"All students to return to their house dormitories at once. All teachers return to the staff room. Immediately, please."
The announcement had echoed through the halls, freezing Harry and Ron in their tracks. They had been on their way to speak to Professor McGonagall, but the tone of her voice stopped them cold. Eavesdropping on her conversation with the other professors, they learned that Ginny had been taken into the Chamber of Secrets. Panic surging through them, they slipped away before McGonagall could notice their absence, retreating to the Gryffindor common room to regroup.
There, they waited with the rest of the Weasleys, dreading any news that could arrive. But waiting wasn't enough, and Harry knew they had to act. Deciding to take matters into their own hands, they set off to find Lockhart, hoping to at least point him in the right direction. If anyone could stop the monster, it had to be the Professor of Defense Against the Dark Arts… right?
That thought didn't last long. They had found Lockhart in his office, hurriedly packing his belongings, preparing to flee from Hogwarts. When pushed on as to what he was doing, he admitted that his achievements weren't his. He was a fraud, and he had no intention of dying to the monster in the Chamber. Turning his wand on them, he apologized for what he was about to do, his wand tip glowing menacingly.
But Harry was quicker. With a well-aimed Expelliarmus, he disarmed Lockhart, blasting him backwards, as Ron helped force him to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. There, she recounted the story of her death, her voice echoing almost excitedly through the tiled room. She pointed them to a pipe with a small engraved snake on its side—the entrance to the Chamber.
Harry stepped forward, hissing in Parseltongue. The pipe creaked open, revealing a dark, slimy passage. Lockhart, trembling and pale, was sent down first, followed by Harry and Ron, who tumbled after him. At the bottom, they found themselves in a vast, shadowy cavern. The sight of a massive snake skin, shed by the Basilisk, was enough to send Lockhart into a dead faint.
As Harry and Ron checked on him, however, Lockhart stirred. In a flash, he had snatched Ron's wand from him and pointed it at Harry, his usual charm long gone, replaced by a desperate, wild look in his eyes.
"The adventure ends here, boys!" he said. "I shall take a bit of this skin back up to the school, tell them I was too late to save the girl, and that you two tragically lost your minds at the sight of her mangled body. Say goodbye to your memories!"
Harry lunged to the side, but he wasn't able to fast enough. The spell grazed his left leg, sending an oddly discomforting pain through his body. At the same time, Ron tackled Lockhart, landing a solid punch that sent the professor stumbling backward. He fell, hitting his head on a protruding rock and crumpled onto the floor. Ron's wand flew from his hand, hitting the ground with a sharp crack before it split in two again, its magic fizzling out in a weak spark.
"Harry!" Ron shouted.
He turned to his friend just in time to see Harry collapse to his knees, clutching his head. A guttural scream tore from Harry's throat, his face contorted in agony. His scar burned like fire, and his vision blurred as he felt memories tearing away from his brain. Before Ron could reach him, Harry's eyes rolled back, and he slumped to the floor, unconscious.
Pain. His head seared with pain as he almost jolted awake.
Shaking slightly, Harry groaned and forced himself to stand, his legs wobbling beneath him. His scar burned as though it had been torn open, sending waves of searing pain spiraling through his skull. He clutched his forehead, his breath coming in ragged gasps, and looked around desperately.
"Ron? Ron?" he called out, his voice trembling. But there was no response, only an eerie silence that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction.
As his vision cleared, Harry realized he was no longer in the Chamber of Secrets. The ground beneath him was a vast, shimmering mosaic of shattered glass, each piece reflecting a fragment of light that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The shards glimmered ominously, their surfaces flickering with faint, indistinct images. He took a cautious step back, and the sound of glass crunching under his foot echoed unnaturally loud in the stillness.
Startled, Harry turned and saw the shard he had stepped on begin to crack. Before he could react, it exploded into glittering black dust. In the brief moment before it vanished, he caught a glimpse of a memory—a younger version of himself standing in Ollivander's shop, waving his first wand, the look of wonder on his face unmistakable. But as the shard disintegrated, so did the memory. It was gone, erased from his mind as though it had never existed.
