#hpatcos

[frog-0n-a-l0g]

Is the chamber of secrets guarded by a snake because normally the gossip bitches that know everyone secrets are snakes?

[highladyofterrasen7]

I just saw a post describe Lockhart as “if trump was a wizard”

[caffeineheroes]

Okay, so this part seems easy to answer on its face:

Harry only ALMOST died, so the horcrux was only almost destroyed. But if Fawkes had let Harry die, then theoretically it should have also destroyed the horcrux.

But the REAL question is:

What if Harry had died at any other point in the series from something other than a proven way to destroy horcruxes?

Would the horcrux have taken over Harry's body after he died because the horcrux can't be destroyed through ordinary means? Can Harry not actually be killed because he's a horcrux and that's actually how he survives every dangerous encounter in the series?

What if someone dropped a boulder on Nagini or cut her in half with a regular sword? Does the blade not cut through? Does she heal or have to survive maimed in perpetuity? Do living horcruxes not abide by the same rules as inanimate ones so don't require extraordinary methods to destroy them?

Maybe the only reason Harry dies in the Forbidden Forest is because Voldemort did it, and only Voldemort had the power to destroy his own horcrux!

[minks-country-club]

My headcanon for the scene where Draco rips a page out of a book in CoS:

He ripped out the "About the Author" page in one of Lockharts books cuz he knew he was a fraud :)

[evilbookworm]

Answering dumb milkvan arguments I’ve seen on YouTube and Reddit because I don’t have accounts on there.

“There weren’t that many gay people in the 80”s! Robin and Will is already pushing it!” There were gay people in the 80”s. They were just scared of being dragged through the streets. Being gay isn’t a statistic. Anyone can be gay. You can’t just base it off a number. That’s just stupid. Like saying that there’s too many people of different race or nationality in your friend group. Find a better argument.

2. “But Mike and El have been endgame since season 1!” Ok, first of all, El was originally supposed to die, so no, they haven’t been endgame since s1. And last time I checked, the first meaningful interaction in the show was between Mike and Will. Not very concrete.

3. “Bylers look too much into things! What does the camera angle have to do with the ship??” Everything. It has everything to do with it. If you milkvans would stop and pay attention for once, you’d see the things we do. Basic cinematography tells you that you’re meant to interpret everything. Mike bathed in bisexual and gay lighting? Not a coincidence. Mike and Wills interaction at the airport being directly paralleled to the scene between Ron and Hermione in HPATCOS (not to mention it was also on the duffers list of movies that inspired them)? Not just a happy accident. So stop. Think before you make stupid points.

4. “Oh but heterosexual relationships are the norm, so obviously milkvan is going to be canon!” First of all, there are so many things wrong with this argument. Starting with the fact that there’s obvious homophobia coming from this statement, and remind me, why are you a fan of a show that villainizes homophobia??? Not to mention the fact that this is the piece of evidence you’re relying on, and not something from the actual ship, or show, for the matter, tells me plenty about how that couple is going to go down.

Anyways yeah long rant that was but it just really annoyed me.

[darling-hogwarts]

ALSO the fact that chamber of secrets is when ron and hermione start to actually care for each other a little bit!! ron getting tense and angry at malfoy, while polyjuiced as crabbe, when he was badmouthing hermione. hermione squeeze hugging harry because they’re besties and then the awkward almost-hug-actually-no-lets-shake-hands-instead with ron. foreshadowing 😌

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch1)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Notes: I’ve actually had this idea ever since the first or second time I read Chamber of Secrets. Though Tom has never been my favorite character, I found young Tom interesting, and I always thought things would have gone differently if he had come back when he was Harry’s age. I was always curious if he could have been redeemed if things had gone this way. Now, I know JK Rowling purposely wanted to create an irredeemable villain, so she wouldn’t have redeemed him even then, but I wanted to write a fic playing with that idea myself.

Despite having had this idea for a long time, I didn’t write it because I was afraid I’d bite off more than I could chew, and wouldn’t finish. But this last time I read Chamber of Secrets, I decided I’d just go for it. I’m still afraid I won’t finish, as this is the longest premise of any of my fics posted, (and I haven’t finished any of my other, shorter, long fics…) but I didn’t want that to stop me from at least trying out the idea. Even if I don’t finish it, at least I’ll have something to show for it!

All that being said, if you like this fic and do want me to continue please consider commenting, and/or reblogging. Sometimes one comment can mean the difference between me continuing, and me leaving the fic behind. It really helps to know people are interested.

Above art from the internet. 

Chapter 1:

He didn’t know how fitting it was.

Tom Riddle didn’t know just how fitting it was that the first two things he sensed after waking up were the sound of crying, and the stench of blood.

He didn’t remember how much of his past—or perhaps one could call it his future—was comprised of tears, blood, muffled screaming, and the words avada kadavra! hissed in a cold, high voice that was surely not his own.

Right now, he didn’t remember much of anything at all.

Sixteen years or sixty, he remembered none of pain, the loss, or the victory.

All he knew in this moment was that world was damp and cold, it smelled like death, and someone was weeping.

That was the world to him; an ink spill on living canvas. A hole made in screaming pages.

The sound of weeping was the first thing he knew in this new life—(or this old life, made new)—it echoed and filled the place—whatever the place was—like the slow drip of water in an empty cave; tiny on its own, mistakable in a crowd, but sharp, vast, and overpowering when the world was hollow.

And the world did feel hollow.

