Harry Potter and the Ambitious Girl

Tom Riddle began to speak, revealing that the true perpetrator of the recent events was Ginny Weasley.

She had come across Tom's diary by chance and began to write various things in it—events at school, how her brothers teased her, and her frustration at having to attend school with hand-me-down supplies. She even shared her faint-hearted romantic worries, lamenting that the famous and great Harry Potter would never return her feelings.

Tom had shown her kindness, sympathizing with her and earning her trust through seemingly genuine concern. But this was nothing more than the devil's trap set to bring about her ruin.

The more she confided in the diary, the more she trusted it, and the more her soul poured into it. In turn, Tom grew stronger.

Eventually, he gained enough power to manifest physically, and in a sinister reversal, began to pour his own soul into Ginny. Through this, he manipulated her and forced the innocent girl to commit the series of events that unfolded.

"Unforgivable!"

Hermione shouted, raising her wand in the middle of Tom's monologue.

There was no longer any need to listen to him. This despicable being deserved to be dealt with immediately. Without hesitation, she cast a spell.

"Flipendo! Destroy him!"

"Well, aren't you an impatient young lady," Tom remarked casually, deflecting the blue orb of light from her wand with a mere flick of his own.

But Hermione did not stop. She unleashed a second, then a third blast, all aimed squarely at Tom.

None of them landed. Every attack was effortlessly swept away by his wand.

"It's futile," Tom said. "For a second-year student, you're impressive, but your spells won't work on me.

Unless, of course, Harry Potter—would you care to step in? Show me the power that defeated the greatest Dark Lord of all time."

"Dark Lord… Voldemort? Why are you bringing up his name here?" Harry demanded.

"I want to know," Tom replied, his voice rising in intensity. "How an ordinary, powerless infant managed to vanquish the greatest wizard of all time!"

Harry was at a loss. Tom Riddle had lived 50 years ago, long before Voldemort's reign.

Why, then, was he so fixated on Voldemort? Why refer to him with such reverence?

Tom, as though responding to Harry's confusion, continued.

"Don't you see? Voldemort is my past, my present, and my future, Harry Potter."

As he spoke, Tom waved his wand, forming letters in midair.

"TOM MARVOLO RIDDLE."

He waved his wand again, and the letters began to rearrange themselves.

When the transformation was complete, the new words appeared:

"I AM LORD VOLDEMORT."

In that instant, everything clicked.

Why he had opened the Chamber of Secrets.

Why Muggle-borns were being targeted.

Why Harry was framed and why Tom had shown an interest in Voldemort.

Tom Riddle was Voldemort! This boy would one day grow into the Dark Lord who would murder Harry's parents and countless others.

"Harry," Tom said with a menacing smile, "let's hear it. Twice now, we've met, and twice I've failed to kill you.

Tell me—how did you survive? The more you speak, the longer you and your friend will live."

"The first time…" Harry began, trembling with suppressed anger. "I don't know why you lost your power—I'd like to know that myself.

But I do know why you couldn't kill me. It was because my mother died protecting me! My mother—a simple Muggle-born—sacrificed herself!"

Harry's voice shook as he struggled to contain his fury.

"Your mother stopped you from killing me! And last year, I saw what you really are.

A wretched, broken remnant—barely alive. And that hideous remnant was crushed underfoot by Mirabel Beresford, a Slytherin first-year! Right now, you couldn't even defeat a young girl; you're nothing but a disgusting leftover!"

Hearing these scornful words, Tom's face twisted in rage. However, he quickly composed himself and gave a chilling smile.

"I see, your mother died for you. That indeed is a powerful countercurse against my magic.

So, there's nothing special about you after all... I'd secretly suspected otherwise, but now I know the truth.

Well then, I'll dispose of you quickly and move on to killing Mirabel Beresford next."

As Tom pointed his wand at Harry, Hermione sprang into action.

Harry was unarmed. That left her with no choice—she had to protect him.

Suppressing her fear with sheer determination, Hermione faced the young Dark Lord.

"Oh? You intend to fight me? Even knowing I am Lord Voldemort—the one whose name alone makes even the bravest tremble in terror?"

"...!"

Hermione was trembling, just as Tom said.

In the wizarding world, the name of the Dark Lord was taboo. Its mere mention inspired dread so great that even someone as robust as Hagrid would cover his ears in fear.

Hermione, born to Muggle parents, was no exception. Just hearing the name made her knees weak and her body refuse to obey her will.

