"Ginny, please… wake up," Harry whispered, his voice trembling as he gently shook her. Her head lolled weakly to the side, lifeless and pale.
"She won't."
The voice was calm, casual—amused.
Harry spun around.
Tom Riddle stood by a stone pillar, one hand lazily twirling a wand—Ginny's wand. Behind him, a slab of stone covered what looked to be a hole in the floor.
"Tom… Tom Riddle?" Harry asked, his voice guarded.
Riddle gave a courteous nod, eyes never leaving Harry. "In the flesh—well, almost."
"What do you mean, she won't wake?" Harry demanded, panic sharpening his voice. "She's not—she's not—?"
"She's still alive," Riddle replied simply, "but only just."
Harry stared at him, trying to piece it all together. "Are you… a ghost?"
"A memory," Tom said softly, "a preserved fragment, kept alive in a diary for fifty years."
He pointed at Ginny's robes—just beneath the folds, Harry spotted the familiar black book. The diary.
"How did she end up like this? And where's Vincent?"
"Ah… questions," Riddle mused, tone almost jovial. "Vincent's a bit… preoccupied. As for her… well, Ginny gave me everything. Her thoughts. Her fears. Her secrets. Her soul."
Harry's hands curled into fists. "What are you talking about?"
"The diary, of course." Tom's voice turned almost affectionate. "Little Ginny poured her heart out to me. Her insecurities, her jealousy, her loneliness. How she never felt good enough. How she thought you, Harry Potter, would never even notice her."
His gaze was fixed entirely on Harry, sharp and intent. Hungry.
"I wrote back. I comforted her. I made her feel heard. And slowly, she let me in. Bit by bit. Until I could start feeding her my soul… just as she gave me hers."
"You did all this… all of it," Harry said lowly, voice shaking. "To Ginny. To Hagrid. To all those petrified. Vince was right, it was you."
"For a Muggle, he really is quite bright, isn't he? But as much as I'd like to, I can't take all the credit. That honour goes to dear little Ginny here." Tom said, calmly. "She opened the Chamber of Secrets. She set the basilisk loose. Strangled the roosters. Painted the messages on the wall. She even attacked four Muggle-borns and a cat. All under my influence."
"No…" Harry muttered, horror twisting in his gut.
"Truth hurts, doesn't it?" Tom grinned. "She had no idea at first, of course. Thought she was going mad. You should've read her diary entries then—'Dear Tom, I can't remember what I did. There was another attack. Vincent looked so worried, but I couldn't tell him.' So sweet. So tragic."
Harry's jaw clenched tight. The mention of Vincent made something sharp twist in his chest.
"She eventually tried to get rid of the diary," Riddle said, sighing like it was a minor inconvenience. "And that's where you came in. I was delighted. The Harry Potter. The boy who lived. How could I resist?"
Harry's voice was taut with fury. "Why me?"
"Because you survived him. Voldemort. You lived when you shouldn't have. I wanted to understand how. How a scrawny, untalented little boy managed to destroy the greatest sorcerer who ever lived."
Harry narrowed his eyes. "… No, you can't be—?"
Tom smiled, drawing Ginny's wand through the air.
TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE
The letters shimmered and rearranged themselves:
I AM LORD VOLDEMORT
"You see?" he whispered. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts — shared only with my most trusted confidants, of course. Do you really think I would cling to the name of my filthy Muggle father? I, whose veins carry the blood of Salazar Slytherin through my mother? I, bearing the name of a coward who abandoned us the moment he learned his wife was a witch?"
His voice rose with every word, eyes glittering.
"No, Harry — I crafted a new name. One that would strike fear into the hearts of wizards everywhere. A name destined to belong to the greatest sorcerer the world has ever known."
Harry met his gaze, chest heaving, fists clenched.
"You're wrong," he said through gritted teeth. "You're not the greatest sorcerer in the world."
Tom's expression twitched.
"Albus Dumbledore is."
Riddle's expression soured, his lips curling into a sneer.
"Your Muggle friend said the same thing," he hissed. "But he forgot—Dumbledore was driven out by nothing more than my memory."
"He's not as gone as you think," Harry shot back, grasping at hope even as his heart pounded.
Music drifted into the chamber, low and strange.
At that moment, the first note rang out through the chamber. Riddle paused. His sneer vanished. The air around them shifted—music, high and haunting, drifted from the shadows.
Riddle turned slowly, eyes narrowing as the eerie melody swelled louder and louder, vibrating in the stone. Then, from above, a burst of flame—and down soared a swan sized crimson bird. A phoenix. Fawkes.
It let out a piercing cry, and in its talons, it held—
"A hat?" Riddle muttered.
