Author's Note: First of all, I'd like to thank my betas, Rogue25, RAfan2421, and TheDarkLord, for all of their fantastic help!This fic spawned from an idea I've had in my head since 2003. I've tried writing it many times before, between numerous releases of Potter books, and it never worked out for me. This is my fifth attempt – or, possibly, seventh. Writing this is like reuniting with an old high school lover after they've had a large amount of plastic surgery and a sex change. 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.

{Fractures}

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I. The Storm

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"It's going to be all right, sir," Harry says over and over again, hitching Dumbledore's uninjured arm further around his shoulders for a better hold. Carefully, Harry guides him back into the icy seawater that fills the crevice in the cliff, supporting most of his weight. "We're nearly there… I can Apparate us both back… Don't worry…"₁

"I am not worried, Harry," Dumbledore assures him, his voice strong despite the freezing water. "I'm with you."₁

Shivering and soaking to the bone, yet thankfully out of the cave, Harry concentrates harder than he had ever done upon his destination: Hogsmeade. Closing his eyes and gripping Dumbledore as tightly as he can, he steps into the feeling of horrible compression.₁

He knows the Apparation works before he opens his eyes: The smell of salt and the sea breeze have left, replaced by pouring rain, further drenching his clothes and weighing him down. But there's something wrong. Dumbledore's arm is no longer over his shoulder and the heaviness of supporting him is gone.₁

Harry's eyes snap open and his nerves spike with panic.

He's alone, staring out into a flooded, empty hedge-lined field that's definitely not Hogsmeade.

A flash of lightning strikes alarmingly close, shaking the ground around him and startling him. Abruptly, he whirls around, gauging his surroundings. He's standing at the side of a darkened country road, empty save for the light of a building not far up ahead, which he can only just make out through the heavy rain. Lightning flickers and booms through the sky above his head, the thunder loud enough to make his ears ring and he flexes his jaw trying to get them to pop.

Taking a deep breath, he concentrates again, closing his eyes and clutching his wand. Hogsmeade. He has to get to Hogsmeade. Perhaps Dumbledore ended up there and, for some reason, Harry didn't make it himself. That had to be it.

Stepping into the sensation, he feels the thickness of magic briefly squeezing down upon him, but it doesn't work. Tight bands surround him and suddenly release. It's as if his Apparation spits him right back out and he stumbles to keep his footing at the side of the road. Lightning strikes hard and fast in the field behind him, forcefully popping his ringing ears and landing so close this time that every hair on his body stands at attention, his skin prickling in the aftermath.

He has to get out of there, but – even after concentrating harder than he'd ever had to before – nothing comes of it. The sensation of a thick rubber tube surrounding him doesn't even begin and he's left stepping awkwardly onto the road, one foot on the ground and one in the air and feeling more frustrated than when he'd started learning how to Apparate.

The third flash of lightning that hits the ground makes him jump, backing away from where it had hit, just as close as the last time. Out of instinctive self-preservation more than his own consciousness, his feet start to carry him quickly toward the building up ahead and his swampy, water-logged trainers squidge and squeak the faster he runs. It's too dangerous outside. He's got to get out of the storm before he, himself, gets struck – or before it hits close enough to gravely injure him.

Stopping to catch his breath, Harry reaches the landing of the stairs and glances at the sign over the door:

The Dead Man's Hand.

'Well, that's not ominous at all,' he thinks with a cynical snort, pushing open the entrance to the gloomy looking establishment.

From the moment he enters, the interior immediately reminds him of The Leaky Cauldron, having the notable signs of a magical pub and an alarming lack of Muggle technology. There are steaming cauldrons, which smell delicious and savoury, behind the bar and tables are scattered around the main room. A paybox that dispenses 'Floo Powder' – Only one Knut a handful! – sits on the mantle of the fireplace, its hearth surrounded by worn and tattered sofas and chairs. The two dark haired women sitting on barstools, facing away from him, are dressed in long cloaks, chattering away with a large bottle of Firewhiskey between them.

Feeling soggier than a drowned rat, Harry performs a drying spell on himself, figuring that even though he's not with Dumbledore anymore, he'd probably not want Harry to catch his death. He could only be thankful that his botched Apparation led him somewhere magical instead of Muggle and he heads to the fireplace, searching his pockets for a spare Knut and stopping in his tracks.

The horcrux! It's gone.

