Chapter 5: Shadow Unbound

  It was a truth that grew like a tumor in her heart, festering silently until Tom Riddle - ever the surgeon of souls - dug his fingers into the wound and pried the ugly thing free. Iris had never dared name the feeling aloud. Perhaps she did not even realize until now.

  Her parents' murderer … or her exacting mentor?

  Her mortal enemy … or her closest confidant?

  The architect of all her miseries … or the only constant in her life of lies?

  Iris no longer knew.

  For an orphan starved of companionship, even hatred could masquerade as kinship. At Privet Drive, their barbed exchanges had been a perverse lifeline; during sleepless nights, his merciless critiques of her spellwork sharpened her into the formidable witch she was today.

  Worst of all was the quiet. When he withdrew, leaving her mind eerily still, she'd catch herself missing his sarcastic remarks - anything to fill the silence.

  He'd weaponized her loneliness, turned her yearning for validation into a leash. Every flinch, every frantic "Stop laughing!" hissed at empty air, only tightened his grip.

  Did she even want to escape?

  Ever since that day in Knockturn Alley, neither side brought up the subject again. Iris clung to the ceasefire; as for Riddle, perhaps even the greatest of Dark Lords found dealing with the hormone-driven emotions of a teenage witch daunting. A crying little girl, incapacitated by her mortification over a crush, would be in no shape to finish learning the Shadow Arts by the end of summer after all.

  Wary of provoking another argument with Riddle, Iris obediently fell into their usual summer routine: grimoire-studying, potion-making, and spell-practicing.

  A silver cauldron bubbled in front of her, sending up wafts of beeswax and sunflower oil. Iris leaned over the potion workstation, meticulously grinding a yellowish stone into powder.

  It was another beautiful summer day: the noon sun warmed the back of her neck while a gentle breeze blew through the forest clearing, bringing welcome coolness to Iris' forehead. She absentmindedly ran her tongue over the tasteless surface of the mandrake leaf in her mouth.

  Ever since she had heard from Remus that her father had become an Animagus in his Fifth Year, Iris had been determined to follow in his footsteps. Some parts of the process were inconvenient at Hogwarts - speaking and eating with a leaf in her mouth would've been difficult to hide for a whole month - so she and Riddle planned to finish the complex process outside school.

  "Mind the cauldron. Another seven stirs counter-clockwise," reminded the Dark Lord, his voice laced with impatience.

  "Right," she murmured, wiping sweat off her brow before setting aside the mortar and pestle to fetch the stirrer. The cauldron held a concoction of sun wax - a recipe from her recent acquisition, Shade and Substance. Exceeding N.E.W.T.-level in difficulty, the potion had several finicky steps and required a certain time of day to brew.

  Fortunately, teenage Riddle was exceptionally skilled at Potions. Although her studies under him had propelled her far beyond the usual Hogwarts curriculum, a potion of this caliber still posed a challenge without his help.

  After completing her stirring, Iris checked to ensure that the transparent, honey-colored liquid matched the recipe's description.

  "Set up the lens to direct sunlight onto the powdered mixture. You're running late."

  "On it." She quickly set the stirrer aside and grabbed her wand. With a practiced gesture, she levitated a stand holding a glass lens over the mortar. A tap of her wand adjusted the lens, and soon a focused beam of sunlight shone onto the sparkling mixture of phoenix ashes and citrine, dazzling her eyes.

  After a flurry of frantic steps and several close calls, Iris finally took advantage of a lull in the brewing process to catch her breath.

  "Barely acceptable, I suppose." Riddle's droll tone made his opinion on her skills clear. "For a ritual so crucial to your future survival, one would think you'd put in a bit more effort."

  "Oh pipe down, Riddle," Iris sighed, wiping her face with a towel. "I've had enough of Snape during the school year - I don't need another one during the summer."

  Sitting down on a conjured wooden stool, Iris read over the passage for the ritual again, her hand held up over the grimoire to provide shade.

  Umbrae Vinculum is a fell and ravening art. The shade, in time unspooled, may spurn thy summons. It doth tarry at thy heel, its gait lagging as a sullen hound, or - blacker fate - shape its limbs to forms strange and unsought. The shadow may learneth to crave their tithe of blood or breath, their forbearance as fleeting as dusk. To seek mastery over the darkness is to dance on the edge of Oblivion. Wield with a miser's hand, lest thy soul be bartered for a wraith's cold caress …

  Iris' eyes narrowed as she stared down at the winding silver calligraphy. "This shadow binding ritual … you're sure it will be useful?"