The Sorting Hat dropped at Harry's feet. Fawkes landed on Harry's shoulder, its black eyes fixed on Riddle.
Tom started to laugh again, sharp and cruel. "This is what Dumbledore sends? A bird and an old hat?"
Harry didn't reply. He didn't know why the hat or phoenix were here—but he wasn't alone anymore.
For now, that was enough.
"Show me, Harry! Show me what little power you can must—?!"
A sudden crash echoed from the pit below. It was followed by a deep, furious hiss that shook the chamber walls.
Riddle froze. He turned toward the covered hole, his expression shifting from smug to horrified.
"He can't be alive… Why isn't he dead—or petrified?!"
Harry turned too, eyes locking onto the poorly sealed grate. He raised his wand—
"Reduc—?!"
A chunk of stone came flying straight at him.
Harry barely had time to react. He threw his left hand up on instinct. The black glove glowed—its yellow gem flaring—and a flickering blue barrier snapped into place. The rock struck it hard, sending shockwaves down his arm and nearly toppling him.
Riddle's eyes sharpened as he noticed the glove.
"Interesting item, Potter," he sneered, lifting Ginny's wand. Flames burst to life around him, rubble spinning in a fiery orbit. "But it won't save you!"
Harry stumbled upright, panting, his wand arm shaking.
"Thanks, Nyx…" he muttered, "Now get Ginny to safety."
Nyx popped out from Harry's pocket and zipped toward the unconscious girl. She gave a quick salute, then began dragging Ginny toward the shadows. Despite her size, the pixie was strong—and Ginny was light enough.
Harry glanced back to make sure they were clear. Then he turned, wand in one hand, the other pulsing faintly behind the barrier.
"Hold on, Vincent," he shouted. "I'm coming!"
Riddle's attacks came fast. Flaming stones, jagged shards, blasts of dark magic. Harry staggered as the shield deflected the first strike, barely parried the next with his wand. Sparks flew with every block. He grit his teeth, eyes narrowed in concentration.
"Expelliarmus!"
The disarming spell fizzled against Riddle's ward. He laughed and sent a bolt of red lightning straight into Harry's side. The glove absorbed most of it—but not all. Harry flew backward, crashing against the stone floor.
"You're wasting your time," Riddle said, voice calm and cruel. "Even if you make it past me, it's already too late. Vincent's finished. And you're no match for the Basilisk."
Harry winced, dragging himself up. Then—he saw it. The Sorting Hat. And at its base, something gleamed.
"Die!" Riddle screamed, launching a full barrage of spells.
Harry raised the shield again. It trembled under the impact. The gem on the glove dimmed, the barrier flickering. For a moment, he thought it would shatter.
He dove, rolled, and grabbed the Sorting Hat—just in time to dodge a curse that exploded against the wall behind him.
From inside the hat, his hand gripped cold metal.
A silver sword.
He yanked it free and turned, blade catching the green light from Riddle's next spell. The glove barrier flickered out completely.
Riddle raised an eyebrow. "A sword?" he scoffed. "You think that'll help you?"
Harry didn't answer. He shifted his grip, glancing at the hole behind Riddle.
If he could just get it open—
"I may not be at my peak," Riddle said, shadows spiralling around him, "but I am still Lord Volde—?!"
"Harry!"
A flash of red slammed into Riddle's side. He tumbled, cursing, as Ron crashed into him, wrestling for Ginny's wand.
"Go!" Ron shouted, straining against Riddle's weight. "I've got him!"
Harry didn't hesitate.
"Reducto!"
The chains over the pit blasted apart, stone clattering down into the darkness.
"Vincent!" Harry shouted. "The hole's open!"
Before he could move, a scarlet blur dove past him. Fawkes—wings outstretched, eyes locked on the pit. Behind him flew a blue blur—Nyx, now glowing brighter than ever.
Harry turned back just in time to see Riddle fling Ron away. The boy hit the ground hard, gasping for air.
"And who are you?!" Riddle demanded, wand aimed directly at Ron.
Ron stood, trembling but defiant.
"Ron Weasley. Ginny's brother."
Riddle's lips curled. "Of course… Another one to bury."
His wand twitched—
Harry was faster.
He slashed the silver sword across Riddle's back. The impact didn't cut, but it staggered the memory, sending sparks across his form.
"You really think a sword can kill me?" Riddle snapped. "Lord Voldem—!"
He was cut off as the floor beneath them erupted.
…
"Some help would be nice," Vincent thought bitterly as he lay in the ankle-deep water, chest heaving. "Can't look into its eyes. Can't look at reflections either. So basically, I have to fight blind. Lovely."
A splash came from the left. He flipped backward on instinct, barely avoiding the blur that scraped his side. He landed in a crouch, breath catching from the stinging pain.
