Disclaimer: All of the recognizable elements in this story belong to JKR. I, however, own the plotline and a few of the unrecognizable elements.
Summary: In the Chamber, something happened that changed the life of Harry Potter forever. His faults realized, the Boy-Who-Lived sets out to become the best wizard ever to live, no matter what the costs…
In the Chamber…
x-x-X-x-x
“Who are you, Harry Potter, to have sent the great Lord Voldemort teetering on the brink of destruction? Harry Potter, the Boy-Who-Lived, Beacon of Light in the midst of a Flood of Darkness and the talentless spawn of a mudblood. You are worthless. That one night when you were plunged into my world, in my diary, I was able to get a glimpse of you, and do you know what I saw? I saw an unmotivated, unskilled, waste of life. And now, Harry Potter, we shall match the might and power of Salazar Slytherin, Great Druid of the Isles, against whatever pathetic little tricks you have up your sleeves. Speak to me Slytherin, Greatest of the Hogwarts Four!”
As the slightly monkey-faced statue opened its gaping maw, a puny, twelve-year-old, raven-haired boy scrambled to his feet, frantically covering his eyes with his hands. Laughter rang throughout the Chamber, emanating from the maniacal face of a shimmering figure garbed in deep black robes with the well-known crest of the House of Slytherin adorning his left breast. A wand, about eleven inches long and looking to be made out of holly, twirled around the long fingers of the handsome adolescent, whose head whipped around at the heavy thud that came from the statue of Slytherin.
“Kill the boy.”
A shriek sliced through the sudden silence, and from atop a column swooped a red and gold bird, roughly the size of a swan, spiraling directly for the serpentine goliath slithering across the floor of the Chamber. Harry, the small boy, darted behind one of the aforementioned columns, sweat dripping down from his brow. Chest heaving, he winced as a second squeal tore through the room. A moment later, he peeked around the column to see the Basilisk flailing about, blood streaming from cavities that were formerly eyeballs.
Bravery, stemming from the sight of the Basilisk’s most potent weapon becoming useless, filled Harry, and he scurried back across the floor, over to an old, worn-out hat. As he reached it, frantic hissing split the silence.
“Kill the boy! You can smell, kill him! Fret not about the bird! THE BOY!”
A slit in the hat opened suddenly, flapping about as if it was a mouth. “Put me on, useless boy! I’m the only thing that can save you now!’
Jamming the hat on his head, Harry’s world went black. Not a moment later, stars flashed into view as a heavy object struck his head. Panic filling his thoughts, Harry whipped off the hat, reached into it, and pulled out a shining sword. Once again, laughter filled the chamber, emitting from the young apparition. “You think that you will be able to slay the pride of Salazar Slytherin with that twig? I doubt that you can even bear its load! Useless child…”
Bearing down on the young hero, the massive serpent’s mouth opened, revealing teeth the size of the sword in Harry’s hands. Terrified out of his wits, Harry stood still, the sword hanging limply at his side as the Basilisk approached. Suddenly, spurred on by unknown instincts, he spun into action, diving away from the foot-long fangs and popping up into a rudimentary defensive stance. The blind snake took a few seconds to relocate its prey, and by that time Harry had scampered off behind another pillar, gathering his breath.
“Tick-tock, Harry! Little Ginny Weasley only has a little while left to live, and you’re stalling for time, hiding behind a pillar.”
Harry’s eyes narrowed at the insult directed at his valor, but, in a moment of wisdom, he kept his mouth shut, deathly afraid of the Basilisk hearing and finding him. A few deep breaths later, Harry was once again out in the open, streaking across the floor towards the hulking figure. He leapt upon its back, sprinted towards its head and plunged the sword downwards. However, the snake had felt him, and twisted sharply to the side, flinging Harry to the ground, his sword clattering away.
Heart stopped, Harry watched as the gargantuan serpent turned its eyeless face towards him, blood streaming down to its jaw, and slowly opened its mouth. Once its mouth was fully opened, it seemed as if Harry could walk inside, but that was the last thing that he would consider doing. Paralyzed by fear, he gazed, fascinated, as the maw approached him. Once again, a scream rent the air, and Fawkes the phoenix plunged down to Harry, gripped him by his shoulders, and lifted off, just as the Basilisk snapped its mouth closed.
Harry was dropped off over at the sword, which he gripped in his hands, the cold steel reassuring him. A bang sounded in the cavern as Tom Riddle fired a spell at Fawkes before returning to shrieking at the Basilisk, giving it directions, but it seemed that the serpent didn’t understand, for its head weaved about in confusion. Careful not to make a sound, Harry crept towards the enormous snake, the sword weighing down his arms. Finally, when he had inched close enough to the serpent to where he could almost touch it, Harry swung the sword above his head, letting it reach the apex of its arc, and bringing it crashing down upon the Basilisk’s back, succeeding in alerting it to his position with the subtlety of a battering ram.
