Chapter Text
It's officially been two weeks since his overblot. Two weeks since Riddle swore to change, and one week since he'd been formally discharged from his recovery and narrowly avoided expulsion. He's not quite sure how, but Crowley had eventually dropped the subject altogether and sent him back to classes without another issue. He suspected the headmage had something to gain from it, but one can never know when it came to the man. That was universally agreed upon.
But he has other things to focus on besides the man's strange behavior. Such as studies-
"How long will it take for you to stop ignoring me!?" A voice shouted, slamming his hands against the mirror's confinement.
And that… thing… He's not quite sure what to call it; he certainly wouldn't acknowledge it with his own name. Riddle's eyes slid towards the mirror, familiar features greeting him back with a sneer. But that figure wasn't him. The person in the reflection wasn't him. It wore his face, it bore his voice, but it wasn't Riddle.
For one, it could think for itself. Riddle's certain that the constant screaming at him to behead every traitorous fool wasn't him. Perhaps, in a way, that's how everyone else saw him previously. Or, currently more accurately. It's only been a few weeks; it's not like he can force everyone to see his attempts to change for the better.
"Are you simply going to stare at me?" The figure huffed, black lips twisting into a nasty frown. Sure, he wore Riddle's face, but he wasn't the name. He doesn't know what this thing is, but he's certain it was merely a leeching of his image. Taking the form of the overblot he'd been mere weeks before.
"You'd think that being the same person, you'd understand how they'd think." The figure clicked his tongue as he folded his arms, claw-like nails digging into non-existent skin. "But I never thought myself to be such an ignorant fo-"
"I'm not you." Riddle interrupted, eyes narrowed. No matter what this thing said, it wasn't him. It was all a trick in his mind. He's certain of it—some sick and twisted jab, maybe even an embodiment of his guilt.
The figure tilted his head with a smirk. "Not me…?" It threw its head back and laughed. Its shoulders shook as it laughed. As it used his voice, his face. This thing wasn't real. It was nothing more than a leech. Maybe he should check himself into the infirmary, but then again, he didn't want to sound insane. How else was he supposed to explain this mess? How else was he supposed to say he keeps seeing him in his overblot getup in the mirror? Laughing and mocking him.
"You and I? We're the same person, Riddle. We're cut from the same leaf, I am you. And you are me."
"Repeating it won't make it any more true. You're not me."
"Lying to yourself won't change the truth."
"You're nothing more than a poor imitation that is using my identity in an attempt to fool me."
"You've said everything I've said." The figure mumbled lowly, its hand phasing through the glass. "Every last thought I have is every thought you haven't voiced." Its upper body hung from the mirror as it leaned down to face him. Riddle's heart began to race, his ears ringing as he stood. His chair clattered to the ground with a loud bang, but the figure remained unaffected. It continued to push itself forward, speaking in that low and dreadful voice. "Do not deny the truth any longer. I was you and you were me."
"That's not-"
"You wanted to be the queen of Heartslabyul."
"Don't you dare twist-"
"You wanted to behead everyone for their disobedience."
"I-"
"You wanted to destroy everyone who didn't obey. Like that foolish Ace…"
"Don't…" Riddle didn't want to hear any of this because, in some sick twisted way, that figure was sort of right. During his overblot, blinded by the rage and blot fueling him with delusion, he had thought every last thing.
The figure's ghostly hands lingered by the side of his face, never quite touching him. That's what Riddle feared the most. He feared the moment it grazed his skin, he'd be forced to realize that this creature was very real. That its haunting whispers weren't complete fabrications of lies or some form of torment created by self-guilt. Or would his anger be more reasonable?
"You almost killed people. You almost killed Cater. You tried to kill Ace."
The screams, the suffocating scent of blot, maniacal laughter drowning out the screams of terror.
"You cannot deny what happened. You cannot deny me." It spoke in a hushed voice as it pulled back. It stood before Riddle, almost as if towering over him. The figure tilted his head, folding his arms. "We are one, Riddle. Which is why I ask you to come to your senses." It lowered its hand, holding it before Riddle. It spoke in an almost sympathetic way, almost as if it hadn't been screaming its throat off since the week it first materialized. "For you to step up and right everyone who defied us."
Is this really how he sounded when lost in the thorns of madness? At best, his memories were fuzzy, bits and pieces falling into place. Sometimes, even giant flashes go through his mind. From what he'd been told, the memories would gradually return. This was all but a defense for his mind, his body reacting to the near-death experience. And selfishly, for a moment, Riddle didn't want those memories to return.
But the thing before him existed for a reason, didn't it?
A physical manifestation of the power and expectations that drove him mad.
"You are not me." He repeated, a tense silence following. The figure's hand dangled by its side, eyes narrowing. Riddle pushed himself to stand, forced himself to look into those burning red eyes. "No matter what you say, I refuse-"
"You refuse me?" It spat, hands balling into fists. "You refuse me!? Is that what you think this is?!" The figure shouted, its face rapidly turning a deep red.
"Go away!"
Riddle's vision went white.
By the time he returned, he was hunched over the desk, the mirror shattered into pieces on the ground. His chest heaved, and the adrenaline began to fade away. He slid to his knees as he clutched the wooden desk.
He's going insane. He has to be.