Chapter 37: The Troll in the Bathroom
Despite knowing the exact hiding place of the Philosopher's Stone, Tamara Riddle was in no hurry to act.
As a Dark Lord who had once brought the entire wizarding world to its knees, she understood the exquisite value of patience better than anyone breathing. These pathetic little obstacles Dumbledore had set up could never truly stop her, but slipping past them completely unnoticed would require finesse.
More crucially, she needed a scapegoat.
'Let Quirrell and that idiot main soul scout the way first,' she mused, her lips curling into a faint, mocking smile. Knowing her own past self, that fragmented wraith would absolutely refuse to let the Philosopher's Stone slip through his incorporeal fingers.
Tamara calculated the odds with cold precision. 'When they inevitably trigger the alarm or get themselves hopelessly tangled in Dumbledore's little traps, that is when the real hunter strikes.'
During these days of lying low, life at Hogwarts felt almost insultingly peaceful.
Ever since their little excursion to Hagrid's hut, Harry Potter and Ron Weasley's attitudes toward Tamara had undergone a nauseatingly massive shift.
"Good morning, Tamara!" Harry would greet her with blinding enthusiasm whenever they crossed paths in the stone corridors, his green eyes bright. Even Ron would manage a clumsy, red-faced wave.
Faced with this unearned friendship from the so-called Savior, Tamara felt absolutely zero internal warmth. Instead, she maintained a flawless Slytherin-style composure, wearing a mask of polite grace and occasionally offering a gentle nod in response.
This diplomatic policy drove Draco Malfoy mad with jealousy. Yet, the blonde boy dared not defy Tamara's silent authority, reducing him to directing his daily frustration at Potter through aggressive, aristocratic huffs and sneers.
October 31st, Halloween Eve.
The heavy, sweet scent of roasted pumpkin and cinnamon drifted through the castle drafts. At the end of Charms Class that afternoon, Tamara lingered behind the surging crowd, her sharp ears catching the tail end of a loud argument up ahead.
"No wonder no one can stand her!" Ron Weasley was complaining loudly to Harry, his tone harsh and echoing off the stone walls. "She's an absolute nightmare! Honestly, if she had even one friend, it would be a bloody miracle!"
Immediately after the cruel words left his mouth, a bushy-haired brown figure rushed past Tamara, head ducked low. The sound of suppressed, ragged sobbing trailed behind her.
It was Hermione Granger.
Tamara stopped. She watched the direction the Gryffindor girl vanished, then cast a sideways glance at the still-rambling Ron.
'Childish,' she evaluated coldly in her mind.
These petty squabbles and pathetic exclusions between eleven-year-olds were as boring as watching ants fight over a crumb. She had absolutely no interest in speaking up to correct Ron, nor did she possess the slightest urge to comfort that fragile little girl. Tamara rarely felt much genuine emotion these days; her dissatisfaction mostly stemmed from a simmering anger at her own current incompetence. Empathizing with such trivial matters was naturally impossible.
She simply smoothed the immaculate front of her robes and turned on her heel, walking in the opposite direction.
By evening, the Halloween feast had officially begun.
The Great Hall was magnificently decorated. Thousands of live bats fluttered in chaotic clouds against the enchanted ceiling, while low-hanging dark mist simulated rolling thunderheads, complete with flashes of artificial lightning.
Tamara sat elegantly at the Slytherin table, her dark eyes sweeping over the students around her who were happily stuffing their faces with sweets. Her mind, however, was entirely focused on other matters.
This was the perfect opportunity.
Now that all the teachers and students were gathered in the Great Hall—and Dumbledore was firmly seated in his golden chair at the staff table—the forbidden corridor on the third floor had to be completely unguarded. She didn't need to steal the Philosopher's Stone tonight, but she could certainly use this window to carefully examine the spell structure layered over the trapdoor, preparing the ground for her future grand theft.
"I am going to the bathroom," Tamara murmured casually to Draco, who was busy glaring at the Gryffindor table.
Before he could offer to escort her, she slipped quietly away from the noisy Great Hall, leaving him staring after her with a look of mild concern.
The castle corridors were entirely empty, wrapped in a comfortable, heavy silence. Tamara easily avoided the watchful gazes of the oil portraits, making her way upstairs with practiced, silent footsteps.
However, as she passed the girls' bathroom on the first floor, a pathetic, intermittent sound of suppressed crying drifted out from behind the heavy wooden door.
Tamara's footsteps paused for a fraction of a second.
Was it that Granger girl?
She frowned inwardly, a flicker of genuine annoyance crossing her features. Had this foolish child really been hiding in a damp toilet crying all afternoon?
