Harrow

It’s a horrible day for a funeral — sweltering heat sticking his shirt to his back. 

It smells like sweat and wilting lilies, their sickly sweetness curdling against the sharper bite of freshly turned earth.

Harry stands near the back, watching as mourners shift uncomfortably, dabbing at sweat-slick foreheads while Eliot Owen is lowered into the ground. The coffin creaks as it descends, the sound hiding beneath the murmuring crowd and the rhythmic, hollow thud of dirt striking polished wood. Too expensive for the filth it holds. 

The sky is overcast, but the light is harsh, bouncing off the glossy mahogany like it agrees with him—like it, too, wants to set the coffin on fire.

A church bell chimes in the distance, marking the hour. The widow departs first, her steps weighed down by an emotion Harry doesn’t care to name, supported by a son who looks more inconvenienced than grief-stricken. Harry shifts, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. 

He wonders, again, why he’s even here.

The Ministry cleared him within hours. Even Scrimgeour, with all his suspicions, couldn’t argue against airtight alibis and lack of evidence. But Harry hadn't left it alone. He couldn’t. Someone had gutted Eliot Owen, left runes carved in flesh, and used his name to sign it. If they thought he’d walk away, they didn’t know him at all.

He isn’t the only one watching. 

Near the grave, Kingsley and Moody stand like statues, eyes sweeping the crowd. Other Aurors are scattered throughout, some in plain clothes, others in uniform. Kingsley catches his gaze and scowls, as if to say, fuck off.  

Harry scowls right back. 

The Aurors are wasting their time. They’ll comb through Owen’s finances, question his associates, and chase dead end leads. Harry’s seen it before. The moment the press loses interest, so will the Ministry— and they will, soon, especially with the crime scene scrubbed clean. 

He shoves his hands into his coat pockets, turning to leave.  

Then he sees him. 

A man stands just beyond the gathering, in the shade of a towering yew tree. Sharp suit, dark curls slicked back, hands clasped neatly in front of him. There’s a faint, respectful smile on his lips, just shy of patronizing. Like a mockery of obedience.

Harry knows a predator when he sees one.

The man moves towards him, the press of grass soft beneath his steps. 

Up close, his presence is even more unsettling. His brown eyes lock onto Harry’s— smooth, unblinking, almost unnatural. A shadow of a beard darkens his jaw, and he’s handsome in the way venomous things often are.

He slips a cigarette between his lips, takes a slow drag, and exhales a curl of smoke into the thick air. With the faintest tilt of his head, he turns to Harry.

“I imagine this must be difficult for you,” the man says smoothly. His voice  is rich, polished, expertly masking the last trace of an East End accent.

Harry tenses. “Should it be?”

“Tom Marvolo Riddle. I don’t think we’ve officially met.” Riddle extends a hand. 

“Harry Evans.” He takes Riddle's hand, pumps it twice, and lets go. “I think I saw you at the Ministry when Owen was questioned. Thought you were his lawyer with the way you were hounding him. Got a spare?”

Riddle offers him his last cigarette, and Harry inhales as Riddle leans in to light it for him. The flame flickers briefly before catching, and Harry breathes in. Warm breath curls at the base of his lungs, creeping upward like ivy. It’s pleasurable, almost like magic, and he savors it despite the company.

“He suffered a great deal, you know.” Riddle takes another drag, his eyes fixed on Harry. “You accused him of heinous things, and the world turned against him for a time. Though, I imagine his wife is rather pleased he’s dead.”

The cigarette dwindles to a smoldering stub between Harry’s fingers, the heat kissing his skin. He flicks it away, watching embers scatter against the packed dirt. Whatever tolerance Harry had managed to cultivate has slipped away.

“If you’re looking for guilt, you’re wasting your time,” Harry says, voice flat. “I wanted him to rot in Azkaban.”

“Pity your expertise couldn’t wring a confession out of him,” he continues, watching Riddle carefully. “Even after you ruled him unfit for Veritaserum.”

Riddle hums—a quiet, thoughtful sound. Then: “What happened to your hands?”

The shift in subject is a wreckoning. 

Harry’s hands flex; scarred, stiff in places. He shoves them into his pockets. “It was a long time ago.”

“Fire?” Riddle muses,  too light for the weight of it.

Harry exhales. “It’s not something I talk about.”

Riddle studies him, gaze considering. “If you don’t like talking about it, why not get them healed?”

Harry scoffs. “Not talking about it doesn’t mean I want to forget.” He nods at the cigarette. “Enjoy your smoke, Dr. Riddle.”

“Don’t go.” Riddle half turns calmly. “I apologize for the intrusion. It’s difficult for me to not ask personal questions. Comes with the territory.”

He holds out a card, and it’s like watching a snake uncoil. 

Dr. Tom M. Riddle
Psychiatrist 

“Give me a call if you ever need insight, Mr. Evans. I can see you won’t stop until you figure out the truth.”

Harry takes the sleek paper and watches Riddle vanish into the crowd of mourners. Only then does Kingsley step into his line of sight, his massive figure blessedly blocking out the sun and curious reporters.

“I thought I told you to fuck off, Evans.”

“You did.”

“And?”

Harry steps out of his shadow and back into the blasted heat. It really is a horrible day.  

“It’s a funeral, Auror Shacklebolt. Let me mourn in peace.”

“Mourn? The fact that it didn’t happen sooner?” 

Close enough. He doesn’t bother to look back as he turns on his heel. “That my sabbatical is officially over.”

“Evans, you will be charged with obstruction if you interfere.” Kingsley calls after him. “Scrimgeour— 

“—will have no choice but to call on me when another body is found.” 

Harry smiles viciously, his teeth bared like a wolf to the hunt.