It was you breathless and tall
I could feel my eyes turning into dust
And two strangers turning into dust
Turning into dust

Into Dust - Mazzy Star

He goes back to the chamber on his last day of school. He remembers how to open it, whispering a sibilant hiss of Parseltongue to the rusty tap that hangs over the stained basin. The metal snake curls itself around the tap and the sink, quite aptly, sinks. The bones of the basilisk still lie in the chamber, empty eye sockets accusing as he clambers over the rocks that litter the floor. He picks one up, throws it at the skull that lies connected to ivory vertebrae curving around the chamber. The stone sails into the mouth with a sharp clink as it strikes a tooth. He wonders why no one's ever magicked the skeleton away, why it's been left here to stare blindly at any intruder. He steps slowly towards it, hand outstretched. It looks so different now, almost harmless except for the sharp teeth. He runs his sweaty hand over the smooth, cool bone of the skull, which almost glows in the dim light. The hardened pads of his fingers run over every bump on this surface that once lay under layers of muscle and scales. All his memories of the basilisk are clouded by fear and poison and Tom.

Above, the seventh years are celebrating, enjoying the feeling of this new, sadness-tinged adulthood. Lavender bites back tears as she describes past escapades and future plans, and Parvati simply doesn't think she can bear it, it's just too sad. They notice that he isn't there, but they assume he's talking to someone else, or he's in the bathroom, or he's gone to his room to pack up some forgotten books. For such a hero, Harry's absence is almost ignored.

Ron and Hermione sit next to each other in the common room, her hands folded into his, her mouth next to his ear, whispering all sorts of things that make him blush ferociously. They're too caught up in each other to realise that Harry isn't with Dumbledore, who smiles benevolently over them all. Harry isn't with any of the parents who are toasting themselves as much as their children for surviving the war. Harry isn't at another house's table, and isn't anywhere that he ought to be.

He is where he never should have been in the first place. He's covered in dust from the bones and stones that have lain undisturbed by anything but ghosts for five years. His glasses are smeared and his shoes are scuffed and he's searching, but he doesn't know what for.

Puddles of water still lie in the corners and crevices of the chamber, covered with sheens of rock dust. He swirls his name into the surface of one of the pools with his wand, Harry James Potter, and it reminds him of Tom writing his name in fire on the air. Tom Marvolo Riddle burnt into the molecules of nitrogen and oxygen. He obliterates the careful curves of his name with a flick of his wand and moves on.

Harry scales the statue of Salazar again, and looks down over the entire chamber. The walls glow with eerie phosphorescence and the water bounces the light back again. He has to blink to try to make out the edges of the room, the tunnels he ran through, the spot where Ginny lay dying so Tom could live. Harry remembers running his fingers through red hair and kissing her, but he's dreamed so many different things about that day that he doesn't know if he ever kissed her or not. He knows he ran his fingers through her hair, remembers the strands that fell out and twisted around his fingers. He remembers Tom standing above them both, smiling, laughing, eyes bright, hair dark, skin pale, all of him growing more vivid as Ginny was drained away, like a photograph developing.

He's tried to forget that sickening moment of indecision when he didn't know whether to be a hero or not. He was so tempted to leave Ginny lying there, let Tom become real, stop trying to save the world for everyone else and just keep himself safe. But of course he settled for heroism. Of course he saved the girl and vanquished the villain. His life is planned out like that - good winning over evil and always being praised for it. Ginny killed roosters, destroyed his room, opened the chamber, got students nearly killed, summoned Tom, and no one blames her. For a year afterwards she walked with her head hung low and never spoke unless she was spoken to. Ron used to be so angry, afraid of what Tom had done to her *down there* before they arrived. Ginny never speaks of it, but it's telling that she's never had a boyfriend or even shown the inklings of wanting anyone except him. He thinks she likes him because he reminds her of Tom.

He's standing with his eyes shut, and it's so quiet that he can hear his breath and his heartbeat. There's the sound of a pebble falling into a pool. His eyes jerk open so quickly he disorientates himself, stumbling slightly. He pulls his wand out, glancing warily around the chamber. He's prepared for anything: the basilisk coming back to life, the roof of the chamber falling down around him, having to save Ginny again. He's almost relieved when it turns out to be Tom, stepping out from behind a pillar. Except Tom is still evil, and Harry is still a hero; and the villain isn't supposed to come back: it's not what's written.

