Tamara threw the handkerchief onto the ground and turned toward the courtyard behind the pub.
She stood before the dilapidated red brick wall. Though she currently lacked a wand, that did not trouble her in the slightest. She knew perfectly well how to open it.
Her gaze drifted toward a nearby wizard dressed in shabby robes, who appeared to be emptying a trash bin. He looked more like a caretaker than a proper wizard.
Tamara walked over and gently tugged on his sleeve.
"Uncle…"
She looked up at him, her large eyes instantly misting over, her voice soft and sweet enough to melt ice.
"I can't reach the bricks up there. Could you help me open the door?"
The wizard turned around. When he saw the exquisite, doll-like little girl politely asking for help, his heart melted immediately.
"Oh! Of course! Certainly, little lady!"
He quickly pulled out his wand and tapped the wall above the trash can three times.
Three bricks up… two across… click.
The bricks trembled and began to shift from the center. A small hole appeared and rapidly widened, expanding outward until a wide archway formed before them, revealing a winding cobblestone street that seemed to stretch endlessly into the distance.
Golden sunlight poured over the dazzling array of shop signs lining the street—cauldron shops, apothecaries, robe boutiques—and most prominent of all, the magnificent white marble building of Gringotts.
The noise hit her at once: the chatter of witches and wizards, the calls of street vendors, the hooting of owls overhead.
This was Diagon Alley.
The heart of the British Wizarding World.
Tamara stood beneath the archway, sunlight illuminating her pale face and casting a faint halo around her seemingly fragile figure.
The wizard who had helped her watched her expectantly, waiting for gratitude.
Tamara turned and gave him a flawless, practiced smile.
"Thank you, Uncle. May Merlin bless you."
As she observed his enchanted expression, she added coldly in her mind:
Though that ancient fossil Merlin has probably long since rotted in the ground.
She stepped forward lightly, entering the world that rightfully belonged to her.
And her first destination was obvious—the place that reeked of money yet was utterly indispensable.
Gringotts.
She squeezed the small money pouch at her waist. It was hardly heavy.
You can't accomplish anything without money.
The funds provided by Hogwarts barely covered the essentials. If she wished to do anything beyond mere survival, this sum was laughably insufficient.
Gringotts Wizarding Bank loomed ahead, its snowy white marble exterior towering above the crooked shops like a pristine tooth rising from mud.
Tamara stopped before the gleaming bronze doors. A goblin guard in a scarlet-and-gold uniform stood at attention.
"Enter," the goblin said with a shallow bow, as perfunctory as brushing away a fly.
Tamara snorted inwardly.
If this were decades ago—or in the future, when she reclaimed her rightful power—these greedy, ugly creatures would kneel trembling at her feet, begging her not to exterminate their kind while offering up their vault keys in surrender.
But now…
She lowered her head, masking her expression with timidity. Clutching her withered pouch, she scurried through the doors like a frightened animal.
Beyond the second set of silver doors, the famous warning poem was engraved in elegant lettering:
Enter, stranger, but take heed
Of what awaits the sin of greed.
Tamara silently finished the second line in her mind.
What a ridiculous threat. When one possesses sufficient power, greed is not a sin—it is a virtue.
The marble hall beyond was vast. Nearly a hundred goblins sat behind towering counters. Some weighed coins, others examined gemstones under bright lamps, and several scribbled meticulously in enormous ledgers.
Tamara approached an empty counter where a goblin was writing without even glancing at her.
"S-Sir…"
She rose onto her tiptoes, barely managing to lift her chin above the counter's edge. With both hands, she extended the envelope containing her Hogwarts financial aid voucher.
"I've come to… withdraw money."
The goblin stopped writing and slowly looked down at her, his long, calculating eyes narrowing. He reached out with thin fingers and pinched the envelope between two claws.
"Hogwarts financial aid…" he read in a shrill voice laced with unmistakable contempt.
He opened it and glanced at the slip inside.
"According to the 1991 standard, you are entitled to exchange this for twenty Galleons."
