Chapter 9: Mind at Midnight

  A lazy summer night settled over Privet Drive. The dim lamp cast shadows across Iris' desk, its glow barely illuminating the small bedroom. The air carried the lingering scent of freshly mown grass - courtesy of the lawncare company's afternoon visit - drifting through her half-open window.

  It smelled too sweet, too reminiscent of the Hogwarts pitch covered with hedges, where Cedric had once joked about "facing her for the Quidditch Cup next year". Iris' quill hovered over a long length of parchment, trembling. A droplet of ink almost bled through the word "Cedric".

  Iris pressed down too hard on the next downstroke, snapping the tip. A ragged breath escaped her as she fumbled for another quill in her bag, pausing as she caught her reflection in the window. Pale… vulnerable… too skinny for her age. Her cheekbones prominent… her eyes dark… one corner of her mouth twitching into a familiar smirk–

  No. Iris jerked back, almost knocking over her inkwell. Stop thinking about it. You're not him. She was scared of even looking at herself these days. Her dresser was still dusted with glass shards from last week's panic. Heroines don't run in the face of adversity, Ginny would've said.

  But Ginny didn't know. None of them did.

  The room returned to quiet, only broken by the scratches of her new quill as Iris put the finishing touches on the letter, almost four feet in length.

  … I know you're worried this is crossing a line. I am too. But isn't that why we're the best ones for the job? If we'd understood Barty's Confundus on the Cup sooner, Cedric might… [ink smudge] Never mind. You've re-read that sentence three times now, haven't you? Stop overthinking. It's theory, Hermione. Just equations and hypotheticals.

  The modified charm wouldn't go much deeper than a Pensieve dive, really. The research could even let us identify Imperius victims by their mental 'imprint', like a fingerprint. Prevent another Crouch.

  Remember that we're doing this to protect everyone. So, don't make me finish this without you, alright? I'll take all the credit again, and you hate when I do that. If anyone can make this ethical, it's you.

  Say hi to Mr. and Mrs. Granger for me. And if you hear whispers about You-Know-Who's little fan club… well. You know your letters are the only things keeping me sane.

  Still breathing (barely),

  Iris

  The parchment unfurled, each paragraph filled with half-truths. Her words danced on a tightrope between Hermione's trust and the unspoken reality: Iris had already tested the prototype charm. Once. On Aunt Petunia. A flick of her wrist, and for three glorious hours, her aunt had loved Lily Potter, loved magic… loved her. Iris knew that with further improvements, the change could be permanent, undetectable… unforgivable.

  The spell had dredged up uncomfortable memories for the Dark Lord… a destitute woman, desperate for false love. It was the first time Tom had ever been disgusted with her: "A pathetic recourse for only the most useless of witches." Iris had retched afterward behind the garden shed, her forehead pressed to the wooden planks until tremors subsided.

  The dark-haired girl blew on the parchment, drying the ink. After rolling up the letter, she pressed her thumb into the sealing wax, seeing a flash of light as the Secret-Sealing Parchment encrypted her words. Then, she sat there for a while, her fingertips tracing the scroll's edge. She could rip up the letter, burn it to ash. But she didn't.

  Hedwig nipped her earlobe reproachfully as Iris fastened the scroll. "I know, I know. Heavy cargo. Deliver it to Hermione, okay?" Iris stroked the beautiful snowy owl in the cage, her mood lightening just a bit as the owl preened at her touch. The owl's amber eyes held no judgement, only instincts of the hunt and home. For a moment, Iris wished she could be like her - fly away from Privet Drive, from Hogwarts, and leave everything behind.

  She opened the window and watched as Hedwig flew into the night. Slamming the window closed afterwards, Iris shut the curtains, resolutely looking anywhere but at her own reflection.

  She slumped back into her desk chair, the creak of wood echoing in the quiet room. The clutter of parchment before her, ink blots and crossed-out theories, glared at her like accusations.

  It had all started innocently, of course. Last year, Iris and Hermione had set aside their academic rivalry to craft spells for the Triwizard Tournament. Iris' instinctive knack for practical magic paired perfectly with Hermione's prowess for theoretical formulations.

  "It's not supposed to melt in sunlight!" Hermione groaned, hugging a stack of messy diagrams. Iris' lips curled as she remembered long afternoons with her bushy-haired friend by the lake, debating the best way to propel a surfboard made of ice.

