THE HELICARRIER - CONTAINMENT CELL ALPHA-7
The containment cell was a masterpiece of paranoid engineering that would have made Tony Stark weep with professional envy and possibly update his own security protocols. Vibranium-reinforced walls hummed with enough energy dampeners to power a small city, ward stones carved with runic sequences that seemed to shift and writhe when observed directly, and no fewer than nine different types of magical suppression fields layered with the kind of obsessive attention to detail usually reserved for Swiss watchmaking or German tax codes.
It was, in short, the kind of room designed by people who had extensive experience with things that considered "impossible to escape" to be more of a personal suggestion than an actual limitation.
Tom Marvolo Riddle—currently experiencing some significant technical difficulties with his whole "immortal Dark Lord" brand—hung suspended in the center of the cell like a very angry, very naked Christmas ornament. The magical restraints held him roughly three feet off the ground in what SHIELD's technical documentation cheerfully referred to as a "Neutralization Suspension Matrix" and what everyone else called "the magical timeout chair."
He was still approximately the size and shape of an extremely murderous infant, still radiating the kind of malevolent fury that made nearby electronics develop sudden and inexplicable glitches, and still refusing to cooperate with what everyone agreed were perfectly reasonable requests for information about his jewelry collection and its current storage arrangements.
The fact that he was maintaining his dignity while naked, bound, and roughly the developmental age of someone who should be concerned with teething rather than world domination was, everyone had to admit, rather impressive in its own deeply disturbing way.
Gideon Adler sat across from him in a chair that probably cost more than most people's annual salaries and looked like it had been designed by someone who understood that psychological warfare was ninety percent presentation, nine percent timing, and one percent actual violence. His perfectly tailored charcoal gray suit remained immaculate despite the magical energy crackling through the air like an electrical storm having an identity crisis. His platinum blond hair was styled with the kind of casual perfection that suggested either supernatural grooming abilities or a personal stylist with access to very expensive hair products.
His ice-blue eyes held the particular brand of patient amusement usually reserved for chess masters who could see seventeen moves ahead and were enjoying watching their opponent discover exactly how thoroughly they'd been outmaneuvered.
Between them sat a small mahogany table that held a crystal decanter filled with what appeared to be whiskey expensive enough to have its own insurance policy, two glasses that caught the light like captured starfire, and a file folder thick enough to suggest someone had been doing very comprehensive homework on Tom Riddle's psychological profile.
Possibly since sometime around 1943, judging by the faded ink on some of the visible document headers.
"You know, Tom," Gideon began, his voice carrying that particular Germanic precision that made even casual observations sound like carefully calculated tactical assessments, "I find myself genuinely impressed by your commitment to this whole 'mysterious and terrible Dark Lord' aesthetic."
He poured himself exactly two fingers of whiskey with the kind of measured precision that suggested this was a ritual practiced to perfection over many years and many interrogations.
"The dramatic pauses, the imperious tone, the refusal to acknowledge that your current circumstances have fundamentally altered the power dynamics of this conversation." He took a sip, savoring it like a wine connoisseur at a particularly exclusive tasting. "Very theatrical. Very... committed to the brand, shall we say."
His smile was sharp enough to cut diamond and twice as dangerous.
"Though I do have to wonder—and this is purely professional curiosity, you understand—whether you've considered how this particular performance is landing with your current audience."
Voldemort's red eyes blazed with the kind of fury usually reserved for people who'd just discovered their favorite restaurant had not only changed the recipe for their signature dish but had also raised the prices and started playing terrible music.
"I am LORD VOLDEMORT!" he declared, his infant voice somehow managing to carry all the aristocratic disdain of someone who'd attended a very expensive boarding school and learned condescension as both an academic subject and a lifestyle choice. "Your pathetic attempts at intimidation are beneath my notice! I will tell you NOTHING!"
"Ah," Gideon said, settling back in his chair with obvious satisfaction, "and there we have it. The classic Dark Lord response to reasonable requests for information. Very by-the-book. Very... predictable."
He swirled the whiskey in his glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light with the kind of attention usually reserved for particularly fascinating scientific phenomena.
