A/N:

tw this chapter for gaslighting, manipulative behaviour, panic attack, vomiting, depressive/suicidal thoughts

Chapter 2

but i just can't prove it.

Harry wiped the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. It was a gross feeling made worse by the chilly atmosphere of the drafty garage. His nose twitched, prompting him to sniffle as he rubbed his hands together to warm them. It was fine. A few more hours, then he could go home and relax.

"Oi, Harry! Granger's here to see you. Make it quick, yeah?"

An unexpected visit. Harry brushed his jeans off and snatched up a cloth to clean his hands. "Sure thing. Thanks, Seamus."

Harry pushed through the door that led to the reception area of Finnigan's Garage. Hermione was waiting for him there. She gnawed on her lower lip, her hands flexing and tapping against the flat side of her purse. The buttons of her coat were misaligned, and her hair was in bushy disarray, the fullness of it barely held back by a dozen bobby pins. It was the way she typically wore her hair when she'd not had the time to brush it into a semblance of order.

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

She made the strangest sound, a cross between a squeak and a yelp, then ran forwards and flung her arms around him in a silent, soul-crushing hug. "Ginny's gone missing."

Harry's arms automatically curved to hold her, his hands pressing against her shoulder blades. He rubbed a slow circle over her back before her words caught up to him. "Missing?"

"Tom's been at the station all morning filing the report. She hasn't been home since Wednesday. No one's seen her, she didn't go in for work—" Hermione had her face buried into the crook of his neck, but she lifted it to stare at him, her eyes wide and imploring. "Tom says she must have run off. But it's not like her, Harry. I'm worried. You haven't heard from her, have you? She'd never leave without saying something to you."

"I haven't," Harry said, feeling numb. His arms fell to his sides as the shock hit him. Ginny was missing.

Hermione had her arms wrapped around his waist, but she dropped them slowly and took a step back. "Do you think she ran away?"

Harry's vision flickered, shades of blue dancing over Hermione's concerned face. Echoes of the past called to him like warbled siren songs, but one voice was clear above the rest.

Do you think he's cheating on me?

"No," he said.

Hermione looked taken aback by his firm tone. "No?"

"No," Harry said, resolute. "She wouldn't have run away. You're right. Ginny's not like that."

"Then what? Kidnapping?" Hermione said, her voice rising as she spoke. "Where could she be?"

"I don't know," Harry said, but the response was reflexive. It felt insincere. "There isn't anything you can do right now," he added. "You should go back to work. Or go home. Let the police do their jobs."

Hermione shook her head. "How could I? What if she's hurt, or in danger?"

"There isn't anything you can do," Harry repeated, even though the statement tasted bitter in his mouth. "I'll find out what I can. Have the Weasleys been told?"

"I suppose they must have. Percy was there." Hermione's lower lip wobbled dangerously for a brief second before her expression firmed. "I'm going to brush up on the laws and regulations regarding missing persons cases," she stated. "If anyone even thinks of slacking or letting evidence slip through the cracks, they'll have to answer to me."

Harry saw Hermione to the door and gave her a hug farewell, but inwardly he was panicking. Ginny was missing. Ginny was missing, and he was likely one of the last few people to have seen her aside from Tom.

Would the police come to ask him questions? They probably would, once they were finished taking Tom's statement. And no doubt Tom would be kicking up a fuss, demanding to know the whereabouts of his wife.

Had Ginny gone missing during the middle of the day? Late in the evening? When had Tom noticed? How had Tom noticed, if he was so preoccupied with work?

Precious hours had been lost to them because Tom had neglected his wife. The police could have done something sooner. A search could have been started sooner. Harry's imagined movie reel of Tom's dramatic visit to the police station distorted, shattering into a pure, unbridled anger that bubbled up inside of Harry like a raging storm.

Tom had done this.

Harry was utterly certain, the truth of it crashing down upon him as a new scenario played itself out in his mind's eye.