He remembers putting it into his pocket just after Dumbledore drank the potion… And he knew he had it there after he'd been attacked by Inferi – remembers the bulk of it against his thigh as he moved…

"I wouldn't use the Floo if I were you. There's a war storm going on, haven't you heard?" one of the girls at the bar asks and he turns toward them, his eyes widening and his hands pausing in his pockets, grasping at nothing but spare bits of change and Galleons and lint.

Pansy Parkinson's haughty pug-like face and Daphne Greengrass' sharp aristocratic features greet him, though the two girls aren't staring at him in derision like he's used to. "Come and join us for a drink. There's usually not much else you can do in this weather," Parkinson says with a faint smirk, her eyes appraising him slowly and patting the barstool next to her.

"Uh, no… I need to get to Hogsmeade," Harry declines, his brows furrowing as he pulls a Knut from his pocket. "What are you doing here? Why aren't you at school?"

"School? I think you might have me confused for someone else," Parkinson replies, her eyebrow arching.

"You're not from around here, are you?" Greengrass asks, angling her body toward him and leaning heavily against the bar with a snifter of Firewhiskey in her hand. "Hogsmeade was cut off from the Floo months ago on account of the Snatchers. It's broom-access only now and you'd be mental to want to fly all the way there."

"Snatchers?" The word niggles at the back of his mind, like he should know what that is, but he blinks the feeling away. "Nevermind," he quickly dismisses his last question, stepping closer toward the girls. "You don't have any idea who I am?"

Both of them shake their head. "Should we?"

"What's your name?" Greengrass questions. "Maybe I've heard of you."

A sinking feeling resonates through his gut. "Harry Potter," he says slowly, waiting for the usual disdain to surface on their faces, but it never comes.

"Well, Harry, I'm Daphne," Greengrass amiably introduces, gesturing to herself and then Parkinson, "and this is Pansy. Did you get caught in the lightning out there? I've heard that the strikes can mess with your memory."

This has to be a dream. Or a nightmare. Maybe he drank the potion instead of Dumbledore. That's the only explanation: The horcrux is missing, Dumbledore isn't there. Everything has to be a dream.

He quickly lifts up his sleeve, where his skin was scraped from trying to get away from the Inferi, and he pokes at the wound, feeling pain shoot down his arm.

Okay, not a dream.

Vivid hallucination? Maybe he's suffering from poison-induced delusions?

"That looks pretty nasty – get into a fight with someone?" Parkinson says, turning toward the bar and calling, "Walden? Can you bring me your Healing Kit?"

A thin, almost waifish, older man with white-grey hair steps through the partition from the back room behind the bar, carrying a metal box and setting it next to Parkinson. "Vhat did you do? Injure yourzelf again?" the man says in a thick German accent, only then spotting Harry beyond the girls. "Oh, hello. Velcome to Ze Dead Man's Hand – is zhere anysing I can get you from ze bar?"

"The kit's not for us, it's for him," Greengrass explains, reaching across Parkinson for the Healing Kit and pulling out a bottle of dittany. "Come on–" she pats the barstool next to her, "–let's get that scrape healed up. Give us another glass, Walden. Plenty of Firewhiskey to go 'round, unless you want something else… Harry? Mind if I call you Harry? Or are you more of a 'Mr Potter' type of bloke?"

Yes, this has to be a poison-induced delusion. There's no way in his life that a Slytherin like Daphne Greengrass – or Pansy Parkinson especially – would be this nice to him. But it's as if they don't even know who he is, which is something he'd never experienced in the wizarding world in his entire life.

"'Harry's' fine," he hesitantly replies.

Stepping up to the bar with a gait not unlike that of an animal crossing a busy motorway, he takes a seat next to her, feeling only slightly wary as she grabs his arm and pours dittany over his scrape. The wound hisses, spitting out green smoke as the potion takes effect. A clean snifter is set in front of him by the barman – Walden – and Pansy Parkinson liberally fills it with the amber-coloured alcohol.

"So, what happened?" she asks conversationally, taking sips from her own glass, which she had just refilled.

"I slipped – fell. It's nothing," he vaguely explains with a shrug, watching the scrape heal before his eyes and clutching onto his glass of Firewhiskey. With a deep breath, he swallows a mouthful. It burns down his throat in an all-too-real sensation and he winces from it.

If this isn't a delusion, a lucid dream is also a possibility – an incredibly vivid lucid dream. It certainly feels like an out-of-body experience, or… that could've been the panic.

"Ah, well, it is pissing down out there," Greengrass says, glancing at the rain-soaked windows. Huge droplets of water pelt against glass, forming massive streams. The storm outside only seems to be worsening, the sky alight with constant lightning. However, it's soundless from inside the bar – probably due to a silencing charm.

