A/N:

warnings on the previous chapter apply to this chapter, too

Chapter 3

no, no body, no crime.

Life went back to normal. As normal as it could be, given that Ginny was still 'missing'. Everyone believed she had gotten cold feet regarding her marriage. Harry couldn't stand it. The judgmental eyes that followed him around were bad enough; it sickened him that Ginny's vibrant, courageous personality had been reduced to romance gossip fodder.

So Harry kept to himself. He only left the house for work and groceries, and when he wasn't at work, he made plans.

Then one afternoon, Molly Weasley showed up at Finnigan's.

Harry had been busy swapping tyres for the past several weeks. Snow was beginning to stick to the ground, triggering an inevitable rush of townspeople who had put off their winter tyre changes until the last minute. The garage was booked solid leading up to Christmas, and Harry was making excellent overtime.

"Mrs. Weasley," Harry greeted. "What brings you here?"

Molly had lost weight since Ginny's disappearance. The friendly demeanour Harry was used to was nowhere to be seen; instead she stared at him like he was a particularly large bear with two heads that had had the gall to sit down at her table for Christmas dinner.

"Winter tyres?" he asked politely. "I'm afraid we're fully booked through the next two weeks—"

"Where is she, Harry?"

Harry's blood ran cold upon hearing the undisguised hatred in her tone.

"I don't know where Ginny is, Mrs. Weasley." When she failed to speak, he added, "I'm sorry. I'm sure the police are doing all they can."

Her hand rose slowly, pointing at him. "This is your fault," she said.

Harry should have felt hurt. He should have felt disappointed, or angry, or betrayed. Anything other than the nothing that had taken up residence in every part of his body. There was only the cold, only the numbness, only the promising embrace of water that awaited him once his task was complete.

"I'm sorry," he repeated, still polite. Molly liked it when he was polite, he remembered. She had commented on it enough times that it had stuck around in his mind. "I don't know where she is. Is there anything I can do to help?"

Molly's face distorted with anger as she lunged towards him—Harry flinched backwards in shock.

"Do you even care that she's gone? Or are you glad that you don't have to pretend anymore?"

"Pretend what?" Harry asked cautiously, taking another slow step back.

"You led her on," Molly accused, her voice shooting up several octaves, the flush of anger rising to her cheeks. "You led my daughter on, and then you broke her heart! She was happy with Tom, and you couldn't stand it, could you? You wouldn't leave her alone!"

"I never led her on," Harry protested, then winced at how weak his own defense sounded. "I swear there was nothing going on between us. We're just friends."

"Bad enough you got her into all those fights at school," Molly continued loudly, as if he hadn't even spoken. "Encouraging her to get up to all kinds of terrible things! I gave you the benefit of the doubt for years, Harry. I wanted to believe you were a good boy, that you would make my daughter happy someday. But now I see who you truly are."

Harry knew what she was about to say. It did not make her cruel judgment of him feel any better—in the end, it was only confirmation of what he already knew about himself.

"You are a sickness," she spat, shoving a finger in his direction. "A plague upon my family, as awful as Petunia warned me you were!" She had to stop, then, made breathless by her rage and lack of restraint, her chest heaving from the force of her shouting.

"You cost me my son," she whispered. The fight in her was draining away, dwindling down, exposing the raw emotions that lived underneath. "And now you've cost me Ginny, too."

Harry was stricken. The numbness from before was gone. The pain he'd fought to hold back was like ice water, soaking him to the bone. The sheer misery was too much to think about, too much to bear. Harry missed the emptiness, missed the distance from his agony and despair. He wanted it to stop. He wanted it to end, to lose his ability to think and feel and hurt.

"I didn't," he pleaded. "Mrs. Weasley, I swear."

It was an accident.

Molly's face was streaked with tears and snot, the heat of her anger finally splintering and giving way to pure anguish. "I never want to see you again, do you hear me?" she sobbed, her voice cracking terribly in the middle. "Stay the hell away from my family."

Harry could only stand there, absorbing the brunt of her temper, taking on the burden of her pain. It was, he thought, the least he could do.

"I'm sorry," he said, violently miserable. "I'm sorry, I w-won't. I won't reach out or anything, I swear. I'll leave you alone."

Molly's wild gaze fell upon him, her watery blue eyes shot through with streaks of red. Out of all the Weasley children, only Ginny and Ron had inherited their mother's eyes.

