Shadow Tongue

Prologue

Against the star dotted backdrop, the castle gleamed in the ethereal night. There were turrets and columns, gargoyles and towers. The last remnants of the summer passed were still held by the water of the lake. Whispers floated in the wind, from the forest, from the depths of the waters. The candles lighting up the windows were like beacons on the sea. The sight was immortal.

The dark boats gilded forward, but if it were up to her, the ride could go on forever. She never wanted to forget it. Dipping her fingers into the water below, she observed it to be tepid. She held it there, her hand, and observed the eternal. At home, on the coast the stars were beautiful, but here they were naturally magical. What would be my window? She wondered in her mind. Would it be to the East, the sun waking her up every morning? Maybe a North facing window towards the forest? If it were to the West she would see the sunset every evening. And if it were to the South, her room would always bask in the light.

They were led up the stone stairs, in front of ancient wooden doors. The air was bustling, merry with laughter. She stuck to the back of a boy how a horse chestnut sticks to a woollen sweater. He had dark hair and a smile just as unruly. But his name began with L and hers with W, so she was left alone.

There were rosemary potatoes, saffron rice, plum cakes and cardamon swirls. The torches were cheery and the ghosts even more so. It was a feast as imagined in children's tales and old legends. There were just a handful of others waiting to be sorted and cheers broke out from every table at a time. During the trip her eye pair made across the room, she met the blue eyes of a professor. He smiled at her, even winked. She smiled back, but didn't wink. Everything was positively giddy.

Fingers touched hers, startling her, making her turn to her right. And there he was, a boy. Fair and dark at the same time. Pale skin, like fine china, a sharp nose and a head full of refined curls.

And then something rose. Like ink, like dark water from the depths of the ocean. First spreading how a blotch of ink spreads on the parchment then like the murky waters that try to catch your toes on the shore. The darkness rose and rose, not backing to the light. Dark fog swam on the stone floor, twisting through legs, alive and wooden. The strands coiled around her neck, wrists and ankles. And if she opened her mouth, she was sure they would protrude her throat, her innards. They must've already been in her ears, the only way to explain why no one else was screaming.

Blindly she shoved the air, the shadows in front of her, but then the whispering began. First whispering, then cooing. The shadows spoke to her. And when she finally came across something solid, it all disappeared.

Blinking against the abnormally bright light, she found her hands on the pale boy's shoulders. It was like no time had passed, no one had noticed anything amiss. But when Madeline Wilde's eyes met Tom Riddle's, she knew she had to run.

And she ran, out of the dining hall, down the corridors and empty hallways, up staircases after staircases before finally gasping for fresh air. In the owlery she sent a letter to her sister. She couldn't stay in Hogwarts, the shadows had warned her.