Chapter 4: Whispers in Darkness

  "Three - two - one -"

  A piercing whistle split the air. Two figures rushed forwards into the labyrinth - a young girl with her long black hair tied up in a ponytail, and a young man with a competitive grin on his face.

  Thick hedge walls swallowed them whole, muffling the roars of the crowd behind them. Twin wandlights flared. At the first fork, the handsome boy pivoted, his smile easy. "Save me a dance when I get to the Cup, Iris?"

  The girl, however, had a much more serious expression on her face. "Somebody is lurking in the darkness, Cedric." Her voice was cold. "Has been for the whole year. Just … keep your wand lit." Leaving with an ominous warning, she quickly disappeared down the left passageway, twigs snapping under her boots.

  The young man's chuckle faded as he hurried right. "Always do, Potter."

  Behind them, a second whistle blew, signalling the entrance of the next contestant …

  The scene suddenly shifted, leaving the maze entrance.

  "Hah … hah …" A very dead Acromantula, with a giant hole blasted in its side, was toppled over a mess of twisting bramble. The dark-haired girl brushed aside a messy lock of hair as she gasped for breath, sitting on the ground. "Clever work with the thorns, Cedric. Held it off long enough so I could get a good shot."

  The tall boy in Hufflepuff robes jogged over with a wry grin, offering her a hand to pull her up. "Blimey, Iris! You nearly vaporized the thing!"

  She stood without his aid, her eyes focused on the carcass. "Aim was off … should've struck the thorax first." Despite shaking her head, she still gave Cedric a thankful look.

  Taking a moment to catch her breath, her gaze swept past the surroundings, checking for more dangers. Her eyes stop at the golden Triwizard Cup on its stand several feet away from them.

  Sombering, the young man also looks around. "Well … this is it." He took a deep breath, an expression of longing on his face as he stared at the Cup. He then looked back at the girl, conflicted. "Go on. You take it. You saved my neck back there."

  The girl waved her hand in a dismissive gesture. "You helped me just now, no? But the spider, the maze, the cup - it's all theatre." Her voice dropped low. "There has to be a catch …"

  She cautiously walked closer to the stand, her thoughts racing. "Krum. Fleur. Almost Cedric as well. Too neat, too convenient …" Lowering her head, the girl moved her lips silently, as if in deep conversation with herself.

  The tall boy was still staring at the Triwizard Cup. He looked back at her, and his face turned resolute. "So we're square - we helped each other on the Tasks, and we got to the finish line together." There was a bit of gentleness in his eyes as he took a step towards the girl. "Both of us."

  "What?"

  "We'll take it at the same time. The two of us, just like at the Yule Ball. A Hogwarts victory." His words lingered in the air. The gleam of the Cup seemed to echo the fire in his eyes - a silent vow that their triumph would be something more than just a win for the school.

  "I –" The girl was drawn out of her thoughts for a moment, stunned by what he was implying. Her heart skipped a beat as her cheeks heated up. It wasn't as if she was opposed …

  She hurriedly shook her head, turning back. Now was not the time! "Hold on. Forget about who gets the bloody Cup–"

  "Avada Kedavra!"

  Her retort was cut short by a flash of green light. As if in slow motion, she saw the boy fall to the ground, like a marionette with its strings cut. Surprise didn't even have time to register on his face - the attack had been too sudden.

  Clunk. Clunk. A wooden leg hit the ground with every step. A shadowy figure emerged from the darkness, his twisted face covered in scars, like a ferocious beast in human form. The magical eye on his face was unnaturally still, staring unwaveringly at her.

  Disbelief. Rage. Fear. Sorrow. A wave of tumultuous emotion washed over her. Her clammy skin was cold against the twilight air.

  "C-Cedric." The girl's voice trembled as she kneeled down, shaking the boy's prone form. Her hand dropped when she realized he wasn't going to respond.

  "Mad-Eye …" Her gaze shifted onto his killer. "Impossible … we ruled you out … how could Dumbledore …"

  The grizzled auror grinned maniacally as he raised his wand.