A cold wave of dread washed over him. He fell to his knees, his hands scrambling across the glass-strewn ground as more shards began to shatter around him. Each one held a memory—catching his first Snitch during a Quidditch match, the rush of triumph as it struggled in his grasp; Snape's sneering face looming over him, his voice sharp and cutting as he berated Harry in front of the class; the adrenaline-fueled terror of facing the mountain troll in the girls' bathroom, his first real act of bravery at Hogwarts. One by one, the shards exploded into dust, and with them, the memories they held were ripped away.
Harry screamed, a raw, guttural sound of anguish and fear. He clutched his head as though he could physically hold the memories in place, but it was of no use. He could feel each and every memory he treasured slipping away, leaving behind empty voids where they had once been. The pain in his scar intensified, a cruel reminder of the connection he had tried so hard to ignore.
"No, no, no!" he shouted, his voice cracking. "Stop! Please, stop!"
But the shards continued to shatter, the memories continued to fade, and Harry was powerless to stop it. He was losing himself, piece by piece, and there was nothing he could do.
When the explosions finally subsided, Harry realized that about half of the void's shards had disintegrated into nothingness. The searing pain in his head began to dull, replaced by a strange, hollow ache. He looked around, his chest heaving, and tried his best to steady himself. Fragments of his memories remained—he could still recall the boat ride across the Black Lake on his first night at Hogwarts, the awe he'd felt as the castle loomed into view. He remembered disarming someone, the flash of triumph as the wand flew from their hand. But his mind felt porous, like a sieve with gaps. He felt like something vital had been discarded and unable to be found.
Before he could begin to process the loss, the void began to shift once more. Where the shattered shards had once been, a thick, inky black mist began to seep into the empty spaces. It moved unnaturally, slithering and pulsating as though alive. Long, tendril-like strands extended from the mist, curling and twisting as they reached for the remaining shards of Harry's memories. He watched in horror as the tendrils enveloped the glowing fragments, their dark energy seeming to consume the light.
"No!" Harry pleaded, lunging forward instinctively.
It almost seemed like that had stopped them, as the tendrils retracted, pulling back into the mist, and in their place, new shards began to form. These were unlike the others—thick, pure black, and radiating an almost threatening aura. They slotted into the gaps left by Harry's lost memories, fitting seamlessly into the mosaic of his mindscape.
Harry's scar pulsed again, but as he braced himself, he wasn't greeted by the sharp, burning pain he was used to. Instead, a strange, almost comforting warmth, seemed to seep through his head as though the scar itself was welcoming the intrusion. The sensation made his skin crawl, as his fists clenched up unconsciously. He stared at the black shards, their surfaces glistening faintly, and felt a growing sense of dread. They looked so similar to his own memory shards, yet they were also complete opposites, different, darker, heavier, and out of place amidst the fragments of his life.
He reached out tentatively, his fingers brushing against one of the black shards. A jolt of energy shot through him, and suddenly, he was no longer in the void. He was standing in a dimly lit room, watching a young boy with dark hair and cold eyes write in a diary. The boy's face was eerily familiar, though Harry had never seen him before. The memory—no, not his memory—felt vivid and real, as though it had always been a part of him.
Harry recoiled, stumbling backward. The shards around him seemed to pulse in response, the black ones glowing faintly as though alive. He could feel them now, not just in his mind but in his very soul. They didn't belong to him, yet they were now a part of him. He felt a chill down his spine.
"What's happening to me?" he whispered, his voice trembling.
The void offered no answers. The black shards loomed around him, their oppressive weight pressing down on his mind and soul. Harry crouched low, his hands trying to hold back the encroaching darkness. But it was no use—the inky darkness seemingly growing larger, more suffocating.
The pressure became unbearable, a crushing force that threatened to shatter what little of himself remained. Desperation clawed at him as he tried to push back, to reclaim his mind, but the black shards were relentless. They pressed in from all sides, their tendrils of mist curling around him like serpents, coiling tighter and tighter until he could barely breathe.
