Author's Note:As always, many thanks go my betas, Rogue25, RAfan2421, and TheDarkLord, for all of their fantastic help! Also, many thanks to anyone who has reviewed, read, and/or followed. I hope you enjoy!
Disclaimer: Anything that you recognize, I do not own. There are a large number of writers, directors, actors, production companies, and publishing companies that deserve a lot of credit, including – but not limited to – J.K. Rowling, Larry Karaszewski, Scott Alexander, Matt Greenberg, Stephen King, Thomas Harris, Michael Cooney, Mikael Håfström, Peter Webber, James Mangold, John Cusack, Gaspard Ulliel, Dimension Films, Young Hannibal Productions, Carthago Films, Dino De Laurentiis Company, Sony Pictures, Warner Bros., Scholastic Books, Bloomsbury Books, and Raincoast Books. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended. All direct and paraphrased quotes are cited where applicable and general citations of my inspirations will be included at the end of this fic upon completion.
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III. The Surge
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Harry's heart jumps to the base of his throat as he looks at what's left in the steaming aftermath. His entire form feels covered with the sharp scent that lingers from the fire like a physical thing, weighing him down, and he wishes he could scrape the taste of it from the inside of his mouth. The magical lights on the walls are scarcely bright enough to see between the jarring bursts of lightning from outside, but he knows what's there at the other end of the room:
Two charred, twisted bodies. One in the bed nearest to the wall and one on the floor next to it – mere blackened humanoid shapes of flesh chained together. There's a scorched knife dug into one of their wrists, as if they'd tried to cut free from it, to no avail.
Harry's almost thankful he can't tell the bodies apart – he'd hate to imagine how Ron would react if he knew that's his brother he's looking at. "Blimey," the redhead gasps, hesitating from stepping closer.
They all gather around the wreckage of the room, dark ashes sticking in their hair and clinging to the damp layer of sweat on their exposed skin, streaking in places where they had wiped it away.
"It vas ze radiator," Walden concludes with an uncertain air of finality. "Zhey're not supposed to run on magic, I zhink. Muggle invention. And vith ze var storm… wery unstable. Like ze lights."
"Have you had this problem before?" Hermione shrewdly questions, her eyes narrowing and her hands on her hips. Bright flashes of lightning in the windows behind her give her the silhouette of a mad scientist, her wild bushy hair practically standing on end.
Walden shakes his head. "No – no. Never. But, ze… Right here–" The barman moves forward and points to the dark square lump of metal that's the remains of the radiator next to the bed, where a seared uneven crust of something is adhered to the side of it. The rest of that something is a meagre pile of ash on top. "Somevon set zhis here. It gets wery hot, even wiff magic. Ze magic may haff surged und ze radiator started it on fire."
Picking up the mostly-unscathed sack of treasure, Greengrass sifts through it, wiping sodden ash off the edge of a gilded charger. "This has the Malfoy family crest on it."
"Yeah, tha's Draco…" Parkinson trails off with a sniff after emerging from the bottle of Firewhiskey she brought up with her from the bar. She was completely useless the entire time they tried to get the fire out. "I didn' recognize the man 'e came in with. Some Coalition bastard."
"Coalition 'bastard'?" Ron mutters defensively, glaring toward the Slytherin girl. "Got something against that, Parkinson?"
Harry's brows shoot up at Ron's suddenly threatening demeanor, but he refrains from getting involved, knowing that it wouldn't be welcome. To Ron, he's just a stranger in passing. It makes him wish he could go back in his own war, with Voldemort and horcruxes and his best friends and Dumbledore.
"She's drunk," Greengrass says, plunking the sack back down onto the floor and stepping in front Parkinson like a shield. "Don't mind her. Still a few kinks to work out on the neutrality front…"
"That's no excuse! It's people like her who get people like me killed! Like that bloke!" Ron shouts, pointing his finger indecisively toward the two burnt corpses. "I, for one, bloody well doubt this was an accident – Malfoy did this on purpose! It's what you lot do best, isn't it?"
"MY lot – you scummy little–"
The bottle of Firewhiskey in Parkinson's hand hits the ground with a glassy clink against the singed carpet, glugging its remaining contents all over the floor. Launching herself at Ron, Parkinson stumbles ungracefully, quickly caught in Greengrass' grip, the other girl's hand muffling her angered insults.
Sharing uncomfortable glances toward each other, everyone else in the room looks poised to either intervene in the fight or bolt from the room.
"LET ME GO!" Parkinson shouts through Greengrass' hand, her limbs struggling against the arms holding her back and her feet kicking out with intoxicated precision. She reminds Harry of a cat Dudley had thrown into a puddle when he was five.
"Not until you calm down!" Greengrass scolds, wrestling against her and dragging her out the ash- stained doorframe with an apologetic look thrown in Riddle's direction.
Harry can hear her incoherent screeches all the way down the corridor before her shrill voice disappears behind a closed door and he shifts awkwardly on his feet.
"So…" Hermione says, clearing her throat, "you think this wasn't an accident?" Stepping across the room and hovering over the dead bodies, she nudges the knife sticking out of the wrist of the body on the floor with her foot. "Maybe he was… stabbed?"
