first two days were filled with dense, long-winded paragraphs detailing her summer vacation itinerary in France and her ambitious plans to study the local History of Magic.
By the third day, the neat cursive began to slant and fray. The tone shifted to frantic demands, questioning why Tamara had not sent a single owl in return.
By the most recent letter, Hermione's overactive imagination had constructed an entire tragic theatrical production. She had convinced herself that Tamara was a helpless orphan girl cruelly imprisoned and starved by wicked Muggle relatives. The final paragraph contained a blatant threat: if she did not receive a reply within twenty-four hours, she was going to owl Albus Dumbledore directly and demand a rescue mission.
"Meddlesome Miss Know-It-All."
Tamara let out a cold, dismissive snort. She tossed the heavy stack aside, deciding a two-line response would suffice. 'I am perfectly fine. My aunt's house is simply too remote for standard owl delivery.' That would shut the girl up.
The second stack bore the unmistakable chaotic scrawl of the Weasley family.
The letters were drenched in exaggerated, tearful gratitude, thanking Tamara for the hundredth time for saving Ginny's life down in the Chamber of Secrets. Tucked between the praises was a letter from Ron, his handwriting practically vibrating with excitement. He boasted endlessly that his father had won a seven-hundred Galleon prize in the annual Grand Prize Draw hosted by The Daily Prophet. The entire red-haired brood was packing their trunks for a grand vacation to Egypt to visit his eldest brother, Bill.
At the very bottom of the parchment, Ron mentioned that Mrs. Weasley had used a portion of the prize money to purchase a precious gift for Tamara, which was currently in transit.
"Boring, impoverished luck."
Tamara cared absolutely nothing for the vacation plans of blood traitors. She shoved the parchment away and reached for the third letter, which carried the heavy, imposing wax seal of the House of Malfoy.
Draco's handwriting was an absolute disaster. The boy's sheer exasperation and panic bled through the ink.
'Tamara! Something massive happened!''You will never guess what I have been dragged through these past two days! My father is absolutely livid!''I do not know which damned, despicable mudblood or blood traitor actually had the nerve to anonymously report Malfoy Manor to the Ministry of Magic for harboring illegal Black Magic artifacts!''That pauper Arthur Weasley actually led an entire squad of Aurors right through my front doors! Even though Father had disposed of the most incriminating items ages ago, they still turned the manor upside down and made a total mess of the drawing room!''The most hateful part of it all is that lowly House-elf named Dobby! The wretched creature actually used Apparition to escape during the chaos of the Auror search!''Do not let me catch the bastard who filed that anonymous report, or I swear I will make him pay!'
Tamara read the frantic scribbles and slowly raised a delicate eyebrow.
Lucius Malfoy had actually been blindsided by an anonymous tip, and that treacherous little elf had managed to slip away in the confusion.
"Utterly useless."
She dropped the parchment and let her fingers brush against the final envelope resting on the edge of the desk. A faint, sweet scent of Pumpkin Pasty drifted from the paper.
The handwriting was exceptionally elegant, carrying the distinct, careful restraint of a young girl trying to make a perfect impression.
Ginny Weasley.
Tamara assumed it was just another mundane, tear-stained thank-you note. But as her crimson eyes lazily swept over the ink, a sudden, icy chill began to crawl up the base of her spine.
'Dear Senior Tamara:''Please forgive my boldness in writing to you. I do not know how you have been faring lately.''There is one thing I have never told anyone.''When I was recovering in the Hospital Wing, I remembered the name written inside that terrible diary. T.M. Riddle. I know it is the exact same as your surname.''But I swear to you, I have absolutely never mentioned a single word of this to anyone! Because I know you are a good person, and I do not want to cause you any unnecessary trouble. That is a secret that belongs only to the two of us.'
Tamara's gaze sharpened into daggers of ice.
This quiet, unassuming little slip of a girl had actually noticed the glaring discrepancy back then, and she had cleverly chosen to bury it.
She continued reading, her jaw tight.
'However, when we were at King's Cross Station, I saw Draco Malfoy seemingly inviting you to visit his manor for the summer.''Senior, I am very worried.''That terrible diary... I vaguely remember Lucius Malfoy secretly slipping it into my Cauldron that day at Flourish and Blotts.''If he was willing to hand me something that evil, then Malfoy Manor must definitely still hide even more dangerous Black Magic items in its shadows!''I do not want you to go to such a dangerous place.''So, I thought carefully about it... if Malfoy Manor suddenly suffered a small accident and was targeted by the Ministry of Magic, they probably would not have the leisure or the time to invite guests over, right?''I hope you have a safe and peaceful summer. I am forever grateful to you, Ginny Weasley.'
Tamara's fingers froze mid-air, the edge of the parchment crinkling under her sudden, vice-like grip.
An image forcefully breached the surface of her mind. She saw Ginny lying on the crisp white sheets of the hospital bed, staring up at her with that quiet, fanatical, deeply obsessive gaze.
'System.'Tamara's mental voice was dangerously quiet.'Are you absolutely certain... that day down in the Chamber of Secrets, the remnant soul inside the diary was completely stripped from her mind?'
[Ding! Of course, respected host!]
The system's heartless, obnoxiously cheerful voice immediately bounced around her skull.
[After this system's flawless purification process, Miss Ginny Weasley's soul is pure and completely spotless! There is absolutely zero residue of Black Magic left behind! Everything she is doing right now is entirely born of her own true, independent will!]
[Ah! What a deeply moving and sincere display of emotion! Doesn't this pure friendship, a bond willing to pay any price just to protect her beloved senior, make your heart feel all warm and fuzzy?]
Tamara took a slow, measured breath, forcing down the sudden surge of absurdity and dark amusement bubbling in her chest.
She could not see a single trace of warmth in those words. She only saw a quiet lunatic hiding a poisoned blade behind a sweet smile.
However...
Tamara's dark eyes narrowed into thin slits. The initial shock fading from her gaze was swiftly replaced by a cold, calculating gleam.
If there truly was no dark influence from a remnant soul, then this brand of obsession and extreme loyalty—born purely out of personal will—seemed like an incredibly potent tool just waiting to be used.
In her past life, she had relied on sheer terror and the Dark Mark to rule the Death Eaters. It was highly efficient, yes, but it was also inherently prone to cowardice and betrayal the moment her power waned.
As it turned out, emotions generated spontaneously from within were often far superior at controlling a human being than any branded mark or Cruciatus Curse. True devotion could turn a person into a razor-sharp blade, completely devoid of the fear of death.
'It seems Albus Dumbledore's precious lion's den is not entirely filled with irredeemable fools after all.'
[Ding! Friendly warning: Respected host, please do not underestimate the volatility of human emotions!]
The system's sudden, dutiful prompt flashed into her mind, rudely interrupting the Dark Lord's grand calculations.
[Emotions are a highly dangerous double-edged sword! If they are not handled with the utmost care, they can lead to a terrible, destructive backlash!]
Facing the system's old-fashioned, moralizing lecture, Tamara merely offered a cold, disdainful sneer in the privacy of her own mind.
Backlash?
What an absolute fuss over nothing.
She was the Dark Lord. She was the absolute master of manipulating human hearts and twisting minds. Could she truly not control the ridiculous, desperate dependence and infatuation of an eleven-year-old girl?
Tamara casually tossed the parchment onto the desk, her lips curling into a cruel, arrogant smirk.
'That possibility will never exist.'
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