Author's note: This is one of the first things I ever wrote in this 'verse, which is why it's in 2nd person instead of 3rd. I considered switching it, but it works better in 2nd I think and, anyway, I like 2nd person. I realize I'm taking some liberties with how horcruxes work, but it's necessary for this 'verse to function. If canon errors bother you I do apologize.
Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to JK Rowling. No money is being made from this project.
You're Harry Potter, Boy-Who-Lived, Youngest Seeker In Over A Century, Savior Of The Philosopher's Stone (terrible potions student, freak, parselmouth) and you just got your best friend's little sister killed.
You don't even pay attention to the ghost (impression? memory?) of Tom Riddle in front of you, or to the basilisk still out there somewhere, or even the way Fawkes is trilling at you insistently. Ginny's dead and it's your fault and Ron is going to hate you. Everyone is going to hate you. It'll be like that time back in first year when you lost Gryffindor 150 points but worse because it's not like other people can work really hard, or you can do something stupid and get the points back. Ginny's dead. She's not coming back. She's not coming back and it's all your fault.
Fawkes all but screams something at you but you don't listen. You don't deserve his help. You don't deserve anyone's help. The Dursleys were right about you; you should have listened and not tried so hard to get that damn letter, not tried so hard to make friends, not fooled yourself into thinking you could accomplish anything in your life. If you hadn't you wouldn't have killed someone last year (Dumbledore would probably try to tell you that it wasn't your fault, or that there was nothing to be done, but you know better. It was your hands burning his skin and you could have lifted them at any moment but you didn't) and Ginny would still be alive now.
Tom Riddle's voice barely manages to penetrate the fog filling your brain but you look up anyway, wanting the last thing you see to be the man who did this to you. Because if there's anyone you hate more than yourself it's Tom Riddle (Lord Voldemort, and what kind of dark lord makes acronyms of their name and thinks that's scary anyway?) and if you're going to die you want him to know how much you hate him.
"I didn't know you cared," he says, and you're not sure if he's mocking you or just being honest. Then you remember how he tricked Ginny (how he tricked you) and decide that he's never been honest in his life. "She certainly didn't."
"Don't talk about her," you snarl, and your voice sounds like it's coming from far away.
"Oh but why shouldn't I? I am, after all, her friend. Her only friend." His voice is smooth, almost gentle, if something filled with triumphant contempt can ever be called gentle, and you have never hated anyone as much in your life as you do Tom Riddle in this moment. That hatred gives up the strength to clamber to your feet, clenching your wand so hard your entire arm hurts. Somewhere in the distance Fawkes crows triumphantly.
"Shut up!" you scream bringing your wand up like it can possibly hurt him. He starts to laugh and you think you're going to explode with hatred and anger (but you don't, do you, because you're not good at anything, not even being angry). He hisses something that your brain translates automatically but you don't need to wait for your mind to catch up to know what's going on. You hear the basilisk coming closer, scales scraping against the uneven stones of the chamber and you squeeze your eyes shut without thinking. You want to die (you deserve to die) but your instinct of self preservation won't let you. If there's one thing you are good at, apparently, it's not dying. Fawkes flies over to you, feathers brushing your skin and you risk opening an eye to peek at him. He's holding something in his beak and jerking his head at you. It takes you a second to realize that it's the Sorting Hat and you spend way too long staring at it, wondering what use it could possibly be right now. You need a weapon of some kind, not a hat.
Fawkes buts his head against you again, more insistently this time, clearly intent on you taking the hat.
"What do you expect me to do with this?" you demand. Somewhere Tom Riddle is laughing as his pet slides around the room towards you. You can't see Ginny's body from this angle. Fawkes pecks at your head and you bat him away. "You're kidding," you say. You deserve to die, fair enough, but you want at least some dignity while you do it. Then again, maybe you don't deserve that either. You jam the hat on your head.
Cowardice in the face of death isn't very Gryffindor. It takes you a second to recognize the voice of the hat and you almost don't pay any attention.
You do pay attention though, and its words make you scowl. "I'm not a coward," you snap, and Tom Riddle starts laughing again. You glare at him, or try to. The brim of the hat is too big on you and you can't actually see anything except the dingy interior of the hat.