He did not wake to a warm, dry hospital bed, a fire, and a heap of get-well cards. His family did not surround him, showering him with love and gratitude, asking what he did and did not remember, and what had happened to their sweet boy. No one held up pictures, pointing to the scenes and people within them fervently demanding remember?!, praying amnesia would leave him sooner rather than later.

Instead he woke to a place in which every sensation burned: cold searched for weaknesses in his damp cloak and slithered across his skin; the smell of blood bored into his nostrils, enough he could almost taste it; and the longer he heard the wailing it burned in his ears too.

Burned because it hurt his heart not just his ears? Because it was sad? Because it mattered, and he needed to know what was wrong?

Surely not.

Burned because it was annoying, and he wanted to shut it up. Burned because it wasn’t a nice sound to wake up to, and whoever they were ought to have more courtesy for orphan boys who just wanted to wake up in peace.

Everything burned because something about feeling, sensing anything at all, was…oddly unfamiliar. Not strange as in a new way; it was like something he once knew well that had been forgotten, left behind for a while, like nostalgia.

And if simply living was this foreign…how long had it been since he was last alive? How long had he been a ghost? And what brought him back to his body?

He opened his eyes.

Sight didn’t change the impression he had received from his other senses; mostly it just added ‘dark’ to the list of not-very-nice things the world was made of. And due to this fact, sight didn’t burn nearly as much as his other senses. Still, the world was crisper, more colorful, somehow, despite its drab nature…

He was in a chamber, a dungeon of sorts—probably underground. Stones and statues, turned brownish-green in the humid atmosphere, lined the walls. Snakes poked their heads out at him from the walls, their eyes glittering as if they’d come alive at any moment. And before him was a particularly large statue of a man.

But, as he sat up, his clothing—long, black robes, with a green patch on the chest—clinging to him uncomfortably, there were a few things sight showed him worth noting:

The first, most obvious, was the gigantic snake lying beneath the statue some ways down the chamber, its scaly green tail glistening in the low light. It was clearly dead; lying still, its belly up. There was blood where its lifeless eyes had been scratched blind, and a hole in the roof of in its gaping mouth, one of its front fangs missing. This was most likely the source of the foul smell. How long had it been dead? Couldn’t have been long, considering the other things around the room…

The second, what may have once been a book. This one was very close to himself. Its pages were ripped out of their bindings, in shreds, surrounding him like fresh snowfall. The leather cover had many holes and gashes in it, apparently made by the missing fang, which also lay beside the book, blackened ink on its tip—(but can words bleed?)—the book mutilated beyond repair. This was one of the strangest sights. It was almost as if someone—probably the person crying—blamed it for their problems and took their anger out on it, before that anger became the sorrow that resonated through the chamber now.

The third was a gleaming orange and red bird, long tail feathers unfurled on the floor, like a flame, its head held high, sitting quietly beside the mourner. It didn’t look like it didn’t belonged in such a grim place—like a rich person walking in a slum.

There was another glittering thing beside him: a silver sword with jewels encrusted in the hilt. This was likely the cause of the snake’s death, especially considering it had blood coating it.

A little way from it was a pile of raggedy brown fabric. …He couldn’t quite tell what it was supposed to be.

The sixth: the source of the crying, a boy. He had unruly black hair, and his black robes—(the same robes, he noted, that he himself was wearing, or very similar)—were christened with the blood and slime of beasts—(and maybe men, he couldn’t know)—and ink. He was possessed by the demon that was tragedy; his entire form shaking, heaving, whether from sadness or rage, or both, only time, and a healthy dose of good questioning would tell.

The last thing of note, and what was most likely the source of the tears: a corpse. A girl specifically, with red hair—almost as fiery as the bird’s feathers—ashen skin, and, once again, the black robes—(must be a uniform of some sort). Perhaps they were at a school? Quite a dreary school it was, if so. She was small, apparently young.

The scene was both a lot, and not much, to go on.

Three living things—one without memory, another without peace—two dead, and four inanimate, one of the inanimate things more mauled than any of the living or dead.

His mind started to provide theories about the scene,

Theory one:

The snake had killed the girl, the boy had taken up the sword and killed it in outrage.

Made sense, but that still left the diary, the bird, and himself. As well as the pile of fabric…

He didn’t see the bird having a big role in this; his best guess was that it belonged to the boy, as it seemed loyal to him, sharing his grief, and that its role was the scratch marks on the snake’s eyes, helping the boy defeat it.

Theory two: The girl had written something in her diary the boy didn’t like, perhaps something about he himself. He had torn the diary apart, and in a jealous rage sent his pet snake after her, but regretted it after the snake went too far and killed her, and decided to kill it after all.

Theory three: Reverse of roles; the diary was the boy’s, and she had found it, and he was either mad she found it and tore it, or she had after finding something she didn’t like in it, potentially about him, and the offended party let loose the snake.

Theory four: The snake belonged to neither of them, it was by accident they happened to wake it, or stumble into its home while fighting about this diary.

But why did they find an underground chamber the best place for an argument? Did they live here? Was this a normal place for them to spend time? Like some sort of secret hideaway? Were they in hiding from something?

Four(a): Or else were they on some quest to find it—was the snake guarding treasure? Did the diary hold the map to it, and they tore it simply to keep anyone else from finding it, or else falling into the same trap?

Theory five: The diary was his own; not the boy's or the girl's. He had some relationship to one or both of them that went awry.

Five(a): The snake was his own, and he had set it loose on the girl for some reason, perhaps he was the jealous and angry party here.