Ginny confronting her husband with her concerns about his behaviour. Ginny confessing that she felt their new marriage had lost the fresh bloom of love. And Tom, with the entitled temper that Harry had come to expect from rich men with no morals, lashing out in a fit of violent fury.

It seemed absurd. Harry had only met Tom a few times, one of which had been at the wedding. The entire town bowed and scraped at Tom Riddle's feet, desperate for the rush of his magnanimous attention. To any outsider, Tom was the embodiment of a good, faithful man.

But Ginny's concerns were not unfounded. She had been anxious. Afraid. A wrong accusation would have ruined all that she had worked for, all that she had cobbled together for herself from the ashes of her childhood. To point a finger at her husband was to battle against the endless tide of those who claimed he could do no wrong.

Harry was not afraid of that tide. For Ginny, there was nothing he wouldn't do, no fear that held power over him. Tom Riddle was a man, not a god. Harry would stick a shovel right into the damp soil beneath Tom's feet and start digging.

The weekend passed without any new information. Harry was questioned by the police, but unfortunately he had very little to tell them. He did not divulge anything regarding Ginny's marital concerns. The Weasleys were not seen in public save for Arthur, who presented a tearful face on the local news channel, pleading for Ginny to come home.

The headline was tragic: only daughter of small town mayor goes missing. Mentions of Tom were made, of course, and a photograph of the wedding was included in the news broadcast. People lamented the absence of a vibrant young woman who had dreams of entering the world of journalism.

Harry stared at his television screen. Ginny had been so excited to have a spring wedding, but Harry could not recall Tom expressing such an enthusiasm. What stuck out in his mind was Tom's puzzling attentiveness to the details of the wedding, and Tom's curiosity regarding the past events of Ginny's life.

Ginny loved Tom. She'd confessed this love time and time again. The very first confession had taken shape as a delicate, uncertain whisper to Harry. It had been a shared secret between two friends huddled beneath a blanket in the middle of Creevey's corn field, under the starry night sky.

Then that whisper had grown, later presenting itself as a confident declaration to the world while Ginny stood at the altar, her hands held in the palms of the man she would soon call her husband.

According to George, Tom had indeed thrown a fit at the police station and gotten himself kicked out. He'd been in his manor ever since, refusing to speak to anyone aside from Molly and Arthur.

Did Tom love Ginny? Given recent events, Harry was hard pressed to believe so. His previous doubts of Tom's culpability had been supplanted by an indescribable anger. As far as Harry was concerned, Tom was guilty . Guilty of harming Ginny, guilty of causing her disappearance.

But how to obtain proof? Details of the investigation were being kept quiet, shared only with family. With Tom.

Whenever he had a spare moment, Harry flipped through photographs on his phone. Albums and albums of Ginny and Tom's blissful wedding. These photos were all Harry had, and this was all he could do—examine the photos over and over again, searching for fault, searching for the missing element that would allow the rest of the pieces to fall into place.

Meanwhile, his new, distracted mannerisms had drawn attention. Public opinion of Harry was mixed. Most of his friends thought he was simply distressed and depressed, so they let him be. Others, mostly strangers, were certain he'd gone mad with grief. They averted their gazes when he walked by, unable to look him in the eye. The idea of Harry's unrequited love for Ginny persisted even now.

But the worst were those who thought he was deranged. They believed that he had something to do with Ginny's disappearance. He was a spurned lover, an unwanted freak who couldn't stand to let good folk live their lives. Harry figured those rumours must have started with the Dursleys and paid them no mind.

The world moved on, but Harry grew no closer to answers or a resolution. The longer he spent reviewing material from the wedding, the more convinced he was that Tom had not loved Ginny at all. It was not love that Harry glimpsed in those dark eyes. It was not the same golden glow of adoration that radiated from Ginny when she held Tom's face in her hands.

Even if Tom knew how to love, he did not love Ginny. Tom held no love for Ginny, yet he had married her anyway. It baffled Harry. Ginny had no money, no titles, no properties to boast of. Why make her vanish, why hurt her? What had Ginny ever done to deserve such a cruel, uncaring husband?

