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They say there are five stages of grief...
Denial
Tom Riddle wasn’t dead. Harry Potter couldn’t understand why people kept telling him that, when Tom would never have succumbed to something as common… as trivial as death. So he remained propped up in his bed, ignoring the faceless voices that told him that it was okay to be shocked. He knew needed to sleep, but why couldn’t he just lie down and close his eyes?
Of course he couldn’t sleep now. Tom hadn’t come home yet, and Harry couldn’t understand why they couldn’t understand that Tom would be home any minute now.
He laughed as they told him over and over that “Tom’s gone, Harry”, “He’s dead”, and “You should try getting some sleep now.”
He couldn’t sleep. Because if he slept, that meant waking up without his soulmate beside him.
And besides, Tom would be home any minute now.
Anger
It took two days and two nights for Harry’s body to succumb to sleep. As he woke up, reaching for a warm body that wasn’t there, and instead being handed his glasses by someone who wasn’t Tom, he began to wonder if maybe all those people had been telling the truth. Because if Tom wasn’t here then that meant he… he…
“Where is he?” His voice was hoarse from disuse, so he cleared his throat and tried again, louder this time. “Where is he?”
Someone was speaking to him, but the words were muffled as if he was underwater. He couldn’t hear a word they were saying.
Harry began to tremble. “Where is he?”
Now there was a ringing in his ears.
The shaking wouldn’t stop.
“WHERE IS HE?” Now he felt as though he was falling very fast. The world was falling from beneath him and there was a rushing in his ears, much like the roar of wind. Because deep down, he knew the answer. “He lied to me,” His voice was quiet once more, but the trembling was only getting worse. Harry had the sudden urge to paw at his ears because he couldn’t hear a word he was saying. “He promised he would come back and he didn’t come back. He didn’t come back and… and now I’m alone and…” His breathing was coming out faster and faster and finally he could hear the words he was saying. But only because he was screaming at the top of his lungs. “HE LIED TO ME!”
Half aware of hands gripping his arms, Harry thrashed wildly, determined to get free so he could find Tom and kill him because he promised to stay.
When everything faded into darkness minutes, or perhaps hours later, Harry was still screaming.
Bargaining
Tom couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t.
And even if he was, there had to be some way to get him back.
The first time Harry went outside after Tom’s death was to go to a bookshop. Two weeks and nearly fifty books later, he was back to being angry. How was it that in a world where it was possible to become invisible, turn back time, and fly, there was no way for him to bring back the dead?
Outraged, and unable to bear the thought of a life without his soulmate, Harry leaned against his bedroom wall and sank to the floor.
Harry had never been one for religion. His life had been so shitty up until now that the idea of some divine being watching over him was ludicrous. But on the off chance that there was something up there, Harry began to pray.
Please bring Tom back to me. I don’t know if I can survive without him.
If you want, you can take me instead…
Depression
Tom Riddle was dead, and Harry Potter was in mourning. He knew he should have moved on by now; it had been two months, and they had been dating for just over double that. But the connection they had… it had been forged in grief and loss and pain and love, and it had been a fiery inferno that had burned so strong and hot and now; it had left Harry cold and empty in its wake.
It was as if there had been a void inside him that he had never really noticed. Then Tom came and filled that void, and now that he was gone, he was left emptier than ever before.
It also felt like a rodent was gnawing at his insides, leaving his chest empty and hollow. His heart must have been beating because he wasn’t dead yet, but Harry was certain the heavy lump in his ribcage couldn’t possibly be working properly. Because there was a deep, mournful ache that he was certain hadn’t been there before.
Harry was no stranger to death, but never before had he thought of it so deeply.
Perhaps it would be better if…
If it all just went away.
Acceptance
Six months after the death of Tom Riddle, Harry Potter finally moved on. The ache was still there, but at least it didn’t consume every waking thought anymore. It was bearable. If there was one thing Harry was good at, it was gritting his teeth against pain and moving on with his life.
Even so, the loss of Tom felt like the loss of the sun. While he had been there, the world had been so bright and full of colour. Worth living. Without him, Harry’s life was dull and colourless. But he supposed he should start getting used to that.
But I’d like to add one more.
Revenge…
Rubbing the soft fabric of the scarf between his fingers, a bitter smile appeared on Harry’s face. This gift reminded him of Tom more than anything else he owned. The way Tom had given it to him… “This way you won’t look so ridiculous when it’s cold - that Gryffindor scarf is an insult to fashion everywhere in the world.” Harry missed Tom’s biting remarks more than anything else. Nowadays, everyone treated him like he was made of glass, and might shatter at any moment.
It had been one year exactly since the day it all went to hell, and he could still picture Tom’s face the day he gifted Harry the scarf; lit up with joy and affection. But Harry feared the day that the memory would fade, just like many others he had already lost.
Harry wished he had taken more pictures.
He was startled from his musings by a knock on his front door. Nobody was expected, and he wondered if perhaps his friends had ignored his wish to be left alone today. Maybe he just wouldn’t answer…
As usual, his curiosity got the better of him.
