Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets hp-2

by J. K. Rowling

  He pulled out his wand and moved forward between the serpentine columns. Every careful footstep echoed loudly off the shadowy walls. He kept his eyes narrowed, ready to clamp them shut at the smallest sign of movement. The hollow eye sockets of the stone snakes seemed to be following him. More than once, with a jolt of the stomach, he thought he saw one stir.

  Then, as he drew level with the last pair of pillars, a statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall.

  Harry had to crane his neck to look up into the giant face above: It was ancient and monkey like, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard’s sweeping stone robes, where two enormous gray feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor. And between the feet, facedown, lay a small, black robed figure with flaming red hair.

  “Ginny!” Harry muttered, sprinting to her and dropping to his knees. “Ginny—don’t be dead—please don’t be dead—”

  He flung his wand aside, grabbed Ginny’s shoulders, and turned her over. Her face was white as marble, and as cold, yet her eyes were closed, so she wasn’t Petrified. But then she must be—

  “Ginny, please wake up,” Harry muttered desperately, shaking her. Ginny’s head lolled hopelessly from side to side.

  “She won’t wake,” said a soft voice.

  Harry jumped and spun around on his knees.

  A tall, black haired boy was leaning against the nearest pillar, watching. He was strangely blurred around the edges, as though Harry were looking at him through a misted window. But there was no mistaking him—

  “Tom—Tom Riddle?”

  Riddle nodded, not taking his eyes off Harry’s face.

  “What d’you mean, she won’t wake?” Harry said desperately. “She’s not—she’s not—?”

  “She’s still alive,” said Riddle. “But only just.”

  Harry stared at him. Tom Riddle had been at Hogwarts fifty years ago, yet here he stood, a weird, misty light shining about him, not a day older than sixteen.

  “Are you a ghost?” Harry said uncertainly.

  “A memory,” said Riddle quietly. “Preserved in a diary for fifty years.”

  He pointed toward the floor near the statue’s giant toes. Lying open there was the little black diary Harry had found in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. For a second, Harry wondered how it had got there—but there were more pressing matters to deal with.

  “You’ve got to help me, Tom,” Harry said, raising Ginny’s head again. “We’ve got to get her out of here. There’s a basilisk . . . I don’t know where it is, but it could be along any moment . . . Please, help me.”

  Riddle didn’t move. Harry, sweating, managed to hoist Ginny half off the floor, and bent to pick up his wand again.

  But his wand had gone.

  “Did you see—?”

  He looked up. Riddle was still watching him—twirling Harry’s wand between his long fingers.

  “Thanks,” said Harry, stretching out his hand for it.

  A smile curled the corners of Riddle’s mouth. He continued to stare at Harry, twirling the wand idly.

  “Listen,” said Harry urgently, his knees sagging with Ginny’s dead weight. “We’ve got to go! If the basilisk comes—”

  “It won’t come until it is called,” said Riddle calmly.

  Harry lowered Ginny back onto the floor, unable to hold her up any longer.

  “What d’you mean?” he said. “Look, give me my wand, I might need it—”

  Riddle’s smile broadened.

  “You won’t be needing it,” he said.

  Harry stared at him.

  “What d’you mean, I won’t be—?”

  “I’ve waited a long time for this, Harry Potter,” said Riddle. “For the chance to see you. To speak to you.”

  “Look,” said Harry, losing patience, “I don’t think you get it. We’re in the Chamber of Secrets. We can talk later—”

  “We’re going to talk now,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly, and he pocketed Harry’s wand.

  Harry stared at him. There was something very funny going on here.

  “How did Ginny get like this?” he asked slowly.

  “Well, that’s an interesting question,” said Riddle pleasantly. “And quite a long story. I suppose the real reason Ginny Weasley’s like this is because she opened her heart and spilled all her secrets to an invisible stranger.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Harry.

  “The diary,” said Riddle. “My diary. Little Ginny’s been writing in it for months and months, telling me all her pitiful worries and woes—how her brothers tease her, how she had to come to school with secondhand robes and books, how”—Riddle’s eyes glinted—“how she didn’t think famous, good, great Harry Potter would ever like her . . .”