  Then Cedric died.

  Hermione sat with Iris on her dorm bed, braiding her hair, filling the sombre silence with plans for a new project. The Confundus charm seemed like a logical choice: a powerful spell that could affect the minds of people and powerful artifacts alike. Crouch had already used it to target Iris. Preventative, Iris reasoned. Tom's expertise on the Mind Arts would help their progress, unbeknownst to Hermione.

  Yet the notes on her desk had taken a dubious turn. Subtle modifications. Personality adjustment. Theoretical. Hermione's owl would return soon, arguments couched in Gryffindor righteousness. "It's a slippery slope, Iris. You can't just–"

  But Iris already had.

  Her nails bit into her palms. It's a last resort. She'd never use it on her friends… right? It was just a contingency, a possibility to be aware of, to counter the Death Eaters' own tricks.

  Iris took a sip from her soup takeout, grimacing at the tasteless liquid. But she forced herself to drink it all, the mandrake leaf under her tongue turning each swallow into a chore. Only a week left for this miserable stage of the animagus ritual. Not that eating would ever bring joy again - not after she'd traded her sense of taste years ago to fix her horrible eyesight.

  Sacrifices piled up… each one drawing her further down the path she'd chosen. A path that was growing darker and lonelier with every step.

  The lamp switched off. Iris climbed into bed, muscles sore from hours of wand drills and incantation practice. She stared up at the ceiling, at the cracks in the plaster, imagining the condemning eyes of her friends and the revulsion on their faces. She turned her face away.

  Silence filled her ears - thick, syrupy, wrong. Two weeks since she'd severed the shadow-bond. Two weeks since Riddle's stolen body had disintegrated to smoke. Now she ignored the Dark Lord lurking in the recesses of her mind, spurning any attempt at conversation. Never one to beg for attention, Riddle stayed silent as well. And so, a strange hush fell over her mind - something Iris hadn't experienced in years. She refused to miss the murmur of his voice. Refused to acknowledge how the quiet felt less like peace and more like abandonment; like she'd returned to those days before Hogwarts, lying in her cupboard, wishing for a friend.

  It's better this way, she told the cracks in the ceiling. He's not your friend. He's the rot in the apple, the viper waiting to strike. But her traitorous mind replayed the coldness of his phantom touch - fingers at her throat, breath against her earlobe, the terrifying thrill of being seen through, even as he tried to dismantle her.

  The mattress creaked as she curled inward, sheets tangling around her legs. Sleep came without her notice, blurring the line between thought and memory.

  Cold stone pressed against her bare feet. Iris lurched back, fingers instinctively scrabbling against a nearby table as her mindscape materialized - the Hogwarts library, golden rays shining through arched windows, shelves stacked full with ancient tomes. Dust motes swirled where her panicked breath disturbed the air.

  Riddle leaned against a bookcase, sixteen, dangerously elegant in his green Slytherin robes. Sunlight gilded his pale cheekbones, but his eyes were darker than midnight. "Still sulking, Iris?" He tilted his head, mouth curving. "How very… adolescent. Though I must admit, the silent treatment is a refreshing change from your usual moral lectures."

  She gripped the table harder. Two weeks of hard-fought silence broke in her dismay. "You… how did you pull me here? This is my mindscape." She knew the answer even as she hissed at him. Everything she knew about the Mind Arts had come from him - his whispered lessons during sleepless nights, his patient diagrams drawn in her dreams.

  "Who taught you to sculpt thought into architecture?" His indulgent smile hardened. A shadowy serpent poked its head out from his sleeve - red eyes, just like the one he'd conjured to terrorize her in Second Year. "Shall we discuss ownership when you build palaces with my bricks?"

  Iris' lips thinned. She turned sharply, nightgown whipping around her bony ankles. "I have nothing to talk to you about. I'm going."

  Air thickened. Riddle dissolved into smoke that smelled of burnt ash, reforming before her with a gust of wind. "Are we still cross about the shadow?" His thumb brushed her jaw, raising goosebumps on her skin. "Admit it, little girl. Without my soul steering that amalgamation of darkness, you'd still have it tripping over its shoelaces."