Tom looks more like him now, or maybe he looks more like Tom. They could be a darker version of the Weasley twins: one standing high above the chamber, one leaning against the stone walls. He scrambles down as quickly as he can without breaking his neck, and all the time, Tom just stands and smiles, never says a word. Tom walks across the chamber towards him. His footsteps make no noise, his robes don't rustle, and Harry can't hear him breathing. Harry can't hear anything but his own breath and the echo of his climb down the statue. Another pebble falls into a pool somewhere in a distant corner of the chamber, but Tom keeps walking, is closing in on Harry and Harry keeps looking at Tom. They're the same height now, only ten feet away from each other, nine, eight, seven, still walking slowly towards each other. His attention slips from Tom's eyes to Tom's mouth, which is still smiling that infuriatingly smug smile. It's not like they're going to make conversation, he thinks, and steps forwards to press himself against Tom, wrapping his arms around Tom's waist.

Tom's skin looks as though it should feel cold. Harry feels the scratchy fabric of the robes chafe against his hands and Tom's cock pressing into his leg. He runs his fingers through Tom's hair like he used to stroke Ginny's hair. He leans in to press his lips against Tom's, and with every breath of his on Tom's skin, Tom becomes more solid until Harry's kissing someone real, not just a shade. Tom's lips get redder, his breath becomes warmer, and Harry is finding it more difficult to breathe or do anything because he just wants Tom.

This is how Tom created his army, thinks Harry, as he falls to his knees and fumbles through the folds of Tom's robe for the zip of his trousers. This is how he made those men and women and children kill for him, because they all wanted him. Screams of terror, green light shooting from windows, this will be, this is, this was the man who killed my parents.

Harry takes Tom's cock in his mouth and tries to forget about death, orphans, scars, everything that has made him a hero. Tom has still made no sound, and now Tom's cock in his mouth and his own tears muffle Harry's breath. Tom's skin gains a rosy flush as he comes in Harry's mouth, and Harry feels that little bit thinner, that little bit more ephemeral as he swallows the way he imagines Tom swallows. He's more legend than human now, like Voldemort himself.

His skin feels more like Tom's now; eerily smooth and chilled like the bones of the basilisk. Tom is aging as Harry runs his fingers down his cock and presses their lips together; his hair ruffled out of its perfect parting and graying at the temples, wrinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes. He grows older, feeding from Harry. His eyes are fading through brown into red and his skin is like crepe paper stretched over sharp bones. Harry moves away with a gasp, wiping his mouth, and Tom melts back into youth so quickly that Harry isn't sure he saw what he thought he saw.

Tom's hair is still dishevelled, and Harry smoothes it down before kissing Tom again, and Tom tastes himself, salty-sweet on the soft lips of the boy. Harry moans softly, the first noise either of them has made, and Tom kneels to return the favour. He leans back as Tom smoothes his robes aside, much less clumsy than Harry. All Harry can do is clench his teeth and close his eyes.

Tom is a master at this, with years of experience in his mouth. He runs his tongue lightly along Harry's cock, teasing him. Harry's scared to move in case Tom stops to ask him what's wrong; he's scared to stay still in case Tom gives up in disgust. He runs his hand through his hair until it matches Tom's and he dislodges his glasses, which fall to the floor. He breathes harder and harder, his mouth open and trying to not to cry out. When Harry comes, Tom's eyes flicker up, gauging his reaction. Harry feels like five years of dust have settled in his throat. He bends slowly to feel on the floor for his glasses, but there's no sign of them. He feels a knot of panic in his stomach, pats the floor frantically, feels in the puddles, and finds nothing. When he straightens up, his glasses are balanced on Tom's perfect nose.

They've always looked similar: the same dark hair, the same bright eyes, and the same pale skin. But he doesn't remember Tom's hair being quite the same shade as his, nor his eyes that shade of green, nor his cheeks flushed with pink. And he knows for a fact that Tom's tie has never been a Gryffindor one, but there it is, looped carelessly around his neck. He looks down at himself quickly, to reassure himself, and sees the twist of silver and green around his own neck. Tom disappears into the darkness while Harry is still speechless, leaving his memory behind in the stones and the puddles and the dust.

The world isn't going to know what hit it.

End.