Theory six: The snake didn’t kill the girl.

Six(a): She was already dead or dying before the snake even arrived. Maybe the snake's venom, or something else about this chamber, was meant to cure her and failed.

Six(b): The boy killed her. Perhaps in his aforementioned jealous rage he had took the sword to her himself, and now he regretted it.

Six(c): He himself killed her.

He sat up, blinking at the dreary universe. The boy didn’t hear him, just kept on crying. It was a very tiresome noise to hear so constantly.

He reached over and, quietly as possible, drew the diary closer. What made its disfigurement all the stranger was that every page he could see appeared blank. People didn’t usually have qualms with blank diaries—it was the words that people were so touchy about.

When he lifted up the cover, he could see beneath the gashes a name: Tom Marvolo Riddle.

The sight of the name sent a curious sensation through his stomach; he didn’t remember who it belonged to, but the name set a fire boiling in his gut, a bubbling, swirling, writhing fire within him. A fire that threatened to destroy everything around it too.

He looked up at the mourner. Was that his name? Or was the girl, in fact, a very petite, long-haired boy? Did the diary belong to no one present, and it was the secrets within, not the owner, that mattered? But there were no words at all, let alone any secrets…

Or…was it perhaps his own? His own name that he didn’t even remember.

Sitting here theorizing wasn’t going to get him any closer to the truth.

It didn’t seem like a good idea to disturb the boy in his grief, but he didn’t have much choice—losing your memory is an ordeal of its own, you know.

He got to his feet—this sensation too didn’t feel completely mundane to him. Everything felt nostalgic—like in some fond childhood he walked, and smelled, and saw, and heard, but as he grew up, sense left him, and he forgot what it meant to be alive. His damp clothes clung to his body, making him shiver.

His footstep broke the atmosphere; the first new sound in the stagnant place, the pieces of peace cutting through the tears. The boy gasped—the kind of raw gasp, full of dread and despair, one takes when they realize the dragon is awake.

But the dragon in this particular chamber was slain…

His slow steps filled the chamber, an ominous repetition, the ticking of a clock.

When he got close, the boy’s hand wrapped around the hilt of the sword, the metal twinkling in the dim light, scraping and clattering on the stone as it moved.

“I’d stay back if I were you,” his voice was soft but solid, dangerous, wet with tears, shaking with rage, hoarse from screaming.

He stopped. He didn’t know what that meant, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

Hmm…What to ask? ‘Why’s that?’ ‘What happened here?’ ‘Who are you, who was she, and, while you’re at it, who am I?’

The scene was still fresh; if he touched the embers it might reignite.

“And…If you were me, what would you do?” he decided to ask. Speech, words forming on his tongue, felt odd too… but it was the sound of his voice that caught him most off guard…why? Had he been expecting to hear something different?

It was an odd question; he could tell the boy wasn’t expecting it. He paused. Then he scoffed,

“I’ll never be like you.” Then his voice grew quiet and dangerous, “But if I were in your place…I would run. As far away as I could, and as fast as I could, before I found out what the famous Harry Potter is capable of when you take something important from him.”

An even odder response.

The boy turned. One of his most defining features was the circular-rimmed, cracked glasses he wore. That, and the lightning-shaped scar on his forehead, which was red and irritated. Seeing this scar, for some reason, made ire rise in Tom’s throat too. His glasses shielded eyes of a bright green which also heralded from a distant memory.

Bright, but dark. A green that pierced the veil of shadows, yet reflected the rest of the world. He wondered if he had ever seen such hatred in someone’s eyes before, in that past he didn’t remember. They burned as bright as the bird by his side, bright as the girl’s hair. They were bright enough to set the chamber ablaze, dark enough to enact the threats in all the room’s corners. Yet his name didn’t immediately come to mind.

Harry Potter. That was what he said his name was. Once said aloud, the name was more familiar than sensation itself; a burning scar upon his mind, never quite healed. The name was rage, and humiliation itself to him…though he couldn’t place the source of these emotions; no memories came to mind.

They were enemies.

Only two names he knew so far, and both sent the same sort of mad fury through him. Curious.

He couldn’t be more than twelve years old. Twelve years old was quite the young age to be defeating monsters, watching girls die, and to hold such hatred in one’s eyes. Very young to be so hated by he himself.

He was just a kid. Did this Harry Potter really deserve all this?

Why did they hate each other so much? Was it normal for him to hate twelve-year-old boys?

Come to think of it, how old was he himself? He sounded young, not much older than him. But he didn’t feel young.

Why did he hate him so much?

It was starting to look like Theory six(c) might be the most likely.

He didn’t take his advice. He didn’t know much about himself, but he didn’t think he was one to take people’s advice, especially not that of his enemies. In ignorant defiance he took a step forward.

“Stay back!” Harry Potter barked, as vicious as a loyal guard dog.

That same hatred he felt buzzed behind his words.

Another step.

He held up the sword.

“I’m warning you.” Tom knew the threat in his voice was very real.

Yet he came closer. Close enough to see the face of the girl.

He didn’t recognize her. Predictable, but aggravating. He had hoped that perhaps seeing her would bring him to his senses. Alas, she was just a dead girl.

He leaned in closer.

“DON’T YOU DARE TOUCH HER!!” the boy’s words, along with the sword, were at his throat without a second to spare.

He simply flicked his gaze to him; no sign of shock or emotion at his outburst on his features.