And yet, she stood her ground, driven by the unwavering desire not to lose her friends.

"Flipendo! Destroy him!"

"Useless!"

Just like before, her spell's light was repelled with ease.

But that was fine. This wasn't a calculated attack—it was her way of steeling herself.

It was a shout to her trembling heart, a refusal to let fear control her.

What did it matter if he was the Dark Lord? What did it matter that this was his younger form?

She had seen far worse—those horrifying, nightmare-like scenes.

The memory of Mirabel, drenched in blood and laughing maniacally, was far more terrifying than this moment.

"Everte Statum! Be thrown!"

"Immobulus! Be still."

Hermione's spell collided with Tom's, the two forces meeting in the air. But her magic was easily overpowered.

Tom's spell shot forward unimpeded, but Hermione swiftly leapt aside to evade it and launched her next attack.

"Glacius! Freeze!"

"Incendio! Burn."

The icy blast Hermione conjured was neutralized by Tom's flames, and he smirked with confidence.

The gap in their power was undeniable.

Hermione's spell was one of her most reliable, yet it had been effortlessly countered.

As she faltered, Tom unleashed his next spell—not just any spell, but a non-verbal incantation.

With no way to identify the attack, Hermione was forced to roll across the ground to evade.

"Serpensortia! Bring forth a serpent!"

"Vipera Evanesca! Vanish, serpent."

Hermione summoned a serpent in retaliation, but Tom effortlessly dispelled it.

Then, another silent spell shot toward her, and this time, she couldn't avoid it entirely.

The spell grazed her shoulder, leaving a shallow but painful cut.

"We have to do something!"

Even as he thought this, there was nothing Harry could do without a wand.

He clenched his teeth in frustration at the sight before him—his friend, a girl, fighting alone.

Was there nothing he could do to help? Nothing he could use to fight? Anything at all? He had to find a way to assist Hermione, even just a little!

Looking around desperately, all Harry could see were stones scattered on the ground.

Should he try throwing one? No, that wouldn't work. At worst, he might even hit Hermione by mistake.

A wand… Where's a wand!? Damn it, I'm such an idiot! Why did I throw mine away in the first place!?

As Harry berated himself, flashes of light surged back and forth between Hermione and Tom, illuminating the space as spells clashed.

But Hermione was the one being driven into a corner.

Tom could defeat her anytime he wished—this was nothing but a cruel game to him.

If I went back to grab Ron's wand… No, it's no use! I'll never make it in time!

The frustration of being powerless gnawed at him. Harry clenched his fists in helplessness, overwhelmed by his inability to act. He needed strength—strength to fight now, to save Hermione.

And then, as if answering his desperate plea—or perhaps by sheer coincidence—a pillar near him burst into flames, and something flew toward him.

It was a phoenix.

Its radiant crimson feathers seemed ablaze, with a long golden tail resembling a peacock's. Its golden beak and claws shone brilliantly, marking it as one of the most beautiful creatures in existence.

It was Fawkes, Dumbledore's pet phoenix, and it carried something in its beak.

"This is… the Sorting Hat?"

What Fawkes delivered was nothing more than the Sorting Hat, the magical item used to determine the house of new students upon their arrival at Hogwarts.

As it fell into Harry's hands, he felt an odd weight in it. Curious, he reached inside the hat. From its depths, a gleaming silver sword emerged, radiating an almost blinding light.

The moment he gripped it, Harry understood. This wasn't an ordinary sword. It held a mysterious power capable of countering even the likes of Tom Riddle or Mirabel.

It wasn't just any weapon; it was the tool he had been yearning for to save his friend.

What Harry didn't realize, however, was that the sword in his hands was none other than the Sword of Gryffindor, a legacy of the house founder himself. Only those deemed true Gryffindors by the Sorting Hat could wield this sword—a symbol of unparalleled courage.

"Taaaaaake this!"

Harry, clutching the sword with both hands, charged into the fray between Hermione and Tom.

Positioning himself protectively in front of his wounded friend, he swung the sword wildly, cutting down Tom's spells one after another.

No ordinary blade could accomplish such feats. Magic couldn't be cut by a sword.

But the Sword of Gryffindor was no ordinary weapon—it made the impossible possible.

"Harry… That sword…!" Hermione exclaimed in disbelief.

"I don't know! Fawkes brought it to me!" Harry replied.

Harry couldn't explain further. All he knew was that this weapon, brought by Dumbledore's phoenix, was now in his hands. That alone was enough for him to trust it and pour all his strength into wielding it.