"Get out!" he screamed, his voice raw and broken. "Get out of my head!"
But the void didn't listen. Instead, it seemed to collapse in on itself, the mosaic of shards fracturing and folding like a house of cards. The ground beneath him gave way, and Harry felt himself falling, tumbling through an endless abyss of darkness and light, memories and shadows. The last thing he saw was the black shards converging, their surfaces reflecting not his own face, but the cold, calculating eyes of someone he just couldn't seem to recognize.
Then, everything went black.
Harry's eyes snapped open, gasping for air as though he'd been drowning. His body was drenched in sweat, his heart pounding so loudly he could hear it in his ears. For a terrifying moment, he didn't recall where he was—until the memory of Ginny being taken came back to him. The lingering weight of the black shards pressed on his mind, a constant, unsettling reminder of what had just happened.
"Blimey Harry, you scared me!"
His voice cut through the haze, as Harry turned his head quickly, regretting the wave of dizziness that washed over him, and saw Ron kneeling beside him. His face was pale, noticing that his hands were gripping Harry's shoulders, as though he'd been shaken awake.
"You've been out for ages," Ron whispered, his voice trembling. "I thought you were done for. What happened? Are you okay?"
Harry blinked, his mind still reeling. The memories—it all felt so real, yet distant, like a dream slipping through his fingers. He opened his mouth to speak, but the words caught in his throat. There was no way he could explain all that had happened.
"I… I don't know," Harry finally managed, his voice hoarse. "My head… I feel so foggy."
Ron's brow furrowed, as he spoke again. "But you remember what we're doing right? Maybe the spell didn't fully work! For all we know, the tosser isn't as good with memory spells as he says, right?"
Harry hesitated. He wanted to say yes, to blame it all on… on who? His mind faltered, grasping for a name, a face, something to anchor the thought. But there was nothing—only a vague sense of fear, a menacing figure lurking at the edges of his memory. Whoever it was, he couldn't remember. The realization sent a chill through him.
"I think so," Harry repeated, his voice barely above a whisper. "I... Your sister! She's still down here! Maybe we're not out of time! We have to keep going."
Helping Harry back to his feet, Ron handed him back his wand, before picking up the broken pieces of his and speaking once more.
"Are you sure you're okay, mate? He hit you with a memory charm!"
He shook his head slightly, eyes narrowing as the motion made his scar throb faintly.
"I'm fine," he lied. "Just… just a headache. We can deal with that later."
Ron stared at Harry for a long moment. "You're not fine, mate. You're acting… off. You look like you've been hit by a Bludger! Are you sure your head's alr—"
"I said I'm fine, Ron!" Harry snapped, sharper than he intended, the air magically crackling from his outburst.
Ron flinched, and Harry immediately regretted his tone. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Look, I know something's wrong. I can feel it. But Ginny's still down here, and we're running out of time. We can figure out the rest later, okay?"
He hesitated, clearly torn. Finally, he nodded, though his eyes still lingered with unease.
"Alright. But if you start acting even weirder, I'm dragging you out of here."
Harry managed a weak smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "Deal."
"Lumos."
They turned to continue deeper into the Chamber, as Harry's mind raced. The gaps in his memory gnawed at him, leaving an uneasy feeling in his mind. He could still remember quite a bit—Hogwarts, his friends, the mission to save Ron's sister—but there were holes, big ones. Names, faces, events—they were all just out of reach, like trying to grasp smoke. And then there were those foreign memories in his head that didn't belong to him. He could feel them, but had difficulty bringing one to the front of his mind.
What was he missing? he thought desperately. Would his memories be lost forever?
The Chamber stretched on before them, its dark, damp walls looming like a tomb. The air was thick with the scent of mildew and something else, a sharp and metallic tang that made Harry's skin crawl. His scar throbbed faintly once more, a dull ache that seemed to pulse in tandem with his heartbeat. He clenched his fists, trying to push the discomfort aside, to no avail. The further they went, the more he felt like he recognized where they were.
