“You’re dead, Harry Potter.”

Harry could barely make out Tom Riddle’s distant voice as he slid down the wall of the Chamber of Secrets, a searing pain spreading through every corner of his body. He felt weak, lethargic, his mind weaving in and out of a dreamlike state.

If this is dying, thought Harry, his vision spinning, it’s not so bad.

It’s not so bad.

He was alone, and it was silent. His searing pain had left him. In fact, he wasn’t sure if he could feel anything at all. He could not tell how long he had been there, or how long he would remain in this state. He was alone, and he was Harry Potter.

He would become conscious of the fact that he was lying naked, face down somewhere — and of the fact that he had eyes, which opened. Surrounding him was a thick mist, forming vague shapes around him. It was bright.

He stood with less effort than he had anticipated. His body felt different, lacking the residual aches and pains that he knew himself to have.

A light whimpering disturbed the deafening silence. He was not alone, it seemed. For the first time, he was keenly aware of his nakedness.

As if on cue, he noticed a set of robes directly in front of him. He grabbed them, putting them on. Just what exactly was happening and where exactly was he?

He surveyed his surroundings. The shapes appeared to come into focus. He was in a wide open space, a domed glass roof letting in copious amounts of light. The whimpering continued to echo through the space, increasing in volume, as he instinctively paced in its direction, towards what seemed to be rows and rows of seats.

He grimaced, staring at the creature curled up at his feet, nestled under a seat. It lay on the ground in the form of an infant child, shuddering and moaning in its place. It repulsed him, but he could not help but pity it. It was small, pathetic, and helpless, but also evoked in Harry a palpable fear, which he did not understand.

“It’s not your concern, Harry.” An unrecognisably unfamiliar voice echoed behind him.

He jolted, spinning round to ascertain the source of this voice. A woman with dark red hair and familiar bright green eyes strode towards him, accompanied by a man with glasses and untidy hair that stuck out in the back — just like his own.

Harry opened his mouth but could not find any words. He stared blankly, drinking in the incomprehensible sight that presented itself right before him.

“Mum?” he murmured, blinking. “Dad?”

“We were hoping we wouldn’t be seeing you here for a while, Harry,” said the woman, his mother, a kind expression shadowing her relatively youthful face.

Harry blinked again. “But you’re dead. Both of you.”

“Very much so,” said his father. Next to him, his mother gave a matter-of-fact nod.

“And … I’m dead as well?”

His parents gave a pair of mysterious smiles. “That’s up for you to decide,” piped up his mother.

Harry furrowed his brow. “Up to me?”

“Come, Harry.” His mother took him into an embrace. Harry’s eyes welled up. Could he cry here? Suddenly, he could recall the events that transpired before he arrived at this place.

“The Chamber! Riddle’s diary! He took Ginny into the chamber!” he cried between sobs. “The monster in the school was a basilisk! It bit me!”

He felt a reassuring hand rub circles on his back.

“We’re proud of you, Harry,” whispered Lily into his ear. A warmness trickled down his neck as she spoke. “You’ve done so much.”

“But … I didn’t do anything!”

His father approached, placing his hands gently on his shoulders. “You were so brave, Harry.”

“I —” A sudden, acute wailing interrupted Harry mid-speech. He glanced at the creature, still whimpering on the ground. “What is that thing?”

“A discarded burden. You will be able to live freely now.”

For a few long moments, the only sounds in the place were the pained groans of the creature on the ground.

Lily broke the silence. “We tried so desperately to protect you, Harry. We were told that you were doomed, trapped forever in a fate intertwined with the Dark Lord. The night we died, that fate was irrevocably sealed — or so we thought.”

“I’m not dead, then?”

“Only if you choose not to be.”

Harry sobbed into his mother’s shoulder. “Will I ever see you again?”

“When the time comes, Harry. When the time comes.”

When Harry opened his eyes, a familiar brightness greeted him, in a familiar situation.

He blinked. The long, bearded figure of one Albus Dumbledore loomed over him.

“Good afternoon, Harry.”

Harry squinted. “Professor?”

“My apologies. Allow me.” A metallic glint hovered towards his face. The world came into focus.

A sudden jolt of panic overtook him. “Sir, the chamber! Riddle’s diary was behind it!”

“It will no longer pose any threat.” Dumbledore gazed at him with a solemn expression.

“And Ginny?”

The old man seemed to become aged beyond his already wizened years at that question. “Miss Weasley, unfortunately, has departed from this world.”

Harry looked at the Headmaster with shock. “And the Weasleys? How are they faring?”

“As well as can be expected of them, dear boy. The family is currently in a state of mourning.”

“Sir, I saw my parents.”

The old man gave his beard a long stroke. “Curious, curious. And you spoke to them?”

“For the first time. They were so real, Professor.”

“I suppose they were.”

“They told me that our fates — Voldemort and myself — were intertwined, sir. There was this small creature — it repulsed me. Was I really dead?”

“As alive as you can be, Harry,” beamed Dumbledore. “Much more alive than you have ever been, I daresay.”

“I don’t understand.”

“The night Voldemort visited the home of James and Lily, he left a permanent mark, a sign of a connection between you and him. You had an ability — to detect his presence, to sense any strong emotions he may have been feeling, and perhaps to take a glimpse into his own mind. In my more recent observations, I was happy to discover, my dear boy, that this connection between you no longer appears to exist.”

Drawing out his wand, Dumbledore conjured an ornate mirror in front of his face. Harry instinctively drew his hand to his forehead.

“My scar … it looks faded.”

“It was the physical manifestation of your connection with Voldemort. Time may be able to heal most wounds, but not wounds that are actively sustained.”

“Riddle — he told me that I was a lot like him.”

“And do you think you are, Harry?” Dumbledore gave an amused look.

“No!” shouted Harry. “I’m different! I’m in Gryffindor! And I don’t feel particularly dark.”

The twinkle in Dumbledore’s eye became almost blinding. “That is the crux of the matter, my dear boy. You do not believe yourself to be like Tom Riddle and therefore you are not. It is our thoughts and choices that guide us to be who we are.”

Harry looked down at his hospital gown. “Will he be back?”

“I’m afraid so, Harry. Although the two of you are no longer magically bound, there remains a deep circumstantial connection that cannot be severed. Fate is a very fickle thing.”

“So I’ll face him again?”

The Headmaster sighed. “That, my dear boy, is a matter that will be best discussed in the future. Enjoy your time at Hogwarts, Harry. Get some rest. Madam Pomfrey has left you a potion for dreamless sleep on your bedside cabinet. I am certain that we will be having many similar conversations in the future.”

As Dumbledore parted, Harry swallowed the potion, instantly becoming overtaken by his own drowsiness. Still clutching the flask between his fingers, his newfound tiredness carried him into a deep sleep.

 

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Spoiler

Not bad! The main point of contention I have is that the transition from "dead with parents" to "awake with Albus" is a bit too abrupt. It's implied that Harry has a choice to live or stay dead, yet we don't see him actually make that choice. He just sort of wakes up.

If you edit it, I'd add an extra paragraph there to clarify the transition. I don't remember it being quite so abrupt in canon, though that Harry was 17 not 12.

I general though, yeah - fun story, neat idea, and Harry feels young. I appreciate that, as I am a fan of having young kids as the protagonist when they feel at least somewhat realistic (as in canon).