  Just as Iris tightened her grip on her wand, ready to fight for her life–

  The dream shattered.

  She awoke with a jolt, adrenaline still pounding in her veins. Her green eyes flitted to and fro across the bedroom ceiling; it was as if she could make out the approaching enemy from the plaster cracks. White knuckles clenched and loosened.

  After a few seconds of disorientation, Iris finally let go of the worn covers. Sitting up in bed, she raised a hand to brush aside the dark strands of hair matted against her sweat-strewn forehead. Only the dim orange glow from distant street-lights outside illuminated the dark room, revealing the faint tear-streaks running down the young girl's face.

  Iris quickly wiped her face. Calling upon her Occlumency training, Iris closed her eyes, falling into a familiar trance. Her breath evened out as she gradually emptied her mind. A few minutes later, her eyes opened again, this time much calmer than before.

  The small bedroom was dark and silent. A quiet pitter-patter of raindrops sounded outside her window. She could make out the faint outline of her wooden trunk at the foot of the bed, and the large, empty cage for her owl Hedwig on the desk. All in all, a peaceful summer night, with only the occasional snore from the neighboring room reminding her of the presence of her muggle relatives.

  Everything seemed so normal, so far removed from what had just happened two weeks ago…

  "Sentiment … a chain that binds fools to their graves …"

  A soft voice whispered in her head, interrupting the silence.

  "I severed those chains long ago. You would do well to follow, lest you drown in their weight."

  The girl seemed unsurprised; shifting out of bed, she crossed the room unhurriedly and opened the wardrobe. With a blank expression, Iris stared into the small mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door.

  Green eyes, placid without any ripples, looked back. The slight teenage girl whom they belonged to seemed around fourteen years of age. Messy black locks framed her delicate face, almost covering up the faint lightning-bolt scar on her forehead. The rest of her long, unruly mane was tamed into a braid.

  Iris peered into her own eyes, searching for the source of the mysterious voice. But, as usual, she found no trace of his existence.

  Tom Riddle.

  The enigmatic memory of an upperclassman who had once attended Hogwarts decades ago, whose diary she had coincidently picked up in her Second Year. The charismatic wizard who eventually grew up to murder her parents and leave her an orphan. And most importantly, a soul fragment that was now stuck inside her head like a parasite, whose presence meant that Iris could no longer be truly alone.

  "You've told me countless times already." Iris averted her gaze, away from the mirror. "I was just ashamed. Of my own weakness … I could have saved him. He didn't need to die." She closed the wardrobe and walked back to the bed.

  A silken laugh echoed in her mind, cold and precise. Despite the owner of the voice being a teenage boy close to her age, Iris sometimes felt like she was talking to an unfeeling examiner, one who could see through all of her lies. "Weakness? No, Iris. Weakness is wallowing in what you could have done. Cedric Diggory died because he lacked the foresight to recognize a battlefield masquerading as a game. You, however… you saw the trap. You felt the danger."

  Iris sat stiffly on the edge of her bed, her fingers digging into the quilt. "Warned him … the stupid fool … should've set an alarm ward …" Her words were barely audible whispers, directed more at herself than at Tom.

  His response was sharp, a blade honed by disdain. "Knowledge is power, not hindsight. You weep for a boy who chose naivety over survival. Tell me - would your tears revive him? Or would they merely shackle you to another corpse?"

  It felt like he was slicing into her heart. Faces flashed through her mind … Hermione, Ginny, Ron, … Sirius. "Stop. Just… stop." Iris' voice cracks. Her head lowered, expression unreadable.

  The girl's dim silhouette stilled as a hush fell over the room. Only the quiet clenching and unclenching of her fingers in the bedsheets betrayed her inner turmoil.

  Despite years of struggle under Riddle's merciless training regimen … despite all the painful sacrifices she had made in exchange for power … when real danger struck, she still couldn't protect those she cared about. What did it matter, if she had managed to gain the upper hand fighting against the imposter Moody? What was the point, if she couldn't even save someone right next to her?