"Harry," Ron said suddenly, his voice low and tense. "Do you see that?"
Harry stopped, tilting his head to look. At first, there was nothing but the sound of their breathing and the faint drip of water echoing through the large room. But then he caught a glimpse of what Ron saw. A large sturdy looking wall, with what seemed to be two serpents carved right into them. Their eyes glimmering in the darkness, one could almost mistake them for being alive.
Stopping in front of them, Ron seemed to stiffen, as he spoke up.
"Do you think you gotta ask them to open up? I reckon it's worth a shot," he murmured.
'Open,' Harry spoke in a harsher hiss than he meant.
As the massive stone doors groaned open, a cold, eerie silence greeted them. The chamber stretched out before them, ancient and vast, lined with towering stone pillars carved into the shapes of serpents. Dim torchlight flickered, casting long, jagged shadows across the damp floor. The air was thick, heavy with something more than just age—it was oppressive, suffocating, yet eerily familiar to him.
And then they saw her.
Ginny Weasley lay crumpled at the far end of the chamber, motionless, her hair a stark contrast against the cold stone beneath her. Staring at her body, he sneered, before he felt a sinking feeling in his stomach at how he reacted to her.
"Ginny! NO!" Ron's voice cracked as he sprinted forward, his broken wand clutched tightly in one hand.
But before he could reach her, a new voice rang through the chamber, cold and smooth.
"I wouldn't get too close just yet."
Ron skidded to a stop, eyes darting around wildly, before they both spotted him.
A strange man, stood just past Ginny's still form, his figure bathed in shadow. He looked slightly opaque, his dark hair perfectly neat, his expression unreadable save for the slightest smirk curling at the corners of his lips. His eyes piercing as he studied them with unnerving intensity, like a snake observing its prey before striking.
"You're finally here," he continued, stepping forward with a casual ease, as if they weren't standing in the depths of an ancient, forgotten chamber. "I was beginning to think you'd never come."
Harry tensed, gripping his wand tighter. "Who are you? What are you doing here?"
He raised an eyebrow, a flicker of something crossing his face. "Who am I? Now that is interesting," he mused, tilting his head slightly. "I expected you to ask what I am, not who. But then again… I suppose we've already met, in a way."
Harry's grip on his wand faltered slightly. There was something about this boy—something familiar in the way he stood, the way he spoke, the way his very presence sent an unexplainable chill down Harry's spine.
His smirk grew. "I can see it, you know. The confusion in your eyes. The pieces almost fitting together but not quite. A shame, really."
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Ron snapped, inching toward Ginny.
The man barely spared him a glance before flicking his wrist. An unseen force sent Ron stumbling backward, as if shoved by an invisible hand. "Patience, Weasley," he said, his voice edged with quiet amusement. "I'll get to you soon enough."
Ron scrambled back to his feet, but Harry barely noticed. His head ached, a dull, pulsing sensation that intensified the longer he stared at him.
"Perhaps you've repressed our little experience?" He continued, sounding almost disappointed. "That's unexpected. Very unexpected. Maybe you took all words as lies, once you learned that large oaf wasn't as guilty as I made him seem." His gaze darkened. "But I wouldn't forget you, Harry Potter. I've been inside your head before. You may not remember me, but I remember you."
Harry swallowed, an uneasy sensation creeping up his spine. "That doesn't answer my question. Who are you?!"
The man hummed thoughtfully, running a hand along the carved stone of a nearby pillar. "No, I suppose it doesn't. But let me remedy that."
He turned to face Harry fully, his expression now one of cold amusement. "My name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. And I am the memory of a boy who once walked these halls, many years before you were ever born." His fingers trailed lazily over his wand—no, Ginny's wand—before he twirled it between his fingers. "A memory, yes, but not just any memory. You see, I am not bound by time. Unlike the other echoes of the past in this castle, I have found a way to live again."
His gaze flickered toward Ginny, and something cruel flickered across his features.