  All the time he spoke, Riddle’s eyes never left Harry’s face. There was an almost hungry look in them.

  “It’s very boring, having to listen to the silly little troubles of an eleven year old girl,” he went on. “But I was patient. I wrote back. I was sympathetic, I was kind. Ginny simply loved me. No one’s ever understood me like you, Tom . . . I’m so glad I’ve got this diary to confide in . . . It’s like having a friend I can carry around in my pocket . . .”

  Riddle laughed, a high, cold laugh that didn’t suit him. It made the hairs stand up on the back of Harry’s neck.

  “If I say it myself, Harry, I’ve always been able to charm the people I needed. So Ginny poured out her soul to me, and her soul happened to be exactly what I wanted . . . I grew stronger and stronger on a diet of her deepest fears, her darkest secrets. I grew powerful, far more powerful than little Miss Weasley. Powerful enough to start feeding Miss Weasley a few of my secrets, to start pouring a little of my soul back into her . . .”

  “What d’you mean?” said Harry, whose mouth had gone very dry.

  “Haven’t you guessed yet, Harry Potter?” said Riddle softly. “Ginny Weasley opened the Chamber of Secrets. She strangled the school roosters and daubed threatening messages on the walls. She set the Serpent of Slytherin on four Mudbloods, and the Squib’s cat.

  “No,” Harry whispered.

  “Yes,” said Riddle, calmly. “Of course, she didn’t know what she was doing at first. It was very amusing. I wish you could have seen her new diary entries . . . far more interesting, they became . . . Dear Tom,” he recited, watching Harry’s horrified face, “I think I’m losing my memory. There are rooster feathers all over my robes and I don’t know how they got there. Dear Tom, I can’t remember what I did on the night of Halloween, but a cat was attacked and I’ve got paint all down my front. Dear Tom, Percy keeps telling me I’m pale and I’m not myself. I think he suspects me . . . There was another attack today and I don’t know where I was. Tom, what am I going to do? I think I’m going mad . . . I think I’m the one attacking everyone, Tom!”

  Harry’s fists were clenched, the nails digging deep into his palms.

  “It took a very long time for stupid little Ginny to stop trusting her diary,” said Riddle. “But she finally became suspicious and tried to dispose of it. And that’s where you came in, Harry. You found it, and I couldn’t have been more delighted. Of all the people who could have picked it up, it was you, the very person I was most anxious to meet . . .”

  “And why did you want to meet me?” said Harry. Anger was coursing through him, and it was an effort to keep his voice steady.

  “Well, you see, Ginny told me all about you, Harry,” said Riddle. “Your whole fascinating history.” His eyes roved over the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead, and their expression grew hungrier. “I knew I must find out more about you, talk to you, meet you if I could. So I decided to show you my famous capture of that great oaf, Hagrid, to gain your trust—”

  “Hagrid’s my friend,” said Harry, his voice now shaking. “And you framed him, didn’t you? I thought you made a mistake, but—”

  Riddle laughed his high laugh again.

  “It
was my word against Hagrid’s, Harry. Well, you can imagine how it looked to old Armando Dippet. On the one hand, Tom Riddle, poor but brilliant, parentless but so brave, school prefect, model student . . . on the other hand, big, blundering Hagrid, in trouble every other week, trying to raise werewolf cubs under his bed, sneaking off to the Forbidden Forest to wrestle trolls . . . but I admit, even I was surprised how well the plan worked. I thought someone must realize that Hagrid couldn’t possibly be the Heir of Slytherin. It had taken me five whole years to find out everything I could about the Chamber of Secrets and discover the secret entrance . . . as though Hagrid had the brains, or the power!

  “Only the Transfiguration teacher, Dumbledore, seemed to think Hagrid was innocent. He persuaded Dippet to keep Hagrid and train him as gamekeeper. Yes, I think Dumbledore might have guessed . . . Dumbledore never seemed to like me as much as the other teachers did . . .”

  “I bet Dumbledore saw right through you,” said Harry, his teeth gritted.

