The Ransom of Albus Dumbledore

Reginald, Death of Poets was livid, a state his ordinarily bland personality was totally unused to. "I won't do it! I won't let her do it!"

You've got to, mate. Otherwise--well, you know the consequences. Kirlie Duke drew a nebulous finger across his throat. Ol' Dumbie's soul is zombie fodder.

Reg clenched his fists. Kirlie's mangling of the Queen's English reminded him of someone else, someone equally sloppy and egocentric. He muttered (as primly as he could manage through gritted teeth), "Sirius put you up to this, I'll wager. He still wants his name cleared, even from beyond the grave. Selfish twit!" He took a deep breath and hummed a verse of a favorite madrigal, Where the Bee Sucks, There Suck I, drumming his fingers on his chin to beat the counterrhythm of the treble line. Johnson always cheered him up, but not, unfortunately, this time. His chivalrous anger brimmed over into shouting, "But Sirius is dead for Marlowe's sake! How is proving Pettigrew is alive going to do him any good now?"

Kirlie kept calm through Reg's entire spiel, a record for him, then drawled languidly, I tell you, dude, I haven't seen Sirius. And it's nothing to do with his rep. But as Reg barked a contemptuous "Tut", he lost it, ran his fingers through his multi-colored hair, and shook a fist at his hoity-toit companion. Cripes, it's on the list, you bloody poof!

Reg had the grace to blush, and offered in a placatory tone, "But perhaps this particular memorandum was written before Sirius died... and if it was Dumbledore's intention to clear Sirius' name by exposing Pettigrew, well, now that the point is moot, this particular promise is, one might say, null and void."

But Kirlie was not buying it. That don't matter a harpy's tit to those deadheads! What matters is it's a promise his Headship made, that Pettigrew's miserable ass has to get hauled off to the Ministry and dropped spang into the limelight. Maybe it's a PR thing, you know, like... Dumbie wanted to score some a bit of cred for Potter and his friends... maybe... with the average hag on the street.

"You'd have my lady--Miss Granger--walk into a Death Eater encampment for--what do you call it? A bit of crud?"

That's cred, you ass. It's short for something--credibilitude, I think. But the important thing is you'll be there to--you know--protect her.

"How will I do that, pray tell?

I dunno, the same the way you put the wind up all those airy-fairy, dope-eating-poets, just before you cacked 'em.

Reginald frowned. "I don't ever remember doing anything like that. They--most of them anyway--went rather peacefully as I recall."

What-the-friggin'-ever. At least you'll have our heroine's back.

Reginald tried and failed to picture "having" Hermione's back. "If you say so," he shrugged.

You don't seem all that fired up about it. Or maybe you just don't want a teen-aged wizard like Potter showing up your master, the great gawd-a'mighty Skeletor 'imself.

Reg began to splutter. "And just what do you mean by that?"

Well, Death can't seem to get Voldemort to roll over and die, so if our girl manages to take out his right-hand man, Potter will be that much closer to finishing him off.

"You don't understand. Lord Death wants Voldemort dead, more than anything."

And he doesn't give a rat's arse who smashes the hour-glass? Even if it's just some skinny half-breed?

"No. Unlike you, he's more interested in Preserving the Order and Rectitude of the Universe than in having his ego stroked."

Ouch, that hurts! Oh, never mind, I'll do it myself.

"You'll do what?"

I'll go with Granger.

"You? You couldn't Blast your way out of a paper bag even when you were alive."

Oh, Mr. Bringer-of-Sweet-Death thinks he's the only one who can protect a damsel in distress--

"Mr. Bringer of--And to think Lord Death wanted me to be the one to help you over, as if your caterwauling in any way resembled poetry..."

What? No way I'd have gone with you! And as for my poetry... "

"Keep it down! She's sleeping. All right, I'll accompany her. And... protect her."

I'll go with you.

~*~

Hermione woke. Something nagged at a corner of her mind: angry voices, though insubstantial as if in a dream. But here came Reg, with a bleak look on his face and Kirlie Duke floating behind him, a good bit soberer than usual.

"So have you figured out what the last task is?" she asked, sitting up.

Reg nodded. "You have to... erm... capture one Peter Pettigrew and expose his crimes to the world."

His words numbed her at first. It had to be madness confronting a Death Eater alone, even that little coward, Pettigrew. But she shouldn't call him that. Harry'd told her Peter had cut off his hand to help Voldemort return to full power. It made him seem somehow braver, or at least more desperate than Hermione ever imagined. Then she felt that pain in her chest, reminding her that she had done that herself once already--risked everything for her leader--and had lived on. This thought sparked her rationality, if not her optimism, and her formidable mind began making plans.

"Do we know where Peter is?"

"He's in London. That much we know. We think he has a hideout near Gringotts. He might try a break-in."

"Break into Gringotts? Why would he? For one thing it's nearly impossible--"

"Kirlie and I managed to eavesdrop on an Order of the Phoenix meeting while you were gone. There are strong indications that Voldemort needs money--a great deal of it and quickly."