"At least… I will live again, very soon."
Harry's stomach dropped. He didn't know how, but he knew this was bad.
Ron, trembling with fury, pointed his broken wand at Riddle. "What did you do to her!?"
Riddle sighed, shaking his head as though Ron were an annoying insect buzzing in his ear. "Nothing she didn't allow, really. Poor Ginny—so lonely, so eager for someone to talk to, to confide in. And I was so very eager to listen." He tapped his temple lightly. "She told me everything. Her fears, her hopes… her secrets. And in return, I gave her my own."
His smirk widened. "She trusted me, you see. Let me in. And bit by bit, I grew stronger, while she grew weaker."
Harry's pulse pounded in his ears.
"She fought, of course," Riddle continued, idly flicking Ginny's wand between his fingers. "Quite valiantly too. But she was always going to lose. By the time she realized what was happening, it was far too late. You should've seen the look on her face when she realized she was the one writing those messages on the walls, releasing the Basilisk, putting all those people in the hospital wing. She begged me to stop. But really, what fun would that have been?"
Ron made a sound of pure rage, but Harry barely heard it. His head was spinning, his scar throbbing dully, his mind desperately trying to process Riddle's words.
He… knew him.
Somewhere, deep inside him, something slithered beneath the surface of his consciousness. A whisper of familiarity, of something lost but not entirely gone. Despite that, he knew that this Riddle guy was bad news.
Riddle studied him closely, his smirk now almost knowing. "Yes… you know I'm telling the truth. You know so. Even if you can't quite place it." He took a slow, deliberate step closer. "I think you and I have a lot to talk about, Harry."
Harry tensed, every instinct screaming at him that something was wrong, but Riddle merely chuckled. "And don't worry—I promise you'll understand soon enough."
His smirk faded, his expression growing colder, sharper.
"After all," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper, "we are very much alike, you and I."
And with a flick of Ginny's wand, the chamber doors slammed shut behind them.
The chamber grew eerily silent, save for the distant drip of water and the faint, labored breaths coming from Ginny. The dim greenish glow from the serpent-carved pillars barely illuminated her still form, her red hair stark against the cold, wet stone.
Ron took a step backwards, his broken wand clutched between his white knuckles. "What was that for? Let us go!"
Riddle, standing near Ginny's feet, turned her wand idly between his fingers. "Just ensuring we aren't disturbed," he said smoothly. His gaze flicked toward Harry, sharp and knowing. "After all, the night is young, and there's still so much to see."
Harry barely registered the words. His stomach twisted as he stared at Ginny—her skin was pale, her chest rising and falling in slow, uneven motions. She wasn't moving enough.
His eyes snapped back to Riddle. "You can't keep us here! Let us go!"
Riddle exhaled through his nose, almost as if disappointed. "Let you go?" He shook his head. "Harry, your poor damsel's nearly gone already! If you had taken just a little longer… well, I'd be standing here fully formed, and she'd be nothing more than an empty husk." He tapped his chest lightly with Ginny's wand. "I thought you were here to save her, no? Poor Ginny, in the end, her loneliness was her own undoing."
Ron let out a growl and raised his broken wand. "Petrificus Totalus!"
Riddle barely twitched. The spell barely seemed to register, a small hue of light expelling from the end of the wand, but that was all. As Ron stared gobsmacked at his wand, Riddle chuckled, flicking Ginny's wand, and a jet of red light smashed into Ron sending him flying backward into the base of a pillar. He crumpled in a heap, unmoving.
"Ron!" Harry took a step toward him, but Riddle shifted, cutting off his path.
"He's alive," Riddle said, almost lazily. "Not that it matters." His dark eyes gleamed as he studied Harry's face. "You're the one I care about."
Harry's fingers tightened around his wand. "Why? I haven't done anything to you!"
Riddle's lips curved into something almost like a smile. "Because you interest me, Harry Potter. You have for quite some time."
Harry's breathing was heavy. The words felt familiar, but… they didn't make sense. He swallowed, forcing himself to stay steady. "Who are you? Who really are you?"