There were answers to be had—Harry only had to reach out for them, pry them from Tom's hands. So Harry was forced to take his own advice, the advice he had given Ginny in their usual booth at Padfoot's:

Go and talk to Tom.

Tom and Ginny's house was more of a manor than a homestead. Compared to the surrounding houses, it was downright palatial. Prior to Tom's arrival in their small town, this estate had sat empty for as long as Harry could remember. The owners lived in Australia, or so it was speculated. They had never come to visit their secondary dwelling.

There was a car parked in the driveway—Tom's car. It glittered under the frosty winter sun, glinting fiercely in a way that blinded Harry through the lenses of his glasses. As he walked past it, Harry noted that the tires were new.

That gave him reason to stop dead in his tracks and stare, if only because he would have noticed and remembered a car as nice as this passing through Finnigan's. New tyres in this weather was not surprising—Harry even recognized the make of these winter ones—but where had Tom gotten them changed?

Finnigan's was the only auto mechanic in town. Had Tom gone out of town for new tires?

A chill skittered down Harry's spine, one that had nothing to do with the cold weather. Harry pulled his coat tighter around his body and kept walking.

Harry stepped onto the wide stone landing that led to the door, his hand moving to hover just over the doorbell. There was a wreath on the door, fresh green decorated in pine cones and tiny silver baubles. At the base of the wreath, a brilliant silver bow was artfully tied and tucked into the evergreen branches.

It did not feel like the holidays were approaching. Thoughts of Ginny accompanied Harry everywhere: her voice spoke frequently in his head, and her watchful eyes were witness to his half-cocked investigation.

Dreams of Godric's River plagued him every night now, waking him in the mornings with a breathless gasp and a nameless fear. As Harry counted the days since Ginny's disappearance, the shadows under his eyes grew deeper and darker.

Harry pressed down on the brass button, ringing the doorbell.

A chime echoed behind the grand wooden doors, signalling that there was a visitor. Harry tried to imagine Ginny in this large house with no one but Tom to keep her company. It must have been quite the adjustment for her to go from a household full of noisy brothers to a dignified mansion that housed only two.

A stiff breeze brushed against Harry's face. He shivered, jerking his body in a hop and shake, wishing he'd thought to wear a scarf. Then the door swung open, its large metal hinges silent as a mouse. As the entrance hall unveiled itself, Harry laid eyes on the manor's singular inhabitant.

Tom was wearing a navy blue button-down shirt that was tucked into plain brown trousers. It was a casual outfit that surprised Harry, for he had only ever associated Tom with suits and crisp white shirts.

Then Tom's questioning eyes landed upon him, sweeping up and down in a cursory way that made Harry's stomach swoop. Tom said nothing in greeting; he merely stepped back and gestured Harry into the entrance hall.

There was facial hair gathered along Tom's neck and jawline. Harry's immediate impression was that it was hilarious—society's standards for clean-shaven men would function as support for Tom's portrayal of a devastated husband.

The entrance hall was large and composed mostly of marble. Marble flooring, marble accents. A small Christmas tree draped in tinsel sat in the corner next to the staircase. Harry recognized it from its previous place of honour at the Burrow. That was Ginny's influence staring him in the face. She was sentimental about things like that.

Ginny owned a small wooden jewelry box that had been passed down from her grandmother. It housed all of the shitty holiday decorations they'd made at school, even the ones Harry had made and tried to throw away because they were, frankly, ugly as fuck. That box would be upstairs somewhere, buried amongst all of Ginny's new, shinier belongings.

Tom shifted, leaning his weight against one of the pillars that supported the walkway overhead. The silence was unnerving. Harry had come here to talk, to be the one who asked the questions, but now that he was confronted with the man he suspected of murdering his best friend, his words had run dry.

Harry cleared his throat. "How've you been?"

Tom's mouth curled into a half-smile. His arms unfolded from their closed position across his chest. "I've been better. And yourself?"