"Though I have to say, Tom, the whole 'I am Lord Voldemort' declaration loses some of its intimidation factor when delivered by someone who's currently naked, bound, roughly the size of a toddler, and completely at the mercy of people who have very good reasons to find you annoying."
Voldemort's face—or what passed for a face on someone who was currently sustaining himself through sheer magical spite and what appeared to be advanced applied hatred—turned an alarming shade of red that suggested his emotional regulation techniques could use some professional development.
"How DARE you speak to me with such—"
"Insolence?" Gideon suggested helpfully, like he was assisting with vocabulary homework rather than conducting a high-security interrogation. "Disrespect? Casual dismissal of your obviously superior status and undeniable authority?"
His smile turned positively predatory.
"Though I have to ask—and this is really more of an academic question than anything else—exactly what authority you think you currently possess? Because from where I'm sitting, it appears your sphere of influence has been somewhat... reduced."
He gestured casually at the containment cell with its Vibranium walls, magical suppression fields, and general atmosphere of "things that used to be problems are now safely contained."
"I mean, unless 'authority' now includes 'the power to hang suspended in mid-air while other people make decisions about your immediate future,' in which case you are indeed demonstrating remarkable authority over your current situation."
The magical bindings around Voldemort tightened as his rage spiked, which was almost certainly the intended effect, considering the way Gideon's smile widened with obvious satisfaction.
"You mock me," Voldemort hissed, his voice carrying the kind of aristocratic outrage usually reserved for people who'd just been told their wine pairing was "adequate" or their taste in art was "interesting." "You dare to mock LORD VOLDEMORT!"
"Oh, I'm not mocking you," Gideon replied, opening the file folder with the casual confidence of someone who'd already read it cover to cover and had probably written several detailed footnotes in the margins. "I'm providing constructive feedback on your current performance as a mysterious and terrible Dark Lord."
He flipped through several pages with obvious satisfaction, like someone browsing through a particularly entertaining magazine rather than reviewing the psychological profile of one of the most dangerous wizards in recent history.
"For example," he continued, selecting a document that appeared to be covered in official-looking stamps and what might have been dried coffee stains, "your origin story. Tom Marvolo Riddle, born December 31st, 1926, to Merope Gaunt and Tom Riddle Senior. Conceived under the influence of love potions—which, really, Tom, is possibly the least romantic conception story in recorded history—abandoned by your father when the magical coercion wore off, and subsequently raised in Wool's Orphanage in London."
He looked up from the file with the kind of expression usually reserved for people who'd just discovered a particularly fascinating species of insect and wanted to share their enthusiasm with others.
"Really quite a comprehensive psychological profile. The kind that makes it very clear why someone might develop an unhealthy obsession with immortality, a pathological need to be feared, and what appears to be a chronic inability to form meaningful relationships with other human beings."
Voldemort's entire body went rigid with the kind of fury that usually preceded either spectacular violence or spectacular stupidity.
"How DARE you—my origins are NONE of your concern! You pathetic fool, you have no idea what you're dealing with!"
"Oh, but I do," Gideon said cheerfully, turning another page like he was reading bedtime stories rather than reciting someone's traumatic childhood for tactical psychological purposes. "Multiple documented incidents of violence against other children, the systematic torture and killing of small animals for what appears to have been recreational purposes, and what your case workers described as 'concerning antisocial behavior patterns' and 'possible early indicators of psychopathic tendencies.'"
He paused, glancing up with obvious amusement.
"Really, Tom, by the time you were eleven years old, you were already displaying textbook warning signs for future Dark Lord behavior. Very predictable. Your psychological profile reads like a case study from a criminology textbook titled 'How to Identify Dangerous Individuals Before They Become Everyone Else's Problem.'"
The magical suppression fields flickered as Voldemort's rage reached new heights of incoherent fury, which was probably good for the containment system's diagnostic procedures even if it wasn't doing wonders for the prisoner's blood pressure.
"I am the HEIR OF SLYTHERIN!" he screamed, his infant voice somehow managing to carry the kind of aristocratic hysteria usually reserved for people who'd just discovered their family fortune had been invested in something embarrassing like reality television or cryptocurrency. "I am the most POWERFUL wizard who ever lived! I am—"
"Currently having what appears to be a tantrum in a high-security prison cell while someone reads your therapy file out loud," Gideon observed with the kind of clinical detachment that made even basic facts sound like devastating psychological analysis. "Which, really, when you consider the trajectory from 'heir of Slytherin' to 'naked prisoner having emotional breakdown,' suggests some significant issues with your long-term strategic planning."