  Riddle continued with a softer, almost coaxing tone. "You crave strength, yet reject the means to claim it. Let me teach you. Let me show you how to turn grief into armor." He paused slyly. "Or would you prefer to kneel at Dumbledore's feet like a child, trusting him to shield you? How well did that serve Diggory?"

  Iris flinches. She snaps back, low and venomous. "You think I don't know what you're doing? You want me to become like you. Cold. Hollow. Alone."

  "Alone? We are never alone, Iris. I am here. Always." His promise was as intimate as a serpent's coil, and just as dangerous. "While your precious friends…" Riddle gave a low chuckle. "Do they see the shadows in your eyes? Do they ask why you flinch at mirrors, or jump at whispers? No. They see only the mask you've perfected - the one I helped you create."

  Iris pulls her knees to her chest, staring at the wall. The murmuring rain on the bedroom window sounded distant in her ears, like she was separated from the world by an invisible wall.

  When she speaks again, her tone is detached, rehearsed - a line fed by Tom himself. "Attachment is a poison. I … I need only power."

  "There now. Was that so difficult? Tomorrow, we begin anew. No more dreams. Only purpose." His tone was gentle, yet triumphant, as if he were praising a disobedient student who had finally fixed their ways. "And perhaps … a visit to Knockturn Alley? The tome on Shadow Arts does await us."

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  Iris hesitates, then nods once, jaw set. Her shadowed reflection in the window shows no trace of him - only her own green eyes, hardened like emeralds. "… Tomorrow."

  Early morning. The hazy light of dawn filtered past the curtains, illuminating tiny motes of dust drifting through the air, as it fell upon faded, peach-colored wallpaper. Bedsheets were neatly folded atop of the small bed that took up most of the room, while various spellbooks, organized by subject, filled each alcove in the wooden bookshelf opposite.

  Iris knelt in front of her open school trunk, packing her things into a leather shoulder bag with multiple space-extended pockets. Important items like her father's Cloak of Invisibility, Wizarding and muggle currency, and jars of Peruvian Instant Darkness Powder (for snap escapes) were placed in the outside pocket for quick access; potion ingredients, runic tools, and sensitive grimoires were placed in the largest charmed space, compartmentalized to prevent jostling.

  Her hand brushed against the enchanted runic bracelet on her right wrist that shielded her from the Trace. Crafted with the help of Riddle in the summer before her Third Year, the bracelet made her annual stay at Privet Drive much more bearable. The social contract at Number Four, Privet Drive had changed ever since - the Dursleys would politely stay out of her way, and she would refrain from hexing them six ways from Sunday as "repayment" for her childhood.

  Unfortunately, Iris still had to play by Dumbledore's arrangements and come back to the suburbs after every school year. Even Riddle had grudgingly admitted that the blood wards Dumbledore placed here seemed like the best protection against her enemies. She also didn't want to seem too independent in case she raised the suspicions of the meddling Headmaster.

  Not that summer doesn't have its own bright sides. With the Trace gone, she had complete freedom. The months away from Hogwarts were the best time for her to dabble in the more … dubious types of magic. Sacrificial rituals, blood magic, Dark Arts … anything she found inconvenient to practice under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore, could be done outside school. Riddle always made sure to have a thorough wishlist of "summer homework" that he wanted her to finish before the next school year.

  After pushing open the windows to allow Hedwig to return after her nightly hunt, Iris put on a dark travel cloak, flipping the hood over her head. Turning to face the mirror, she gave a quick wand wave. Now no one could make out her face underneath the dark hood.

  With a loud crack, the girl twisted on her heel and vanished from the room.

  Few passerbys could be found on the narrow streets of Knockturn Alley in the early hours. Rainwater pooled in the cracks of the cobblestone road, forming dark puddles that were still like the shards of a mirror. Lingering fog, left over from the night before, swirled around a short hooded figure striding past the seedy-looking shop fronts, the confident gait belying a thorough familiarity with the area.

