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. It coiled protectively, dancing at his command like the most loyal of familiars.
Gulp~
It was quiet, almost pitiful.
Voldemort, the one who had once brought the entire wizarding world to its knees, swallowed, the sound harsh in the silence that followed Ian's words. For the first time, that arrogant gleam in his reptilian eyes dulled. A flicker of unguarded terror surfaced in those slit pupils, and he instinctively stepped back.
"How… how can you wield such power?"
His voice cracked with disbelief. Though he knew something of Ian, fragments from Hogwarts gossip, echoes from Harry's own memories, it was clear he had sorely underestimated the boy.
What he had expected was a student. What stood before him was something else entirely. The memory of the Voldemort Ian had once destroyed, the echo of that battle, had not reached this fragment.
And now, it was far too late to understand.
"That's not the answer I wanted to hear."
Ian didn't dignify the comment with words. He merely tilted his chin upward, a cold smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. His gaze sharpened, slicing straight through Voldemort's soul like a well-honed blade.
"Of course it wasn't me!" The voice occupying Harry's body spat, panicked as the Fiendfyre slithered ever closer. "It was that blasted diary! That insufferable sixteen-year-old version of me! It pretended to work with me, pretended to ally with me, but all along it was plotting, plotting to use me and the soul tethered to this body as sacrifices for its own resurrection!"
The rising flames must have spooked him, for he now spoke with frenzied urgency.
What he revealed next made Ian's brows twitch in surprise: it was the diary Horcrux, not this version, that had slain the basilisk, and its true goal had been to sacrifice Harry.
"Well now, that is interesting," Ian murmured, lifting a brow as if impressed despite himself.
He had always known that Voldemort's later incarnations had descended into madness. The young Tom Riddle had been brilliant, charming even, but he hadn't anticipated that the Horcruxes might turn against each other.
Perhaps this unexpected infighting stemmed from the consequences of the Reaper's bargain the resurrected Voldemort had made the year before.
Still, that concern paled next to Ian's own feelings.
"Why would he want to kill my basilisk?" He asked quietly, more to himself than to the shade of Voldemort. Ian was certain that the basilisk's soul couldn't serve as a proper sacrifice for resurrection.
"Obviously to gain enough power to strike me down!" Hissed "Harry," grinding his teeth in fury, his voice tinged with betrayal and bitter resentment.
"At first, we were exchanging knowledge, working together, even, to escape the destiny that awaited us. We crafted a plan to unleash the basilisk upon the students of Hogwarts. It was brilliant. Mutually beneficial. We would each collect enough souls to forge ourselves into fully independent beings."
"But then… he betrayed me. Right here. In this very Chamber!"
The possessed boy's fists clenched, his eyes wild with fury.
"He said he didn't want to provoke the wrath of the three strongest witches and wizards alive today. Claimed that he only needed my soul and this body to rise again. And then, he tried to stab me in the back with some second-rate curse!"
"But he failed." A grin curled across his lips, venomous and proud. "Because I was ready. I know myself too well. I knew he'd do something like that. So when he tried to strike, I'd already been on my guard. He sent some pathetic student with a hex, didn't even singe my robes."
There was something deeply ironic in how Voldemort, trapped in Harry's body, now spoke with such venom toward himself. The loathing in his serpentine eyes was genuine, ashamed, angry, humiliated.
"Tsk, tsk… fighting among yourselves? Tricked and nearly sacrificed by your teenage self? What a fine mess you've made," Ian drawled, tone brimming with dry amusement. "How do I even begin to assess this? You're not just wicked, you're pathetic."
The smirk on his face deepened as "Harry's" expression twisted into something nearly inhuman, hatred, wounded pride, and humiliation all at once.
The soul fragment attempted, more than once, to raise Harry's wand in rage, but each time, his arm trembled and lowered again. Despite the madness clawing at his mind and the urge to kill, a scrap of survival instinct remained.
He knew, even now, that he stood no chance against Ian's overwhelming, terrifying magic. Not until he returned to full strength.
So, backed into a corner, this fragment of Voldemort did what he could.
He tried to justify himself.
"I saw through his ploy! I fled the Chamber just in time, left him and the basilisk behind! I found a new sacrifice, this pure-blood girl!" He gestured toward Pansy Parkinson, unconscious on the floor, her form limp beside the smouldering stone.
His voice brimmed with bitter vindication.
"I chose to take my fate into my own hands. That's more than he ever did. He was created too early, still ruled by fear. Timid. He lacked the courage to do what had to be done!"
"He's not only a traitor, he's a coward. A mewling half-wraith!"
Driven by Ian's taunting, "Harry" now lashed out verbally at his other half, demeaning the diary Horcrux in a last-ditch attempt to raise himself above the muck.
Classic internal collapse. Voldemort's fractured soul, now gnawing at itself like starved wolves.
Ian found it all rather entertaining.
"Fascinating…" He murmured, almost amused.
Sensing the change in Ian's mood, "Harry" seized his moment. He flicked a desperate glance toward Pansy and then spoke again, this time with a more measured, pleading tone.
"I've told you everything. I haven't lied. You must see the benefit of keeping me around. I can teach you. I can help you." His voice was honeyed now, every syllable carefully chosen. "With your magical prowess, you're destined to shake the foundations of our world. But every rising force needs allies. Needs followers."
He lowered his voice slightly, eyes gleaming.
"Let me be one of them."
"A Dark Lord, willing to serve you, you, Ian, will be your most loyal asset. You will change the world, and I… I will be at your side."
This was, of course, a tempting offer, one that would no doubt lure any ambitious witch or wizard. However, it was always the same story, and Ian was never one of them.
Yes, he had his ideals. He had his ambitions. But they had nothing to do with conquering the wizarding world or ruling through fear and flame.
"You're right about one thing," Ian said with a faint chuckle, giving his wand a slow, deliberate shake. "You've been honest. So I suppose it's time we end our conversation."
At his words, the Fiendfyre surged to life.
The cursed fire roared as if awakened from slumber, Ian's raw magical power woven into every licking flame. Each tendril of fire moved with will and purpose, slicing through the air like blades of spectral steel.
"You're untrustworthy! You treacherous brat!" Voldemort's lingering soul screeched, panic and fury twisting his voice. To him, Ian's refusal was betrayal, a second betrayal, from yet another would-be ally.
"I never agreed to your deal," Ian replied calmly, continuing to channel his magic. The Fiendfyre grew stronger, its ghostly light bathing the crumbling ruins in a pale, terrifying glow.
"Filthy little runt!" Voldemort snapped, raising Harry's wand in defense.
But, This was still Harry's body. And Harry's magic.
Though The Boy Who Lived had extraordinary talent for his age, it was no match for the raw, honed power of a fully trained and magically enriched wizard like Ian.
"Finite Incantatem!"
He tried first with a dispelling charm, one he had enhanced countless times in the past, but it was utterly useless. The Fiendfyre was drawn from Ian's core magic, refined through battle and tutelage in the Twilight Realm. It would not be banished by schoolboy spellwork.
(To Be Continued…)
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