The trek downstairs took more out of him than he cared to admit, but he eventually made it to the door and opened it, expecting to see a sheepish looking Hermione offering her condolences.
There was nobody there.
Instead, a letter lay on the floor by the entrance, and Harry wondered why whoever left it didn’t post it like any normal person would. But he just shrugged his shoulders, picked up the note, and headed back inside. He couldn’t really be bothered to care.
Considering Tom’s position and how many enemies Harry still had despite his lover’s death, he didn’t bother checking the note for any curses. If something happened to him… well, he was still working on his ability to care about that either.
The note was very short.
It as Rookwood. He was the one who fired the curse.
In front of Harry’s eyes, the note crumbled to ashes in his hand. But he didn’t care. He didn’t care about anything besides the flame that had lit itself inside his chest, right where his heart used to be. It wasn’t just anger. It was a righteous fury that had been burning and festering for a year, without anyone to direct it towards. But now Harry knew.
Rookwood killed Tom.
Now Harry would kill him.
It felt odd to be out of the house with real purpose in his heart. For months now he had been going through the motions, pretending he was fine when really, it was all he could do to stay upright. But today, there was a fire burning in that empty space where Tom used to be, and it was almost enough for him to forget the pain of his loss - the pain that was just as fresh as it had been twelve months ago. Nothing had really changed.
At least now he had someone to blame.
He apparated almost without thinking - a dangerous habit to get into, but Harry’s anger was so strong, he was able to focus at least enough of his mind and magic to avoid being splinched. Rookwood’s mansion wasn’t one Harry had visited often, but he had been forced to come to enough of his parties by Tom that he knew what sort of wards and defences to expect. Namely, not particularly strong ones. Harry’s rage coupled with the power of the Elder Wand was easily strong enough to shatter the wands without so much as breaking a sweat.
Now he just had to hope Rookwood was arrogant enough to come and see who had broken through his wards, rather than apparating away. It seemed that, for once, luck was on Harry’s side. Or maybe it was a careful calculation he hadn’t even noticed himself making? Regardless, within less than five seconds, Rookwood came sprinting out the front of his house, wand in hand, already yelling obscenities at whoever dared break into his home.
Harry didn’t bother hiding himself with magic. He just waited for Rookwood to realise who had bothered him, and understand that he wouldn’t be leaving this encounter alive.
However, just as arrogantly as Harry could remember him being from their few brief meetings, Rookwood took one look at Harry, and immediately started to speak. “I was wondering when you’d finally show up. Took you all this time to muster up the guts did it?” The words just kept on coming, the man apparently oblivious to Harry’s growing fury. Or perhaps he simply didn’t care. “I expected you much sooner. You’re much too Gryffindor to survive long in this world, Potter - or did no-one ever tell you that? Well, I suppose it doesn’t matter anyway. After I killed your pathetic excuse for a boyfriend it was only a matter of time before-” The torrent of words stopped, cut off by an odd choking sound coming from Rookwood himself. The man clawed at his throat, unable to understand why he could no longer speak.
Meanwhile, Harry’s hand was trembling with rage. The way Rookwood spoke of Tom… he couldn’t give less of a shit about the things the man said about him. Yet the way he talked about Harry’s soulmate. Like he was nothing. Like he didn’t matter. Like it was anything besides dumb luck that allowed Rookwood to strike the killing blow.
So, Harry had to get him to stop talking. In all honesty, Harry wasn’t entirely sure what spell he had used, or if his stupidly sentient want had anticipated his desire and done it for him, but whatever the method, the end result was the same.
Rookwood didn’t have a tongue anymore.
It took several moments of choking and gagging before Rookwood realised what was wrong. And only then did he finally - finally - have the respect to look afraid. Because Harry had just cursed off his tongue non-verbally, seemingly without raising his wand.
“Not so good at non-verbal spells huh?” Harry asked. They were the first words he had spoken in a long while, and they sounded hoarse and deep. He supposed it was fitting that the final words Rookwood heard would sound as though they were coming from Death himself.
Although he hadn’t thought particularly long and hard about what he planned to do when he arrived, Harry had considered whether or not he wanted to torture Rookwood. Murder was one thing, but did the man deserve to hurt? Yes. Of course he did. But was he worth the effort it would take Harry to hurt him? Tom would have said no.
So instead, Harry raised his wand with a finality that must have shown on his face. Rookwood didn’t even attempt to defend himself. He simply stood there, frozen in fear, without moving so much as an inch when the green jet of light hit him in the chest.
Harry didn’t wait around once he was certain the man was dead. The burn in his chest had lessened considerably, but it felt as though the edges of the wound were beginning to close up. Finally, finally, the closure he had been looking for. Who would have thought death would be the thing to grant it to him?
For the first time in a year, Harry smiled. A real, wide, joyous smile. One that wasn’t forced, or painful, or more of a grimace than anything else.
Tom would be proud.