As she stared at him, her breathing began to settle. "See to it that you do," she said. Her voice was softer now that she had composed herself. Harry noted the purple shadows under her lashes, the physical evidence of her grief. How many sleepless nights had she gone through, worrying over Ginny? How many more would there be while she waited for Ginny to come back?

Harry's face crumpled in on itself. Ginny would never be coming back.

Molly left. Harry stood there for long minutes after, thinking of his childhood, thinking of Ginny.

Maybe Molly was right. If he had set aside his stupid pride, he could have married Ginny. They could have been happy together, even if they were not in love. Harry could have kept their childhood dreams alive and convinced her to run off with him. They could have explored the world together.

Part of why Ginny had stayed in their small town was because of him. She loved him in her own way, just as he loved her in his. They had sworn to stay by each other, and it was not an oath they had made lightly.

Now that she was gone, what did he have left? He had no degree to his name. He worked at a garage. He lived in a town where people would forever hate him for the devastation he had caused.

All of this was true, and yet here he was, planning to murder the man who had revitalized their hometown into somewhere worth living. It was laughable, the course of his life, but he would not be deterred from it. Tom would die, and then Harry would find peace.

It was later that week when Tom began to make public outings. He was cordial to everyone he spoke with. He asked politely for space as he went about his business. Percy was a constant by his side, the best sort of deterrent, snapping at everyone who came within a six-foot radius of his boss.

Harry watched from a distance. What he needed was to get Tom alone. A direct invitation was out of the question; there could be no evidence left behind. The last thing Harry wanted was for Ginny's reputation to be further ruined by his own actions. Suspicion would be cast on him regardless, but there was no point in making it easy for them.

So his request had to be spur of the moment, and there had to be no witnesses to tie him to Tom's untimely disappearance.

Harry could be patient. He could wait for the right opportunity and go from there. His plans typically turned out well when he played them by ear, and one small variable in the grand scheme of things hardly mattered. All he had to do was lure Tom away for a little trip down Godric's River.

One of Harry's few inherited possessions was the small fishing boat that had belonged to his father. It was the only luxury item that Harry owned, and he had invested a decent sum of money into keeping in good condition. It would suffice for transporting the body.

As for after the murder, well—Harry had spent nearly a decade of his life cleaning the Dursley's house to his Aunt Petunia's unholy standards. Cleaning a crime scene could hardly be more difficult compared to that.

And after that... Harry was in no hurry to hasten what came after Tom's death. So he could be patient.

Of course, Tom seemed intent on making the process as difficult as possible. Whenever they were near each other, Tom's eyes would seek him out, drawn towards him like a moth to a flame. This pattern repeated day after day, leaving no doubt that Tom's actions were just as intentional as Harry's were.

There was no escape. Harry could only hold still while Tom's gaze roamed over his face and body—like Harry was his property rather than the man who was going to put him six feet under the ground.

It left Harry in the uncomfortable position of having to choose: either he had to become more discreet with his stalking, or he had to convince Tom to come to him. Harry knew what Tom wanted out of him—his submission—but he was not eager to give Tom any measure of satisfaction.

Harry wanted Tom dead by Christmas. To make that happen, he would have to make a decision soon.

There was one week left till Christmas when Harry received a second visitor at Finnigan's Garage. This time, Seamus walked over instead of shouting from across the room. Harry had not expected to be approached—he and Seamus had not spoken much lately. If Seamus was stupid enough to believe the same lie as everyone else, then Harry didn't care enough to correct him or be friendly to him.

"Riddle's here to see you."

The flat tone made clear what Seamus thought of such a visit.

"Awesome," Harry said, injecting as much sarcasm into his response as he could. "I'll just skip out to reception for a fun little chat." He wiped his hands on his jeans and stood up.

Following his visit to Tom's house, Harry had gone through all the recent records here at the garage. Neither Tom nor Ginny had brought their cars in for servicing over the past three months. It was confirmation that Tom had gone out of town to get his tyres changed—and the only reason to have tyres changed out of town was because the old tyres had contained evidence. That the winter weather provided an excellent excuse was probably a bonus.

Harry shoved his way into the main part of the building. It was warmer here because the heating was turned on full blast to keep their clients toasty and comfortable. Tom was dressed in a long dark grey coat and standing by the front desk. In his hands were a pair of black leather gloves. Upon spotting Harry, he tucked the gloves into his pocket.

"Harry," greeted Tom. "I was hoping I'd catch you here today."

Harry made a show of glancing around. "Left your assistant at the office?"

"Something like that." Tom's friendly smile dimpled on one side. He straightened the lapels of his coat and inclined his head in the direction of the door. "Walk with me?"