Brows furrowed, he takes only a small sip from his glass, feeling it slowly start to seep into him. "You mentioned a… war storm earlier, didn't you? What's that?"

"Did you hit your head when you fell?" Parkinson asks with a faint snort. "They've only been going on for the last five years."

"Happens every time the foreign Ministries get together and try to force peace talks between the Pureblood Resistance and the Muggleborn Coalition," Greengrass clarifies, seeming far more polite than Parkinson. "Messes with our magic – puts everyone on even footing, but it never does any of us any good. Are you an Australian refugee? Your accent doesn't sound like it, but if you've never heard of the war storms…"

Harry averts his eyes to his drink, his mind racing. Pureblood Resistance… Muggleborn Coalition. The war. Peace talks. Did he… time travel to the future?

No, they would've known him if he did. He'd doubtlessly be just as famous in the future. Everyone knew his name even ten years after Voldemort first 'died', and Greengrass and Parkinson would surely remember him from school.

"Yeah, that's it. Australia," he says, latching onto the excuse to explain his ignorance. "I'm originally from here though," he recovers. "Surrey."

"Dinner service is ready if you vill be haffing it," Walden interrupts their conversation, loudly clamping a lid down on one of the cauldrons behind the bar. "Vee haff potato soup, a veal stew, cabbage soup viff dumplings, und mashed potatoes und mixed vegetables for sides."

Harry's stomach grumbles at the thought of food and he digs around in his pocket, setting a Galleon on the bar. "I'll just take the potato soup."

"Think we should wake our client?" he hears Greengrass whisper to Parkinson.

"We're not his servants," Parkinson haughtily responds in a low voice. "I don't care how much he pays." She then raises her voice, asking the barman for the sides alone.

"So… uh – client?" Harry asks as a bowl of soup is put in front of him, along with a pile of change. "What do you do?"

He feels a bit mad asking that question. They were students the last time he checked.

But they also knew who he was the last time he checked as well.

"Isn't it obvious?" Greengrass drawls before ordering the same as Parkinson. However, she quickly turns back toward him, a flirtatious grin playing at her lips as she parts her cloak just enough to show that she probably doesn't have much – if anything – on underneath there. The gap of smooth pale skin between her breasts distracts him for a moment. "If we weren't already booked by Mr. Sleepyhead upstairs, we'd be all over you."

Harry freezes, thickly swallowing a hot mouthful of soup, as her hand traces down his back in a way that makes him feel exposed, like his cloak and shirt aren't there at all, and he fully comprehends the meaning of her words. The sensation of everything is all-too-real and he downs the rest of his Firewhiskey, trying to snap out of it, but he can feel the buzz of alcohol at the corners of his eyes.

It can't be real.

"You're… erm–"

He doesn't want to say the word aloud.

Merlin, what kind of poison-induced delusion is this?

He's had dreams like this before, of course, but not…

"We prefer the term 'escorts'," Parkinson snootily intones, refilling their glasses. "We're not your usual Knockturn two-Knut whores."

Greengrass' mouth curves into a smile around her snifter. "So, what's your story?" she asks, setting her glass back down and picking up her spoon.

"It's not that interesting. Doubt you'd want to hear it," he says faintly, busying his mouth with potato soup so he doesn't have to talk. He has no idea what to say. He should've been looking for Dumbledore and the horcrux locket, not sitting there with two people who normally loath him – two prostitutes who are normally students – sharing Firewhiskey and a decent pub meal.

He's thankfully saved by the sound of their 'client' walking down the creaky stairs. Greengrass mutters her apologies, saying, "Back to the grind," and making room between her and Parkinson, ordering yet another glass, this time with ice. Harry's thankfulness, however, is short-lived.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees exactly who their 'client' is and goose pimples rise on his skin as the man nears. He slips into the room like a cold draft. With his hair slightly mussed and haphazardly dressed in pyjama bottoms and a robe, he's as imposing and handsome as ever – his face a spitting image of how he'd appeared in the memory with Hepzibah Smith, but even more frightening in the flesh.

It's then that Harry realizes that he had to have drunk the potion instead of Dumbledore.

This is a delusion – a nightmare. But to what end?

Tom Riddle smiles his charming smile, his teeth flashing dangerously like the lightning outside. "Thought I'd find you down here," he says, looking past Harry. His fingers pluck a cigar from his pocket and he lights it with his familiar bone-white wand, draping himself over the barstool between the girls.