  A wave of his hand made the nearest tome fly out from its shelf, opening in front of her. Her own face stared back, emotionless - the shadow clone Iris, that jerked like a marionette when she tried to raise its arm. It was an unnatural creation, a far cry from a realistic illusion that could fool her enemies.

  Riddle's cold breath made her eyelashes flutter. "And… you know how it moves when I'm in control." His eyebrow rose, a teasing smile on his lips.

  Iris didn't need to pull a memory from her mindscape to picture the fluidity of Tom's movements as he approached her, the strength he'd been able to summon as he grasped her throat. When he possessed the shadow… Merlin, he'd made it breathe, as if he'd been truly reborn.

  "Power isn't a sin, Iris." His fingers gently closed around her wrist, sending a shameful jolt through her nerves, as the shadow serpent slithered up her arm. "It's the only prayer this world respects."

  Iris grit her teeth, suddenly slamming her free palm forward. Golden light erupted between them, pushing Riddle away, vaporizing the serpent into a puff of acrid smoke. "Not everything is about power," she said, her voice emerging steadier this time. Then the cracks spread. "You lied." Her throat constricted. "You used me. Just like you a-always do."

  Stupid, stupid, STUPID– Her voice stumbled on unsaid words. She bit her lip, using the pain to cage the confession that yearned to break free: I thought you cared. I thought we–

  Riddle leaned into the translucent barrier, its light dancing across his too-perfect features. "You thought… what?" His eyes glinted. "That I'd play the doting mentor forever? Recite poetry while braiding your hair?" He laughed, his voice venomous. "We've shared a mind for three years, my little serpent. Did you truly believe I'd settle for tea parties when I could have temples built in my name? Did you truly think you could tame me?"

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  Of course.

  His mockery killed the naive hope she'd never admit to nurturing. How could she expect any different from Voldemort of all people, even if he was his teenage self? Tom Riddle lying was as normal and ordinary as lungs breathing air, or water being wet.

  Iris stared at the mindscape's starry ceiling, so similar to the Great Hall's enchanted sky, and let the cruel reality set in. Tears blurred the vaulted ceiling as memories swirled like the gentle light of a patronus. Hermione's ink-stained fingers tapping on parchment. Ron's lopsided grin as he sacrificed himself to the white queen. Cedric's proud smile when Iris defeated him in their practice duels… each memory braided itself into the barrier's glow, their warmth fighting against Riddle's frost.

  "I don't want to tame you," she said, watching his smirk falter at her sudden calm. The golden light brightened, pushing the startled Dark Lord back another step. "I want to survive you."

  Magic brimmed in her veins, pounding with her every heartbeat. Iris shut her eyes, letting it fuse with her rage, her grief, the stubborn marrow of hers that still believed in sunlight. "From you, I'll learn what I need to protect my friends. But…!" Her eyes snapped open.

  "You Will Never– Own– Me!"

  Every snarled word took her a step forward. At the last shout, a shockwave rippled out from her golden aegis.

  Riddle's disdain dissolved into a gasp as the blast hurled him backward, rays of light searing through his robes. For a moment, his composure wavered, revealing a glimpse of the boy beneath the monster. Then the shadows rushed back, reforming his body, stitching his mask into place again.

  His face went blank, obsidian eyes drilling into her through the shimmering barrier.

  A brief lull fell over the library. Dust particles, blown into the air by her outburst, drifted back to the ground. Iris stood inside her shielded sanctuary, chest heaving as adrenaline ebbed. Expressionless, Riddle studied her closely as he paced around the edges of the golden light.

  "Finished?" His voice was like ice. "How tedious, watching your childish tantrums. It seems your ignorance has become an obstacle to our cooperation." He turned to face her. "Perhaps a… fuller truth will make you more compliant."

  She stared at the predator outside her cage, wary of his sudden change in attitude. She was expecting anger, not this eerie calmness. "Truth?" She scoffed. "You still have the nerve to–"

  "Do you know," Riddle cut her off impatiently, "why Voldemort didn't die that night, when he turned his wand on you?" His lips curled in distaste as he spoke the moniker he'd once created. "Why he clings to existence, even after you destroyed that stuttering fool Quirrell?"

  Iris blew some loose strands of hair out of her eyes, curious despite her skepticism. "Dunno. Dumbledore never saw fit to inform me." Her words were bitter.