Harry couldn't vocalize it. What he felt could not be summarized in a simple sentence. The restless hours he'd spent agonizing over this very conversation melted like winter's first frost on his bedroom windowsill. He did not want to show any of his weakness to Tom. He did not want to let his anger run away with him.

He did not want Tom to win.

"Sleepless nights," Harry said slowly. "I expect you know what I mean."

"I do." Tom's amused expression sobered. He straightened and gestured to their left, to the living room. "Have you spoken with the Weasleys?" he asked as they walked.

"I didn't want to bother them."

Tom clicked his tongue once. The sound grated on Harry's ears. "There isn't much to say, I suppose. The police have little to work with, and what little they do have produces even less to follow up on."

They sat down. Tom in an armchair, and Harry on the loveseat. Both pieces of furniture were flawless black leather. Harry rubbed his hands together to warm them, a motion that drew Tom's attention.

"Forgive me. Did you need me to take your coat?"

"No." No to forgiveness, and no to the request.

Tom crossed his legs, one over the other, and let his heavy gaze wander over Harry's face. The look in his eyes was familiar. Harry had seen it before.

"Anything to drink? Coffee or tea? Wine?" The question was so casual that Harry had to stomp down the polite response that pressed up against his closed lips.

"No, thanks."

Tom hummed once, a low buzz that spilled into the tense atmosphere. At least, an atmosphere that was starting to feel tense on Harry's side of things. "I may indulge, then, if you'll excuse me."

A bottle was retrieved from the cabinet next to the empty fireplace. On the mantelpiece were photographs of Ginny and her family, Ginny and Tom, Ginny and Harry. Tom popped the cork of his bottle and poured out a glass of merlot. Harry glanced at the label—it was not Ginny's preferred brand.

"Does it help?" Harry found himself asking. To Tom's arched brow, he clarified, "Drinking."

Tom frowned, angling his head ever-so-slightly to the side. "A single glass of wine will hardly put me under, Harry. I don't make a habit of it, if that's your concern."

Harry fell silent. The familiarity of his name in Tom's mouth was discomfiting. It was not a level of acquaintance that had been earned. Not to mention Tom's implication—that Harry was concerned about him—sat wrongly in Harry's gut.

"We all have our ways of coping," Tom continued, in a drawl that was almost lazy. "Ginny... Ginny coped by burying everything away, by pretending everything was fine. How was I to know that she would run off?"

"She's your wife."

Harry was unable to hide the edge to his voice. His hands clenched in his lap, his fingertips digging into his palm.

Tom exhaled and set his glass aside. "You blame me for Ginny's disappearance. Your best friend." The tone was not quite mocking, but the inflection was sharp, derogatory.

Harry said nothing. He would not rise to the bait.

"Do you know what her brothers told me the day she announced we were dating?" Tom asked into the silence. "They told me she was in love with you. They told me that any infatuation she had with me would pass, and that if I tried to interfere, I would meet the sticky end I deserved." Tom's smile returned, a rueful twist of his lips that eventually resettled into a line of neutrality.

"They came around, of course. I was everything that Ginny could ever dream of. If she couldn't have you, well, then she would have to settle, wouldn't she? She'd have to settle for a man who could give her the rest of what she needed." Tom gestured to the space around them, to the opulence and splendour that his wealth could afford. "Financial support for her and her family. A proper place to live in, with rooms fit for a queen."

"It's not like that," Harry said numbly. These were words he'd repeated to so many others, words that now soured on his tongue. He and Ginny had promised to take care of each other. They had promised. "We didn't feel that way about each other."

"Perhaps you didn't," Tom allowed, relaxing back in his chair. "But she certainly did. You were all she talked about. Her Harry. Her rock." Tom laughed once, the sound full of self-deprecation, then bent forward, bracing his arms on his knees. "You think she was running from me? No, no, Harry. She was running from you."

"You're a fucking liar."