  “Well, he certainly kept an annoyingly close watch on me after Hagrid was expelled,” said Riddle carelessly. “I knew it wouldn’t be safe to open the Chamber again while I was still at school. But I wasn’t going to waste those long years I’d spent searching for it. I decided to leave behind a diary, preserving my sixteen year old self in its pages, so that one day, with luck, I would be able to lead another in my footsteps, and finish Salazar Slytherin’s noble work.”

  “Well, you haven’t finished it,” said Harry triumphantly. “No one’s died this time, not even the cat. In a few hours the Mandrake Draught will be ready and everyone who was Petrified will be all right again—”

  “Haven’t I already told you,” said Riddle quietly, “that killing Mudbloods doesn’t matter to me anymore? For many months now, my new target has been—you.”

  Harry stared at him.

  “Imagine how angry I was when the next time my diary was opened, it was Ginny who was writing to me, not you. She saw you with the diary, you see, and panicked. What if you found out how to work it, and I repeated all her secrets to you? What if, even worse, I told you who’d been strangling roosters? So the foolish little brat waited until your dormitory was deserted and stole it back. But I knew what I must do. It was clear to me that you were on the trail of Slytherin’s heir. From everything Ginny had told me about you, I knew you would go to any lengths to solve the mystery—particularly if one of your best friends was attacked. And Ginny had told me the whole school was buzzing because you could speak Parseltongue . . .

  “So I made Ginny write her own farewell on the wall and come down here to wait. She struggled and cried and became very boring. But there isn’t much life left in her . . . She put too much into the diary, into me. Enough to let me leave its pages at last . . . I have been waiting for you to appear since we arrived here. I knew you’d come. I have many questions for you, Harry Potter.”

  “Like what?” Harry spat, fists still clenched.

  “Well,” said Riddle, smiling pleasantly, “how is it that you a skinny boy with no extraordinary magical talent—managed to defeat the greatest wizard of all time? How did you escape with nothing but a scar, while Lord Voldemort’s powers were destroyed?” There was an odd red gleam in his hungry eyes now.

  “Why do you care how I escaped?” said Harry slowly. “Voldemort was after your time . . .”

  “Voldemort,” said Riddle softly, “is my past, present, and future, Harry Potter . . .”

  He pulled Harry’s wand from his pocket and began to trace it through the air, writing three shimmering words:

  TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE

  Then he waved the wand once, and the letters of his name rearranged themselves:

  I AM LORD VOLDEMORT

  “You see?” he whispered. “It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course. You think I was going to use my filthy Muggle father’s name forever? I, in whose veins runs the blood of Salazar Slytherin himself, through my mother’s side? I, keep the name of a foul, common Muggle, who abandoned me even before I was born, just because he found out his wife was a witch? No, Harry—I fashioned myself a new name, a name I knew wizards everywhere would one day fear to speak, when I had become the greatest sorcerer in the world!”

  Harry’s brain seemed to have jammed. He stared numbly at Riddle, at the orphaned boy who had grown up to murder Harry’s own parents, and so many others . . . At last he forced himself to speak.

  “You’re not,” he said, his quiet voice full of hatred.

  “Not what?” snapped Riddle.

  “Not the greatest sorcerer in the world,” said Harry, breathing fast. “Sorry to disappoint you and all that, but the greatest wizard in the world is Albus Dumbledore. Everyone says so. Even when you were strong, you didn’t dare try and take over at Hogwarts. Dumbledore saw through you when you were at school and he still frightens you now, wherever you’re hiding these days—” The smile had gone from Riddle’s face, to be replaced by a very ugly look.

  “Dumbledore’s been driven out of this castle by the mere memory of me!” he hissed.

  “He’s not as gone as you might think!” Harry retorted. He was speaking at random, wanting to scare Riddle, wishing rather than believing it to be true.

  Riddle opened his mouth, but froze.

  Music was coming from somewhere. Riddle whirled around to stare down the empty Chamber. The music was growing louder. It was eerie, spine tingling, unearthly; it lifted the hair on Harry’s scalp and made his heart feel as though it was swelling to twice its normal size. Then, as the music reached such a pitch that Harry felt it vibrating inside his own ribs, flames erupted at the top of the nearest pillar.