Almost instantaneously, the Basilisk reared up, mouth agape, and struck, it’s face flying downwards to that of Harry Potter. Harry, however, did the only thing that he could think of, and stuck the sword straight up in the air, ducking his head. He didn’t feel the sword slip right through the folds of the Basilisk’s mouth, piercing its brain, nor the sensation of being knocked to the ground by the force of the hurtling serpent, because his sense of touch was centered upon one small area just above his left elbow.
It began as just the sharp pain caused by the piercing of the skin. Soon, though, the pain had intensified tenfold and encompassed all of the left side of his body. Lungs burning from the exertion it took to breath, muscles on fire and freezing at the same time, Harry felt that it was finally over; he was going to die.
For the final time, laughter rang throughout the Chamber, echoing chillingly, almost metallically. “Here lies the great Harry Potter, weakened and dying. Well, Harry, it was a valiant fight. But, now, even as you are dying, having failed to destroy me, I grow stronger from feeding off of little Ginny Weasley. Look, even Dumbledore’s phoenix is crying for you…how pathetic!”
As a comfortable weight settled onto his shoulder, confusion rampaged across Harry’s thoughts. Instead of the pain continuing to spread like a malignant tumor, it seemed to be receding, and the dull gray sheet that blanketed his sight was slowly alleviating. Baffled as to why this was happening, Harry, eyebrows furrowed, glanced up at Tom Riddle, who’s handsome face had contorted into that of a gruesome monster.
Harry’s wand flicked in Riddle’s hand, and a sound not unlike a gunshot sounded near Harry, and the weight disappeared. Curses were spat from the mouth of Tom Riddle, who fired again and again at the scarlet bird, who soared above him, gracefully dodging his shots. Wiping the spittle away from his mouth with the back of his hand, Tom spun back around to face Harry who sat with Tom’s diary in one hand, the Basilisk fang in the other. Horror flitted across the aristocratic face of the Slytherin, and he managed to take a step forward before Harry plunged the fang into the leather-bound book, effectively stopping Riddle in his tracks.
A demented fury now possessed the facial features of Riddle, who twisted over, suddenly contorting in pain. Snarling, he managed to lift his wand hand and a flurry of spells flew towards Harry. Panic suddenly filled his mind and, possessed by animal instincts, he dodged to the side, managing to evade all but a few of the weak slicing curses. The shade of Tom Riddle was rapidly disappearing, and when it had finally reached the state of incorporeality at which Riddle could no longer grasp a wand, the malevolent magic halted. Eleven inches of holly clattered to the ground, echoing loudly in the silence. A silence that was shattered by the unexpected cackling of the nearly see-through Tom Riddle.
“Oh, Harry, you foolish, silly boy! Look what all your valiant dodging has done! Ginny Weasley lies behind you, and though the life that I had stolen from her returns, your actions are stealing it right back! Remember this lesson Harry! Lord Voldemort always wins!”
As his figure disintegrated, Harry snatched up his wand and rushed over to the side of Ginny, who woke up in considerable pain as the vast multitude of slashes on her skin bled, the blood already pooling around her body. Tears streaming down his face, Harry screamed out every spell he knew, desperate to save her life.
“Wingardium Leviosa!”
“Alohomora!”
“Expelliarmus!”
“Expelliarmus!”
“Alohomora!”
“Expelliarmus, Expelliarmus, Alohomora, Alohomora!”
“Harry…” abruptly, Harry stopped his spell casting, panting from the toll it had taken on his magic, and focused on Ginny, who had murmured his name. “Harry, y-y-you’re the Boy-Who-Lived. I-I-If anyone can f-fix me, I-I-I know th-th-that it will be y-you, Harry.”
Tears blurred his vision as Harry looked down upon Ginny. “I can’t, Ginny. I’m not strong enough. Riddle was right; I’m a terrible wizard. I don’t pay attention in class, I mess around with Ron, and I’m not going to be able to save you Ginny. I’m so sorry…so, so sorry.”