  After two right turns and a secret passageway hidden behind a couple of wooden barrels, the hooded figure arrived in front of a dead end - an inconspicuous black door set into the brick wall. A slender hand reached out, grasping the handle of the brass door knocker shaped in the form of a basilisk's maw.

  Thump thump. Two muffled knocks echoed down the dark, misty alley. A moment later, a faint click could be heard from beyond the door. The owner of the hand twisted the door knob and entered.

  The room beyond the doorway was small and cramped. At the center, a maroon velvet armchair sat before a long blackthorn desk, its clawed legs digging into the thick carpet. A single gas lamp flickered overhead, its sickly green flame casting jagged shadows across peeling wallpaper. At the back of the room, a heavy midnight curtain hung still over another doorway leading to the hidden depths of the building.

  Opposite the armchair hung the room's sole adornment: a medium-length portrait of a gaunt wizard in antiquated robes. The subject of the painting seemed not to notice the long tear in the canvas that ran through his face.

  As Iris closed the metal door behind her, the lock clicked shut. The room was silent besides the faint, rhythmic tick-tock coming from an old grandfather clock in the far corner.

  She walked to the armchair and sat down, the eyes of the portrait following her as she moved. In front of her, on top of the desk, was placed an unnamed tome bound in leather black as ink.

  "Shade and Substance." From the portrait, the dour storekeeper informed her of the title. "Seven hundred and twenty-four galleons."

  Iris winced under her hood. Even with the sizeable fortune her parents had left her, that was a significant sum of money. Still, she had come prepared - money was worthless to her if she couldn't even live to adulthood, after all.

  Iris carefully opened the black book to reveal aged, yellowing parchment. However, nothing could be seen written or drawn on the pages - the book was blank. This did not seem to surprise the girl; she held the opened tome underneath the desk, in shadow. Soon, lines upon lines of dense silver lettering began to appear.

  … To ye who dareth tread the veiled and thorned path, herein lies peril and puissance entwined as serpents … to forsake the sunlit road is to court the abyss, whose maw hungers ever. Heed these words, lest damnation claim thee; let thine eyes stray no further, or be undone by what lurks unspoken …

  After verifying the book was indeed what she was searching for, Iris levitated several weighty stacks of gold coins from her bag onto the desk. She also placed a short length of parchment next to the galleons: a list of other "unorthodox" magics she would be interested in purchasing tomes about.

  "You will be informed when we find another seller." The portrait closed its eyes in silent dismissal.

  With the transaction complete, Iris slipped the black tome into her bag. The dealer's lantern hissed out as she retreated back into the gloom of Knockturn Alley.

  "The Shadow Arts will prove … invaluable for keeping you alive." Riddle's velvet tones echoed in her ears as she walked down the cobblestone passage. "The magic is especially suited for those of a duplicitous nature, who have an affinity for secrets."

  "Whose fault is it I've got secrets to begin with?" Iris bristled at the indirect jab, a strand of black hair escaping her hood. "If I weren't babysitting a jumped-up ghost and dodging his murderous future self, maybe I would have turned out normal."

  "Do not–" Her scar seared as Riddle's tone sharpened. "–lump me with that deranged creature." Although she couldn't see him, she could imagine Riddle was glowering at her. "The twisted being has shattered his soul so many times by now, he is little more than a mockery of his past."

  Iris rubbed her throbbing forehead with a blank expression, unconvinced by his act. "Just two sides of the same coin …" Ignoring Riddle's discontent, she continued. "Speaking of the devil - what is Voldemort's next move? You know him better than me. Surely he knows Dumbledore won't allow something like the kidnapping attempt to happen again?"

  The ghostly teenager in her scar simmered in silence before he replied. "After the Death Eater pawn failed in his task at the Triwizard Tournament, your enemy will likely lay low for a period of time." Riddle sneered. "Thrice he has been defeated at your hands - he is unlikely to continue targeting you, not until he has greater assurance of success … If I had to guess, the Dark Lord will search for an alternative method to recreate his physical form."