Harry could hardly move, he was shaking so hard, but he forced himself to his feet. Tom's words ignited everything all at once—anger, loathing, self-doubt—sending one emotion after the other rolling through his body in waves. Harry wanted to punch Tom's lights out. He wanted to hurl himself into the pain, into the connection of fist against flesh and bone.

"A fucking liar," Harry repeated, breathless, his teeth gritted hard enough to crack. "Ginny would never. She's stronger than you could ever be."

Tom sat back up, ran a hand through his hair. Then he stood, and Harry was struck dumb by the imposing presence Tom possessed, an aura of intimidation that could be called upon as easily as donning a mask.

"Do you really believe that? Look at us, Harry. The men she left behind." Tom drew closer, and Harry tensed, fight-or-flight instinct forcing its way to the forefront of his mind. "She is gone," Tom said coldly. "She was weak. Too weak to take what she wanted. Too weak to tell you the truth."

Then Tom's hand rose, pressing gracefully against Harry's chest, fingers splayed like a cage over Harry's heart, making each beat even more painful.

Harry couldn't breathe. Finally, he could place that familiar look in Tom's eyes. It matched the expression Tom had worn while asking his opinion on flowers for the wedding. It matched the way Tom looked at him now—full of rapture, full of fascination —only this moment was far more potent. Far more dangerous.

"N-no," Harry said, his voice high and strangled. He jerked his own hands upwards and shoved hard, pushing Tom away from him, then stumbled back in disbelief. "No, you're wrong."

The violence in Tom's gaze did not relent. His eyes raked hungrily over Harry's face, over the defensive position of Harry's balled fists, over the tremble in Harry's knees that threatened to topple him to the ground at Tom's feet.

"You're wrong, and I'm going to prove it," Harry spat, stepping back even further, wondering if Tom would let him leave.

But Tom said nothing as Harry edged for the door. Instead, Tom's mouth twisted oddly, contorting his face into an expression that Harry had never seen on Tom before.

Triumph.

Harry staggered into the cold winter air, his breath fanning out in heavy puffs of condensation. He did not stop running until he reached the main road. Then his energy ran out—he doubled over, wheezing for air, hands clammy and unsteady against his knees.

The world spun. Asphalt and dreary grey skies swam in and out of focus as Harry struggled to get a grip on himself. For an awful minute, Harry worried that he would pass out. His fingers dug into his trousers, the nails biting against the meat of his thighs. The mild pain was grounding. It restored clarity.

Harry breathed out, exhaled around the lump of guilt and regret that was rapidly expanding in his chest. Tom's deep voice drifted through his mind like a lazy show tune, a loop that was plastered over every square inch of his brain.

You think she was running from me? No, no, Harry. She was running from you.

His lungs burned, not with physical pain, but emotional pain. Harry choked out what might have been a sob and moved his hand to clutch uselessly at his throat, uncaring of who saw him. His fingers tingled unpleasantly—they were trembling badly. Harry dropped his hand and shut his eyes.

He had gotten none of the answers he had wanted, but he was dead certain that Tom had done it. Tom was the one behind Ginny's disappearance. Tom had done it.

Repeating this fact had the peculiar effect of relaxing him. Harry inhaled and let certainty fill his lungs. Tom had done it.

The way Tom spoke of Ginny, his entire demeanour callous and indifferent, was the ultimate proof. Tom could say all he wanted that Ginny had run off as the result of heartbreak. Harry knew the truth of his and Ginny's relationship. It was a truth that belonged only to him and Ginny. Ginny did not harbour any secret feelings for him—Harry would stake his life on it. His current guilt was rooted in a different failure; a failure to protect Ginny from Tom.

Harry went home. He made himself drink some water and take a shower, then collapsed onto his bed. Images of Tom's smug face invaded his mind, refusing to fade. Harry rolled onto his side and stared resolutely at his dull, eggshell-coloured wallpaper.

Was Ginny dead?

Harry did not want to confront this question, but what choice did he have? Tom was insisting that Ginny had run away, but he was the one behind her disappearance to begin with. Tom had made her disappear, but where had she gone? Somehow, Harry doubted that Ginny was tied up in the basement. Tom must have killed her. The sick feeling from before returned. Harry curled inwards, drawing his knees up to his chest. Ginny was gone. He was alone.