Crestfallen, Ginny took her last breath, whispering, “Oh. Harry, I…”
And thus was the death of Ginny Weasley. Sobbing now, Harry gathered the limp form of Ginny Weasley into his arms and rocked back and forth. “Ginny, I’m so sorry Ginny. I wasn’t strong enough. Never again, Ginny. Never, never again…”
x-x-X-x-x
Harry dried his tears some minutes later, gingerly picked the petite form of Ginny Weasley up, and, head down, staggered out of the Chamber. Ordering the doors to open, Harry noticed the emerald eyes of the snakes shining down at him, just like the emerald eyes of Tom Riddle. Rage rose up in him like a snake poised to strike, and he screamed at the emerald eyes, defying everyone and anyone who ever dared to call him weak.
“I’ll show you Voldemort! I’ll be the best that ever lived, mark my words! None will ever be better than me! I’ll never fail again! Never, ever again! You just watch!”
Tears once again rushed down his face as he hurried through the catacombs, every once in a while happening upon another set of doors and another set of emerald eyes. When he finally reached the cave-in, he saw that Ron was able to make a small opening in the rock wall.
“Harry…Harry! What’s wrong with Ginny, Harry? Harry, what’s the matter?” Ron was approaching hysterical as he saw his limp little sister being carried by his best friend who refused to speak and stubbornly kept his eyes away from Ron.
As Harry crawled through the hole, he saw Ron, crestfallen, kneeling next to the body of his little sister. Lockhart, foolish man that he was, hovered around them, chattering needlessly. A curt syllable from Harry quieted him, and the heavy-hearted procession trooped through the tunnel back to the entry chamber. Harry gazed around himself, detached, as his mind tried to wrap itself around his failure.
Fawkes glided past them, a mournful cry erupting from his beak, and signaled for the trio to grab onto him. As they traveled upwards, Harry, still in a state of shock, did not notice the cheering of Lockhart, nor the muffled cries of Ron. He did not even register that he was flying, when the activity brought him such joy at any other time. A dejected hiss closed the entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, and not even Myrtle, who peeked so hopefully over her stall at the raven-haired boy, made a noise.
Harry and Ron, between them carrying the dead weight of the youngest Weasley, trekked through the majestic hallways of Hogwarts Castle, following the path of the majestic phoenix, forming a most bizarre funeral procession.
The door to the office of Professor McGonagall was ajar, and Fawkes, his gaze filled with sorrow, settled in on a nearby torch, the flames comforting him. Harry shifted the weight of Ginny over to Ron, who had assumed a face devoid of emotion, his eyes filling with the spark of realization. Murmuring could be heard from inside the room, accompanied by quiet sobs, and Harry was loath to enter, loath to be the bringer of such terrible news. However, he trudged into the doorway, Ron on his heels, to be greeted by the tearstained face of the Weasley matriarch.
Molly was the first to notice them, so concerned were Dumbledore, McGonagall and Arthur, and her shriek surely woke up half of the castle. “GINNY!”
The other three adults’ heads whipped around, two displaying a slight glimmer of hope, but the third, benign gaze lacking its usual twinkle, wore a face of resignation, one almost of acceptance.
“My baby girl, is she okay? What happened to my darling Ginny? What have you done to my daughter?” Molly had shot out of her chair, grabbed Ginny and, panic-stricken by her condition, began screaming. Dumbledore was up in a flash, striding over to the accosted boys, both of who looked like deer in the headlights. Harry’s face, previously so apologetic and helpless, began to lose its emotion as Molly’s grief-driven diatribe continued. Harry adopted a jaded look as Arthur, despondent at the death of his daughter, began to reign in his wife.
“I’m sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Weasley. So, so sorry. I wasn’t able to save Ginny, but never again. I promise you, Tom Riddle will never best me, not now and not ever.”
However, these words went unheard by everyone but Dumbledore, who was suddenly struck by the gravity of the situation. Something had happened in the Chamber, something that had instilled a sense of purpose in Harry Potter, something that was making him mature much too fast. This concerned Dumbledore, for he had come to genuinely care for Harry, planning to take him under his wing at the first signs of extraordinary magical prowess. However, maturing this fast would cause Harry to miss out on essential aspects of morphing from a child to an adult, like Tom Riddle, and like Aberforth Dumbledore.
Reality came crashing back down as spell fire illuminated the office, causing a shocked cry of, “MOLLY!” Dumbledore spun around to see Molly Weasley, ever impulsive and rash, glaring down at Harry, wand drawn, and in the process of casting another spell. A gleaming silver shield was constructed in front of Harry, absorbing Molly’s hexes, and a fierce wind blew through the room. Around Dumbledore was a swirling mass of magic, and he, drawn up to his full height, cut quite the imposing figure, but his eyes were the most fearsome feature of all.
Steel blue, cold as ice, hard as diamond, the eyes of Albus Dumbledore, when roused with fury, could quail any foe. It had been said that the eyes were windows to the soul and, if this was true, Dumbledore’s soul was the most formidable one of all.