The world must burn for this boy too. Burn, not because of sensation itself was strange, but because what he felt was currently was too much to bear.

Hatred, horror, heartbreak…hell. It all blazed and overflowed in his eyes.

He backed up one step, then another, and kept backing away until the sword was no longer close to his skin. Harry could have easily followed him, keeping the threat alive, but it seemed staying by the girl, protecting her lifeless body was his highest priority—Why? What could he possibly do now that she was dead? Was he prone to mutilate dead girls? Was his touch repugnant enough on its own to warrant such violence?

The anger was still white-hot, but confusion was in the boys’ eyes too now.

Yes, six(c) seemed pretty likely.

So, how had he lost his memory? He himself didn’t seem hurt in the slightest physically, he didn’t even have so much as a spitting headache to tell him he’d knocked his head hard enough to lose his memory. It didn’t appear as though he and the boy had dueled, despite the indication they were opponents, and the sword in his hand. Nothing indicated how he could lose his memory, or why…or, come to think of it, why he was still alive.

If it was true he had killed her, that they were enemies, why hadn’t Harry killed him in his sleep? He surely had the chance, in the midst of all the wailing. Why didn’t he walk up to him, send that sword through him and be done with it? Why didn’t he fight him, run him through, now? Tom was clearly unarmed, and Harry was likely the one who killed the snake, clearly he had the upper hand, the power to do so. It all made too much sense.

He could tell he wanted to.

…The diary. It must be connected to everything. Would it reveal the truth of the situation, and his lost memories? Everything seemed to trace back to it. From the looks of things, it was the source of the scene…and it was the most confusing part of the scenario. If he started with it, perhaps he could get somewhere.

He sauntered back to it, crouched down and picked up the mangled cover, staring at the name, the holes where someone—presumably Harry—had stabbed it, a few blank pages hanging limply out of the binding. But why would he hurt an inanimate diary?

“Who’s Tom Riddle?” he asked.

[iusedtobehardyness]

How is it that a baby with no extraordinary magical talent was able to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed? 

[onefail-at-atime]

Okay, but did anyone ever tell Sirius how Harry and Ron flew a car all the way from London to Hogwarts?

Because if his reply wasn't "James would be so proud" then I don't want it.

[vronskies]

Inspector: and what’s in there?

Salazar Slytherin: the chamber of....safety

Basilisk: ssssssssssssss

Inspector: what was that?

Salazar Slytherin: ...ssssssssafety

[snapeybaby]

Forgot about this part in CoS when Harry was going to kiss Dobby 💋

[hypnictwitch]

If the basilisk was in the pipes was it in their clean water or their sewage?

[w-byers]

“ funny, the damage a silly little book can do, especially in the hands of a silly little girl ” 

[alansrickman]

Hᴀʀʀʏ Pᴏᴛᴛᴇʀ ᴍᴇᴍᴇ: ᴄʜᴀʀᴀᴄᴛᴇʀ ➝ Dʀᴀᴄᴏ Mᴀʟғᴏʏ ↳ ǫᴜᴏᴛᴇs ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇᴠᴇʀʏ ᴍᴏᴠɪᴇ

[awkward-sultana]

I’m watching Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets again and

I’m such a pushover. I feel so bad for the basilisk, like any other animal that’s used for evil and then killed off in a movie. Like, HE’S JUST DOING WHAT HE’S TOLD. Goddamit.

[antihero-writings]

The Boy with the Unspeakable Name (Ch10)

Fandom: Harry Potter (and the Chamber or Secrets)

Fic Summary: Tom Riddle may have won his battle with Harry in the Chamber of Secrets, but there were a few unforeseen consequences; loss of Tom’s memory being the most obnoxious of them. Is it possible to stop Tom’s past from becoming his future? Or is the young Tom Riddle doomed to repeat his mistakes?

Chapter 10: Missing

When Harry woke up, Ron wasn’t there. There was only one day left of term, and his stuff was still by his bed, so Harry assumed he hadn’t gone home early, still…

The previous evening Harry and Hermione had stayed up a while, sitting silently by the fire, and the silence was far more comforting than words ever could be. When he went back to his room, he didn’t get much sleep that night. He knew he wouldn’t. And when he did, his dreams were fraught with snakes, and screams, and the color red.

When he woke up and turned over, hoping to see that Ron had made it back safely, and an empty bed greeting him…the pit in his stomach grew teeth.

He’d lost Ginny. He didn’t want to lose Ron too.

How much time had Ron spent with Ginny before someone came to fetch him?

Did Dumbledore take the Weasleys down there? Did they see her lying there all—?

What did they do with her body?

No. He shouldn’t think about those things. There was nothing he could do about any of it even so. Spending too much time thinking about it was only going to make him sad, and anxious, and angry.

When he went to the common room Hermione was standing by the window and—

And Ron was sitting in front of the couch, staring at the fire, his eyes glazed.

He felt a rush of relief at the sight of his friend. Just knowing he was okay—or at least there—was enough to soothe the thing gnawing at him at least a little. He made a move to run towards Ron but paused. He should probably talk to Hermione first. She could let him know if he’d rather be left alone. The last thing Harry wanted to was upset Ron further

“Well, there is one bit of good news.” She said softly as he arrived.

“What’s that?” Harry asked, wanting nothing more.

She pointed out the window.

He came to her side and looked out. Hagrid’s hut had smoke billowing out of the top.

“Hagrid’s back.” She gave a weak smile.