Did everyone believe Ginny had run away of her own volition? Had they bought the lies that Tom sold them, just like they had accepted him into their town? Harry was afraid of the answer.

The assumption that he and Ginny were in love with each other had never bothered him before. Now, though, it filled him with dread. They would blame him for this. They would not blame Tom, who was locked away in his house, bereft of his wife. They would blame Harry for breaking her heart.

Another black mark against him. Harry could never look any of the Weasleys in the eye again. Nausea swelled in his stomach—Harry fell out of the bed in his haste to grab the wastepaper basket.

The contents of his lunch were expelled from his mouth. Harry panted, trying to focus around the disgusting taste of his own vomit, and wiped at his chin with his hand. His hair, still damp from the shower, clung to his cheeks and forehead in sweaty clumps.

Harry dropped his head to the floor and paced his breathing. At least he hadn't accepted Tom's offer of a drink—not that he would trust anything from that bastard anyway.

After throwing up, Harry lost track of time, his eyes closed and his ear pressed to the floor. The occasional car passed by outside, headlights shining through his half-closed blinds to illuminate the carpet he was sprawled upon.

In his mind, he was apologizing to Ginny. One apology after another. He had promised to protect her. He had failed. Her piercing eyes followed him into sleep, merging with the heavy blue of Godric's River.

This time as the water took him, Harry did not fight back. The cold was a soothing balm, the rushing current a lullaby in his ears. He had weathered so much already, it was far easier to give up and let the river wash him away.

The water drank him in, stripped him down to nothing. Harry floated downstream, detached from his body, a drifting spirit. He'd never liked water as a child. He'd spent his teen years hating it and fearing it in equal measure. But now he greeted the river like an old friend, trusting that it would exact justice upon him.

The Dursleys called him a burden, a freak, a poison to society. They were not wholly wrong. All that Harry touched withered and died, a multitude of corpses swept away by the rivers of time. He had never learned how to be tender, how to cry when he was sad, how to build a future out of dreams. He had never learned to live a life untainted by pain.

Harry carried ghosts with him. He carried memories of their startled smiles at stupid jokes, their brightest, proudest achievements, their favourite foods for rainy days.

Everything that he loved about them lived on in his heart. That was the only good use for it, his heart—it didn't matter that it was keeping him alive. There were too many others who deserved the chance to live. They deserved it more than he did.

His parents. Ginny. Ron—

Harry missed Ron more than anything.

That grief was an ache that never let up. It was guilt that would never let him go. This pain had followed him in life, and it would follow him even in death.

When morning came, Harry felt hollow, empty of thought and feeling. His mouth was dry and gross and cracked, his hair flattened against the side of his face. His entire right arm was numb and prickly after sleeping on it. But none of that mattered.

Harry shuffled to his bathroom like a zombie and washed his face with water. He drank from the tap to soothe his parched throat, then examined his reflection. Haunted green eyes, waxen complexion. He looked like he hadn't slept in days, which was pretty much true. He hadn't slept through the night since the day Ginny had come to him for help.

There was little to be done about that now. He was awake, mostly-sane, and the way forward was clear to him. Harry had already failed so many times—failed the Weasleys, failed Ginny, failed himself—but there was one more promise he could do his best to make good on. One last course of action that would hurt no one but himself.

If he's cheating on you, then I'll be first in line to dump his body in the woods.

Ginny might be dead, but Harry would avenge her. He could not be permitted to dwell in his guilt when there was work to be done. He could not rest while Tom tarnished Ginny's memory with lies.

Harry would not give in, not until one of their bodies was resting at the bottom of Godric's River.

Tom would die, or Harry would die trying to kill him.

A/N:

comments are appreciated! the third chapter is already written, but the fourth one i hope to finish for posting on tom's birthday :)

merry christmas to those who celebrate!