Then why don't you fight? the hat asks and you scowl. To answer it you'll need to speak, and you really don't want Tom Riddle to hear you talk anymore. So you don't say anything, just clench your fists and wait for the hat to keep going. At least with the brim over your eyes like this you won't see the snake's eyes. Then again, you won't see any of the rest of it either and only Fawkes' sudden insistent tug on your robes lets you stumble out of the way of those impossibly long fangs.
Still, you might do, the hat continues, like you're not fighting for your life right now. Courage comes in all forms.
You rip the hat off, scowling at it. "What was that supposed to do, anyway?" you demand. You're about to throw it aside when it suddenly gets heavy in your hands. You blink almost dropping it. Something glitters inside and you reach in, pulling out a sword with something like disbelief.
"Oh you poor fool," Tom Riddle says, and now you can see him again, hovering over Ginny, looking less translucent by the second. "You really think that stupid thing can save you?"
"I'm not asking to be saved," you snap, and grasp the sword in both of your hands. Fawkes screeches his approval and dive-bombs the basilisk, almost getting himself killed in the process. If you hadn't seen him come back from the dead earlier this year you'd be worried, but you're barely focusing on him. It's already too much to split your attention between the snake and Tom Riddle and Ginny's body.
It takes almost twenty minutes to subdue the snake and you're shocked you manage to come out of it alive. Barely alive, maybe, but breathing. You're not sure how you feel about that, really, but you don't have time to think about it because Tom Riddle is still there, gaining solidity with every passing moment, and if you can't save Ginny then at least you can kill him. Fawkes tugs at your clothes again and you look over at him, eyes falling first on the bird and then the diary lying a little ways away. You crawl towards it, sword in hand, biting your tongue to keep from crying out at the amount of pain you're in. Basilisk venom drips into your veins from the place where it managed to bite you and you're yearning for the pain of Skelo-grow instead of this.
"What are you doing?" Tom Riddle asks. You take grim pleasure in the fact that he's not laughing anymore and don't bother to answer him. You reach for the diary. "Stop!" he yells. "I'll kill her if you do!"
You look back at him, too exhausted and in too much pain to do anything but glare. "She's already dead."
"Not yet," he says, and you shouldn't believe him. You don't believe him, not really. But still you pause in reaching for the diary, eyes locked on his. He smirks at you, knowing that he's won. You want to prove him wrong, want to run that sword through the diary without hesitation, but you can't. Not when he might be right. Not when he's looking more solid by the second and you think you might have seen her twitch.
"Good," he purrs. "Move away from it, slowly now."
You don't move. His smirk fades.
"I said, move away."
"No." Somehow you find the energy to reach for the diary again. You're not going to let him tell you what to do, not him. He doesn't deserve that and you're not about to give it to him. Your hand closes around the worn leather and he screams again. You think you can detect the tiniest amount of fear in the sound. If you could scrape up the energy you would smirk. Instead you raise the sword just high enough and bring it plunging down into the pages of the book. Ink pours out and Tom Riddle's scream increase. You don't look over at him, intent on destroying as much of the diary as possible. Somewhere in the distance Fawkes screeches happily and the sound somehow pierces your exhaustion and the growing agony in your arm and makes you smile. It's not a very good smile, not with your face dirty and blood stained and your hand still clutching the sword so tightly it hurts.
Your injured arm hurts more than ever and your vision starts going dark. You catch a glimpse of Fawkes flying over to you, hear him trilling something, but you can't focus enough to pay attention. Tom Riddle is still screaming and you wish he'd stop. Why can't he just die quietly and stop coming back?
You don't see Fawkes land next to you, though you feel him start to cry on your injured arm. At least someone is sad that you're dying. You slump down, eyesight failing completely. Above you, Tom Riddle's form is fading fast, almost disintegrating. His voice gets quieter as he loses his grip on the corporeal, and if you could see him you would take vicious pleasure in his frightened expression. You lose consciousness completely just as he disintegrates completely, turning into nothing more than a faint glimmer of energy. A moment later Ginny sits up.
It will take the two of you months to piece together everything that happened and longer still to deal with the consequences.