He took another sip of whiskey, clearly savoring both the alcohol and the psychological manipulation in equal measure.
"Though I do have to admire the commitment to the performance. Even when you're physically helpless, magically bound, and completely at the mercy of people who have excellent reasons to find you annoying, you're still trying to maintain that whole 'fear and respect me' aesthetic. Very professional. Very dedicated to the brand."
Voldemort's red eyes blazed with enough fury to power a small electrical grid, which was actually rather impressive considering his current circumstances and general lack of available magical resources.
"When I escape from this place—and I WILL escape—you will BEG for the mercy of death! You will—"
"Yes, yes," Gideon interrupted with the kind of casual dismissal usually reserved for dealing with door-to-door salespeople or particularly persistent telemarketers, "threats of horrible revenge, promises of eternal suffering, detailed descriptions of what you'll do to my various body parts. Very standard Dark Lord material. Very... predictable."
He reached into his jacket and withdrew his wand with the kind of fluid grace that made even simple movements look like carefully choreographed performance art.
The wand itself was clearly a masterwork—thirteen and a half inches of what appeared to be pale wood that seemed to shift color depending on the angle of observation, wrapped in silver wire that formed patterns too complex to follow with the naked eye, and topped with what might have been a crystal or might have been something significantly more exotic and possibly more dangerous.
It was the kind of wand that whispered promises of power in languages that predated written history and suggested its owner had made very interesting bargains to acquire it.
"Now then," Gideon said, his German accent curling around the words like expensive cologne around a perfectly tailored suit, "we can approach this situation in one of two ways. The easy way, which involves you providing me with the current location of Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem and saving us all a great deal of time and effort."
His smile was sharp enough to perform surgery and probably twice as dangerous.
"Or we can proceed with what I like to call the 'educational approach,' which involves me taking a very thorough, very comprehensive, and very unsubtle tour through your mind until I locate the information myself."
He paused, tilting his head with the kind of expression that suggested he was considering something deeply amusing and probably profoundly unpleasant for the other party.
"I should probably mention that my particular approach to Legilimency was developed during wartime conditions against subjects who were highly motivated to resist. Very Germanic in its methodology. Very... thorough in its application."
Voldemort's eyes widened with what might have been the first genuine concern he'd experienced in several decades, which was probably excellent for his character development even if it was occurring under circumstances that weren't exactly conducive to personal growth and reflection.
"You wouldn't dare," he whispered, his voice carrying the kind of aristocratic outrage usually reserved for people who'd just been informed that their club membership had been revoked or their favorite restaurant had started accepting reservations from people they didn't approve of.
"Oh, but I would," Gideon replied with obvious delight, like someone who'd just been presented with an opportunity to demonstrate a particularly impressive skill set. "And I will. The only question is whether you'd prefer to make this experience unpleasant for both of us, or just unpleasant for you."
Before Voldemort could respond with what would undoubtedly have been another round of aristocratic threats and demands for respect, the cell door opened with a soft pneumatic hiss that somehow managed to sound both expensive and ominous.
Jean Grey entered with the kind of fluid grace that made even walking look like performance art choreographed by someone who understood that first impressions were everything. Her vibrant red hair seemed to move in its own personal breeze, catching the light like liquid fire, and her green eyes glowed with the kind of barely contained psychic energy that made smart people reconsider their recent life choices.
She was wearing what appeared to be SHIELD's standard-issue tactical outfit, but somehow managed to make utilitarian black clothing look like high fashion designed by someone with excellent taste and unlimited budget.
Behind her came Madelyn Pryor, who looked like someone had taken Jean's genetic template and decided to make some very interesting modifications involving confidence, attitude, and what appeared to be a significantly more predatory approach to telepathy. Her dark red hair was pulled back in a practical ponytail that somehow managed to look both professional and slightly dangerous, her eyes held the kind of sharp intelligence that made clever people feel suddenly inadequate, and her smile suggested she was about to enjoy herself at someone else's expense.