When it came to making decisive moves in critical moments, Harry was second to none. He shifted his focus entirely to the fight, closing the distance between himself and Tom without hesitation.

"Take this!"

"Amusing."

Harry swung the blade sideways. Though his swordsmanship was amateurish at best, the weapon's sheer power compensated for his lack of skill. The blade slashed through a stone pillar like butter, grazing Tom's nose.

Yet, it didn't land. Tom dodged with ease, maintaining his smug smile.

"That's a fine sword you have there, Harry Potter. I admit, if it hits me, even I won't walk away unscathed."

Despite Harry's relentless attacks—slashes in vertical, horizontal, and diagonal arcs—Tom remained unfazed, dodging each strike with minimal effort.

He sneered mockingly. "But your attacks are laughable. Is this child's play? Swinging a weapon around like a primitive Muggle? Do you think that can defeat me?"

"Damn it!" Harry cursed.

"No matter how extraordinary the sword may be, what you're doing is nothing more than brutish flailing. Do you truly believe such a barbaric tactic could overcome me?"

Tom raised his wand. Harry barely managed to raise the sword to block, but the force of the magic sent him tumbling across the ground. If not for the sword absorbing the blow, Harry might have lost consciousness.

"A dragon-slaying sword, perhaps, but useless if it doesn't hit its target. No matter how sharp it is, a sword is just a sword—lesser than even a child's wand."

Tom unleashed a barrage of silent spells. Hermione, barely standing, conjured a barrier to deflect them. Harry's sword slashed through another spell just in time, but more attacks followed in rapid succession.

Despite it being two against one, Harry and Hermione were completely on the defensive.

We can't win… Not like this!

Hermione, her strength ebbing away with every passing moment, desperately sought a way to break through this dire situation.

But there was none. She had tried every spell she knew, exhausted every possible action.

It wasn't that her efforts had been wrong—it was simply that her opponent surpassed her in every conceivable way.

As long as she continued this direct exchange of spells, Hermione would never be able to defeat Tom.

This feels just like when I fought Mirabel in the dueling club, Hermione thought.

Back then, Mirabel had been toying with her, which allowed Hermione to hold her own. But this time, there was no such reprieve.

However, as Mirabel's name crossed her mind, Hermione recalled the girl's voice echoing in her memory:

"Not bad. But your way of fighting is a little too clever."

"Heh… Professor Lockhart said the key was to take your opponent's wand. That makes this a perfectly valid strategy, Granger."

Any method… as long as I can take his wand!

Narrowing her eyes with resolve, Hermione gathered every last ounce of magic she had into her wand.

She prepared a full-powered Flipendo, channeling all her remaining energy into the spell. Though still inexperienced, this desperate strike packed enough magical force to rival that of a skilled wizard's attack.

"Oh? So, you're betting everything on one strike? A futile effort," Tom sneered.

"Futile or not, you'll find out when you try to block it!" Hermione shouted, unleashing the spell—and at the same time, hurling her wand through the air!

"What!?"

Her spinning wand discharged the Flipendo spell as it flew, launching a chaotic, indiscriminate assault across the entire area.

Momentarily surprised by the unexpected attack, Tom froze for a split second.

Even so, he reacted faster. With an incantationless spell, he knocked Hermione's spinning wand out of the air.

But that brief distraction was all Hermione needed.

Seizing the opportunity, she rushed at Tom herself!

"!"

Startled yet again, Tom quickly regained his composure and aimed his wand at her.

Hermione grabbed Tom's arm, but her slender arms were no match for him. Without her wand, there was seemingly nothing more she could do.

Seemingly.

"Even barehanded, I'm strong enough. In close combat, you don't stand a chance."

Recalling Mirabel's movements from the dueling club, Hermione twisted Tom's arm.

She didn't know the name of the technique Mirabel had used, but her body remembered the motions.

By enduring the pain and observing closely, Hermione had unintentionally learned that "Muggle technique" from Mirabel.

She seized Tom's outstretched arm as he thrust his wand toward her.

Grasping his wrist, she applied minimal force to twist it outward and threw him off balance!

This was the essence of Mirabel's technique—a self-defense maneuver capable of flipping even a large adult, performed with skill rather than strength.

It was a Muggle move, something Tom Riddle dismissed as insignificant.

"Gah!? You dare use a mere Muggle's technique against me?!"

Tom groaned in humiliation as he was slammed into the ground by the unexpected counterattack.