It's not a comfort but, if there's one thing that hasn't changed from the real world to Harry's delusion, it's that Parkinson is the same as ever. She fawns and simpers over Riddle just as she would Malfoy. It's who she's simpering over that makes his stomach lurch through the dread lacing his insides.

"I don't believe I've seen you before," Riddle suddenly addresses him, breaking Harry out of his horrified stupor. "The name's Tom."

Riddle holds his hand across the bar in front of Greengrass and Harry lets out an imperceptible breath, steeling himself and clasping the hand in his own, meeting Riddle's dark gaze. "Harry Potter," he says, expecting hostility, but only getting a polite handshake and a nod in return.

It's more unsettling than reassuring.

"You look as if you've been through a fright," Riddle observes, rolling his cigar between his fingers; his other hand goes back to trailing lazy patterns up Greengrass' bare leg through the parting in her cloak. Parkinson fills his glass, the ice clinking within the alcohol and making it swirl. "Thank you, darling," Riddle says in a charismatic drawl, but Harry knows it's all an act.

He's just waiting for the ball to drop, anticipation filling his chest and sticking in his throat like something he can't swallow.

"I fell down outside – in the storm," Harry replies, picking up his own drink and using the liquid courage appropriately. "Must've hit my head. I'm fine though."

"Ah, I see," Riddle says, and then turns toward the barman. "I'll have the veal stew, if it's done, Walden."

Of course Voldemort would eat baby animals.

Harry only wants this nightmare to be done with already. The Inferi were bad enough, but this… This is a bit much.

He thought he was free when he escaped the cave.

The door to the pub bangs open behind them, letting in a torrent of rain and a soaked Charlie Weasley, dragging a half-conscious Draco Malfoy chained to his wrist. His other hand clutches a clinking sack, which is revealed to be full of golden trinkets and jewels as he sets the bag down and signals for the barman.

"I need a room – two beds if you have it," Charlie says gruffly, pushing a couple Galleons across the bar. "Our car stalled a few miles up the road."

Harry notices Riddle eyeing the sack full of treasure briefly, though the bag closes before Harry can get a good look at it. Charlie takes his room key from the barman too swiftly, stalking up the stairs and dragging along Malfoy like a ragdoll without so much as a greeting or another word. He isn't the Charlie Weasley that Harry's familiar with and he's slowly trying to convince himself to grow accustomed to that.

He's like a gutted lamp in this world. As if someone had reached inside him and plucked out everything important about him: Everything that's active and needed. The real Charlie Weasley would have acknowledged him and offered a friendly greeting. This one pays him no mind.

It's nearly as unsettling as Voldemort sitting two barstools down from him.

"Mudblood Coalition scum," Parkinson mutters into her drink.

"Neutrality, Pansy – remember?" Greengrass retorts, her voice barely a whisper, but it's still sharp, as if reminding Parkinson of her place. "Unless you don't fancy surviving."

"Intelligent stance to take," Riddle compliments, stabbing Greengrass' fork through the mixed veg on her plate and taking a single salacious bite. "Choose sides and you give someone a reason to kill you," he then says, leaning close to her and toying with her dark hair – playing such a deliberate part that it had Harry pushing his bowl of potato soup away for fear of being sick. "And there's nothing worse than death."

To say that Parkinson was mollified by their response is an understatement. Harry can only read into Riddle's words: Horcruxes. 'Nothing worse than death'… He's having these delusions for a reason – if only he could figure out why.

Is he supposed to defeat Riddle to end the nightmare? Is that it? It seems too simple. A single spell from his wand could do that – Slicing Hex to the neck, Avada Kedavra even. But the Voldemort of his time – of his world – would invent some horrifying twist or other. Something sinister. Something he can never truly guess until it hits him like a speeding train.

Like this. He'd mistakenly thought that the cave was the end of it, after all.

Another sip of Firewhiskey later and Harry's discreetly clutching at his wand in his pocket.

Perhaps this is a test of Voldemort's. Only those who won't kill him would wake up? Or is it only those who could kill him?

Harry's not so certain. There are too many possibilities to be certain. Everyone, except for Charlie and the barman, is a Slytherin. That much he knows. Is that a hint? Slytherin… Parseltongue? No, that's also too easy. But, perhaps not. Voldemort wouldn't anticipate another parselmouth entering his cave and drinking his potion, would he?

He isn't certain if it's worth risking that just yet, but he leaves it in the back of his mind as a possibility. It's not as if he can induce the language easily anyway.