That made Riddle pause. His expression flickered—just for a moment—as if he were considering his next move. Then, slowly, he stepped forward, his posture shifting into something almost inviting.
"You really don't remember," he murmured. "How interesting."
Harry flinched. There was something about the way he said it—something wrong.
Riddle tilted his head. "What do you remember?"
Harry clenched his jaw. "I know you're the one controlling Ginny. I know you're the one behind the attacks."
Riddle hummed. "Yes, yes. But me, Harry. Do you remember me?"
Harry stared at him, the shadows of the chamber pressing in. "No," he admitted. "I don't. Who are you?"
Riddle let out a slow exhale, his expression unreadable. Then, almost absently, he turned Ginny's wand in his hand and pointed it at the stone floor.
Letters burned into the damp rock, glowing with eerie light.
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
Harry frowned, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What is this—"
Riddle's wand flicked again. The letters rearranged themselves, shifting like liquid metal, reforming before Harry's eyes.
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
Harry's vision swam. The name pressed against his mind like a hand trying to force its way inside. It meant something. It should have meant everything. But when he reached for the memory, it was gone.
His breath hitched. "Who is that?"
For the first time, Riddle's smirk faltered. "No. It can't be." His gaze sharpened, and he murmured almost to himself, "Someone took me from you."
Harry blinked, a cold pit forming in his stomach. "What are you talking about?"
The atmosphere across the room felt icy cold, as he could almost see the magic going out in waves from Riddle.
"You should KNOW me!" He screamed, his handsome face contorting into rage, making it look far more menacing than before.
Breathing in deeply, Riddle seemed to calm himself, as he gazed at him again. "You should know me," he said softly. "My name should be carved into your mind—etched into your very soul." His lips curled again, but there was something colder about it now. "And yet… it's not, is it?"
Harry didn't answer. He couldn't.
"Someone did this to you," Riddle continued, eyes flickering with something close to fury. "Someone took me from you—stole my name, stole my legacy." His grip on Ginny's wand tightened. "How dare they."
He took another step forward, his expression a mask of barely contained rage. "Who did this to you?" he demanded, his voice a quiet, venomous hiss. "Who stole my name from your mind?"
Harry swallowed hard, his pulse pounding against his ribs. "I—I don't know." And he didn't. His memories were shattered, full of holes he couldn't patch together.
Riddle's fingers curled tightly around Ginny's wand. His dark eyes burned with something dangerous. "Of course," he murmured. "Someone tampered with you. Someone erased me from you. Of course they'd want to keep themselves anonymous. But for their insolence, they will suffer."
His voice dropped to a near whisper, the kind of whisper that chilled the bone. "Do you know what I do to those who steal from me, Harry?"
Harry didn't answer. He couldn't.
Riddle's lips curled into a slow, humorless smile. "I get rid of them."
He took another step forward, speaking as if recalling old memories. "Ginny told me so many things, you know. She told me about the world I will soon reclaim. About what I will become." He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head slightly, almost in awe. "She didn't even realize the horrors she was sharing with me. The fear in her voice when she wrote about the war. About the people I killed, the families I tore apart. How I shook the world, made them fear the sound of my very name."
Harry's head spun, the weight of Riddle's words sinking in. He felt like he was standing at the edge of a cliff, peering into something he wasn't meant to see.
Riddle's smile widened, predatory and triumphant. "I killed thousands! I brought forth atrocities not seen since the Great War! Me! And yet, despite all of it… she feared you more."
Harry stiffened. "She feared me? That's not—"
"Oh, but it is, Harry," Riddle interrupted smoothly. "She wrote about the way you always seemed to find her amusing, not worth the effort to get to know. How you always seem to be in the middle of things. The way you don't even give others the time of day, like they're beneath you." His eyes gleamed. "Even she could see it—the part of you that is just like me."
Harry's stomach twisted.
Riddle tilted his head, watching him closely, like Professor Sprout studying a fascinating new plant. "And the best part? You don't even remember why."