Whaddya know? That was good news.

“We should go see him.” He smiled back with the same weakened quality.

“Definitely.”

His smile slowly faded as he looked back at Ron.

“Have you tried talking to Ron yet?”

She looked over at Ron too, and nodded. “He…he doesn’t seem to feel like talking.” She mentioned softly. She looked at her hands and started fidgeting. “Percy hasn’t left his room. …And we-we don’t know where the twins are.”

The thing in his stomach writhed and churned.

“Do you think it’s a bad idea to try to talk to Ron?”

She shrugged. “He might be more likely to talk to you than me.”

He nodded, and made his way over and sat on the carpet beside Ron.

“Hagrid’s back.” He offered softly.

Ron didn’t say anything.

“Hermoine and I are thinking maybe we could go see him later. We thought you could come too.”

“Mm.” Ron grunted.

Harry, seeing that Hermoine had assessed the situation rather well, turned his attention to the fire. For a while he just sat there and didn’t say anything, unable to bring himself to leave his friend’s side.

“You-You wanna come down to breakfast with us?” Hermoine asked softly after a while.

“Not hungry.” Ron finally spoke, though his voice was distant.

Hermoine looked at Harry and bit her lip, clearly unsure how to proceed.

“Why don’t you go down to breakfast, Hermoine?” Harry offered. “Bring me back some sausages or something.”

Hermoine opened her mouth, likely about to say she’d rather stay, but nodded.

“Sure you don’t want anything, Ron?” She asked as if pleading with him to get up and go with her.

He didn’t reply. Hermoine looked at Harry. Harry tried to give her a reassuring, I’ll-hold-down-the-fort, look, but he wasn’t sure he accomplished it, as she looked nervous, and a little hurt as she turned to leave.

For a while Harry just sat with Ron in silence. Harry knew it was best to wait for him to speak; prodding him with questions, or else annoying him with answers, wouldn’t make him feel better. He knew from experience. So they sat in silence, the common room slowly draining of activity as the other Gryffindor’s went down to breakfast.

“You know,” Ron said a few minutes after everyone had left. “There…There was this one time when some neighbor kids…they bullied her.”

Ron didn’t say who, but Harry knew immediately.

“She came home crying. The next day we—Bill, and Charlie, Fred and George and me, I mean—were out for blood. I don’t know what we would have done to them, but it wouldn’t have been pretty. But…when we got there one was sitting there holding his bloody nose, and the other one ran away screaming when we arrived, smelling faintly of urine. And there was Ginny,” a smile crept onto his face, along with tears to his eyes, “standing there with her hands behind her back, not crying or anything.” The smile broadened. “Turns out Ginny had punched him. Mom was furious. Said we’d filled her head with violence. We’d never been so proud.

“She had the sweetest laugh.” Ron murmured. “Fred and George would would tease her and prank her. Sometimes she’d get upset, but she’d always shake it off. A few times she even pranked them back. One time they had an all out glitter war. Wish you could’ve been there. My underpants sparkled for weeks.

“…You know sometimes I think she was gutsier than all of us combined.”

He paused a moment, his smile sloughing off his face, his eyes traveling somewhere far from here.

“I can’t believe I’ll never hear that laugh again. Funny how that is. I never noticed how pretty it was before.”

“She sent me one of those valentines this year, you know.” Harry swallowed. “I thought it was silly at the time but now…” Harry bit his lip.

“Now you can’t stop replaying it in your head.” Ron’s words were cracking.

Hermione came back a little while later with breakfast—enough for Ron, even though he said he wasn’t hungry—citing that she tried to pick the best sausages she could find, and that she couldn’t remember what kind of jam that they liked on their toast, so she just grabbed them all.

When the topic of going to see Hagrid came up again, there was no debate, and barely any conversation. They were walking across the grounds to Hagrid’s hut before they could put much thought into any other options.

The sight of Hagrid’s face was like aloe on an intense sunburn, and they could almost convince themselves his hug squeezed all the sadness out of them. They asked how Hagrid was doing—he said he was a little worse for wear, but they couldn’t keep him away for too long—and tried to avoid any dangerous topics. When they walked back up the grounds, they did so feeling a little lighter, like the day might be a little brighter from here on out.

They were barely back inside the castle when a voice behind them severed that notion:

“Potter.”

Harry nearly jumped at the sound of Snape’s voice, not to mention the image of him materializing from the corner like a bat.

“The Headmaster wants to see you.”

Harry looked at Ron and Hermione, and they gave him looks that were fearful, sympathetic, and curious all at the same time.

Harry knew he couldn’t refuse, and also wanted to know what Dumbledore wanted to talk to him about, and if it was about Tom, so allowed himself to be escorted to the office. He could get there just fine by himself, but it seemed Snape thought if he didn’t watch him he’d just run off.

Snape was silent the entire time, but when they arrived, he spoke rather harshly:

“Let me make clear that I am not thrilled about this either.”

And with that ominous proclamation, he shut the door.

*****

Harry sat there, sure time had stopped moving. The clock on the wall had stopped ticking. His body had been doused in ice. He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think. Could barely breathe.

The whole summer with Snape. The whole summer with Snape. The whole summer living with Snape. Not just having lessons with him—two hours summoned straight from hell, as far as he was concerned—but actually living with him, in the same house, occupying the same space, at every hour.

Harry dreaded the summer, hated going back to the Dursleys for any amount of time, and two months always seemed like a lifetime. Last year he’d sat at the window dreaming of what it would be like to stay with one of his own kind. At this prospect, however, he thought he’d rather live with the Durselys for the entire year than spend even a week in the same house with Snape.