"Good evening, Tom," Jean said pleasantly, like she was greeting an old friend rather than preparing to conduct a joint telepathic invasion of one of the most dangerous minds in wizarding history. "Gideon thought you might benefit from some additional perspectives on your current situation."
Her voice carried that particular combination of warmth and steel that suggested someone who could be genuinely kind to people she liked and absolutely terrifying to people she didn't.
*This should be educational,* her telepathic voice added, carrying enough psychic power to make the cell's suppression fields flicker with what appeared to be overload warnings.
"Oh, this is going to be fun," Madelyn observed, her voice carrying the kind of professional enthusiasm usually reserved for scientists who'd just been given access to a particularly interesting research subject. "I do so enjoy working with subjects who think their mental defenses are impregnable."
She cracked her knuckles with obvious satisfaction, the sound echoing in the cell like small bones breaking.
"Especially the ones with abandonment issues, delusions of grandeur, and what appears to be a pathological inability to process criticism. They always have the most fascinating psychological blind spots."
Voldemort's eyes darted between the three faces surrounding him with what might have been the first genuine fear he'd experienced since approximately 1981, which was probably excellent for his emotional development even if the timing was less than ideal.
"Two telepaths," he whispered, his voice carrying the kind of realization that usually preceded either immediate surrender or increasingly desperate attempts at negotiation.
"Two very experienced telepaths," Jean corrected gently, taking a position at Gideon's left side with the kind of coordinated precision that suggested they'd done this before and had developed very effective techniques for dealing with reluctant subjects.
"Two very experienced telepaths with absolutely no patience for Dark Lords who think they're special," Madelyn added, moving to Gideon's right like they were forming some kind of incredibly dangerous and highly coordinated conversation circle.
"And one very experienced Legilimens who's been looking forward to this conversation for quite some time," Gideon concluded with obvious satisfaction, raising his wand with the kind of casual precision that suggested he was done being polite and was ready to get results through applied magical force.
Voldemort's face cycled through what appeared to be several different emotional states in rapid succession—fury, outrage, concern, calculation, and what might have been the very beginning of panic.
"You cannot be serious," he said, his voice carrying that particular combination of aristocratic outrage and dawning horror usually reserved for people who'd just realized they'd significantly miscalculated their negotiating position. "This is... this is barbaric! Uncivilized! I demand—"
"You're really not in a position to demand anything," Jean pointed out with the kind of gentle reasonableness that somehow made the observation significantly more devastating than any amount of shouting would have been. "Though I do appreciate the commitment to maintaining your dignity under adverse circumstances."
*He really thinks he's still in control here,* her telepathic voice carried a mixture of professional fascination and personal amusement. *It's almost endearing, in a deeply pathological sort of way.*
"Very endearing," Madelyn agreed, though her expression suggested she found the situation entertaining rather than charming. "I love the ones who think psychological warfare is still a viable option when they're outnumbered three to one by people who specialize in getting inside other people's heads."
She paused, studying Voldemort with the kind of clinical attention usually reserved for particularly interesting laboratory specimens.
"Though I have to admit, maintaining that level of arrogance while naked, bound, and completely helpless does suggest some truly impressive commitment to your personal brand."
"I am LORD VOLDEMORT!" he declared, apparently deciding that volume and repetition were going to be more effective than strategic thinking or tactical flexibility. "I will not be treated like some common criminal! I demand to speak with—"
"*Legilimens,*" Gideon said quietly.
The word hit the air like a physical force, carrying enough magical power to make the Vibranium walls ring like bells and the suppression fields flicker with what appeared to be critical overload warnings. Gideon's ice-blue eyes blazed with silver light as he drove his consciousness into Voldemort's mind with all the subtlety of a battering ram operated by someone who'd been trained by the finest military engineers in Europe and had absolutely no interest in being gentle about it.
The impact was immediate and spectacular.
Voldemort's Occlumency shields were, everyone had to admit, genuinely impressive—layer upon layer of mental barriers constructed over decades of paranoid practice, reinforced with enough dark magic to power a medium-sized city, and protected by psychological traps that would have made master interrogators update their insurance policies and consider alternative career paths.