The air in the chamber seemed to shift, growing heavier, pressing against Harry's skin.
"NO!" Harry shouted, hands over his ears as he kneeled down. "That's not who I am! You're trying to confuse me!"
"Am I?" Riddle spoke after a moment, his voice trailing off. "It doesn't matter, though, I'll just have to remind you who I am."
His eyes locked onto Harry's. "And when I'm finished, you'll never forget me again."
As soon as the last word left Riddle's lips, his arm shot up, and with a flick of Ginny's wand, a crackling red wave of force erupted toward Harry. There was no incantation, no warning—just a devastating spell carving through the air towards him.
Harry barely had time to react. His instincts screamed at him to move, but he couldn't. If what he had said were true, was he really like Riddle? His thoughts weighed him down, and as the spell was about to reach him, something deep inside—something he didn't recognize—answered.
His wand arm lifted on its own. The words were spoken in a tone not his own, born from a desperation, an anger he had never felt before.
"PROTEGO ARGENTO!" He screamed, his voice echoing throughout the chamber.
A brilliant silver shield burst to life in front of him, a massive, curved barrier of light that shimmered like molten steel. Riddle's spell struck it dead-on, the impact sending a deafening gong through the chamber. The shockwave blasted outward, sending dust and loose stones skittering across the floor.
Riddle staggered back a step, parrying the spell before it could reach him, his expression twisting from satisfaction to shock. His dark eyes darted between the shield and Harry, who stood frozen behind it, panting heavily. The silver barrier flickered, wavered—then shattered into glimmering shards, vanishing like mist.
The shield had done its job, a costly one at that.
Harry felt it—the unbearable weight pressing down on his limbs, the searing exhaustion spreading through every inch of his body. His legs buckled, and he barely managed to stay upright, bracing himself against a pillar. His breath came ragged and uneven. It was like the magic had torn through him, demanding more than he had to give.
Riddle, however, had gone very, very still.
He stared at Harry, something unreadable flickering behind his sharp features. "Now that," he murmured, "is interesting."
He took a slow step forward. Then another.
"That spell…" Riddle's voice was almost thoughtful, almost amused. "You shouldn't know of it yet."
Harry barely heard him. His head was spinning, his limbs sluggish and unresponsive. The only thing keeping him standing was the sheer force of his will.
Riddle studied him, his expression shifting from intrigue to something almost… pleased.
"You shouldn't know it," he continued. "No one should be able to cast a spell like that by accident. And yet—" He tilted his head, a slow, wicked smile curling his lips. "And yet you did it anyways. You are a surprise, Harry Potter."
Harry forced himself to straighten, gripping his wand so tightly his knuckles turned white. He couldn't let Riddle see the exhaustion weighing him down.
But Riddle knew.
"You're spent," he said, his tone almost sympathetic. "That spell took everything out of you, didn't it? It's why we're told not to practice advanced magic, after all. The toll it takes on our bodies, especially when our reserves haven't had the time to mature." He let out a quiet hum, tapping Ginny's wand against his palm.
Riddle exhaled slowly, as if coming to a decision. His smirk faded into something more thoughtful, his fingers idly turning Ginny's wand between them. "You know, Harry," he said, almost conversationally, "this doesn't have to end in bloodshed."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "What?"
Riddle let out a quiet chuckle. "You seem so sure of yourself—so certain that I am your enemy. But tell me, Harry, why do you believe that?"
Harry opened his mouth to reply—but nothing came.
His breath hitched.
Why did he believe that?
There was an instinct, a gut feeling that told him Riddle was dangerous. But beyond that? The memories, the reasoning… they were missing.
Riddle saw the hesitation flicker in his expression, and his smirk returned—soft, patient, as if he were explaining something to a child. "You don't know, do you?" he murmured. "You can't remember why you're supposed to hate me." He spread his hands, as if offering something. "So why waste your energy fighting against something you don't even understand?"
Harry forced himself to glare. "I don't need memories to know you're evil."