He opened a drawer, counted out a small pile of gold coins, and tossed them onto the counter with a sharp clatter.
"This will suffice for second-hand textbooks and the cheapest robes available—likely the sort that shed lint everywhere. Take it and move along. Don't block the customers behind you."
Twenty Galleons.
Tamara stared at the pitiful stack of coins.
It felt as though her dignity as the Dark Lord had been dragged through the mud.
What could twenty Galleons accomplish?
Even when she worked at Borgin and Burkes, the miserly Old Borgin paid her more than this in weekly wages.
This amount wouldn't even begin to fund the foundation of a Death Eater army—let alone purchase high-grade unicorn tail hair.
Fury simmered in her chest.
These wretched creatures guarded mountains of gold, yet they handed her this insult?
Tamara lifted her gaze and locked eyes with the goblin. Deep within her obsidian pupils, a faint red glimmer flickered.
She did not need a wand.
A silent Confundo would suffice.
Or perhaps a subtle Imperio suggestion.
Just enough to convince him the voucher read two hundred Galleons instead of twenty. Just enough to make him produce an additional pouch of gold.
She had executed such minor manipulations countless times before.
Tamara prepared to drink the Basic Magic Power Potion hidden in her sleeve. Ten minutes of restored strength would be enough. Enough to focus. Enough to gather the fragile threads of magic still lingering within her body and pierce the goblin's mind.
[Warning! Violation detected!]
The cheerful voice rang out in her consciousness once more, grotesquely out of place—like a clown blowing a trumpet at a funeral.
[Virtue System Core Rule #3: A person of character loves wealth but acquires it through proper means.]
[Host detected attempting Dark Arts for fraud/robbery.]
[Punishment Warning: Failure to desist will result in deduction of 10 Sanity points (possible temporary cognitive impairment for five minutes), and automatic notification of Gringotts security.]
Damn it!
Tamara cursed inwardly and immediately severed the flow of magic.
The abrupt backlash sent a spike of pain through her mind. Her body swayed slightly.
"What's wrong with you?" the goblin demanded, frowning. His hand slipped beneath the desk, hovering over what was undoubtedly an alarm mechanism. "If you faint on my counter, I'll charge you a cleaning fee."
"N-No… nothing."
Tamara bit her lip. Tears pooled convincingly in her eyes.
"I'm just… excited. This is the first time I've ever seen so much money."
The goblin rolled his eyes and withdrew his hand.
"Then take it and leave."
Tamara gathered the coins swiftly, stuffing them into her pouch. Without another word, she turned and walked toward the exit.
When she stepped back outside, the sun still shone brightly over Diagon Alley. But her mood had darkened like the Forbidden Forest before a storm.
"System," she whispered through clenched teeth, "you are utterly useless."
[Host, this system exists to cultivate you into a wizard of integrity and moral character. A true powerhouse generates wealth through wisdom and labor—not plunder.]
"Wisdom?" she repeated softly.
She paused at the top of the marble steps and surveyed the bustling shops of Diagon Alley.
Witches examined cauldrons. Wizards debated wand cores. Children tugged eagerly at their parents' sleeves outside Quality Quidditch Supplies.
If she could not rob them—
Then she would exploit them properly.
A slow smile curved across her lips.
Very well.
If the so-called Virtue System demanded that wealth be earned through legitimate means, then she would comply.
She would use wisdom.
She would use labor.
And she would use every advantage at her disposal.
After all—
Was manipulation not a form of wisdom?
Was strategy not a form of labor?
Tamara descended the steps of Gringotts, her small figure swallowed by the golden afternoon crowd.
Twenty Galleons might be an insult.
But it was also capital.
And capital, in capable hands, was a seed.
A seed that, when planted carefully, could grow into power.
Her red eyes flickered once more—this time not with reckless fury, but with calculation.
If she could not seize wealth by force…
She would build it.
And when the day came—
When her power returned fully—
Gringotts itself would remember this moment.
Not as the day it humiliated her.
But as the day it unknowingly financed its future master.
Tamara Riddle walked deeper into Diagon Alley, already planning her first move.