  Riddle's reply was smooth. "Of course. Consider its elegance, Iris. A traceless scout, undetectable by normal means. An tangible illusion, realistic enough to fool even the most discerning …" His presence shifted, cool fingertips brushing the edges of her consciousness. "You need this power, Iris. Would you truly leave your precious … friends' safety to Dumbledore's senile whims?"

  Iris' brows furrowed. She was still feeling bitter towards the headmaster. Before Fourth Year, she'd dismissed Riddle's tirades about the "meddling old fool" - yes, Dumbledore had abandoned her to the Dursleys, and his Defense appointments were catastrophes waiting to happen. But he'd also been the only man Voldemort ever feared. Tom Riddle's opinion on Dumbledore was about as unbiased as Snape's attitude toward Gryffindors during Potions class.

  Now, though? Her faith in the man had shattered like a broken mirror. She'd screamed herself hoarse at Dumbledore in the maze's aftermath, after the imposter Moody portkeyed away. How could he not notice a Death Eater posing as a professor for a whole year? A man he'd called friend?

  Iris dug at the desk surface with her fingernails, her hand pale in the sunlight. Perhaps even greater than her resentment towards Dumbledore, was Iris' frustration towards herself. She'd known something was wrong when her name was pulled from the Cup. She even checked the Marauder's Map to verify "Alastor Moody's" identity - if only she had bothered to check why Barty Crouch's name was in the office as well!

  Weakness is wallowing in what you could have done. Riddle's previous words slithered unbidden into her mind. Iris looked back down at the grimoire. She was loath to admit it, but the abilities from the ritual would be very useful. Yet the ominous warnings in the book gave her pause.

  "Only I will decide what I need." Her chin lifted at a defiant angle. "I'm not some puppet for you to string along, Riddle."

  Riddle chuckles innocently. "Puppet? Do you still not understand, Iris? We're partners - bound by far more than strings. Destiny, if you'll indulge the poetry."

  Her cheeks burned, betraying her before she could school her expression. She knew he was just manipulating her, taking advantage of her feelings … yet the word "partners" lingered in her ears, treacherous and sweet.

  She hurriedly tapped at the open page with her finger, parchment tremoring under her touch. "Then swear it. The shadow - it shall obey only me. No tricks."

  "By Salazar's bones," He vowed with theatrical solemnity. "For we who carve our own paths through the rot of mediocrity, a mere shadow is nothing. You could control legions of shadows if you were so inclined."

  A bitter laugh escaped her. "Oh absolutely. A 'shadow army'. Might as well announce myself the new Dark Lady while I'm at it." Iris expected his mockery, but Riddle's presence only pressed closer, his voice lowering into a conspiratorial purr.

  "Why not?" She shivered, imagining his breath brushing past her ear. "Greatness doesn't beg permission. Why bother yourself with the opinions of your lessers?" He paused, letting tension set in. "A Dark Lady worthy of a Dark Lord … is this not what you desire?"

  Iris slammed the grimoire shut with a conspicuously loud noise. "Enough." Her face was frozen into a mask of indifference, betrayed only by her erratic breathing. She hated the way her pulse raced, as if her veins sang to his tune. "Don't think you've got the upper hand just because … just because–" She couldn't bear to say it.

  Shaking her head, Iris stood up stiffly and moved in front of the cauldron. She was determined to ignore his provocations. "Your theatrics bore me. Explain the next step."

  She could almost see the handsome upperclassman raise an eyebrow at her, a mocking smile hanging on his lips. But the wax was ready - shimmering with white-hot radiance - so for now, Iris found a much-needed break from the conversation.

  Ancient stone, edges gnarled by centuries of rain and wind, rise into the moonless sky. Silhouetted against a black tapestry of dim stars, the ruins on the hill loom like a hag's hand reaching to grasp the abyss. Far below, the Muggle village sleeps unknowingly, electric lights distant.