Everything here is orchestrated by Voldemort – the cave; the poison; the potion; the delusion; the storm; the pub; probably the people. It's all too clear, especially when two soot-covered bodies suddenly burst forth from the fireplace, the Floo practically exploding with green light. They quickly recover and circle each other, sputtering vitriol.

"I'm not a member of the Resistance, Weasley!" the taller bloke protests, wiping the soot from his eyes.

"Bloody hell you aren't! You were following me for a reason!" the other bloke exclaims, sounding a lot like Ron and the bright ginger hair shining through the soot gives him away.

It's like adding a well-aimed insult to an injury and Harry turns away from the scene Ron's making, unsure if he can take it. No one else had been able to recognize him in his delusion, so why would Ron be any different?

But merely imagining Ron not recognizing him is enough to crack at his heart just a little.

"Only to get out of there! Honestly! If being pureblood is a death sentence then you should go as well! Blood-traitor or not, you're just as guilty as I am. Might as well kill yourself."

"No drawing vands in here!" Walden scolds sternly from behind the bar and two wands fly past Harry's head as the older man disarms the squabbling boys with a minor amount of difficulty. "You vant to fight? Brave ze veather!"

"Circe, you Flooed us into the middle of fucking nowhere," the tall soot-covered bloke sighs.

"I Flooed us? It's your fault we're here!"

"You both are idiots for trying to use the Floo network," Greengrass cuts in, rolling her eyes at their petty row. "Why don't you sit down and have a drink? War storms are supposed to bring about 'peace'. Unless you're so fixated on blood you can't get your heads out of your arses?"

"No one asked you," Ron testily retorts, though the sounds of his footsteps nearing makes Harry suck in a deep breath. He doesn't even want to look at Ron, not that Ron would notice that. He's too busy cleaning his face off with a rag the barman passes him and his Floo-partner, who's now clearly Blaise Zabini.

Another Slytherin and Gryffindor, and one who – as a cruel twist of fate – is his best and first friend. It tempts him to search for a few Galleons in his cloak, hire a room, and bury himself in a bed until he can't wake up, but that's probably what Riddle wants. Harry glances at the man in question, despite knowing he won't see any signs of anything. Riddle's too good to let his demeanor slip and he appears to be happy playing the type of bachelor who'd hire prostitutes for a romp in a seedy room above a pub.

The magical lights over the bar flicker as Riddle starts an introductory conversation with the newcomers, full of propriety and perfection. They don't even notice the lights, but Harry assumes that they must be used to the war storms causing everything magical to go wonky. Walden thunks a bottle of wine in front of Zabini, a pint in front of Ron, and taps at the lights restlessly with his wand, muttering in displeasure when it doesn't help the wavering dimness. He, instead, pulls candles from underneath the bar, and heads into the back room to find more.

While watching the old waif of a barman, Harry ruminates on Voldemort's weaknesses, mostly to distract himself from Ron being so near without so much as a glimpse of their former friendship between them. The delusion is Voldemort's design. Voldemort, who fears death and love and has a fondness for cruelty…

Well, this is rather cruel.

Ron's sitting around the corner of the bar, at the opposite end of Zabini, who's chatting to Parkinson. "So you're from Australia?" Ron asks, his freckled face curious and eager, like the first train ride. "How's the war doing over there? I hear the whole country's on fire because of it."

"I'm from here, originally. And I'd rather not talk about Australia…" Harry trails off, glancing up at Ron and thanking Merlin for Firewhiskey for getting him this far. He takes the last sip from his glass, barely paying attention as Greengrass refills it without question. "I'm Harry, by the way. Harry Potter."

"Ron Weasley," Ron says with a nod, raising his pint of lager and drinking deeply from it. "Don't suppose you have a room with an extra bed, do you? I'm a little short on–"

Harry feels a fond smile tug at his lips. "Not yet, no," he interrupts, "but I'll get a double, if I can. War makes everyone tight on money. I get it."

"Thanks." Ron's bright grin is just as heartwarming as it was when he'd bought out snack trolley. "You're an okay bloke. Could I buy you a pint?"

"Nah – I'm sorted." Harry gestures to his glass, keeping an eye on Riddle in the corner of his vision. "Don't worry about it. What… brings you here?"

Maybe if he found out more information about the people showing up in his delusion, he might gain a clue as how to escape. It's clear that Parkinson and Greengrass are there at Riddle's request, and Charlie came in with Malfoy and a sack of treasure – but Malfoy seemed to be there against his will. He'd mentioned their car had stalled, probably due to the storm effecting magical things. Is he supposed to use the car to escape?