"Seamus will wonder where I've buggered off to."

"Ah." Tom arched a brow. "And you care what he thinks?"

Harry wasn't in the mood for Tom's mind games. "I work here, so yeah. I kind of have to give a shit."

The pretense of politeness melted off of Tom's face. In its place was a cold mask. "A moment, then."

Tom swept past, moving so swiftly that Harry nearly fell over in his scramble to get out of the man's way. The door just behind Harry squealed loudly, then fell silent. The sharp notes of expensive cologne lingered in the air like rot.

A minute passed. Harry's heart rate had only just resettled when Tom came back through the doorway. "Lucky you," Tom said breezily. "You've got yourself an extra fifteen minutes of break, darling."

"Don't call me that," Harry snapped, but he still followed Tom to the exit.

Tom held the door open, gesturing with a flourish. "After you, Harry."

Harry trudged into the icy parking lot. The pavement had been freshly-salted last night; granules crunched under Harry's boots as he breathed in the crisp December air. His coat was inside, but if this walk was as short as Tom claimed it would be, Harry would be back at the garage before he had the time to catch a cold.

"So what do you want?" Harry asked cautiously. He wanted to stuff his hands into the pockets of his jeans to warm them, but he needed his hands free in case Tom tried something. Tom's predatory gaze was unfortunately familiar to him now, therefore he would not be taking any chances.

Tom ignored the question and kept walking; Harry had to jog a bit to keep up. The sky was a luminous grey, the sheer cloud cover backlit by the brilliant sun. Tom cut a fine silhouette against the picturesque winter backdrop—the shape of his nose was outlined by a tinge of pink, a reminder of the flesh and blood that lurked beneath the pale, marble-like skin.

"Hey," Harry said, irritated. His hand snapped out to grab Tom's elbow. As his fingers caught on the stiff fabric, Tom halted, freezing in place so suddenly that Harry jolted half a step forward before also coming to a stop.

Slowly, Tom turned to face him. Harry's heart thumped loudly in his chest; he hoped that it was the only evidence of his frazzled nerves.

"Answer my question," Harry bit out, glaring.

Tom smirked. "I came here for you," he said, his tone casual, as if the answer was obvious. "Why else? You left so abruptly the other day. One might have thought you were… afraid of me."

Harry removed his hand with a grimace. He wanted to put some distance back between them, but Tom's taunt had set his feet stubbornly in place. Had that taunt been intentional? Was Tom manipulating him even now?

"Consider it to be because I couldn't stand the sight of your face anymore."

Tom's smug expression did not falter. "Hatred is all fine and well. Now, apathy —that is much more difficult to work with."

"Ha," Harry remarked, unamused. "Well, if you're here for my company, I don't think I've got anything left to say to you. Sorry to have wasted your time."

Harry steeled himself, then swiveled on the spot, turning his back to Tom. They were in public, he thought. In plain sight, in view of the main street. Tom would not try anything brash where people could see them.

That logic did not stop Tom's soft voice from calling after him. "The night before Ginny left us, she came to talk to me. Do you know what she accused me of?"

Harry's hands went numb as his last conversation with Ginny came flooding back. His hands clenched into fists as he took a deep breath, willing himself to stay strong. He did not turn around, though—if he did, he would be in very real danger of socking Tom in the face.

"Yeah? And what'd she say?" Harry retorted. "That you're a manipulative asshole?"

Harry heard the slow sound of Tom's exhale. "Nothing as harsh as that. No, you see, she accused me of apathy. Of not caring for her. My lovely wife. One year into our marriage and the spark was already lost—or so she thought. Could hardly be true if it was never there to begin with."

Harry gazed at the sky, praying for his restraint to hold, and spun back around. "Are you still trying to push that on me? Ginny didn't love me. Not like that. That is utter bullshit and we both know it. Just because you've got the rest of the town convinced—"

Tom might have the town fooled, but that wouldn't matter for much longer. Harry was going to kill him.

That thought held Harry steady. It kept his head clear. Harry let his hands relax enough to hang down at his sides.

"Ginny grew angry when I couldn't give her the answers she wanted," Tom said conversationally. "Answers that would give her a way out of her sad, loveless marriage. She was distraught. She accused me of seeing someone else." Tom laughed in a cold way that made Harry's blood boil. "But I could hardly be blamed for that, as I'm sure you've realized. She should have tried harder to keep me interested."