They were, in short, exactly the kind of mental defenses you'd expect from someone who'd spent the better part of fifty years being absolutely paranoid about people reading his mind and had unlimited access to the kind of dark magic that made normal defensive techniques look like children's toys.
Which was why they held against Gideon's initial assault for almost three entire seconds before beginning to show stress fractures.
"Impressive," Gideon murmured, his voice carrying that particular brand of professional admiration usually reserved for particularly well-engineered defensive fortifications or especially creative tax evasion schemes. "Really quite sophisticated. Very paranoid. Very... thorough in its construction."
He pressed harder, his magical assault building like a storm front preparing to make everyone's day significantly more complicated and considerably more unpleasant.
"But ultimately flawed in its fundamental assumptions. You see, Tom, you built these defenses to protect against normal Legilimency. Against wizards who learned the art from textbooks and practiced on willing subjects under controlled laboratory conditions."
His smile turned positively predatory, carrying the kind of sharp satisfaction usually reserved for chess masters who'd just realized their opponent had made a critical strategic error.
"I learned Legilimency in active war zones. Against enemies who would literally rather die than reveal their secrets. From masters who understood that sometimes, subtlety is significantly less important than immediate results."
The magical pressure in the cell increased until the very air seemed to thicken with the weight of competing wills and what appeared to be enough psychic energy to power a small electrical grid.
Voldemort's shields held, but they were visibly straining now, layers of carefully constructed protection beginning to develop hairline cracks under sustained assault from someone who clearly had extensive experience with exactly this sort of psychological warfare.
"Having some... difficulty... are we?" Voldemort managed through gritted teeth, his infant features twisted with concentration and what was probably the beginning of a very impressive migraine headache.
"Oh, not at all," Gideon replied cheerfully, maintaining his assault with the kind of casual persistence that suggested he could keep this up for several hours without breaking a sweat or requiring a coffee break. "Though I do have to admire your defenses. Very well constructed. Very systematic. Very... German in their approach to efficiency and thoroughness."
He paused, his smile turning sharp as broken glass and approximately twice as dangerous.
"Which is why I brought friends who specialize in alternative approaches to the same problem."
That's when Jean and Madelyn joined the assault.
Their combined telepathic pressure slipped through the gaps in Voldemort's straining defenses like water finding cracks in a dam, locating every stress point and psychological vulnerability that decades of paranoid construction had somehow managed to overlook or inadequately reinforce.
It was the kind of coordinated mental invasion that would have made military strategists weep with professional envy and made enemy commanders immediately update their wills and consider early retirement.
The effect was immediate, spectacular, and absolutely devastating.
Voldemort's carefully constructed mental fortress—built over decades, reinforced with enough dark magic to qualify as a strategic resource, and protected by psychological traps that could have been used as case studies in advanced defensive architecture—began to crumble like a sand castle being hit by a tsunami operated by people who had personal grudges against sand castles.
*Oh my God,* Jean's telepathic voice carried a mixture of professional fascination and personal revulsion that made everyone present grateful they weren't experiencing this secondhand, *he really is completely insane. There's literally nothing left in here that could be called recognizably human.*
*Tragic, really,* Madelyn added with the kind of dry clinical humor that suggested she'd encountered this sort of systematic psychological self-destruction before and found it predictable rather than shocking, *All that potential, all that raw magical ability, wasted on what appears to be the world's most boring and predictable revenge fantasy.*
*Though I have to admit,* she continued, sifting through the wreckage of memories with the casual efficiency of someone conducting a very thorough archaeological excavation, *his mental filing system is impressively paranoid. Everything important is buried under layers of misdirection, false memories, and what appears to be magical booby traps.*
*Can you locate the diadem?* Gideon asked, maintaining his assault on what remained of the primary defenses while the two telepaths worked their way through the psychological rubble with professional expertise.
*Working on it,* Jean replied, diving deeper into the chaotic mess of memories, impressions, and fragmented personality pieces that had once been Tom Riddle's organized consciousness. *He's got the memory buried pretty deep. Lots of protective layers. Lots of... oh. Oh, that's just disturbing.*
*What did you find?* Madelyn asked, pausing in her own excavation to focus on whatever had caught Jean's attention.