The lights above them flicker far more dimly than before, nearing full darkness and the barman set about lighting candles, sticking them into holders to place around the bar.

"I was in Diagon, patrolling for the Resistance near my brothers' shop. You know how there've been a lot of attacks lately in those parts – ransacking – I was keeping watch," Ron says, pausing to drink from his pint and wipe the foam off his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Well, I found a group of them and they cornered me in Eeylops. I'm not stupid enough to take on that many of them, so I ran in the back room and tried getting the Floo to work. The Floo's always fickle in the storm. I took extra powder in case I got stuck, like Zabini did," Ron continues, glaring sullenly across the bar at the Slytherin boy and taking another drink. "Bloody tossbag blocked my way and we tried to go out this mad old codger's fireplace we were stuck up, but he wasn't having it. He had this… Muggle thing. I've heard that people've taken to using them when the storms flare up. Dad calls them Fire Wands. Burned through all of my Floo powder to get out of there. Would've made it home if Zabini wasn't riding my arse and my wand wouldn't work when I tried to blast him off me... Damn storm."

Staring introspectively into his glass as he listens to Ron's story, Harry's brows raise. The war seems to be a lot more serious here, but it had barely even started in his own world, which causes him to wonder if this dream – or whatever it is – is prophetic: an eye to the future. There's no way that his own mind could make up something like this. Riddle's mind, maybe. Every detail Harry's heard presses down on his brain and he aches to ask Riddle outright what it all bloody means.

"Think I could have my wand back any time soon?" Ron asks, seizing his chance to grab at the barman's sleeve as he sets a candle holder in front of him.

Walden's bright blue eyes narrow and he roughly pulls away from Ron's grip. "You may haff it beck vhen I am zertain you von't be bozhering anyvon, okay? Vould you be vanting anozher pint?"

"Yeah, yeah – fine – sure," Ron mutters, finishing off his current glass with a mocking roll of his eyes. "When will you be 'zertain' I'm not 'bozhering' anyone then?"

"Vhen you display reazonable polite behafior, I zhink," Walden replies, pouring and sliding another pint across the bar. "A zhank you, for starters."

Harry barely hears Ron's response, his ears picking up on Riddle's conversation with Zabini.

"…they set it on fire. Our entire house – even the stables. Mum told me to take her jewelry case, sell everything, and run – find my father. When I looked back, they were dragging her body out to the swamp," Zabini says, his knuckles white around his wine glass. "If it wasn't for the storm, I'd be in Milan right now. We should have run earlier."

"That's terrible. I know exactly how you feel. It's… difficult, losing a parent. I lost both of mine to the war," Riddle replies comfortingly, taking a puff off his cigar and flicking ashes into a crystal ashtray the barman had supplied him. "But it gets easier as time goes on. Focusing on the present and not what you should have done usually speeds the healing process. Regret is the pathway to survivor's guilt, as some say."

Riddle's words leave a disgusting sugary film in his mouth and Harry washes it away with another mouthful of Firewhiskey, grateful for the burning bitterness of it. He wants nothing more than to punch him in his lying face.

Lost his parents in the war… pfft.

Zabini nods, taking a deep drink from his wineglass. "In that case, do you know anyone who'd be willing to buy some heirlooms for a decent price? Mostly silver rings, necklaces, and hair pieces, but there's an old gold locket – Goblin gold – that should be worth something and can be melted down."

Harry's eyes widen for a second and he quickly schools his expression, nodding to whatever Ron's rambling about that he's only half listening to (something involving the war that's absolutely nothing like the war he knew).

Slytherin's locket... That's the thing – that's the ticket out of here!

'…But how to get it from Zabini…'

"I know a guy in London," Greengrass says. "He's very discreet. I could get you his address before you leave."

It's as if the locket realization is the catalyst for the next twist to Riddles games, and Harry's heart wrenches as the door bangs open behind him, ushering in the haunted, panicked voice of his other best friend:

"Somebody help! She's been hurt! I can't…"

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₁ Rowling, J.K. (2005). Chapter 26: The Cave and Chapter 27: The Lightning-Struck Tower. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince (US edition) (pp. 578-579). New York, NY: Scholastic Inc.

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Author's Note: Thank you for reading and please review! Since I'm going through a massive case of writer's block, which I'm trying to get over by writing this fic, I'd highly appreciate any constructive criticism/review. Thank you again!