Riddle sighed, almost disappointed. "'Evil.' Such a simple word." He took a slow step forward. "Ginny used that word, too, you know. She told me about the war I would start, about how people whisper my name like I'm some terrible monster hiding in the dark." He let out a quiet laugh. "Funny, isn't it? That people always fear what they don't understand. They don't seem to understand there is no good and evil, only power."
"Tell me, Harry," he continued, stepping closer. "Do you remember Dumbledore?"
The name rang in Harry's ears like an empty bell. There was nothing behind it—no image, no feeling, no recognition.
His silence was all Riddle needed.
A slow, delighted grin spread across his face. "Oh," he murmured, his voice laced with amusement. "Oh, that's brilliant."
Harry felt a knot of unease tighten in his chest. "Who—?"
"Who?" Riddle repeated, laughing quietly. "You really don't know, do you?" He paced slowly, deliberately, tapping his wand against his palm as if savoring the moment. "Dumbledore… the great Albus Dumbledore, you forgot even him."
Harry swallowed hard, his grip on his wand tightening. His mind was spinning, the exhaustion making it harder to push back against Riddle's words.
Riddle leaned in just a fraction more, his voice a silk-smooth whisper. "Are you sure you want to fight me?"
Harry stiffened.
"You're not like the rest of them," Riddle continued, eyes gleaming. "Everyone looked at you like you're some hero, but they turned on you when you most needed them, didn't they? Some symbol to be used whenever they need saving, cast away when a scapegoat is needed."
Harry's fingers tightened around his wand, his breathing shallow.
Riddle smiled. "I could teach you things—great things." His gaze flickered with something unreadable. "I could make you better than them."
A chill crawled down Harry's spine.
"You think you belong to them?" Riddle scoffed, shaking his head. "You don't. You and I… we are the same, Harry." His voice dropped to a near whisper. "We are better than them."
Harry felt something pull at him, something deep in the pit of his stomach. The offer—Riddle's words—they settled in his mind like a seed, waiting to take root.
He was wrong. He had to be. But what if he wasn't?
What if they really had used him? What if this was the only truth left?
What if he was already too far gone?
Riddle took another slow step forward. "You don't have to be their pawn," he murmured. "You could be so much more. You just have to let go."
Harry's breathing was uneven. He was suddenly too aware of the holes in his mind, the missing pieces that Riddle dangled before him like bait on a hook.
"And where are they now?" Riddle murmured, eyes gleaming. "Your friends? Your professors? If you meant anything to them, wouldn't they be here?"
He gestured at the empty chamber, at Ron's motionless form. "They've abandoned you, Harry. But I never would."
"I…" The word barely left Harry's lips.
Riddle's smirk widened. He could feel it now, the uncertainty creeping in. Just a little more, just one more push—
A single, haunting note pierced the air—soft, warm, alive. It wasn't the hiss of a serpent or the groan of shifting stone. It was light in the dark, a drop of sunlight through the gloom.
Harry felt it before he fully heard it. A warmth curled through his chest, sinking deep into the parts of him that felt hollow, lost. The weight of his missing memories, the exhaustion pressing down on his limbs—all of it dulled, fading beneath the song.
The music swelled, cascading through the chamber in waves, filling every dark crevice with something pure and untouchable. It was hope.
And for the first time since waking in the Chamber, Harry knew.
He wasn't alone.
Riddle stiffened, his head snapping toward the sound. "No—"
A flash of gold burst overhead, fire trailing in its wake. A large bird descended gracefully, his brilliant wings cutting through the shadows. His feathers glowed, his song still ringing strong, wrapping around Harry like a shield.
Riddle hissed, his expression twisting in fury. "Dumbledore's bird—!"
Something heavy dropped onto the ground beside Harry as it flew near him—
The Sorting Hat.
A.N. This is my first REAL attempt at making a story, so I hope the pacing and plot flows well! I've grown as a writer since Windows to Magic oh so long ago, even if I never went past the first chapter. Please review, thank you!