Like yesterday, muttered Kirlie.

"I have been thinking that it is likely that Pettigrew has been ordered to get it for him--"

Right! The Blacks and Malfoys have been a prime source of gelt for the Voldster.

Reg turned a beady eye on Kirlie, who was hovering over his shoulder, before continuing. "And Sirius was the last of the Blacks, and the Malfoys have been arrested..."

Hermione picked up his logic quickly. "And I bet most of his other wealthy allies are on the run. Yes, it makes perfect sense, Narcissa's attempt to bribe Ministry officials with counterfeit Galleons could mean that they were scraping the bottom of the barrel even then."

Kirlie swooped between Reg and Hermione. And I heard those Auror dudes say that last week some Death Eaters tried to break into some house on Grimmauld Place where the Blacks used to live.

"That's hardly germane, Kirlie," muttered Reg peevishly.

"Wait," said Hermione. "What happened, Kirlie?"

They were looking for the Black's hag's stash--you know, her personal fortune.

"Black hag... you mean Mrs. Black?" asked Hermione.

Kirlie nodded. The word on the street is it's hidden behind her picture. But this hot, pink-haired bird said that two blokes named Remus and Buckbeak were able to shut 'em down.

Hermione smiled at Kirlie's description of Tonks and his calling Buckbeak a "bloke". But there was no time for clarifications. "What does Voldemort need money for when he has all that Dark Magic?" she wondered out loud.

That came up too. Among other things, he has to start paying off all these wiz-gangs he's had mugging Muggle-borns.

Hermione frowned. "Somehow I can't see gang members kow-towing to anyone, especially a warlock four times their age."

Apparently his big 'in' with them was something they called 'the Mortlake gig.' I remember reading about it. This Muggleborn fried the leader of one of the gangs, and Voldemort was able to use that to convince those oiks that Mudbloods are all psychos. But, just a bit ago, somebody proved that the bloke--Mortlake--couldn't have done it, and so the gangs are upping the ante--demanding money to keep up their raids.

Hermione hugged herself, thinking, So Mr. Weasley was able to prove it. My, that was fast! Score one for us--

Reg interrupted her internal celebration. "Another thing: the Dark Lord has been spreading his forces very thin--"

Right. Tracking down Muggle-borns, offing pencil-necks...

"Pencil-what?" asked Reg and Hermione in unison.

You know--government types. And trying to recruit 'thropes--

"Thropes?"

You know: Veelas... vampires... werewolves... and hunting for that Karkarov dude, whose hide His Moldship wants in a very bad way.

"And, oh, yes," said Reg, "somebody called Dudley Dirtsy or something--"

"Dursley," Hermione corrected him automatically. "Wait a minute. He's hunting for Dudley?"

Yep, said Kirlie. Death Eaters attacked him right near his digs.

"Dudley was attacked?"

Yeah, but he apparently called up a Mrs. Frigg, and she managed to import some heavies from the Order to save him.

"Oh. Good."

Reg continued, "And Voldemort's had some losses to his ranks. A Healer named Tart or Trifle or---

"Tart? You don't mean Pye? Augustus Pye?"

"That's the one. The Order found out he was recruited to be a Dark Agent at St. Mungo's."

Dragonspit! Kirlie ejaculated. I've never trusted hospitals, and now I know why.

"True," Reg agreed. "Who knows how many people he might have taken out that way? But he gave himself up to the Aurors and told them quite a bit about that plot. And it seems that Rufus Scrimgeour has gotten quite pro-Order, as you say."

Heh-heh, Kirlie chuckled. Him and that Pussy Weasley.

"Percy," said Hermione, trying to keep a straight face.

Whatever. Well, now his old man reports that Perfect Perce is back in good with his family, and he's on Potter's side now too.

Hermione allowed a small puff of pride to pass through her. Everything she and Sirius and James had accomplished in completing Dumbledore's list was helping to slow the Dark Lord's juggernaut too. But they had to get down to business. "So Peter's involved in breaking into Gringotts."

Reg stared at her grimly. "They're saying he has this magical metal hand his Master gave him. It can cut through anything."

"Even rock?"

Like butter, said Kirlie as if he was savoring the idea, and, at the same time, a bit jealous.

"Then logically the hideout will be underground and near Diagon Alley," Hermine reasoned. "Oh... underground!"

Right in one.

"No I mean The Underground. Peter's point of contact with Gringotts could be in a Tube station, you know, the trains."

Reg interrupted her. "Oh, I don't think that would work, Hermione. Muggles would see what he's doing. And if he was excavating in a tunnel, he'd have to stop every time a train went by. And how would he hide the hole when he wasn't working on it?"

"Magic, I'm sure, but there are lots of disused tunnels and shafts and old air-raid shelters down there. And some are very close to Diagon Alley."

"Oh, yes, I remember. Back during what you call the Blitz, I had to help Lord Death with some of his--eh--errands. There were so very many, you know."