"She loved you!" Harry seethed, his desire to rein in his anger torn to shreds by the smug look on Tom's face. "How can you stand there and talk about her like that?"

Tom's words were enough to drive anyone mad, Harry thought wildly. It was a wonder that Ginny had not lost her temper sooner. But then again, Tom had proven himself adept at avoiding blame, and Ginny had been too confused by her husband's sudden change in behaviour to be properly mad with him.

"Past tense?" Tom asked, raising a brow.

"What?" Harry snapped out, unthinking.

"You claim that she 'loved' me," Tom said pointedly. "Past tense."

Harry fell silent. He was unable to voice his true thoughts without arousing suspicion. His belief that Ginny was dead, and that Tom had been the one to kill her.

Tom eyed him a moment longer, then resumed walking. The two of them had to have been standing out here for longer than fifteen minutes. Maybe it was time for Harry to make an excuse and leave. Anything Tom said about Ginny would only make Harry more upset. If this conversation continued, Harry would end up doing something hasty.

"My father," Tom said suddenly, dragging Harry's attention back to him, "was the heir to a large fortune. He was taught that money solved all problems. My mother, on the other hand, was born into a lower class—but my father loved her regardless. They married young. She was the only person he loved, and she died giving birth to me." Tom smiled without humour, his lips thinning out. "To say that my father raised me would be an understatement. To raise a child implies a degree of care—none of which I received. Any capacity for love my father possessed, it died when he was widowed."

Harry blinked. "Am I supposed to feel sorry for you?"

Tom clasped his hands behind his back, his shoulders straightening. "I know my father blamed me for her death. He could hardly stand the sight of me on a good day, but I had no other close family to rely on in his stead. No grandparents to turn to for advice, no siblings to seek companionship with. My father arranged for a Christmas family dinner every year, and that was the only time I ever saw my other relatives. So it was a lonely existence, growing up on my own, even with an excess of luxury at my fingertips." Tom smiled again, this time wider. It failed to be wholly believable. "Imagine my unending delight when Ginny informed me she had not one, but five older brothers. A family fit for two, she told me. A family to share."

A family to share. Harry swallowed thickly. Those words had once been said to him, too.

"Love is a powerful thing," Tom murmured, his gaze softening as it fell upon Harry, who could not help the way his body tensed in response. "Grief even more so."

There was a pause as the words sank in, their meaning lost in an ocean of confusion. Harry no longer knew what Tom was trying to get at.

Then Tom's eyes grew brighter, shining with an exhilaration that was unnerving. "But you, Harry, are an outsider like I am. You see the world for what it truly is."

Harry was itching to run away and not look back. He felt cornered by Tom's fanatical gaze. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"You see how backs have turned on you, how readily they betray you and refuse to listen to logic or reason. How they dig their claws in without remorse. But these are also self-inflicted wounds. Wounds that occur when you invest yourself in those who will inevitably abandon you at the first opportunity." Tom paused mid stride, whirling around. His hands were thrown out, their palms spread in an earnest appeal for Harry to listen and agree. "Those who are weak-minded will welcome whatever offers them the quickest comfort, they will distort the truth until it is ruined, made disgusting and unrecognizable by grief and pain."

Tom's voice had turned pleading, almost desperate. Something about this struck a chord in Harry, so when Tom stepped closer, for once Harry did not pull away.

"They don't care who they hurt," Tom said fiercely. "The town that claims to care for Ginny Weasley would sooner throw one of their own to the dogs rather than admit to their own failures." Little by little, Tom's hands lowered, then stretched out, crossing the chasm between them and taking Harry's hands into his own. "They are the ones who failed her," Tom said gently. "Not you."

Harry's breath froze in his throat, but Tom only continued, still in that same kind tone, "They may disparage her memory, Harry, but have no doubt that their inner demons will someday destroy them."

It was wrong. It felt wrong. But Harry was caught up in the thrall of Tom's speech. He was unable to articulate his thoughts well enough to argue. "I don't—that doesn't matter to me. It doesn't matter to me what they think about me."

"Oh, I know it doesn't," Tom said soothingly. His hands were startlingly warm as they closed over Harry's, covering them up. "But it matters to you what they think of her. A woman driven mad by heartbreak. Emotional. Weak. Reduced to a love interest even in the eyes of her own family." Tom sneered, and then his face contorted, the features sharpened by an unexpected fury. "Grief is worse than weakness. Grief destroys. It twists and disfigures without fail, leaving multiple victims in its wake."