  Iris gave a half-hearted laugh in her head. "Let us hope so. Maybe this will keep the pathetic wraith off my case for some time, long enough for me to find a way to deal with the other Dark Lord inside my head."

  It had been years since Riddle had tried, and failed, to possess Iris through the Diary; from then on, he had been stuck in her mind like a figment of her imagination. Iris had never given up on finding a way to remove the evil soul.

  Riddle gave an exaggerated sigh. "Must you always reduce our cooperation to childish enmity? I have guided you through weal and woe … you would not be alive right now without my help." He paused, then continued in a softer, almost wounded tone. "You know what I was. What I could have been."

  Iris did know. Back when she only knew him as Tom Riddle, not Voldemort. Her secret friend - both orphans, both half-bloods, both viewing Hogwarts as their one and only home. She remembered rushing back to her dorm after class, eager to share tales of deafening mandrakes, pompous DADA professors, and cursed Bludgers with her friend Tom … she remembered the boy with delicate features who wrote poetry in the Slytherin dorms, the young man who so desperately wished to stay at Hogwarts over the summer, just like her …

  For a moment, her throat tightened. "Save your silver tongue for the next possession victim," Iris feigned nonchalance. "We both know you'd have become another Voldemort if you succeeded back then."

  Knockturn's shadows clung to her as she passed Borgin & Burkes, her reflection fractured in the grimy window.

  "Step out of line," she whispered, "and I'll march straight to Dumbledore. I swear it on Salazar's soggy portrait."

  Riddle scoffed. "Oh, little Iris. Do you imagine the senile warlock has some gentle solution? That he'll pluck me free like a thorn, leaving your precious mind intact?" His phantom presence coiled in her mind like smoke. "No. He'll burn down the forest to kill the blight. That is what your nobility will earn you."

  Iris halted mid-stride, knuckles whitening around her wand. "You think I care?" she hissed, her voice cracking like thin ice. "I am no longer the naive child I was back in Second Year. I won't be tricked again, Tom. I'd toss us both into Fiendfyre if it torched Voldemort. Take care of both Tom Riddles at once. At least I'd die clean." Underneath her hood, her green eyes blazed with righteous conviction.

  "Sweet hypocrite," He murmured, honeyed and poisonous. "Do you rehearse these speeches? 'Die clean' - such Gryffindor poetry. Tell me, does it soothe you? Imagining their tears at your noble pyre?" A soft chuckle rippled through her mind. "But we both know why you cling to life. Not for them … but because you crave their love like a lonely little waif."

  "Shut up–"

  "When Granger unravels your lies," he continued, relentless, "when your precious godfather abandons you … when even the littlest Weasley recoils at the rot in her 'hero' … will you still play the martyr?" His voice dropped, intimate as a lover's. "Or will you finally admit you need me? That without my guidance … you're just a broken girl marching to her futile end?"

  Iris' breath caught in her throat. "... They'd understand," she muttured, but it sounded weak even in her own head. She began moving again, faster this time, as if she could walk away from that cursed voice in her head.

  "Understand?" Riddle echoed, coldly amused. "Will they understand why their Savior delved into the Darkest of blood rituals to obtain more power? Why little Iris opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to her parents' murderer?" His tone took on a lethal edge. "Or why she clung so desperately to that charming upperclassman … bearing such a striking resemblance to Tom Riddle?"

  Her body jerked as if electrocuted. Boots skidded across rain-slick cobblestones, her cloak flapping in the wind. "Th-that's not–" An instinctual denial, her mental words shrill and broken. "Cedric … we were never …"

  "Tsk tsk." He sounded infuriatingly self-satisfied. "Even now, you tremble … not from fear of death, but of being seen."

  "Silence!"

  She spun into a shadowed alcove, back slamming against damp stone, as she desperately tried to use Occlumency to clear her mind. But it was of no use, for Riddle was the one who had taught her the Mind Arts in the first place.

  Even when she squeezed her eyes shut and pressed her hands to her ears, his taunting laughter seeped through her skull - like bruise-colored ink bleeding through parchment.