  "Horcrux." He hissed the word, his voice a contradictory mix of reverence and revulsion. He circled her, his fingertips trailing the spines of phantom books. "The Darkest of Arts. Split the soul… bind it to a vessel. So long as the vessel endures, death cannot claim you."

  She froze. "So… he can't be killed."

  Riddle didn't answer. Instead, he leaned back against a bookshelf, gaze distant. "A mistake." The confession lingered in the air, unnatural coming from his lips. "I sought immortality. Empires, worlds… power beyond your comprehension." He looked back at her, a haunted, almost pleading expression on his face. "But what did I amount to in the end, Iris? A cult leader, defeated by a mere babe. A wraith forced to leech off a squib of a wizard, just to exist."

  Iris was stunned speechless. This vulnerable, self-loathing version of Tom Riddle unnerved her more than his cruelty ever had.

  "I didn't foresee the cost," the dark-haired boy murmured. "The Dark Arts always demand payment, Iris. Horcruxes… they fracture more than the soul. They erode your sanity."

  She blinked, almost disbelieving. "Hold on… you said Horcruxes? As in… multiple?" Her voice trembled as it lowered to a whisper. "H-how many did you make, Tom?"

  The boy in Slytherin robes gave her a piercing look. "The plan was to make seven."

  Iris gripped the fabric of her gown, knuckles pale. The light barrier flickered as her emotions went into disarray. "Why?" Her throat constricted. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?" She stared at Riddle in desperation. "How do you expect me to fight a Dark Lord who's effectively immortal? What was all of our training–"

  Suddenly, color drained from her face. She fell onto her knees, her flimsy nightgown doing nothing to block the chill of the flagstones against her legs. "You… you're one of them." Her green eyes dulled as realization hit her like a Bludger. "And I'm your vessel."

  She'd always known.

  Ever since Iris first heard the dulcet tones of her friend Tom in her head… perhaps even before the Diary, when she lay in the cupboard under the stairs, the word "freak" echoing in her ears.

  Her friends at Hogwarts… her cherished memories… they didn't belong to her. They belonged to an imposter - debts of false love she would eventually have to repay in full. She was stupid, selfish even, to hope for anything more.

  To kill Voldemort… I have to die first.

  The gold aegis around her shattered along with her dreams.

  "Get. Up."

  Riddle's growl ripped through the air. Before she could react, icy fingers clenched around her throat, hauling her up. Stone bit into her spine as he slammed her against the wall, his mental form radiating fury and something deeper - panic. "This is your Gryffindor courage?" he sneered, his dark eyes locked onto hers. "I didn't train you to collapse at the first real challenge!"

  Iris coughed weakly. "C-challenge?" Her eyes were despondent. "You have to die. I have to die. Where's the challenge in that?"

  His fingers tightened, almost choking her. "You disappoint me, Iris. This is why I said your friendships only make you weaker." He leaned closer, breath cold on her tear-streaked face. "Power. The answer is power."

  Slowly, he loosened his hold, letting her slide down the wall until her knees hit the floor once more. He stared down at her, as if looking at trash. "What if… you eclipsed the Dark Lord himself?" Iris' eyes remained vacant, uncomprehending. "What if you grew so powerful," he pressed, kneeling to pull her hair back, forcing her to meet his gaze, "that you could obliterate Voldemort every time he dared regain his physical form? Then… Horcruxes wouldn't matter at all, would they? You'd keep your little friends. Hogwarts. Even–" His lips curved, predatory, as a spark of life tentatively lit up in her dead eyes. "–me. Forever."

  "Y-you…" Her voice was hoarse. "Liar." She shut her eyes, refusing to let him see the tears. She knew what he wanted. More sacrifices. More Dark Arts, until her very soul was stained irreversibly black.

  "And," he snapped, veneer of patience thinning, "even if you despise the… cost of power, must your only answer be self-immolation? Must you always play the martyr?" He released her braid, rising to his full height with a sneer.

  Iris curled up against the wall, hugging her knees, face buried. Only the fragile hope still fluttering beneath her ribs kept her anchored here, in this suffocating mindscape.

  "When I failed to possess you in Second Year," he began, pacing around her, "why do you think your mother's protection didn't destroy me? Why am I still here?"

  Silence.