After what had clearly been a longer-than-natural amount of silence Harry asked feebly.

“But…” The words sputtered on his lips. “But-But why?”

“If we are going to make any strides at reforming the young Tom Riddle,” Dumbledore explained, “in addition to confirming he does not intend to make the mistakes of his predecessor, we must help him relearn magic over the summer. It is imperative that we have someone watching him at all times as well. He needs to stay with someone who is trustworthy. Who will not hesitate to act if he shows any signs of returning to his old ways. I thought professor Snape would be uniquely suitable for this job.”

Whatever Dumbledore said Harry didn’t think Snape was trustworthy, or suitable to teach kids of any age. Though he wouldn’t say the image of Tom hanging upside down getting an incorrect answer was unappealing. Still Snape would probably grow to favor him like he did Malfoy. Which brought him to his main concern.

“I understand that, Sir, but what I was wondering is why I have to live with him too?”

“As Voldemort has now returned in such a form, the rules for your summer arrangements may have changed a bit, don’t you think?”

Harry blinked. “You mean about me needing to stay with my aunt and uncle? That’s great! Then why can’t I stay with Ron?! Or…Or you?!” he gestured to Dumbledore. The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself.

Dumbledore smiled pleasantly. “I am flattered you would be interested in living with me, Harry. But, on that account, I find it would be much more advantageous if you and the young Tom Riddle were to become…” He paused a moment, clearly being careful about choosing his words. “friends. Or something approximating the like.”

The word surged and burned down from his ears down through his blood, curling his hands into fists.

“Friends?!” Harry shot up, the chair groaning against the floor. “You want me to become friends with the guy who murdered my parents?!”

“I know I am asking a great much of you, Harry,” Dumbledore said calmly. “And if you think I am asking too much of you, I will understand, and attempt to discern another way to go about this situation. But please try to look at the big picture. For one thing, we would like to try our best to keep the identity of Tom Riddle between you, myself, and professor Snape—as well as a certain number of portraits and ghosts.” He gestured to the portraits, who crossed their arms and glared at him. “It would be rather telling if, well…” He paused again. “Forgive me, but your attitude towards him is not overabundant with kindness.”

Harry couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He was being asked to live with both the teacher he hated most in this school, and the young version of the literal Lord Voldemort, and it was all because of that very hatred. Because Dumbledore thought living with them would make him hate them less, as opposed to the answer Harry thought much more likely: that they would all come out of this hating each other a hundred times more.

“Kids hate each other all the time! I hardly think that’s something that needs a drastic remedy! You told him yourself he was a bully—it would be weirder if I wasn’t glaring hatefully at him! Why is this any different?!”

“You yourself know full well why it’s different.” Dumbledore never ceased his calm, cool tones. “This isn’t just any childish rivalry, nor do I think things will remain that way, if they continue on as they are.”

“Again! Why would you ask me to—?!”

“Because hatred of this brand corrupts even the purest of souls. It is one thing that everyone is capable of falling prey to. Kind people would never think of torturing or killing innocents, but hate, well…there is always evil in the world. And kind people struggle with the presence of this evil most of all. It is the mark of a good soul to be appalled by evil. However, we cannot allow that evil to infect our own souls with hate, lest we become like the very thing we are fighting so hard against.”

Harry swallowed. Whatever Dumbledore said, he didn’t much care if his soul was ‘infected by hatred’ as it were.

“If we intend to allow the young Tom Riddle to live,” Dumbledore continued, “I cannot in good faith allow things to go on this way. If you continue to hate him as much as I see you do now…it is my belief that you will certainly become the rivals you were always destined to be—or perhaps I should say, you once were.”

“What’s wrong with that? Why shouldn’t we be?! Why are you defending Voldemort?!”

“But he is not Voldemort. Remember Harry,” Dumbledore walked around the desk to stand in front of Harry. “At this moment the boy in the hospital wing is not, in fact, the man who murdered your parents. He is not the man who tortured so many. He is not the evil warlord, twisted by his own depraved experiments. I am not asking you to become friends with that man, nor would I advise it. However, he is a boy who might become the man who murdered your parents, if he falls upon the wrong path again. That is to say, if we fail to lead him down the proper path. I am asking you to try to become friends with boy he was before he became a killer. That boy right now is merely a boy like you. One who is, yes, a bit cold and self-serving, a bit too cunning and clever for his own good, but—though he will not admit it—who is also unfathomably lonely. That it why it is so crucial that we do our best to give him the proper guidance and support he so desperately needs. Just think about it. I won’t force you. But please note that your presence in his life may be the distinction between success and failure.

Harry slumped back in his chair. “You’re placing an awful lot of pressure on me, Sir. What makes you think you can lead him down the right path?”

“Oh I don’t have any delusions about leading him down the right path myself. As I’ve said, I think you, Harry, can lead him down the right path. And, most likely…only you can.”

“Why me?”

“Professor Snape can teach him magic, can try to discern the workings of his mind and if he intends to return to his old ways, but Tom Riddle has never been one persuaded to change by authority. On the contrary, he is prone to manipulate authority to his will rather as much as his peers—a trait, I imagine he will likely pick back up quickly. Hence why I have specifically chosen Professor Snape for this task. He is particularly resistant to flattery and the like. I would do it myself but something tells me his past hatred of me is not so easily forgotten. But as for someone who can be a more positive influence, rather than a disciplinary one, I think you would fit that role rather well.”