Victims like Tom, who were left to fend for themselves. Harry could acknowledge the cause of Tom's anger, even if he disagreed with its results. Tom's childhood had been unfair; a child should not be blamed by their parent for such a tragic event.

Grief was not supposed to last forever.

No, that wasn't true. Harry didn't quite have the right to say that.

Years later, the skeletons in his own closet continued to rattle, the bones as white as they'd been the day he had carried them in. Those bones had never held still long enough to collect dust.

Grief may not last, but his guilt certainly did.

Harry's hands were still held hostage by Tom's tender grasp. As they stood there, the frenzied fire faded from Tom's eyes, replaced by an eagerness that was impossible to avert his gaze from.

"Grief brings misfortune in its own ugly way. But you, Harry—" Tom's voice broke off, sounding choked, then took on a tone of utter reverence as he ran his fingertips over Harry's wrists, tracing endless circles over the sensitive skin. "You are made gorgeous by your grief. Forged by fire, birthed into beauty."

The words were raw, hypnotic, the honest quaver of each syllable as potent as the gentle, tentative touch of Tom's hand. Harry couldn't move, could hardly think or breathe. He was losing track of himself—of where he was, of which pieces of him were his own and which belonged to Tom.

"Shaped by the hands that harmed you," Tom breathed. "Reared to manhood by memories of the dead. Even now, you hold fast to your defiance. Even now, you wield your strength in the palm of your hand, more powerful than any god. Even now, you find yourself fascinated by the morbid. Drawn to the decay that razes cities to the ground and transforms good men into mad ones.

"I am the same," Tom promised. "Cut from the same cloth of neglect and despair. Built by those same hands of harm." To emphasize his point, Tom's grip constricted, clutching with a deliberate pressure that squeezed the delicate bones of Harry's hands together. "So you see, all I do has reason, and the reason is clear: the parts of the world that can be laid to waste, must be.

"It is the only way forward. The vapid cruelty must be culled, the ignorant sheep brought to heel," Tom said. Then he began searching Harry's face, the veil of obsession giving way to a frightening acuity. "Only then may we form a society that respects the true balance of things."

Harry did not know what expression flashed across his face in response to this, but it must not have been kind because Tom pulled back, the fevered look in his eyes shuttered, leaving only blankness.

"Think on what I've told you," Tom said curtly, at last releasing Harry's hands from their imprisonment. "I have faith in you."

Harry said nothing, but Tom did not wait for a response—he shifted backwards a few steps, his gaze trained on Harry's face, then turned on his heel and walked off.

It took several minutes for Harry to regain his common sense and walk back to the garage. The tips of his ears were frozen solid, but his hands were uncomfortably warm. Harry shook them out, trying to dispel the phantom sensation of Tom's touch.

His skin was crawling all over, and for a second Harry was tempted to stick his hands into the nearest snowbank, but he had already wasted enough time talking to Tom. Seamus was going to be pissed that he had left in the middle of their busiest season for a personal matter. Harry would just have to suck it up and get back to work.

Tom's speech persisted like an earworm throughout the rest of Harry's shift, spilling into every minute of every hour. It was not until later that Harry realized what had him feeling so shaken.

Tom had spoken to him with familiarity, like he had peered into the depths of Harry's soul and then proceeded to dismantle it into children's building blocks.

Harry had only ever spoken to Ginny about the Dursleys. Had she told Tom? Had Tom somehow uncovered it on his own?

There were few explanations for the explicit way Tom had spoken about mistreatment and abuse. If he and Tom really were alike, if their respective lives were the consequence of devastation and misery, then maybe it made sense for Tom to know, to understand, to recognize the signs and acknowledge the past that Harry wished to forget.

Tom had looked upon Harry and identified his own likeness. He believed that they were kindred spirits, that the shared pain of their mangled histories would bring them together.

He was wrong.

Tom wanted the world to burn, wanted for people to suffer like he had as a child. He would torch everything without a shred of regret. Fire was deadly, destructive, the weapon of choice for those who did not care about collateral damage. It burned without discrimination, eliminating all life in its path.

Water was different. It was patient with its path of destruction, eroding stone slowly over time. Water nurtured the treasured lifeforms that lived in its depths and flooded the rest to oblivion. Water gave life, brought life to all living things, and it also could take life away.

When Tom met his untimely end by Harry's hand, he would not burn, would not be engulfed by flames. When Harry killed him, his body would be washed away by the river.

A/N:

so i started on the next chapter, but we'll see if i have it ready to post by tom's birthday -sweats- encouragement is always appreciated!