  "Voldemort left more than a scar that night. He left a shard. A broken piece of his soul. I absorbed it when I fled your mind." He conjured a chair, sitting in it with deliberate calm, fingertips pressed together. "Your scar isn't just a mark, Iris. It's a cradle."

  Her muffled voice came from between her knees. "You're… in my scar?" Her fingers crept to her forehead.

  "Ah. You feel it." His voice softened. "When my anger stirs, when my will sharpens… you've sensed the heat, haven't you?"

  He paused.

  "Your blood protection didn't erase me. It… refined me. Burned my tether to that flailing, half-made thing you call Voldemort." His thumb grazed her skin, making her shiver. "In your scar, I became something… new. I was my own soul now, with my own will."

  Iris pressed her back into the cold stone, watching him through the dark curtain of her unkempt hair. Riddle - no, Tom - lounged in a wingback chair that didn't belong in the real Hogwarts library, his posture too refined for someone carved from nightmares. His fingers drummed a static rhythm on the armrest, his smile too perfect. Calculated. Always calculated. Yet his collar was slightly askew, hair mussed as if he'd raked a hand through it. A human flaw.

  "So you're… free?" A scoff escaped her, brittle with distrust. "Purified?"

  His smile sharpened, a blade honed on her doubt. "We are. You're no longer a vessel for his rot." He leaned forward, elbows resting on knees, and suddenly he was just a boy - a beautiful, dangerous boy who'd once charmed professors with his devious tongue. "You're the crucible, Iris. The flame that forged something… greater."

  Silence returned to the library. Sunlight scattered through the castle windows, basking the worn study tables in hues of honey and gold. Somewhere, a clock ticked - time passing in the labyrinth of her mind. Iris dug her fingers into her shins, leaving moon-white crescents in her skin.

  Horcrux. If he'd siphoned the soul-shard from her… if this wasn't another viper's bargain… could she defeat Voldemort without burning herself to ash first?

  She swallowed a hysterical laugh. How could she take Tom Riddle's words at face value?

  Yet the question still stood: Why train me? Why mold a weapon against your own soul? Unless this was his masterpiece - corrupting the Girl-Who-Lived from the inside, making her his accomplice.

  Iris' legs unfolded stiffly, joints protesting. Tom's eyes tracked her every move, a predator savoring the stumble of their prey. She pulled out a chair, perching on the edge, back rigid. He materialized beside her in a heartbeat, close enough that his sleeve brushed hers. The scent of old parchment and ink drifted past.

  "Suppose I believe you." The calm of her own voice surprised Iris. "How do we destroy them? The Horcruxes." She stared resolutely at the study table's woodgrain, though every nerve screamed awareness of his proximity.

  Tom's finger glided along the table's edge, tracing swirling patterns. "I - he - clung to relics like a child to toys." Loathing colored his words, though Iris couldn't tell if it was genuine or another performance. "The Diary. A ring. A diadem, perhaps?" His breath tickled her cheek. "Hidden in places steeped in his… legacy."

  She whirled, finding his face inches from hers. His eyes were wrong - too dark, pupils swallowing hazel. Snake eyes.

  "You'll never breach their wards," he murmured, his hand closing around her wrist. "Not with Dumbledore's neglect. Not with Granger's textbooks."

  "The shadow again." Iris swallowed, resisting the urge to pull away. "Your pet project."

  "Our project." His thumb rubbed slow circles on her frantic pulse. "Stumble in the dark, alone… or let me help you. Side by side." He intertwined his fingers with hers, the corner of his mouth lifting into a teasing smile. "As your partner."

  She stared at their joined hands, her throat dry.

  "The shadow is woven of your magic," Tom murmured, as if plucking the doubt from her mind. He lifted her hand, lips skimming her knuckles - the very picture of a chivalrous gentleman. "You can sever the link whenever you wish. And I… can only manifest when you choose to paint your shadow in blood." His grip tightened, urgent. "You hold all the cards, Iris."

  For a moment, she almost believed him. But the fervor in his voice gave her pause. He was too insistent on the Shadow. What wasn't he telling her?

  Tom withdrew with casual grace. "Consider it," he said, rising. Sunlight trickled through his ghostly edges. "But don't linger. Every hour you waver…" The boy's form flickered. "… another body falls clutching at your robes."

  The library faded into the quiet darkness of her bedroom. Iris lay on her side, heart racing, Tom's whispers still seared into her mind.