“If he doesn’t listen to you, why would he listen to me?! Did he ever listen to his classmates—let alone someone younger than him?!”

“When Tom was at school yes, he was surrounded by obedient followers who would not hesitate to throw themselves headfirst into danger for him. But Harry I believe you are uniquely suited to such a task, in no small part because you are aware of his past sins—or perhaps we should say, his future sins. Your awareness of what he is capable of, in tandem with your kind, resilient spirit makes you particularly adapted to helping lost souls such as Tom, and guiding them back to the light.”

“But this isn’t some lost soul! This is Voldemort we’re talking about! You really think someone like that is capable change?! Of compassion?! Of-Of anything?!”

“It is precisely because this is Voldemort that it is imperative we try. What would you prefer? That we stand idly by and watch him become the same man he was, without even attempting to reform him? We have a unique opportunity to rewrite history, to try again. I find opportunities of this nature do not come around twice.”

“We…” Harry paused. Swallowed. Not sure he should say what he was thinking. “We could…We could…get rid of him…Then the threat would be over…”

“Oh? But didn’t you yourself make the decision not to kill him in the Chamber, even when you believed he was still Voldemort? And have I not already told you my thoughts on the that decision? I, for one, am very grateful you didn’t. If you did, we wouldn’t have the opportunity we have now. Besides, we need not split young souls such as yours with such acts. Would it not make us uncomfortably similar to Voldemort if we decided to kill a defenseless boy without memory?”

Harry sighed. He was feeling less and less grateful for his decision by the day.

“I know it is a great burden I am placing on you.” Dumbledore added. “But it is also the greatest compliment I can give: that I have full faith that you could reform even the darkest of souls.”

Something in Harry wore out. His words were soft: “He killed Ginny.”

Dumbledore blinked up at him.

“I am not entirely certain that he did.”

He jerked up his head. “What?”

“Lord Voldemort, unlike with most other incidents, didn’t use the killing curse upon her. Instead, he used a very unique method to return to the land of the living, one that required a young girl’s life.”

“Exactly! That’s what killed her!”

“Do you understand what I’m saying? It required her life. Voldemort would have assumed this meant that her life was used up in the process, but what if it wasn’t? What if her soul was not destroyed, but transferred?”

“Transferred?” Realization hit him as soon as he asked the question, and horror twisted in Harry’s gut. “Y-You’re telling me that Ginny’s soul is inside—?!”

“It is my theory at least.” Dumbledore spoke as if they were discussing what to have for lunch. He folded his arms in front of him. “Whether it is fact, or nothing more than an educated hypothesis, only more research will yield the answers.”

Harry sat on the edge of his seat, thinking hard.

Ginny might still be alive. Her soul at least. Alive but trapped in the body of Tom Riddle. Hope and horror enacted a bloody duel in Harry’s gut.

“Do-Do you think we could save her, Sir? Get her out, I mean.”

Dumbledore sighed. “I am not certain but, considering as her body is already—”

“What if we could preserve her body?!” He stood up. “You know, make it so, if we could just get her soul out then…”

Dumbledore looked down, running his hand over his beard. “I hadn’t considered that.”

“Then maybe—maybe we could return her soul to her body!” He began pacing. “She could go back to living with her family! She’d be—”

Dumbledore held up a hand to stop him.

“It is a …possibility, but a possibility nonetheless. We must remember that this is nothing but a theory in the first place, and the prospect of preserving her body on the slim hope that we might be able to retrieve her soul from his body—if it is even there in the first place—would be rather a lot to put her family through.”

Harry was barely listening, his brain moving a thousand miles an hour. “We just need to find a way to get her soul out! There must be some way! Then everything can go back to normal!”

Dumbledore paused. “Before we make any decisions, I am wondering if perhaps we ought to consider another route as well.”

“What’s that?”

“Being unsure if we will be able to salvage her soul from its current state, I’ve been considering the possibility that the presence of her soul within Tom would grant him a level of compassion he has not previously exhibited. This is something which I have already seen exhibited during our previous conversation with him. While I am unsure we can return her soul to her body, this is something that, if my theory is true, is already in place. It is one of the reasons why I believe we might be able to reform him.”

Harry allowed himself to consider this a moment. The presence of Ginny’s soul within Tom…In some ways it was more appealing than simply viewing Tom as Voldemort, still, he didn’t much care for the thought of her trapped within the body of his parent’s murderer. It felt gross and wrong.

“I also must say that, due to her life being the thing that allowed him to return to life, I am unsure we could remove her soul without killing him.”

Harry wasn’t sure that was such an unwanted side effect.

Ginny was still alive. That changed everything. The prospect of living with either Snape or Tom made him feel sick. But both? He’d likely be needing a barf bag. However, at this prospect he felt a little more up to the challenge.

So he agreed to live with them over the summer, not to reform Tom, but to save Ginny.

*****

Considering it was the Leaving Feast, and he hadn’t done a very good job of eating well the past few days, Harry decided it was time to have dinner in the great hall. Ron could only say no to his stomach for so long, so he came with them.

When he entered the room his stomach sank. Last year the room was decorated with the colors of the house that won the Quidditch cup, but today they black, he knew why.

He found his place at the Gryffindor table and tried to ignore the questions fluttering around about the color of the banners.