But that moment of indignation was his mistake.

Hermione wasted no time. Throwing caution to the wind, she clung to his waist from behind, locking him in place to stop his movements.

Of course, given her smaller size and younger age, it was impossible for her to hold him down for long.

This was a desperate, reckless act, buying only a sliver of time.

…If she were alone, that is.

"Harry!"

"I got it!"

In response to Hermione's desperate shout, Harry charged forward, sword raised high.

Tom scrambled to ready his wand, only to realize it was gone—it had fallen when Hermione hurled it earlier.

And he couldn't run, not with the girl clinging tightly to his waist from behind!

"Get… off me—"

Slash!

Harry's sword cut diagonally from Tom's shoulder to his waist, releasing a spray of crimson blood.

Whether Harry hesitated to kill outright or was mindful of Hermione behind Tom was unclear.

But the blow, while failing to bisect Tom completely, dealt a grievous wound.

Tom staggered, coughing up a thick glob of blood, his face pale and drained.

And yet, he did not fall—perhaps because he was no ordinary being.

"…Impossible… This can't… be happening.

I, the future Dark Lord, brought low by two second-years?"

As Hermione released him and stepped back beside Harry, Tom muttered in disbelief, his gaze fixed on his bloodied body.

What was this?

Why was he bleeding, humiliated like this?

Why, as the future ruler of darkness, was he reduced to this pathetic state?

"This… this must be a mistake. It can't be… this absurd…"

Stumbling backward, Tom put some distance between himself and the pair.

Extending his hand, his diary floated up from where it had fallen and landed in his grasp.

As much as he loathed to admit it, he had no choice but to retreat. Through the haze of his confusion, Tom arrived at this bitter conclusion.

Though muttering incoherently, a part of him remained calm, fully aware of what he needed to do.

"I won't forget this… this humiliation…!"

With a glare full of venomous hatred directed at Harry and Hermione, Tom disappeared.

He had used a concealment spell, vanishing entirely.

The fact that he resorted to such tactics, a favorite of Dumbledore, was the ultimate humiliation.

His fury burned hotter than ever. Merely killing those two would not suffice.

He needed to crush them, force them to recognize the vast gulf in power, twist their faces with fear, humiliate them, and make them grovel beneath his feet. Only then would his rage subside.

Seething with this unbearable fury, Tom fled.

The self-proclaimed heir of Slytherin, the future Dark Lord, had been defeated by two mere children.

"Ha… ha…"

Tom staggered through the tunnel, still cloaked in invisibility.

He had suffered severe injuries, but they wouldn't kill him.

After all, he wasn't a true corporeal being—merely the manifested memory tied to the diary.

As long as the diary itself remained intact, Tom Riddle could not die.

This also meant that Ginny's soul, which he had stolen, would not return.

A twisted smile crept onto Tom's face as he walked slowly.

*"Heh… humiliating as this retreat is, they'll soon realize.

They haven't truly solved anything…"*

Indeed, nothing had been resolved.

While the basilisk was slain and Tom forced to flee, the core problem remained.

Without Tom's destruction, Harry and Hermione had failed to save Ginny, leaving the entire ordeal unresolved.

In the grander scheme, Tom had won.

"For now, I'll lay low… Rejoin my weakened main body, and next time…"

Swallowing his humiliation, Tom resolved to bide his time.

He let out a deep sigh, lifting his head as he continued forward.

And then… he noticed it.

A crimson-stained arm, slick with blood, protruding from his chest.

"…What?"

Dumbfounded, Tom stared down at the slender, pale arm extending from his torso.

The arm was flawless, save for the blood coating it, and its delicate fingers gripped his diary—his heart.

Following the arm back to its source, Tom turned to see her.

Standing there, drenched in blood, was the golden-haired girl who had killed the basilisk: Mirabel Beresford.

His other mortal enemy.

She wore a mocking expression, her laughter filled with malice.

"Well, well. Cleaning up after that basilisk was quite the chore. And now, I have to take care of this mess myself?"

"You… you—!"

Tom's enraged snarl was cut short as he coughed up another mouthful of blood.

It was already too late.

Harry's wand fell from his limp hand to the ground, the strength draining from his body.

Mirabel's arm, gripping the diary, unleashed a torrent of Fiendfyre at maximum intensity.

The cursed flames consumed both the diary and Tom's manifested form, erasing him completely in a blaze of red.

There was nothing Tom could do to resist.

The future Dark Lord vanished without a trace, leaving nothing behind.

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