'So incredibly fragile,' Tamara thought, shaking her head. She had zero intention of staying. She lifted her foot to continue her ascent toward the third floor—what did the tears of a mudblood have to do with her? She was a Dark Lord on her way to do big things.
However, the exact moment her leather shoe touched the next stone step...
[Ding! Detected a key character nearby in an extremely negative emotional state.]
[Mission: Soothe the Wounded Soul.]
[Mission Description: As a Model Student with all-around development in morals, intelligence, physical health, and aesthetics, how can you bear to hear a classmate crying alone and remain indifferent? This is an extreme lack of empathy!]
[Mission Requirement: Enter the bathroom and comfort Hermione Granger to make her stop crying.]
[Mission Reward: Love +2]
[Failure Penalty: For the next 24 hours, every sentence the host speaks will automatically turn into the tone of a hymn.]
Tamara's foot froze dead in mid-air.
A hymn tone? Like some brainless, robe-wearing idiot lamenting the divine beauty of all things in the world?
"...Damn System," Tamara breathed out, her voice a dangerous whisper.
She took a deep, steadying breath, ground her teeth together until her jaw ached, withdrew her foot, and turned sharply toward that cursed girls' bathroom.
Pushing open the heavy door, a wave of damp, stale air hit her face. Hermione was hiding in the innermost stall, her crying sounding utterly heartbroken and wet.
Tamara stood before the cracked mirrors above the sinks, staring at her own cold, aristocratic reflection. She took a moment to forcibly adjust her facial muscles, ensuring she didn't look quite so much like she was about to commit a gruesome murder.
"Miss Granger?" she called out, knocking her knuckles lightly against the wooden stall door. Her voice was cool, measured.
The crying stopped abruptly, replaced by a sharp intake of breath. After a few agonizing seconds, Hermione's voice drifted out, thick and heavy with a nasal tone. "Go... go away! I don't want anyone to see me!"
"I have absolutely no interest in seeing your tear-stained face either," Tamara replied smoothly, crossing her arms and leaning her hip against the sink. "I was merely passing by and heard the noise in here. I thought perhaps a Mandrake had somehow come to life and wandered off."
"You..." Hermione choked on a fresh sob, then began to cry even harder. "Even you've come to mock me... Waaa... Ron was right, I'm just a friendless freak..."
Tamara rubbed her temples, her patience wearing dangerously thin.
"Only you would take that idiot Weasley's words seriously," Tamara said, her tone dropping into a chillingly calm register. "In this world, only those with absolutely no ability of their own will speak maliciously to bring down others. If you hide in a toilet crying, or try to cater to their mediocrity just because of a few jealous words, you are only wasting your own talent."
Silence fell over the stall.
A moment later, the brass lock made a soft click. Hermione pushed the door open and stepped out into the dim light. Her eyes were swollen red like bruised peaches, her bushy hair was an absolute disaster, and her robes were wrinkled. She looked utterly disheveled.
"Do you... really think I'm... a genius?" Hermione asked with a wet hiccup, looking up at Tamara with a desperate, fragile glimmer of hope.
Seeing her miserable state, Tamara suppressed a heavy sigh. She reached into her pocket, retrieved a pristine white handkerchief, and held it out.
"At least in terms of memorizing textbooks, you are better than most of the dunderheads in our year."
Just as Hermione reached out with trembling fingers to take the handkerchief, preparing to stammer out a thank you...
Boom!
A deafening crash shook the room, as if a boulder had been dropped from the ceiling. The entire bathroom floor vibrated violently under their feet.
A split second later, a nauseating stench flooded the enclosed space—a vile, eye-watering mixture of old gym socks, rotting cabbage, and an unwashed public sewer.
Tamara's expression hardened instantly. She raised a hand to cover her nose, her dark eyes snapping toward the doorway.
A massive, grotesque creature completely blocked the bathroom entrance. It was a monster easily twelve feet tall. Its skin was a dull, sickly grey, rough and textured like unpolished granite. It possessed a disproportionately small, bald head perched atop a lumbering, mountainous body. In its massive, wart-covered hand, it dragged a huge wooden club. Its small, cloudy eyes locked onto the two girls standing by the sinks.
A fully grown Mountain Troll.
"Ah—!!!"
Hermione let out a piercing, blood-curdling scream. The sheer terror robbed her of all strength, and her knees buckled. She collapsed onto the wet floor tiles, trembling violently from head to toe, completely paralyzed by fear.
Stimulated by the high-pitched noise, the Troll let out a deafening roar. It raised the tree-trunk-like club high into the air and charged forward with heavy, devastating steps, crushing a porcelain sink into powder beneath one massive foot. Water pipes burst instantly, sending icy sprays of water shooting across the room.
