The sensation was strange. Not painful, but distinctly uncomfortable, like someone rifling through his possessions. Rowan felt Iris's consciousness brush against his, tentative and uncertain.
Then she was in.
And he felt her confusion, her disorientation as she encountered his memories.
The orphanage. Gray walls and cold mornings. Mrs. Patterson's stern face. The dormitory filled with boys who came and went, never staying long enough to become friends.
The mill. The deafening roar of machinery. The danger, constant and pressing. Thomas losing his fingers. Billy crushed beneath a toppled frame.
The newspaper work. Writing by candlelight, crafting arguments about politics and philosophy that editors would never believe came from an eleven-year-old boy.
The loneliness. The crushing, absolute loneliness of being different, of being smarter, of carrying memories that didn't belong.
Iris withdrew from his mind with a gasp, her eyes wide and wet with tears.
"Rowan, I—" She stopped, struggling for words. "I had no idea. You're so calm all the time, so controlled. I thought maybe you just didn't feel things as strongly. But you do. You feel everything. You're just so good at hiding it."
"Occlumency helps," Rowan said quietly. "Organizing emotions makes them easier to control."
"It's more than that. You've been alone your entire life. Really, truly alone. Even surrounded by people." She wiped her eyes. "I thought I was lonely. But what you've experienced..."
"It's in the past," Rowan said, uncomfortable with her sympathy. "We all have difficult memories. Your turn to see mine is over. Now I see yours."
He raised his wand, meeting her eyes. "Legilimens."
The connection formed more easily this time. Rowan had more practice, more understanding of what to expect. He slipped into Iris's mind and was immediately overwhelmed by sensation.
Fear. Her parents' fear when she'd accidentally made the teapot explode. The neighbor children's fear when flowers bloomed wherever she walked. Her own fear that she was wrong, broken, dangerous.
Isolation. Being pulled from school. Her parents keeping her inside, afraid of what might happen if she was around other children. The longing to have friends, to be normal.
Relief. The letter from Hogwarts arriving. Finally understanding what she was. Finally having a place where she might belong.
And more recently.
Gratitude. For the Occlumency lessons. For having someone who understood what it meant to be different. For friendship that didn't come with fear or judgment.
Trust. Complete, absolute trust in Rowan. A belief that he would never use what he knew against her.
Rowan withdrew from her mind gently, carefully.
"I see why you were so anxious when you first arrived," he said. "Your parents meant well, but isolating you made everything worse."
"They were terrified I'd hurt someone," Iris said. "And maybe I would have, if I hadn't learned control." She paused. "But there's something else. Something I saw in your memories."
Rowan's pulse quickened. "What?"
"The earliest memories I can see from you. They're blocked somehow. Like there's a wall preventing access to anything before you were about two years old. Why would that be?"
Rowan considered his answer carefully. He'd known this might come up. The barrier existed because before age two, his memories were from his previous life. A life in a world that didn't exist in this reality.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I've noticed it too. Perhaps some childhood trauma created the block. Or perhaps it's natural. Most people don't remember their earliest years clearly."
But Iris was frowning. "There's something else though. The memories I can see from when you were two, three years old. You were reading, Rowan. You were writing, doing mathematics, and thinking in ways that should be impossible for a toddler."
Rowan's pulse quickened. This was dangerous ground. "I was... advanced?"
"Advanced doesn't cover it. You thought like an adult in a child's body." She stared at him. "How is that possible?"
He considered his options. Lying to Iris after what they'd just shared felt wrong. But telling her the full truth, that he'd died and been reborn with adult memories, seemed insane.
"I don't know," he said finally, which was partially true. "I don't remember why or how. I just remember always being able to read and write, always thinking more clearly than other children. Maybe it's related to whatever blocks those earliest memories. Maybe there's something about me that's... unusual. Beyond just being a wizard."
Iris studied him carefully. Rowan could see her mind working, analyzing, trying to piece together the puzzle.
Finally, she shook her head.
"I won't push. We all have secrets. And maybe some secrets are protected for good reasons." She paused. "But Rowan, if you ever do remember, if you ever figure out what makes you different—I'm here. You can tell me. I won't judge."
"I know," Rowan said, and meant it. "Thank you."
They continued practicing over the next several days, meeting in abandoned classrooms or quiet corners of the library. Their skill improved rapidly. Within a week, they could establish mental connections in seconds and navigate each other's memories with increasing precision.
More importantly, they grew closer.
"It's strange," Iris said one evening after a practice session. "I feel like I've known you for years, not months. Like we grew up together."
"In a way, we did," Rowan replied. "We've experienced each other's childhoods. Felt each other's loneliness. That creates understanding that normal conversation never could."