  A crimson bird the size of a swan had appeared, piping its weird music to the vaulted ceiling. It had a glittering golden tail as long as a peacock’s and gleaming golden talons, which were gripping a ragged bundle.

  A second later, the bird was flying straight at Harry. It dropped the ragged thing it was carrying at his feet, then landed heavily on his shoulder. As it folded its great wings, Harry looked up and saw it had a long, sharp golden beak and a beady black eye.

  The bird stopped singing. It sat still and warm next to Harry’s cheek, gazing steadily at Riddle.

  “That’s a phoenix,” said Riddle, staring shrewdly back at it.

  “Fawkes?” Harry breathed, and he felt the bird’s golden claws squeeze his shoulder gently

  “And that—” said Riddle, now eyeing the ragged thing that Fawkes had dropped, “that’s the old school Sorting Hat—”

  So it was. Patched, frayed, and dirty, the hat lay motionless at Harry’s feet.

  Riddle began to laugh again. He laughed so hard that the dark chamber rang with it, as though ten Riddles were laughing at once.

  “This is what Dumbledore sends his defender! A songbird and an old hat! Do you feel brave, Harry Potter? Do you feel safe now?”

  Harry didn’t answer. He might not see what use Fawkes or the Sorting Hat were, but he was no longer alone, and he waited for Riddle to stop laughing with his courage mounting.

  “To business, Harry,” said Riddle, still smiling broadly. “Twice—in your past, in my future—we have met. And twice I failed to kill you. How did you survive? Tell me everything. The longer you talk,” he added softly, “the longer you stay alive.”

  Harry was thinking fast, weighing his chances. Riddle had the wand. He, Harry, had Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, neither of which would be much good in a duel. It looked bad, all right . . . but the longer Riddle stood there, the more life was dwindling out of Ginny . . . and in the meantime, Harry noticed suddenly, Riddle’s outline was becoming clearer, more solid . . . If it had to be a fight between him and Riddle, better sooner than later.

  “No one knows why you lost your powers when you attacked me,” said Harry abruptly. “I don’t know myself. But I know why you couldn’t kill me. Because my mother died to save me. My common Muggle-born mother,” he added, shaking with suppr
essed rage. “She stopped you killing me. And I’ve seen the real you, I saw you last year. You’re a wreck. You’re barely alive. That’s where all your power got you. You’re in hiding. You’re ugly, you’re foul—”

  Riddle’s face contorted. Then he forced it into an awful smile. “So. Your mother died to save you. Yes, that’s a powerful counter charm. I can see now . . . there is nothing special about you, after all. I wondered, you see. There are strange likenesses between us, after all. Even you must have noticed. Both half-bloods, orphans, raised by Muggles. Probably the only two Parselmouths to come to Hogwarts since the great Slytherin himself. We even look something alike . . . But after all, it was merely a lucky chance that saved you from me. That’s all I wanted to know.”

  Harry stood, tense, waiting for Riddle to raise his wand. But Riddle’s twisted smile was widening again.

  “Now, Harry, I’m going to teach you a little lesson. Let’s match the powers of Lord Voldemort, Heir of Salazar Slytherin, against famous Harry Potter, and the best weapons Dumbledore can give him . . .”

  He cast an amused eye over Fawkes and the Sorting Hat, then walked away. Harry, fear spreading up his numb legs, watched Riddle stop between the high pillars and look up into the stone face of Slytherin, high above him in the half darkness. Riddle opened his mouth wide and hissed—but Harry understood what he was saying . . .

  “Speak to me, Slytherin, greatest of the Hogwarts Four.”

  Harry wheeled around to look up at the statue, Fawkes swaying on his shoulder.

  Slytherin’s gigantic stone face was moving. Horrorstruck, Harry saw his mouth opening, wider and wider, to make a huge black hole.

  And something was stirring inside the statue’s mouth. Something was slithering up from its depths.

  Harry backed away until he hit the dark Chamber wall, and as he shut his eyes tight he felt Fawkes’ wing sweep his cheek as he took flight. Harry wanted to shout, “Don’t leave me!” but what chance did a phoenix have against the king of serpents?