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The air in the underground chamber was so dense it seemed to press against the skin, almost alive with magic. The tip of Ian's wand glowed faintly with a deep, eldritch light, casting long, flickering shadows over the pale face opposite him.
Harry Potter.
Or rather, what remained of him, possessed by the lingering soul of Voldemort. At this moment, the boy's eyes had narrowed into reptilian slits, cold and devoid of humanity.
The sight sent a sharp jolt through Ian's chest. If this was Harry, and Voldemort was truly within him, then… who was the boy lying unconscious in Nicolas Flamel's ward?
A duplicate?
No.
A conjured simulacrum might fool ordinary witches or even a few inattentive professors at Hogwarts, but not Nicolas Flamel, the legendary Master of Alchemy himself. That man could decipher the soul's signature like reading runes on parchment.
"So, it really is Harry…" Ian thought, the weight of realisation anchoring him. His brows drew together in concentration as the implications struck him like a Bludger to the ribs.
"You used the temporal relay to deceive Nicolas Flamel?" Ian's mind flashed back to that fateful night, the accidental activation of the time-turning device in Flamel's study. Harry had been there too, wide-eyed and curious.
If Harry had glimpsed the secret of the time-turner, then Voldemort, buried deep within his mind, would've seen it as well. What Harry had known, the Dark Lord could now exploit.
Though Flamel had cleverly shielded the true nature of the time-turner by distracting Harry and subtly warding the room, Harry's unfamiliarity with advanced magical artefacts had left him vulnerable.
Voldemort, however, was no naive schoolboy. Through Harry's fragmented memories, the Dark Lord had likely pieced together enough to begin scheming, to twist this miraculous artefact to his own ends within the castle.
"You're clever. Far more clever than I gave you credit for," Voldemort finally said, a thin sneer on Harry's face. His darkened gaze locked onto the young wizard before him, calculating and wary.
But he didn't attack.
Perhaps it was because he had walked Hogwarts' ancient corridors in Harry's skin, seen what Ian could do. And now, without his full resurrection, Voldemort knew he couldn't guarantee a victory, not against this boy.
"Perhaps we should talk," He said silkily, his voice laced with the kind of charm that had once lured legions to his cause. "Strike a bargain. I hold knowledge beyond what Hogwarts can offer, spells buried, magicks forbidden, secrets lost to time. I am the last Horcrux created at the final moment."
"At least, the last before last year. Do you know what that means? It means the vast majority of Lord Voldemort's power, insight, and memories reside in me."
"You could live a life of splendour, see things no wizard has ever dreamed of. You must understand, this is the knowledge Voldemort amassed over a lifetime of ambition, conquest, and study."
Unable to act with brute force, Voldemort, the shard of him within Harry, turned instead to temptation, hoping his offer would sway the boy wizard.
"Let me live… and all of it shall be yours."
His voice coiled through the chamber like a whispering serpent. Many would have listened. Many had before. But Ian was not so easily tempted.
"Oh, not this again. The same old offer? Do you lot really have nothing else in your arsenal?" Ian scoffed, rolling his eyes with theatrical exasperation.
He remembered, clearly, the last encounter. The fully reborn Voldemort had tried much the same tactic, hoping flattery and promises of power could buy his life. Perhaps every Horcrux believed that knowledge was the ultimate bait, a lure no young wizard could resist.
"I am sincere," Voldemort rasped, Harry's voice stretched thin with desperation. "I will trade all of it, every incantation, every discovery, for my continued existence."
"You are Voldemort," Ian said coolly, his grip on his wand unwavering. "That alone is reason enough for your existence to not continue."
And he remained unmoved.
"Of course, I am a fragment of Voldemort's soul," the entity hissed, voice reverberating strangely in the chamber, "But that doesn't mean I must become Voldemort. He's lost his mind. The moment he struck that wretched bargain with the Reaper to claw his way back from death, the rest of us, his broken soul shards, were fated to betray him. Or perhaps it's truer to say he betrayed us first by making that cursed pact!"
The serpentine eyes of "Harry" burned with a volatile mix of madness and fury, yet beneath that chaos lay something deeper, fear. A bone-deep dread of the entity he had named, the Reaper, and the accursed terms of their dark agreement.
"What bargain?" Ian's thoughts flew to Voldemort's brief return last year, when he'd risen, brimming with unnatural power. Dumbledore had spoken cryptically of a terrible price, one whose collection was only a matter of time. That time, it seemed, had arrived.
"The Reaper doesn't strike foolish bargains," The soul fragment muttered darkly. "His mercy always bears a price. One far more dreadful than death itself."
His words were deliberately vague, his tone cautious. Whether bound by magical oath or ancient taboo, he skirted too close to forbidden knowledge. Still, even through that fear, "Harry" reached toward Ian, desperate to bargain.
"Let me survive, and I'll grant you that knowledge. Then, perhaps, you'll understand just what I, what he, surrendered in madness. You'll see what our past truly bartered away."
His gaze drilled into Ian's, eager, calculating, haunted.
Ian remained silent. Instead, his eyes flicked briefly toward Pansy Parkinson, collapsed nearby, her hair fanned across the stone floor, her chest rising faintly, still breathing, but only just.
"You said my basilisk wasn't killed by you?"
The question came suddenly and Voldemort's soul snapped to attention, sensing a shift.
"You're stalling." He growled the accusation, eyes narrowing. But Ian's response was a derisive snort.
"Think, Tom. Why would I need to stall you?"
His wand rose fluidly, both hands now moving with graceful intent. Power shimmered at his fingertips, not out of panic, but from contained might barely held at bay. Energy thrummed through the air like a storm on the cusp of breaking.
Then Ian smiled, calm, quiet, dangerous. His robes stirred without a breeze, whispering across the floor like restless shadows.
In the blink of an eye, the tip of his wand flared, blue fire igniting in a brilliant burst, spectral and cold, like dragonflame awakened from ancient slumber. The stone beneath his feet glowed white-hot, and the air around him combusted with arcane force.
From all directions, it came, Fiendfyre.
A roaring, serpentine blaze surged through the ruined chamber, its spectral tongues writhing like the very essence of wrath. Blue as the heart of a star, the cursed fire twisted and turned, tearing through rubble and stone alike. The collapsed ruins crackled, blistered, and fell into ash beneath the heat.
Before the naked eye, the ancient masonry of the Chamber itself began to wither.
Magic pulsed from Ian like waves from a deep sea trench, vast, relentless, unknowable. The very air thickened, charged with terrifying power. A pressure, unseen yet unmistakable, filled every breath like an invisible vice.
"Are you provoking me?"
Voldemort, still wearing Harry's face, spoke low and grim. But even in his posturing, a rare flicker of unease crossed his pallid features. In the flickering blue firelight, his pale face seemed almost skeletal. His wand quivered ever so slightly, betraying the tension in his grip, whether from fear or magical resistance, even he wasn't certain.
"I'm asking you…" Ian said evenly, voice sharp and cutting like a blade of obsidian, "…how sure are you that you can win?"
The fire surged higher, wrapping around Ian like a living cloak. The Fiendfyre did not threaten him, it obeyed him, as if bound by pact or sheer will.
(To Be Continued…)