  Iris climbs. The weight of the grimoire in her satchel thuds in time with her heartbeat. A stone wall steeped in magic, the ritual demands. Hogwarts' walls are awash with the spells of countless years, but summer locks its gates to her. So she comes to Corfe Castle: a previous demesne of William the Conqueror's court magician, built upon leylines in the 11th century. Now it belongs to tourists by day and ghosts by night. Only a scant few wards are left, put up by the Ministry to prevent Muggles from stumbling upon anything they shouldn't see.

  Iris' breath fogs as she passes crumbling chunks of limestone and placards detailing sieges and kings. The air tastes of moss and dirt. A cool wind trickles through the gaps in the ruins, carrying whispers of the past - not the babble of guides, but the rasp of steel and the dying gasps of impaled soldiers. Despite the near complete darkness, her eyes see every rock and crevice in sharp clarity - a side-effect of the vision-restoring Dark ritual from her Third Year.

  A clump of earth shifts at the edge of Iris' vision. She freezes - there, atop the fractured wall, a hunched figure crouches.

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  Red eyes glint.

  "Stupefy!" Scarlet light explodes out from her wand. The Red Cap blasts away, its rusted sickle clattering against stone as its body crumples.

  Iris approaches and nudges the ugly creature with her foot. Its wrinkled hands twitch.

  "Dead." Riddle sneers. "You're acting like a First Year in the Forbidden Forest. Who are you expecting, Aurors?"

  She lets out a tense breath, relaxing her grip on her wand. "Just … a bad feeling. This ritual … feels like I'm about to summon a dementor or something."

  "This is all your so-called Gryffindor bravery amounts to?" He clicks his tongue in disapproval. "Run back to bed then, little girl. Waste of my efforts to keep you alive."

  Iris simply shakes her head, unwilling to argue with the arrogant dark wizard. Continuing on, she soon reaches the very top of the hill - the inner hall of the castle, where leylines converge. Iris quickly sets up a few basic muggle-repelling and occlusion wards before checking her wristwatch.

  Almost midnight.

  Setting down her shoulder bag, Iris takes out a pale white candlestick - the result of her efforts earlier in the day. The smooth wax cylinder almost seems luminescent as she places it in the center of the foyer. From the candle's top pokes out a twisting wick, a braided mixture of unicorn hair and her own black hair.

  Iris points her wand. The wick immediately bursts to life, not flame, but incandescence - a miniature sun searing the chamber.

  She staggers back, shielding her eyes. Turning her back on the candle, Iris squints to give herself time to adjust to the magical sunlight. Hopefully my wards will stop any light from leaking out.

  She thinks back to the grimoire's silver script. The brightest flame begets the blackest shade … Iris positions herself between the candle and the sanctum wall.

  A long, dark shadow is thrown in front of her, following her every move. Iris walks until she is an arm's length away from the stone. The shadow shortens until it mirrors her precisely - she sees every loose thread of her jacket, her thin holly wand grasped in her hand, the wild strands of hair escaping her braid. It looks less like a silhouette and more like a charcoal portrait, too alive in its stillness.

  She traces a hand over the aged masonry. The stones were cool, unnaturally so, as if the castle itself had leeched warmth from the earth. Lichen crumbles beneath her touch. Above, an owl hoots. Iris flinches, and her shadow flinches with her.

  "Good … Now bleed for it. Power demands sacrifice." Riddle's murmur passes through her mind.

  Taking a deep breath, Iris puts away her wand and takes out an obsidian ritual knife. No incantation, no flourish - just a kiss of sharp edge against flesh. Blood wells, dark as the blade in her grip.

  Her hand stretches out, hovering over shaded wall. The sun candle's light burns steady; the shadow's outline doesn't waver, as if the void waited to be filled. When bloodied palm meets stone, her hair stands up as if from discharged static. Iris' voice echoes through the halls as she recites the binding mantra:

  "Umbrae Vinculum, cor meum et carnem tradeo.

  Sicut tenebrae sequuntur lucem, ita me sequuntur umbrae!"

  The incantation dies lifeless on her tongue at first. Then - pain. A viscous pull seizes Iris' palm, the shadow latching onto her bleeding wound like a starved leech. Her blood hisses as it dissolves into the void.