In the corner of his vision, Harry spots a familiar bottle of potion that he knows all-too-well sitting on the scorched nightstand: Dreamless Sleep. It's plucked off the table by Riddle's fingers momentarily and then set back down as Riddle's brow crumples in thought. Harry could almost be convinced by it if he wasn't certain that Riddle had something to do with this whole thing.
It's all to distract him from getting to that locket and Harry's eyes graze over the bag of treasure on the floor, ripe to pick through.
"In ze wrist? Zhat wouldn't kill him," Walden says. "I zhink–"
Crouching in front of the bag, Harry digs his arms into it as they all start harping on theories and gesturing wildly about how the whole 'accident' could have been murder, Ron coming up with the most outlandish of the explanations. 'If only they knew the truth…' As he reaches the bottom of the sack, not finding a single locket, disappointment pierces his nerves and he brushes his soiled hands off onto his damp – equally filthy – trousers.
Riddle is in the middle of explaining his theory of what happened and Harry watches him carefully, hiding his disbelieving glare.
"See how this one looks like he died sleeping?" Riddle says with innocent speculation sprawling across his features. His hands motion to the blackened body on the bed. "It's possible that he had taken Dreamless Sleep. It completely knocks you out; a train could run over you and you wouldn't wake. I wouldn't be surprised if both of them had taken it. But… perhaps, the person on the floor took a smaller measure and woke up, noticing the fire. My best guess is that this –" Riddle gestures to the charred body on the floor, "– is the prisoner of the person in the bed and, maybe, he couldn't find the key so he tried to cut his hand off to escape from the fire – thus the knife in the wrist." He pauses, straightening his posture and putting on an air of hesitancy and sympathy. "I don't believe I have to mention that he was… unsuccessful."
His explanation makes Harry's insides itch like a sore, healing bruise, which is only worsened by the somewhat persuaded looks on both Hermione and Walden's faces.
Not only had Riddle murdered Charlie and Malfoy, he made it look like an accident that he could rationalize with unsettling ease. But he knows Voldemort. Everyone else, on the other hand, has no idea that Tom Riddle is a vast arsenal and this is just one of his many weapons.
"I still think one of them killed the other one," Ron stubbornly replies, his arms crossing over his chest. "What do you think?"
The question is directed at Harry and he musters a shrug. "I'm not sure," he lies, sneaking a glance toward Riddle. His throat is unbearably dry – from the Firewhiskey and the fire – parched in a sharp way that makes his voice jagged. "It could've been an accident or something… else. It's not like we'll ever know what really happened – everything's too burnt to tell."
Everything except for the sack of treasure, and the bottle of Dreamless Sleep…
Harry's eyes narrow in thought as Ron mulls over his words with a scowl and they start filing out into the corridor.
The Dreamless Sleep backs up Riddle's explanation of things, but the sack of treasure… why wasn't it hiding under a bed or in the wardrobe? Why was it sitting out, just on the border of harm's way? The contents were covered in ash, which makes Harry think the bag was open during the fire, or else the treasure would've been mostly unscathed and protected by the burlap, even as singed as it was.
It's possible that the locket was in there – that Charlie and Malfoy were murdered for a reason other than distraction – only now…
'Riddle has it.'
Harry's stomach jolts uneasily, knowing it wouldn't be simple to steal it. What would he do? Sneak into his room while he's sleeping? Does Riddle even sleep? Also, knowing him, he probably has the blasted locket on him. It's not as if there's a cave full of Inferi readily available to stash it in.
He's stirred from his thoughts when a door to one of the rooms bangs open to his left and Parkinson staggers past him irritably, a towel wrapped around her naked body.
…Almost naked body.
Harry's eyes draw to the very locket he's been looking for, resting against Parkinson's perky towel-covered breasts, and his heart thuds against the walls of his chest like a moth at a light fixture. The emerald 'S' curving along the oval pendant is front and centre and instantly recognizable. Slytherin's locket. Riddle put the bloody thing on her!
He's not sure if that's better or worse.
Getting it from her would be just as tricky, though it would possibly involve less homicide…
"Oi!" Parkinson yells none too gracefully at the back of the barman's head, making him pivot on his feet. "The hot water s'not working. Think you could fix it?"
With a tired sigh, Walden wipes at his forehead, further streaking soot over his skin. "It's ze var storm, Miss Parkinson. Vee haff to rely on ze Muggle vater heater – vonce ze hot vater is gone, you haff to vait for more."
"…For 'ow long?"
"Forty minutes ze last time it heppened. Maybe more. Zhere is not much I can–"
"I have to wait forty minutes for a shower?" she interjects, swaying tipsily on her feet. "But s'your fault I got like this!" Her fists bunch where they're holding up her towel and unclench the moment Riddle moves to her side, his hand resting on her lower back and affecting her like a calming draught.
"It's fortunate that we're staying somewhere converted and not The Three Broomsticks," he says smoothly, directing a genial smile at the barman. "They don't have a Muggle water heater to rely on when the heating charms malfunction."
If Riddle hadn't lingered in the corridor, Harry would've taken the chance and jumped and snatched the locket from Parkinson's neck. Unfortunately, he's still not certain it's his ticket out of there, or he would have done it regardless of Riddle's presence.
It's got to be either kill Riddle, or get the locket – or both. Considering the circumstances, both is looking like the most probable outcome.
Figuring out exactly how to do it, however, is the challenging part. Especially with the war storm going on.
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Author's Note: Thank you for reading and please review!