He also tried to ignore the heat he felt as his back. It was as if he was being watched, but not just that, it was as if whoever was watching him could shoot laser beams out of their eyes. He was pretty sure he knew who it was, and sure enough, as he turned around he found it was coming off the potions master. He didn’t think it was possible, but Snape’s usual distaste had amplified tenfold.

He turned back to his food and tried not to exhibit that same distaste.

What he didn’t ignore was the sight of Percy and the twins at the table. Percy’s eyes looked just as veiled as Ron’s had, and he looked a bit green. When Fred saw Harry, he gave him a small nod, as if thanking him for his service, and George put his arm around Ron—something Harry had rarely, if ever, seen him do—and Harry tried not to feel worse.

After they’d finished dinner Dumbledore walked up to give his end-of-year speech, he said a few of the things Harry remembered him mentioning last year, then proceeded:

“This feast is a time for both celebration and loss this year.” He folded his hands in front of him.

“This year has been a strange one for Hogwarts. Throughout it many of you have no doubt heard the rumor that the Chamber of Secrets had been opened, as well as seen the strange messages and incidents that gave credence to this rumor.

“Well I will inform you, if it is not already clear, that the rumor is indeed true. The Chamber had been opened. And I thank whatever higher power might be out there that, for the most part, petrification was the only real consequence.

“I am even more thankful to inform you at this time, that the threat has ended.”

There was a general consensus about the room that this was a good thing, though the celebration was tinged with curiosity at what had happened.

“We can thank none other than Harry Potter for this.” He gestured to Harry, and too many heads turned for Harry’s comfort. “With the help of his friends, Ron Weasley and Hermione Granger”—Ron tried to make himself look small, and Hermione waved awkwardly—“they were able to discern the mystery of the Chamber of Secrets, and defeat its monster. The Chamber will bring no more harm to any of you.”

More cheers and clinking of glasses.

“However, as some of you may have heard by now, that victory came at a great cost. Harry arrived as fast as he could, and fought his hardest, but—through no fault of his own—our dear Ginny Weasley, who had been taken by the heir of Slytherin into the Chamber itself tragically…” He paused now, taking a deep breath. “lost her life.”

The room was simultaneously spiked with loud gasps, exclamations and cries, and hushed as if a dampener had been placed over it.

“Those of you who knew her know she was fiery, brave, kind, and compassionate, possessing these and many other qualities that embody Gryffindor. We have lost a wonderful girl, who could have, in time, become a great woman.”

Harry bit his lip, looking down, trying not to let those words make his mind wander. He felt a squeeze at his hand and turned to see Hermione, holding his hand, as well as Ron’s, turning to each of them sympathetically. Ron was staring at the table.

“The heir of Slytherin had been working through her by virtue of a diary. Seemingly innocuous, she did not realize this diary was in actuality an object of extraordinary dark power.”

Anger rose in Harry’s gut when he thought of the boy in the he himself had seen in the diary, the one who had framed Hagrid, and lured Ginny in with that famous flattery Dumbledore mentioned earlier. He hoped he wasn’t listening now.

“Harry did everything in his power to keep her alive, and risked his own life several times over the course of the night, but in the end…” He trailed off. They all knew what it meant.

I couldn’t save her.

“Slytherin’s monster is no more, and the diary through which the heir of Slytherin worked has been destroyed. But Ginny Weasley’s memory lives on. Her body will not—as the writing on the wall so crudely and cruelly proclaimed—lie in the Chamber forever. Her body will return home with her parents to receive a proper burial.”

“Ron, you’re hurting me,” Hermione whispered, and Harry turned to see Ron relax his grip on her hand a little.

“A spirit like hers is not one so easily lost. Those of you who knew Ginny, do not let the pain of this incident cause her soul to fade from memory. Let her sprit live on in your hearts. Let the part of her that lives on in each of you guide you in your darkest moments.”

At this Harry wondered if Tom was indeed there, and the words were intended for him specifically. Though, when he looked around, he didn’t see him anywhere.

“I ask you not to pester the Weasleys, nor Harry, too much with questions about this incident. They have been through a lot and should be allowed to grieve in peace.”

At the painful, distant looks from each of the Weasleys present Harry wished more than anything he could tell them the truth of the situation, that Ginny was still alive it was just…a little more complicated than that. That he was going to everything in his power to save her. Yet he could do nothing but sit there silently, feeling sick.

And after a few more closing words, he left them all with the silence in the room, tragedy hanging over all their heads like the black curtains draped across the room.

*****

It was with a heart heavy as coal, a lump in his throat that hadn’t left since the feast, and the gnawing pit in his stomach that Harry packed up his things that day. He’d be going to the Dursleys first, still, but just knowing that he wouldn’t be able to talk to Ron, to make sure he was okay, and that he’d be living with Snape very soon didn’t make him at all eager to leave—not that he would be anyways.

He was then reminded of another boy who once wanted to stay at Hogwarts over the summer, and internally smacked himself for thinking that way.

It was a quiet ride on the train, too quiet. Even Fred and George, who usually never stopped cracking jokes, had developed an interest in their own shoelaces. Hermione tried to cheer everyone up by suggesting they practice disarming spells. They did so without much real heart--though Harry found he was getting rather good at them, even so. Still trying their best to enjoy what few moments of magic they had left, they then played Exploding Snap, and lit off the rest of Fred and George’s Filibuster fireworks. All of these things helped distract them at least a little, but nothing could fill the emptiness that threatened to swallow them, the emptiness that spawned from the seat where Ginny was supposed to be.