Chapter 5: A Friendly Greeting
August in London. Charing Cross Road baked under the summer sun, as suffocatingly crowded as ever. Muggles swarmed the pavements in dizzyingly bright, tasteless clothing, clutching stupid little plastic boxes called Walkmans in their hands. They scurried about the streets like headless flies, utterly oblivious to the world hidden right under their noses. The thick exhaust fumes from the passing cars made Tom Riddle—that is, the current Tamara—wrinkle her delicate nose in sheer disgust.
'A nest of lower beings.'
Tamara stood between a dusty record store and a large bookstore. She stared at the dilapidated wooden door that remained entirely invisible to the passing Muggles, the corners of her mouth curling into a slow, mocking sneer.
Albus Dumbledore had originally offered to accompany her to Diagon Alley. The old fool had clearly underestimated the Dark Lord's fierce independence, not to mention the sheer, unadulterated loathing she harbored for that meddling Old Bee.
Tamara had easily deflected his offer with a nauseatingly sweet excuse: "I want to experience the surprise of my first contact with the magic world myself, Professor."
Combined with the wide-eyed, innocent offensive granted by her [Harmless] skill, she had successfully convinced Dumbledore that she was merely a girl from a pitiable background—fragile, yet bravely independent. That old fool had simply handed her a train ticket and a detailed route map, patting himself on the back before confidently heading off to attend to his supposedly important business.
'If he knew who I really was, he'd probably regret it enough to pull out his own beard, hair by silver hair.'
Tamara gave a light, dismissive snort. She reached out and pushed open the heavy door of the Leaky Cauldron.
The pub was exactly as she remembered: dim, filthy, and gloriously magical. The air hung heavy with the scent of cheap sherry, aged pipe tobacco, and a distinct, musty dampness unique to the wizarding world. To the former Tom Riddle, this smell might have been slightly pungent. To Tamara at this very moment, it was the intoxicating fragrance of absolute freedom.
A few elderly wizards huddled in a dark corner, puffing on long wooden pipes. Behind the scarred wooden bar, Old Tom was methodically wiping down a glass that was already clean. Not a single patron noticed the little girl stepping through the doorway.
She was just about to bypass the bar and head toward the brick courtyard in the back when a cheerful, perky voice chimed directly inside her skull.
[Ding! Special plot character detected!]
[High energy warning ahead: Encountered "Suspicious Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor".]
[Triggered side quest: A Friendly Greeting.]
[Quest Description: As a future Hogwarts student, how can you not say hello when you see a Professor? Please show Professor Quirrell your utmost politeness.]
[Quest Reward: Charisma +1.]
'Quirrell?'
Tamara's footsteps halted. Her dark gaze swept across the shadowy, low-ceilinged hall, instantly locking onto a small table tucked away in the furthest corner.
A young man sat hunched over a half-empty glass. His face was a sickly, waxen pale, his expression twitchy and nervous. A ridiculously thick purple turban was wrapped tightly around his head. He looked exactly like a man who was either recovering from a devastating fever or had recently been frightened completely out of his wits.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Tamara's pupils contracted to pinpricks. As the possessor of her past life's memories, she knew exactly what role this trembling fool played in the coming year. He was the host. The vessel for Voldemort's main soul.
In other words, the "self" who had failed to kill a mere infant ten years ago. The "self" who allowed a rebounding Killing Curse to reduce the greatest Dark Lord in history to a wandering, incorporeal phantom.
That very phantom was highly likely attached to the back of this stuttering idiot's head right now, lurking beneath the folds of that absurd purple fabric. An indescribable surge of complex emotions clawed at her throat. It was a chaotic mix of dark excitement, overwhelming contempt, and a deep, icy wariness. Her former self had actually fallen this far. Reduced to parasitizing a cowardly, mediocre wizard, lingering on like a malignant tumor.
'How pathetic, Voldemort,'Tamara mocked silently, her eyes narrowing.'Just look at you now.'
She adjusted her posture and walked deliberately toward Quirrell's corner.
As the physical distance between them closed, an aura that made her very soul vibrate grew suffocatingly strong. It was the stench of rotting autumn leaves, heavily masked by the sharp, eye-watering pungency of raw garlic. Beneath it all pulsed a deep, freezing current of pure dark magic. It was the silent, obvious call of souls sharing the exact same origin.
Quirrell seemed to sense the approaching shadow. He jerked his head up in a blind panic, his elbow knocking his glass and nearly spilling its amber contents across the scarred wood.
"Who... w-who's there?" he stammered, his voice thin and reedy. To keep the monstrous entity on the back of his head hidden, Quirrell had to maintain this disgraceful, trembling facade at all times.
Tamara stopped right by his table. She stared down at him, her face a mask of absolute, chilling blankness.
[System Tip: Host, please smile! You must remain polite and angelic at all times.]