*His memories of creating the Horcruxes,* Jean replied, her mental voice carrying enough revulsion to make everyone present grateful they weren't sharing the experience directly. *The process of splitting his soul. It's... God, it's like watching someone systematically destroy everything good about themselves piece by piece.*
*Focus,* Gideon suggested gently, though his own mental voice carried a note of sympathy for what they were having to experience. *The diadem. We need to know where he hid it.*
*Right. Yes. The diadem.* Jean refocused her search, pushing deeper into the protected memories with the kind of determined professionalism that suggested she was very much looking forward to getting this over with and possibly taking a very long shower afterward.
*Here,* she announced after several more moments of psychological excavation. *Found it.*
The memory surfaced like a bubble of oil rising through dark water, bringing with it the psychic residue of Tom Riddle's younger self and what appeared to be enough emotional baggage to require its own freight train.
The scene unfolded in their shared consciousness: a younger Tom Riddle, perhaps in his twenties, standing in what could only be described as the world's most impressive junk collection. The room stretched in all directions like a warehouse designed by someone who'd never heard of building codes, fire safety regulations, or basic architectural principles.
Furniture from every historical period imaginable rose in towering stacks toward a ceiling lost in shadows. Books, cauldrons, weapons, clothing, jewelry, magical artifacts, and what appeared to be several centuries' worth of accumulated debris from Hogwarts students who'd needed to hide things they didn't want found.
It was, quite literally, where lost things went to die.
And there, placed with the kind of reverent care usually reserved for religious artifacts or particularly expensive wine, sat Rowena Ravenclaw's diadem on top of what appeared to be a wardrobe that had probably been expensive sometime around the Norman Conquest.
The ancient silver circlet gleamed with its own inner light, sapphires catching reflections from torches that burned without any visible source of fuel, and the entire scene radiated the kind of smug satisfaction that suggested Tom Riddle thought he was being incredibly clever.
*The Room of Hidden Things,* his memory-voice whispered with obvious pride and what appeared to be a pathological inability to recognize irony, *where a thousand secrets rest forgotten and a thousand treasures lie lost. The perfect hiding place for something too precious to risk discovery.*
The memory dissolved as what remained of Voldemort's shields finally collapsed completely, leaving his consciousness exposed like a raw nerve under a particularly aggressive dentist's drill.
"The Room of Hidden Things," Jean announced, withdrawing from his mind with obvious relief and the kind of expression usually reserved for people who'd just stepped out of particularly unpleasant public restrooms. "Seventh floor of Hogwarts, behind a tapestry depicting Barnabas the Barmy attempting to train trolls for the ballet."
She paused, running her hands through her hair with the kind of gesture that suggested she desperately needed to wash her brain with something strong enough to remove psychic residue.
"The room responds to need rather than desire. If you need to hide something, it becomes a repository for hidden things. If you need to find something lost, it becomes... well, basically the world's most magically advanced lost and found department."
"He placed the diadem on top of an old wardrobe," Madelyn added, shaking her head with obvious amusement and the kind of professional disdain reserved for people who thought they were being incredibly clever and really, really weren't. "Very dramatic placement. Very 'this is obviously important and special.' Classic narcissistic behavior patterns."
She paused, glancing at the now-catatonic Dark Lord with obvious contempt.
"Though I have to say, for someone who prided himself on being mysterious, brilliant, and unpredictable, he really went with the most painfully obvious hiding spot in the entire castle. 'Room where people hide things' for the thing he most wanted to hide. Very creative, Tom. Very original thinking."
Gideon leaned back in his chair with the kind of obvious satisfaction usually reserved for master craftsmen who'd just completed a particularly challenging project ahead of schedule and significantly under budget.
"The Room of Hidden Things," he mused, taking another appreciative sip of whiskey like this was all perfectly normal Tuesday evening entertainment. "How wonderfully poetic. A room that transforms based on need, filled with the accumulated secrets and discarded treasures of centuries."
He glanced at Voldemort, who was currently staring at absolutely nothing with the kind of vacant expression usually reserved for people who'd just had very comprehensive conversations with tax auditors or customer service representatives.
"Thank you for your cooperation, Tom," he said with obvious sincerity, like he was thanking someone for directions rather than for involuntarily surrendering critically important strategic information. "Very educational. Very... illuminating."
He paused, studying the catatonic Dark Lord with clinical interest.