This had been going on for minutes—dodging, reacting, enduring. The Basilisk kept attacking; he kept evading. Not much else to it.
Another splash to the right.
"It's swiping!"
Vincent curled into a ball just in time. His body shimmered into polished silver right before the Basilisk's tail slammed into him. He went flying, crashing into the far wall like a thrown doll. The silver sheen receded as he groaned and forced himself up.
Metalmorph. It turned his body into metal on command. Great for defense. Terrible for mobility. He couldn't move while it was active, which made it more of a shield than a weapon.
"That's the sixth one," he muttered, chugging another metallic potion and forcing it down. "Only got one more of those. What do I have left? I have two Thunderbolts, one Legs Strengthening, and one knife."
He'd stuffed as many as he could into his pockets before handing the rest to Nyx—Harry and Ron would need them if they came. He'd assumed they would follow. They were Gryffindors, after all.
The Basilisk hissed again, its massive body circling him like a predator annoyed by prey that refused to die. Vincent tilted his head slightly.
"Yeah, I get it," he murmured. "I'd be pissed too. But I'm not dying here. I'm winning."
As if in response, the Basilisk lunged. Vincent dove aside, tossing one of his rods toward its head mid-roll. It struck with a crack—the Pulse potion coating it amplifying the impact severalfold—staggering the beast briefly.
Vincent cursed under his breath. This was his shot. He took a glance—just a glance—eyes open only for a heartbeat.
The Basilisk was rearing back, eyes turned upward. He caught the image, memorized the angle—then slammed his eyelids shut again. He grabbed the returning rod out of the air, sheathed it, and drew both again in fluid motion.
The serpent hissed, sensing his movement. It struck again—but this time, Vincent leapt onto its tail. He ran along the spine, hurling both rods directly toward its skull. The impact rang out like a gong, dazing the beast. In one motion, Vincent yanked free his silver-bladed potion knife and plunged it into the base of its neck. The hide was thick. Too thick. It took several brutal jabs before he managed to drive it in deep enough to carve a small entry point.
With one fluid motion, he slipped a glowing yellow vial into the wound and kicked off, flipping backward as the rods snapped into his palms mid-air. He landed with a splash, knees buckling slightly.
Then came the explosion.
A muffled boom reverberated through the chamber. The Basilisk gave a deafening screech of pain and began thrashing wildly. Vincent was caught in the wake, slammed into a stone pillar before crashing to the floor, dazed and bleeding. He tasted copper in his mouth. A fresh cut opened above his brow.
He lay there, vision spinning.
"Hold on, Vincent! I'm coming to help!"
His eyes widened.
"Harry…"
He forced himself upright, head pounding. If Harry had made it, then Nyx had done her job. That meant there was still a chance.
He closed his eyes again. The chamber echoed with chaos—splashing water, distant spellfire above, and the frenzied hissing of the wounded snake. He ignored the pain. Focused. Tracked its movement by sound alone.
A sudden rush of air and hiss from directly in front of him—its jaws wide open.
Vincent didn't hesitate.
He hurled a potion into its maw and dove to the side, narrowly avoiding a crushing bite. He hit the water and rolled to his feet, counting under his breath.
"Three, two, one—"
Boom.
Muffled. Less force than expected.
He stumbled slightly, coughing. "Not as strong as I'd hoped. Must've been diluted by stomach acid…"
The Basilisk hissed again—louder, but pained.
Before either of them could act again, a blast echoed from above.
"Vincent, the hole's ope—!"
The voice was cut off by something stranger—music.
Ethereal. Melancholy. Uplifting. Impossible to describe. It pierced through the hissing and splashing like a blade through fog. And suddenly the Basilisk was screeching—not in rage, but pain.
"What the—?"
Something small tugged at his face.
"Get off me—Nyx?!"
The pixie forced his eyelids open and pointed.
Vincent blinked.
High above, a crimson blur danced through the air. Fawkes.
The phoenix dove, talons sharp, beak glinting. Then—
Slash.
The Basilisk screamed as its eyes were gouged clean from its skull.
It flailed wildly now, completely blind. Vincent stared in silence.
"…it's blind?" he whispered.
The Basilisk hissed in furious confusion, striking at air. Fawkes retreated into the darkness, with Nyx zipping away behind him.
Vincent straightened, face bruised, body trembling, eyes shut once more.
"Now who's fighting without sight?" Vincent muttered, pulling out his last Leg Strengthening potion. He downed it in one swift gulp and tossed the empty vial aside, the glass clinking against the stone.
A small, feral grin tugged at his lips.
"Sorry, but I'm not done with you yet," he said, flexing his fingers. "I'm just getting started."