Tamara took a slow, measured breath, violently suppressing the urge to reach out and snap Quirrell's fragile neck. Her facial muscles twitched, then quickly arranged themselves into the required mask. In the span of a single second, a sickeningly sweet, well-behaved smile blossomed on her face, radiating nothing but pure respect for an esteemed elder.
"Hello, sir." The girl's voice was crisp, bright, and melodious, ringing out like a string of tiny silver bells. "Excuse me, are you a Hogwarts Professor? I see the style of your robes... is very special."
Quirrell blinked, utterly stunned. He clearly had not expected that in this dingy, motley pub filled with rough characters, such a breathtakingly beautiful and polite little girl would take the initiative to approach him.
"Uh... y-yes." Quirrell nervously brought a trembling hand up to tug at the edge of his oversized purple turban, as if trying to shrink his neck down into his collar. "I... I am Quirinus Quirrell, Hogwarts'... D-Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."
At that exact moment, Tamara keenly felt the freezing aura radiating from Quirrell violently fluctuate. Something ancient and malicious had just awakened within the folds of the turban. It was scrutinizing her, peering out through Quirrell's terrified, bloodshot eyes.
It was the gaze of the main soul.
A sharp, needle-like stinging erupted in Tamara's chest. This was the natural, violent repulsion between two identical, fragmented pieces of the same soul occupying the same space. Yet, she did not take a single step back. Instead, a dark thrill raced down her spine. She actually enjoyed this dangerous sensation, this feeling of dancing barefoot on the razor's edge.
"Wow!" Tamara clasped her pale hands together beneath her chin, widening her eyes until they practically sparkled with manufactured adoration. "Defense Against the Dark Arts! That must be the absolute coolest class at Hogwarts! My name is Tamara, and I'm a freshman this year."
Quirrell stared at the angelic girl, a deep and indescribable sense of wrongness twisting in his gut. His instincts screamed at him. He was inexplicably, deeply terrified of the smiling child standing before him.
"That... t-that's good. I hope you'll like... the class." Quirrell forcefully averted his gaze, unable to meet Tamara's pitch-black, bottomless eyes. He shifted uncomfortably, feeling a sudden, burning irritation at the back of his skull.
"Professor, you don't look very well at all," she noted, her voice dripping with artificial concern. She leaned in closer, extending a small, pale hand as if to gently comfort him. "Do you need some help?"
Just as her delicate fingertips were about to brush against the rough fabric of Quirrell's sleeve.
Zzt—
A violent, current-like stinging sensation exploded at her fingertips. It was not the familiar, punishing shock of the Virtue System. It was the raw, volatile friction of mutual repulsion and magnetic attraction between two fractured pieces of the same soul.
Quirrell violently jerked his arm back as if he had been branded with a hot iron. He sprang up from his chair so fast it tipped backward, his flailing hand finally knocking the glass completely over. The glass shattered against the floorboards.
"No! D-don't touch me!" he shrieked in absolute terror. His voice cracked, echoing loudly enough to instantly silence the low murmurs of the entire pub.
Old Tom, the bartender, stopped wiping his glass and looked over with a heavy frown. "Professor Quirrell, having those nightmares while awake again?"
Quirrell did not answer the bartender. He stood frozen, staring at Tamara with wide, horrified eyes. The dark, parasitic thing embedded in his flesh was screaming warnings directly into his brain.
"S-sorry, I... I have things to do..." Quirrell babbled incoherently. He snatched his scattered books off the wet table, clutching them to his chest. Without another word, he bolted toward the pub's exit, stumbling over his own robes as if running for his very life. He did not dare to look back even once.
Tamara stood perfectly still by the abandoned table, watching Quirrell's disheveled, pathetic form disappear through the doorway. Slowly, deliberately, she lowered her hand from mid-air.
The sickeningly sweet smile melted off her face, instantly replaced by a mask of meaningful, calculating coldness.
[Ding! Quest Complete: A Friendly Greeting.]
[Since you successfully greeted the Professor, extra reward: a slight increase in Insight.]
[Host, your aura is too strong! Even the Professor was frightened by you.]
'He wasn't frightened by me.'Tamara calmly pulled a pristine silk handkerchief from her pocket. She began to carefully, methodically wipe the fingertip that had almost made contact with Quirrell's sleeve, scrubbing the skin as if it had been stained by something utterly filthy.'It was the thing on the back of his head that was frightened.'
The main soul was still incredibly weak. It was so degraded and fragile that it couldn't even recognize her as its own severed fragment. It could only blindly, instinctively sense a lethal threat.
This was excellent news.
This meant that before the main soul could fully resurrect and regain its faculties, she had more than enough time. Time to plan. Time to grow her own power. Time to prepare to devour it whole.
Tamara's lips curled into a sharp, predatory smile. There could only be one Dark Lord in this world, and that position belonged exclusively to her.
'Just you wait, Quirrell,'she thought, her dark eyes gleaming in the dim tavern light.'And that pathetic parasite hiding on the back of your head.'
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