"Though I do hope you understand that this entire experience could have been significantly more pleasant for everyone involved if you'd simply chosen to be reasonable from the beginning."
Voldemort didn't respond, which was probably for the best considering his current mental state and the fact that coherent conversation generally required cognitive functions that were currently offline for what appeared to be extensive maintenance and repair work.
Jean stepped back from the table, still running her hands through her hair with the kind of repetitive gesture that suggested she was going to need several hot showers and possibly some therapeutic retail therapy to get the psychic residue of Tom Riddle's consciousness off her own mind.
"That was absolutely revolting," she observed with clinical precision and obvious personal distaste. "Fifty years of systematic self-destruction, paranoia, and what appears to have been a pathological obsession with teenage revenge fantasies that never evolved beyond 'I'll show them all.'"
*I need to wash my brain,* her telepathic voice added, carrying enough disgust to make everyone present grateful they weren't sharing the experience directly. *Possibly with industrial-strength bleach. Maybe some kind of psychic disinfectant.*
"Could have been significantly worse," Madelyn said with professional pragmatism, though her own expression suggested she was already planning her own psychological cleansing routine involving expensive alcohol and possibly some kind of mind-numbing entertainment. "At least he was organized about his insanity. I've dealt with Dark Lords who were completely chaotic in their approach to evil and world domination. Very unprofessional. Very difficult to navigate psychologically."
She paused, glancing at Gideon with obvious professional respect.
"Excellent preliminary work, by the way. Very systematic. Very thorough. You really know how to methodically dismantle psychological defenses without causing unnecessary collateral damage to the useful information."
"Years of practice under adverse conditions," Gideon replied modestly, standing and straightening his suit with the kind of casual precision that suggested this was all perfectly normal evening wear for high-security telepathic interrogations. "Though I have to say, working with genuinely talented telepaths makes the entire process significantly more efficient and considerably more pleasant."
He glanced at Voldemort, who continued to contemplate whatever remained of his consciousness with obvious confusion and what appeared to be the beginning of a very impressive psychological breakdown.
"I should probably contact Harry and inform him that we've successfully located his final Horcrux," he mused, checking what appeared to be a very expensive watch with obvious satisfaction. "I suspect he'll be quite eager to complete his collection and get on with the business of finishing what he started."
Jean's smile was sharp enough to perform microsurgery and approximately three times as dangerous.
"Oh, I think he's going to be very, very pleased with tonight's results."
*And I think we're all going to be very pleased with how he chooses to celebrate,* her telepathic voice added, with enough emotional heat to make the cell's environmental controls work noticeably harder to maintain optimal temperature.
In the distance, soft chimes began to sound—not emergency alarms, but the kind of pleasant, professionally discrete notification tones that indicated incoming communications from very important people who expected immediate responses and had the authority to make things unpleasant for people who kept them waiting.
"That would be Director Fury," Gideon observed, moving toward the cell door with obvious satisfaction and what appeared to be anticipation for the upcoming conversation. "Probably requesting a status report and an estimate of how much paperwork this operation is going to generate for the administrative department."
He paused at the door, glancing back at their catatonic prisoner with obvious amusement and what might have been a trace of professional sympathy.
"Should I inform him that we've successfully located the final Horcrux and that our subject has been remarkably cooperative with the investigation?"
Jean's laugh echoed both audibly and telepathically, carrying enough satisfaction to make everyone present smile despite the generally unpleasant nature of the evening's activities.
"Oh, I think Tom's been absolutely wonderfully cooperative. A model prisoner, really."
*Couldn't have asked for better collaboration,* her mental voice added with enough amusement to suggest she was genuinely enjoying the irony of the situation.
As the three investigators left the containment cell, Tom Marvolo Riddle continued to stare at nothing in particular with the kind of vacant expression that suggested someone had just received a very comprehensive education about the consequences of poor life choices, the practical limitations of paranoia as a lifestyle philosophy, and why it's generally considered inadvisable to annoy people who specialize in getting inside other people's heads for professional reasons.
It was, everyone agreed as the cell door sealed behind them with a soft pneumatic hiss, a very educational evening indeed.
The kind of evening that would probably be remembered fondly by everyone except the person who'd been educated.
---
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