If Transfiguration Class was an enjoyment of precision and art, then the following Defense Against the Dark Arts class, for Tamara Riddle, was a dual torture of the senses and the soul.
Just as she reached the end of the third-floor corridor, a suffocating stench wafted toward her.
It wasn’t an ordinary smell.
It was the scent of hundreds of heads of garlic being crushed, fermented, then mixed with some stale rot, and forced into a confined space to brew for an entire summer.
“Ugh—”
Goyle, walking in front, let out a dry heave and covered his nose.
“What kind of hellhole is this?” Draco Malfoy pulled out a silk handkerchief and pressed it tightly against his nose and mouth, a look of utter disgust on his face.
“Is this a classroom or a kitchen? I feel like I’ve stepped into a giant pickle jar.”
Tamara stopped at the classroom door, her expression terrifyingly dark.
In her past life, even at the most frenzied Death Eater rallies, even when killing, she would maintain absolute elegance and tidiness.
Her robes were always spotless, and the air around her was forever permeated with a faint scent of blood and a noble, cold fragrance.
And now.
She looked at the wooden door emitting toxic gases, feeling her dignity being trampled underfoot.
That Main Soul possessing Quirrell—that is, the version of herself without a nose.
Had he actually fallen to such a state?
To cover up that bit of rotting smell, he had pickled himself?
“Simply… a disgrace to Slytherin.”
Tamara walked into the classroom with heavy steps, as if heading to an execution ground.
The classroom was dimly lit, with strings of garlic hanging everywhere.
And behind the lectern stood the biggest joke in all of Hogwarts—Quirinus Quirrell.
He had that ridiculous large purple turban wrapped around his head, looking like an Indian snake charmer.
At this moment, he was nervously rubbing his hands, his eyes darting around, seemingly lacking the courage even to look directly at the group of first-year students below the lectern.
“G-good… morning, c-class.”
Quirrell spoke, his voice trembling and stuttering, every syllable sounding as if it were stuck in his throat, “W-welcome to D-defense… Against the D-dark… Arts.”
A suppressed low laughter came from below.
Although Slytherin students respected teachers and traditions on the surface, it was difficult to remain serious when faced with such a ridiculous clown.
Draco Malfoy leaned back in his chair, tilting his head, and in a voice only those around him could hear, mimicked him vividly:
“G-g-good morning, I’m a… s-stutterer.”
Pansy Parkinson covered her mouth, laughing so hard she trembled like a flower in the wind.
Goyle and Crabbe let out unabashed sneers.
This unbridled laughter sounded particularly harsh in the quiet classroom.
Quirrell’s face turned red; he seemed to want to scold them, but his mouth opened and closed without a sound, and he could only awkwardly tug at his turban, a hint of fear and helplessness showing in his eyes.
Tamara sat in the first row, watching this scene expressionlessly. This story is hosted at g.com.
She didn’t laugh.
On the contrary, she felt a deep sense of shame and anger that almost overwhelmed her.
That was her Main Soul.
That was the Dark Lord who once made the entire wizarding world tremble with fear, whose name countless people dared not speak.
Now, he stood on the lectern like a frightened quail, being mocked by a bunch of eleven-year-old brats!
“Enough.”
Tamara abruptly tapped the table with her expensive holly wand.
The crisp tap wasn’t loud, but it carried a chilling coldness that instantly pierced through the noise in the classroom.
Draco, who was mimicking Quirrell, froze, and Pansy, who was mid-laugh, suddenly stopped like a duck being choked.
All eyes focused on Tamara.
Tamara slowly turned her head, her black eyes coldly sweeping over everyone behind her.
“Is Slytherin etiquette to have you mocking your Professor here like a pack of ill-bred baboons?”
“But he…” Draco tried to argue.
Tamara interrupted him, her tone carrying a hint of finality: “Mocking such a person only makes you look low-class.”
Everyone in the classroom was stunned, unable to tell if Tamara was helping Quirrell or taking a subtle jab at him.
[…Ding! Detected that the host maintained classroom discipline, demonstrating the beautiful virtue of respecting teachers.]
[Although you sounded sarcastic, the result is full of positive energy!]
[Reward: Wisdom +1.]
Tamara sneered in her heart.
Respecting teachers?
No, she just didn’t want to see “herself” being played for a fool by a bunch of idiots; it was too embarrassing.
“Th-thank you, M-miss Riddle,” Quirrell stuttered, a complex light flashing in his eyes.
“T-today’s lesson, w-we are going to talk about… v-Vampires.”
Quirrell began his performance.
He talked about the Vampires he encountered in Romania and how he used garlic to ward them off.
But his speech was incoherent and illogical, and he even mispronounced several basic defensive spells.
Listening to these fabricated stories, the anger in Tamara’s heart didn’t subside from the earlier interlude; instead, it burned even hotter.
In the previous Transfiguration Class, she had been forced to waste a precious item to avoid losing face.
Now, she was full of pent-up rage with nowhere to vent.
And this garlic-reeking, play-acting Quirrell in front of her was the perfect punching bag.
Tamara elegantly raised her hand.
Quirrell stopped, and seeing it was the student who had just helped him, he immediately gave a fawning smile: “M-miss Riddle? D-do you have… a question?”
Tamara stood up.
She looked at Quirrell, her eyes filled with a meaningful scrutiny, a dangerous smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“Professor, you mentioned earlier that this garlic is to ward off the Vampire you met in Romania, to prevent it from coming back for revenge, right?”
“Y-yes,” Quirrell nervously tugged at his turban.
“That’s truly a touching story.”
Tamara spoke slowly, her voice soft, but every word was like a poisoned dagger.
“But I’m curious, Professor.”
She took a small step forward, closing the distance to the lectern.
“Garlic can indeed ward off low-level dark creatures like Vampires.”
“However…”
Tamara narrowed her eyes slightly, her gaze locking onto the back of Quirrell’s head, wrapped in the thick turban.
“What if what’s possessing a person isn’t a Vampire…”
“But a… more ancient, weaker, disembodied remnant soul that can only linger like a parasite?”
These words were like a silent thunderclap exploding in Quirrell’s ears.
The smile on Quirrell’s face froze instantly.
His body jerked rigid, and his spine, which had been somewhat hunched from nervousness, straightened in an instant.
In that moment, his gaze changed.
That cowardly, evasive, and stupid look vanished without a trace.
In its place was a fleeting, hair-raising red light.
That was the gaze belonging to Lord Voldemort.
That was the gaze of a venomous snake whose tail had been stepped on.
He was staring intently at the eleven-year-old girl in front of him through Quirrell’s eyes.
The air in the classroom seemed to solidify.
Draco and the others didn’t understand the deep meaning behind Tamara’s words; they only felt the atmosphere suddenly become very oppressive, so heavy it was hard to breathe.
Tamara met that gaze without flinching.
At this very moment.
Two Voldemorts.
One possessed a young, healthy body but was bound by a system.
One possessed a powerful Main Soul but had to live as a parasite on a useless person, smelling of garlic.
Their gazes met in mid-air.
“Buzz—”