Molly immediately forgot her fury, instead cowering behind her husband, who did his best to keep his knees from shaking, but failed miserably. McGonagall gasped, having not seen Dumbledore so irate in a long time, and rushed over to the pair of second-years. Ron was clearly terrified; understandable as his mother was the target of the anger. Harry, however, seemed to have a slight breeze whipping about him as well, an auspicious sign for one so young. Being able to manifest magic in such a raw form at such a young age was extremely promising for the wizard in question, showing that his connection to magic went deeper than the average wizard.
Dumbledore just stared at Molly, too furious to even form a coherent sentence, so it was not surprising when he was shocked when a phrase, timidly spoken, drifted across the lucid section of his mind. “Professor Dumbledore, don’t you think that we should let the Weasley family grieve…alone?”
Dumbledore’s fierce eyes darted over at Harry, who, astonished at his own daring, gulped, but managed to stand his ground long enough for Dumbledore to grind out his agreement. The pair of them swept out of the room, Harry struggling to keep up with Dumbledore’s brisk pace and long strides until they reached a statue of a gargoyle, omnipresent sneer gone in the presence of the Headmaster. A muttered, “Somalian Sugary Sours,” forced the gargoyle to open, revealing a winding staircase that the Headmaster ascended. Past a door adorned with a griffin knocker was another office, far more glamorous and interesting than that of the Transfiguration Professor.
Silver trinkets decorated the various bookshelves and desks lining the walls that were covered with portraits, many of them feigning sleep. The bookshelves themselves were filled to the brim with books, most covering inconsequential subjects such as Guzzling Gumdrops: Records in the Sport of Candy-Consuming. Fawkes stood on his perch, trilling a greeting to a dumbstruck Harry, who gaped around the office. Dumbledore settled into a high-backed, padded chair, his anger abating, and slipped his glasses off of his nose, closing his eyes and rubbing his temples. Harry stood near the door, unsure of what to do, and observed the portraits. He recognized Armando Dippet from Riddle’s memory, and just the vague reference to the Slytherin Prefect arose his ire, Riddle’s final words playing across his mind, wreaking havoc amongst his self-esteem.
Dumbledore, aware of a sudden magical outburst, opened his eyes to the sight of Harry, fists clenched, eyes squeezed shut. A soft call of, “Harry!” got his attention, and, when the Headmaster gestured at the seat across from him, the green-eyed boy sunk into a giant chair, back ramrod straight.
His temper now fully back under control, Dumbledore peered over his newly replaced spectacles at Harry and said, “Harry, I’m sorry for this, but I need you to tell me everything that happened in the Chamber. Trust me, Ginny’s tragic death will not hurt nearly as bad once you share your demons with others.”
“Well, I don’t want to burden you, sir-”
“Nonsense, boy. Now, start at the beginning, and leave nothing out. I must know of all the going-ons in my own school, must I not?”
Harry nodded, and haltingly began to tell the story of his second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. He began with Dobby, continued to missing the Hogwarts Express, and went on to describe hearing strange voices, the petrification of Mrs. Norris, the bewitched bludger, the spiders, the rest of the petrifications, the trip to Aragog’s tribe, and finished with the fight in the Chamber. His voice gained confidence as he spoke, growing from a disheartened whisper, to an excited chatter, but dispelling altogether after retelling being revived by Fawkes, the memory of Riddle’s atrocity too much to bear.
“Harry? What happened next? I need to know this, Harry.”
Harry gazed down at the floor; all previous enthusiasm vanished. “I know, sir. It’s just that…it’s just that it’s so hard, because, well, if I hadn’t been so lazy and so stupid, then I could have saved her, sir! It was all my fault!” Here, Harry just broke down, the weight of the past few hours too much to bear on his young shoulders. “R-Riddle was right, I-I’m nothing b-but a useless, talentless-”
“That is not true, Harry!” Dumbledore's cool tone was like a soft breeze in the morning and began the calming process immediately. “You are only twelve years old, how are you supposed to be able to save someone who is damaged to that extent from death? Are you that arrogant to think that you are good enough to defy all logic and save a mortally wounded girl at age twelve? You listen to me, Harry. You will become a great wizard, but these things take time! Your magic hasn’t even begun to mature yet, for Merlin’s sake.”
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t have any time. This could happen again, at any time. What if it happens to Ron when we’re at the Burrow? What if something happens to Hermione while we’re studying? I need to be prepared, Professor, because I made Ginny a vow that I would never fail at anything ever again. And, sir? I intend to keep that vow ‘til the end of my days.”