Archive of Our Own ^beta

Harry picks up the phone. The call is from an unknown number and while he knows he shouldn't answer it, Tom isn't here to reprimand him.

"Hello, Harry Potter speaking. Who is this?"

"Mr. Potter," says the voice on the other side. There's something grave about it, and Harry's heart beats faster. "Your husband has been killed."

Harry laughs. It can't be right. The person has to be messing with him.

"Tom does not 'get killed' he—"

The voice sounds pained: "Mr. Potter, we have reason to believe the victim was Tom Marvolo Riddle-Potter. "

Harry very nearly drops the phone. "It isn't, stop lying," he says, more serious this time.

Tom cannot be dead. Tom does not die.

"You can come see the body yourself." The voice is resigned.

"I will," says Harry with determination. This is just someone sick in the head, thinking that Harry would actually believe him. "Where will I be coming?" he asks, and when the other guy gives him the address, he writes it down.

The station is pretty close to their house, but Harry still drives. The car ride is quiet, with only his thoughts with him. The death will be in the news if it actually happened. It isn't a particularly comforting thought, but it keeps Harry going.

Sooner or later, he will find the liar.

A sound.

The sound of police sirens.

The sound of paramedics.

The sound.

The road is blocked off from here, but Harry stops either way. His heart is beating too fast. Too fast. It has to be a coincidence. Please let it be a coincidence. There are other cars around, moving past the accident but not him. He doesn't even see them as he parks the car on the side of the road and walks towards the sirens.

"He- HEY, stop right there!" Harry ignores it, keeps on walking forward. He has to know.

"I said STOP!" yells one of the officers, coming up in front of him. He has red hair, and his face is dotted with freckles. "What do you think you're doing?"

Harry is tired. Tired of all of it. "I got a call saying Tom Marvolo Riddle-Potter had been injured."

Instantly, the officers entire demeanour changes. What was before irritation becomes sympathetic and piteous. Harry hates it. The officer sighs, "You're the spouse aren't you?"

"Yes." It is sharp, almost a threat. Harry is fully prepared to go through the officer if he doesn't allow Harry to see Tom. The officer grimaces, and Harry does not like it.

It means something bad has happened.

"I-I don't think you're going to want to see the body mate," he says in an absurdly gentle tone. Harry looks at the man's badge.

Ronald B. Weasley it reads.

"Mr. Weasley, with all respect, move." Harry knows he shouldn't be talking to an officer like this. He knows, but he can't help it. It's a part of him, and he's done so since primary school.

Weasley runs a hand through his hair. "Your choice, but it's not pretty." He moves aside, letting Harry walk through.

Blood.

There is so much blood. It's the first thing that he sees. Glass shards are everywhere, and he watches his step, letting Weasley guide him.

"Hey, this was on his finger, it's how we knew to call you. I'm guessing you'll want it back."

It's Tom's wedding band. He never takes it off. They both have each other's names engraved on the inside. Now it is in Harry's hand, not attached to Tom.

It is Tom, and Harry is not ready to accept it. He's not.

"I will," he says, and then he makes the mistake of looking around.

The next thing he sees is the body.

Harry collapses like a puppet with his strings cut, legs giving out under him.

Its mutilated. Harry can't even tell who it belongs too. The face is all cut up, and the body.

Oh the body.

Harry wants to throw up then and there.

Where there should be the shoulders, there is nothing.

The head is completely separated from the body. Harry can even see a bit of the spine. Organs are squishing out. The chest is cut into two. The arms and legs are bent at an odd angle. One that is not natural.

It sickens him.

How adamant he was that it couldn't be Tom. How sure.

Now he knows it is.

Even with all the damage to the body.