August in London—Charing Cross Road—was as bustling as ever.
Muggles in dizzyingly bright clothes hurried past one another, clutching strange plastic boxes called Walkmans, scurrying through the streets like headless flies. Car engines roared, horns blared, and thick exhaust fumes hung heavily in the summer air.
To Tom Riddle—now Tamara—the suffocating atmosphere was intolerable.
"A nest of lower beings."
She stood between a record store and a large bookstore, gazing at the shabby wooden door wedged between them—a door invisible to Muggles. The corners of her lips curled into a mocking sneer.
Dumbledore had originally offered to accompany her, clearly underestimating both the Dark Lord's independence and the depth of loathing she felt toward that "Old Bee." Tamara had declined sweetly, insisting she wished to "experience the surprise of her first contact with the magical world."
Combined with the wide-eyed innocence enhanced by the [Harmless] skill, she had easily convinced Dumbledore she was merely a pitiable yet strong and independent girl.
The old fool had simply handed her a ticket and a detailed route map before departing to handle his "important affairs."
"If he knew who I was," Tamara thought with a soft snort, "he'd probably regret it enough to rip out his entire beard."
She reached forward and pushed open the door of the Leaky Cauldron.
The interior was as dim and filthy as she remembered.
The air was thick with the scent of sherry, stale tobacco, and that uniquely musty odor belonging to the magical world. To the former Tom Riddle, it might once have seemed crude. Now, however, it smelled like freedom.
A few elderly wizards huddled in a corner, smoking pipes and muttering quietly. Behind the bar, Old Tom lazily wiped a glass that didn't need wiping.
No one paid attention to the small girl who had just entered.
She was about to head toward the courtyard when a mechanical voice suddenly echoed in her mind.
[Ding! Special plot character detected!]
[High energy warning ahead: Encountered "Suspicious Defense Against the Dark Arts Professor."]
[Side quest triggered: A Friendly Greeting.]
[Quest Description: As a future Hogwarts student, how can you not greet a professor? Please show Professor Quirrell your politeness.]
[Quest Reward: Charisma +1.]
"Quirrell?"
Tamara halted mid-step.
Her gaze swept across the dim hall before settling on a corner table.
A young man sat there, pale-faced and visibly nervous. A thick purple turban was wrapped tightly around his head. He looked as though he were recovering from a grave illness—or perhaps from a terror that had hollowed him out entirely.
Quirinus Quirrell.
Tamara's pupils contracted slightly. With memories from a past life, she naturally understood the role he played this year.
He was the host of Lord Voldemort's main soul.
The same Voldemort who had murdered Harry Potter's parents ten years ago, only to have the Killing Curse rebound and reduce him to a wandering wraith.
Very likely, that soul was attached to the back of Quirrell's head at this very moment.
A surge of complex emotion rose within her—excitement, disdain, curiosity, and deep caution.
Her former self had fallen so far as to parasitize such a cowardly, mediocre wizard, lingering like a malignant tumor.
"How pathetic, Lord Voldemort," she mocked inwardly. "Look at you now."
She turned and began walking toward him.
The closer she came, the stronger the sensation became. Her soul trembled faintly.
It was the scent of rot—decaying leaves, sharp garlic, and something darker, colder. It was the resonance of souls from the same origin.
Quirrell seemed to sense her approach. He looked up abruptly, nearly spilling the glass in his hand.
"W-who's there?" he stammered.
To conceal the Dark Lord on the back of his head, Quirrell had to maintain this perpetual state of nervous incompetence.
Tamara stopped at his table and stared at him without expression.
[System Tip: Host, please smile. You must remain polite at all times.]
She inhaled slowly, suppressing the urge to snap his neck, and forced her facial muscles into position.
In the next instant, a sweet, well-behaved smile bloomed across her face—respectful and innocent.
"Hello, sir."
Her voice rang clear and pleasant, like silver bells.
"Excuse me… are you a Hogwarts professor? Your robes look… very distinguished."
Quirrell blinked, clearly startled. He had not expected such a beautiful young girl to approach him in this dingy tavern.
"Y-yes," he stuttered, nervously adjusting his turban. "I am Quirinus Quirrell… Hogwarts' Defense Against the Dark Arts professor."
As he spoke, Tamara sensed it.
The cold aura within him shifted.
Something had awakened.
It scrutinized her through Quirrell's frightened eyes.
The main soul.
A faint sting blossomed in her chest—the instinctive repulsion between identical fragments.
But she did not retreat.
If anything, she relished it.
Dancing on the edge of a blade was exhilarating.
"Wow!" Tamara clasped her hands together, her eyes sparkling with exaggerated admiration. "Defense Against the Dark Arts? That must be the most exciting class at Hogwarts! My name is Tamara—I'll be starting as a first-year this year."
Quirrell swallowed.
An indescribable unease crept through him. He instinctively feared the girl before him, though he could not say why.
"Th-that's good," he muttered, avoiding her pitch-black eyes. "I hope you'll enjoy… the class."
"Professor, you don't look very well," she said gently, tilting her head in concern. She even extended a pale, delicate hand toward his sleeve. "Do you need help?"
Her fingertips brushed the fabric of his robes—
Zzt—
A sharp, electric sting shot through her fingers.
It was not the system.
It was the collision of two fragmented souls—repulsion and attraction intertwined.
Quirrell jerked back as though burned and sprang to his feet, knocking his glass to the floor.
"No! D-don't touch me!" he shrieked, loud enough to draw every eye in the pub.
Old Tom frowned from behind the counter. "Professor Quirrell? Nightmares again?"
Quirrell didn't answer.
He stared at Tamara with unmistakable horror.
The presence inside him was screaming a warning.
"S-sorry… I—I have things to do…" he babbled, grabbing his books and stumbling toward the exit as though fleeing a predator.
He didn't dare look back.
Tamara remained where she stood, watching his retreating figure disappear through the door.
Slowly, she lowered her hand.
The sweetness drained from her face, replaced by cold contemplation.
[Ding! Quest Complete: A Friendly Greeting.]
[Additional Reward Granted: Slight increase in Insight.]
[Host, your aura is too strong. Even the professor was frightened.]
"He wasn't frightened of me," Tamara murmured.
She withdrew a handkerchief and carefully wiped the finger that had nearly touched Quirrell, as though cleansing it of contamination.
"It was the thing behind his head that was afraid."
The main soul was weak.
So weak it could not even recognize her as its own fragment. It sensed only danger—instinctively, desperately.
Good.
That meant she still had time.
Time to grow.
Time to prepare.
Time to devour.
A faint smile curved her lips.
There could only be one Dark Lord in this world.
And it would be her.
"Wait for me, Quirrell," she whispered softly. "And you as well… parasite."
The Leaky Cauldron's air felt warmer now.
Not from comfort—
But from anticipation.