  Behind her, candle flames flicker wildly. Wind thick with the smell of rot tears through the surroundings. The silhouette in front of her twitches. Then it screams - not in sound, but in motion: a thrashing cacophony of writhing claws and edges. Spindled limbs spring out, scraping the ceiling with blade-tipped fingers … a forest of contorting tentacles, rife with wart-like protrusions, slashes through the air. Something colossal projects against the barrier between worlds, its form defying geometry and reason - darkness hungering to emerge into reality.

  Iris' teeth bites into her lip, drawing blood as she struggles to maintain control over the unraveling ritual.

  BEND TO ME!

  She cries out in her mind, her will defiant against the chaos. The Dark roils as she sculpts it, not with hands, but with a scalpel formed of her psyche - she carves her own form into the void, bit by bit.

  Bones snap into pieces, while serrated tendrils liquefy into oily streams, reknitting into shoulders, a head, limbs. The thing quivers and thrashes with her every slash, her every hammer, fighting her every step of the way. And finally, when the final aberrant appendage folds back into her mirrored shape, the wind dies with a death-rattling sigh. The candlelight snuffs out. Darkness falls once more.

  Iris staggers backwards, her lungs burning, sweat running down her forehead. The silence presses against her ears, almost deafening. She almost thinks the ritual failed … but then - a ripple of parting stone, as if at Platform Nine and Three-Quarters.

  From the wall oozes a humanoid figure, ink given sinew and flesh. There it stands, as she stood; tilts its head, as she tilted hers … it has the same dark messy hair, jacket and jeans, pale skin, and faint, barely visible lightning-shaped scar. Only … its blank green eyes are hollow, void of humanity.

  Iris sweeps shaking fingers through the strands of hair clinging to her face, her breaths ragged. Steeling herself, she creeps forward, until she is in front of her newly bound creation.

  It looks just like me. The uncanny resemblance sends chills down Iris' back. Moments ago, umbral horrors craved to consume her; now, they are molded by her will into a docile copy, standing in front of her with unnatural stillness.

  Iris' fingers clench around her comfortingly familiar holly wand. Carefully, she tugs on the spectral tether binding her to the shadow. The fake Iris' hand jumps up, its movements jerky.

  "Solid," she whispers, reaching out. She wonders what the shadow would feel like. Her fingertips graze the shadow's palm–

  "AH!"

  She reels back, her hand pressed against the scar splitting her forehead. Agony lances through her skull - a white-hot brand searing through bone, pulsing in time with the shadow's sudden, sickening shudder.

  "Riddle! What–"

  Her question dies in her throat. As she watches, the thing's face shifts, flesh undulating as though maggots crawled beneath its skin. Iris' own features dissolve, cheeks melting like candlewax, lips curling into a sneer that had never been hers.

  "No." The word escapes her raw. "No, no–" This isn't right. The ritual is supposed to bind the shadow to her will, her form!

  Dark eyes pool with liquid malice. High cheekbones fill with aristocratic arrogance. The figure grows until it looms over her, his very presence leaching warmth from the air until frost creeps across the dirt floor.

  "Tom." Her voice cracks. Iris becomes vaguely aware that she had collapsed onto the ground.

  The shadow - now a perfect replica of Tom Riddle in the Diary - steps forward with Hogwarts robes brushing the floor, his movements unnervingly graceful. Before Iris can flinch, he is upon her. Bone-chilling fingers capture her chin in a firm, unyielding grip, forcing her gaze upwards. The cold against her skin sends a jolt of fear down her spine, even as a traitorous flush blooms on her cheeks.

  "Hello, Iris." His hauntingly familiar whispers echo in the night, free from the prison of Iris' head. Predatory eyes rake across her stricken face, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. "I … can touch you now."

  The girl sits frozen in place, her limbs heavy as if bound by invisible chains. She'd only imagined this moment in her deepest nightmares - yet nothing could ever compare to the real thing.

  No. He's not real. He's just a shadow.

  "Your shadow." The correction comes not as words, but as a caress in her mind, intimate enough to curdle her blood.

  His thumb gently grazes her split lip, smearing red. "You invited me, Iris. Not the ritual."

  Impossible.

  Iris jerks back, but his grip is like a steel vice, inescapable. "You lied." Her voice shakes, hints of her adolescence leaking out. "About the ritual–"

  "Come now, Iris." Riddle tilts her chin higher, thumb lingering on her lip. "Did you truly believe I'd settle for being just a voice in your head?" A smirk plays on his handsome face, dancing between boyish charm and calculated cruelty. "You crafted this moment - every incantation, every drop of blood … I merely … refined the design." His head lowers to her side, words whispering directly into her ears. "Admit it. You've longed to see me … as more than a ghost, more than a Diary."