'Damn it! How did this foul thing get in here?!' Tamara cursed viciously under her breath.
She suddenly realized why Quirrell had been so suspiciously quiet lately—he was obviously using this beast as a distraction. In her previous life, although Voldemort's wraith had resided on the back of Quirrell's head for a long time, Tom actually didn't retain many clear memories of this specific period. At that time, the main soul was far too weak, only surfacing to take control when absolutely necessary. She simply couldn't remember these trivial, chaotic details.
The huge wooden club swung down, whistling through the air, aimed directly at Hermione's cowering head.
Hermione squeezed her eyes shut, waiting in despair for the crushing blow.
At that exact moment, time seemed to stretch and stand still.
There was no pain.
There was no death.
Instead, Hermione felt a sudden, firm grip wrap around her waist. She was yanked backward with incredible force. A faint, cold, almost minty fragrance instantly washed over her, completely cutting through the nauseating stench of the Troll.
She opened her eyes.
A pale, exquisitely beautiful profile was suddenly close at hand. Tamara Riddle had one arm wrapped tightly around Hermione's waist, shielding the Gryffindor girl firmly against her side. Her other hand held her holly wand raised high, the tip pointed directly at the descending wooden club.
The Slytherin girl, usually so cold and composed, now possessed eyes that were terrifyingly sharp, burning with a lethal intensity.
"Wingardium Leviosa!"
Tamara's voice was not loud, but it carried a heavy, unquestionable authority that seemed to command the very air itself.
The massive club, heavy enough to crush a human skull into pulp, froze dead in mid-air, trembling violently less than half a meter above their heads!
The Troll roared in dumb confusion. It strained its bulging muscles, trying desperately to force the weapon down, but the club remained entirely motionless, as if locked in the grip of invisible iron pincers.
"Get lost, you ugly thing," Tamara let out a low, utterly disgusted growl.
She flicked her wand sharply to the side. The wooden club was instantly ripped from the Troll's grasp. It flew backward with the velocity of a cannonball, slamming heavily into the center of the beast's bald forehead.
"Thump!"
A sickeningly dull sound echoed off the tiles. Without even a whimper, the Troll's cloudy eyes rolled back into its head. Its massive body swayed for a second before crashing backward onto the floor, making the entire bathroom vibrate once more.
Dead silence returned to the ruined bathroom, broken only by the loud hissing of the burst water pipes spraying the walls.
Hermione leaned dazed against Tamara's side. Pressed so closely together, she could clearly hear the steady, calm heartbeat thumping within the Slytherin girl's chest.
Meanwhile, her own heart was racing wildly, hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Thump, thump, thump.
It wasn't just fear anymore. It was... a deep, overwhelming shock of surviving a deadly disaster.
She slowly looked up at Tamara, who still held her wand aloft, her dark eyes scanning the fallen beast. Amidst the swirling mist of the broken pipes, the young Slytherin girl's figure seemed incredibly tall, so powerful, and so... reassuring.
Tamara frowned deeply, finally releasing her grip on Hermione's waist. She looked with absolute distaste at the flooded floor and the foul-smelling, unconscious Troll leaking fluids onto the tiles.
"Are you okay?" she asked, looking down at Hermione, who was still staring up at her with a blank, wide-eyed expression. Though Tamara's tone carried a distinct edge of impatience, to Hermione's ringing ears, it sounded incredibly gentle and heroic.
"Find a safer place to cry next time, Granger." Tamara smoothly put her wand away and reached out, gently patting the dust and debris off Hermione's trembling shoulder.
Hermione felt her face flush a brilliant, burning red in an instant.
The suspension bridge effect had reached its absolute peak in this damp, ruined bathroom. She stared at Tamara, her mouth opening and closing, completely unable to form a single word. She felt as though her heart was about to leap straight out of her throat.
[Ding! Mission Complete: Soothe the Wounded Soul.]
[Detected that the target character "Hermione Granger" has developed an extremely high level of favorability toward the host.]
[Evaluation: A perfect hero-saves-beauty. Congratulations, host; honestly, she almost fell in love with you.]
[Mission Rating: S. Perfectly resolved the Troll. Awarding extra points: Courage +5]
[Current Courage: 12]
[Unlocked Spell: Petrificus Totalus]
Tamara was highly satisfied with this generous reward, but she had absolutely no time to revel in it right now. She just wanted to leave this stinking, flooded room as quickly as possible and scrub herself raw in a hot bath.
"Can you still walk?" Seeing Hermione still sitting on the wet floor, completely dazed, Tamara let out a long sigh. She reached out her pale hand once more. "Get up. If we stay in here any longer, I am going to start smelling like this beast too."
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