  Icy breath travels down the side of her neck, making her heart almost jump into her throat. Fingers dig into the dirt, nails scraping against frozen earth. Liar. Liar. Liar. She clings to the mantra, trying to deny everything.

  Iris grits her teeth. "I wanted a replica of myself. You merely hijacked the result." She forces a scoff, glaring at the materialized soul. "Just a parasite, leeching off others."

  Riddle's fingers suddenly clench around her throat, eliciting a shocked cry from Iris as he slams her into the ground. The back of her head grinds against hardened ground. "Liar." The word hisses both in her head and her ears. "You tremble not from fear, but want. How many nights did you lie awake, savoring my voice? How many secrets did you hoard to keep me yours?" His voice softens into honey as his lips brush her ear. "You crave an equal, not those simpering children you call friends. You need me."

  Iris' eyes widen. She shoves against his chest in a last-ditch effort to escape, but her hands pass through Riddle's chest with no resistance, like smoke. "Shut up!" Her voice was hoarse, forced through his choke-hold. "You're nothing - a scrap of soul - I'll destroy you–" Her protest dies as the hand clinches firmer, his glacial touch searing her senses. The shadow's form solidifies as it leaves indentations in her skin. She swallows, teenage bravado fading. "Let go, or I'll–"

  "You'll what?" Riddle snarls, teenage petulance on display. "Cry for Granger? Weep into Weasley's collar?" His eyes smolder with possessiveness, his fingers tightening around her neck in anger. "They'd burn you, little savior, if they knew what you've let me become."

  Iris gives a pathetic gasp, the edges of her vision darkening from lack of air.

  Tom's rage disappears instantly, replaced with a mockingly tender smile. He was so close that Iris felt like she was being bathed in ice. Yet his grip never loosens. "You've always been mine, Iris. From the first words you wrote into the Diary…"

  The whispers sink into her mind as her consciousness flickers, on the verge of sputtering out.

  Then, within the boundary between thought and oblivion, a spark of clarity shines. She feels it - the left-over, gossamer thread of ritual's magic. Grasping onto the lifeline with the desperation of a drowning soul, Iris snaps her gaze to his, her green eyes aflame. "Obey me!" She screams in her mind, pushing her will through the bond.

  For a fleeting second, the teenager's edges haze, tendrils of darkness dissipating. Hope flares–

  But Tom's laugh, thick with disdain, punctures her heart.

  "Clever girl. But chains require strength." In a blur, he wrenches her wrist against the ground, pinning it against the frost. Cold pain lances up her arm, sharp and sweet, as his face hovers inches from hers. "Shall we test yours?"

  His breath caresses her face like a dementor's, freezing her tear-trails into glinting crystal. Tom leans closer, threatening to cut off her last hope of retreat. Iris' heart hammers out a wild rhythm that threatens to shatter her ribs. Disappear. Disappear.

  His lips are only a hair's breadth from hers. She smells parchment and ink, feels the phantom weight of his gaze.

  Squeezing her eyes shut, she pours every fragment of her being into breaking the bond that tethered them. Air crackles like lightning, and with a final, frantic surge, a hoarse cry tears from her throat.

  "DISAPPEAR!"

  A raw, soundless detonation of pure magic.

  Light pours from her chest, igniting the room. The castle groans as ancient walls shake. The shadow twists, tears, splinters - a thousand mirrors shattering at once - and for one eternal instant, Tom's face showed not a monster, but a boy, wide-eyed and human.

  Then he was gone.

  Air rushes back, hollow and silent.

  Iris collapses, coughing up blood and the burnt tang of spent magic. Her fingers claw at ice-flecked earth. Above, blackened snowflakes swirl, falling like funeral ash.

  Her shuddering breaths return in short gasps, blistering her throat. She tries to stand, to run, but her limbs buckle uselessly. Drained of all strength, she presses her forehead to the ground.

  The moonless night settles, even darker and quieter than before. The only things that can be heard in the empty hall are the barely-stifled sobs of a lonely, desperate girl … and the fading echo of a voice that still sounds too much like home.