Hermione nodded, but she was not to be distracted by historical woes. Only facts that would help the living interested her right now. "We just have to figure out which tunnel is the most likely. Now Charing Cross has some abandoned lift shafts... Down Street was closed in the Thirties and was turned into a deep level shelter during the war. It housed Churchill and the Cabinet for awhile...

"How do you know all this?"

"I went on a couple of tours with Subterrania Britannica. It's dedicated to publicizing the history of the Underground. Fascinatig really... Oh, but we've got to get on with this. Now let me think: Aldwych is another disused station, and it's accessible from Piccadilly. Holborn has a couple of platforms that were closed a while ago. Goodge Street was Eisenhower's headquarters after it closed. Those are the closest ones to Gringotts. My guess is he's in the Holborn tunnel.

"Why is that?"

"All the others are in constant use by Muggles--for for storage, tours, movie sets, experimentation..."

Experimentation? Kirlie rubbed his hands together. Sounds yummy.

"It's not what you think. They try out new paints, signing, light fixtures--stuff like that--to improve the stations and the tunnels and the rolling stock--the cars. Now, the Holborn platform was divided into offices during the War, but they have no practical use now. We can access it from the Strand Station in Piccadilly--but first, I've got to run some errands."

~*~

Hermione made her way down the escalator to the West Platform. In her bag was a large glass jar full of ratnip, which she'd obtained on a foray into Diagon Alley. She'd been here before on one of those tours of disused Tube lines. She was sure her plan would work. All Reg, dressed in jeans and a dress shirt and looking uncomfortable, had to do was clear the way. Kirlie was currently invisible. He was likely less than happy with his own appearance, as requested by Hermione: student robes, circa 1980 and his real hair, which was luckily black, abundant, and tending to cowlicks. He had a bit more responsibility according to the plan, but not until they caught up with Peter.

Before starting out, she'd thought hard about Peter's habits and abilities. From what she knew of him, the latter were few and far between. In fact, Peter reminded her a bit of Neville, except for the fact that Neville wasn't a spineless git. He had proved that more than once. But then, Peter had cut off his arm to help his Lord live again--voluntarily if she remembered Harry's story correctly. She was sure it had been desperation driving him, not love or loyalty or any sort of bravery. As such, and taking his metal hand into consideration, he could be deadly if cornered or even merely frightened. The thought made her shudder, as she was still wandless.

Now they were at the far end of the platform, facing a wall of gray panels. It was late, almost closing time for the trains, and no passengers were in sight.

"Here it is," she whispered.

"Where?" hissed Reg.

"Behind those panels."

"Are you sure? It looks like a storage cabinet."

"It's supposed to. Can you open it?"

"Certainly."

Reg did nothing that Hermione could actually see, yet immediately locks clicked and the ‘storage cabinet' swung inside. Hermione felt around for a switch. They entered a now-bright and surprisingly well-kept anteroom that looked recently painted. They took a dog-leg right and the paint ended in an extremely neglected narrow corridor, barely one person wide. Brickwork protruded from under flaking plaster.

"This is where we started using torches on the tour. Can you give us some light, Reg?"

A faint glow surrounded them, and Kirlie appeared at the far end of the corridor, bobbing up and down and brooding. He really does look a bit like him, Hermione thought, well... as long as he keeps to the shadows...

Now they could see numerous doors on each side of the corridor, each with a number. Kirlie darted about and examined the interiors minutely, calling out what he found. All were bare except for flakes of plaster and other detritus of old age. In one, however, a flight of steps upwards caused Hermione to comment that it might lead to a dormitory for clerks who used the offices during the Blitz. They decided to give it a good look. Ascending the steps, they came to a long low-ceilinged room and evidence of recent occupation: A mattress, a blanket, and the remains of a meal: slices of blauschweiger, a blue-dyed sausage made of Nogtail brains, and crumpled cans of bitterroot beer.

"A favorite of our quarry, do you think?" asked Reg.

"I've no idea," said Hermione, "but blauschweiger is--erm--inexpensive." And smelly, and totally without nourishment value, she thought.

Mmmm, blauschweiger, said Kirlie, looking wistful. Before I made it big, I used to live on Blauschweiger and bumbernickel sandwiches, but bitterroot did tend to coat my vocal chords.

"Which could only have been an improvement," said Reg nastily. "Mm-hmm. I'm sure we're on the right track--if you'll pardon the pun--given the Dark Side's apparent penury."

Back in the corridor, they walked forward to another room, the largest by far.

"Our Britannica guide said this was a canteen," said Hermione, looking inside. "There's the hatchway for the food service."

At the far end of the corridor was a door hanging off its hinges and, beyond it, an improvised ramp leading down to track level. Loose electrical wiring sprouted from the floor.

"I think this is the last time we'll need your Opening spell," she said to Reg. She gestured to a metal door at the bottom of the ramp.

"Good," Reg grunted, making a face at Kirlie who was swooping about, making dust and paint chips fly about. "I'm beginning to think I'm the one doing all the work." More locks rattled and chains pinged, and the door opened.

Now they were out in the Tube-tunnel. A chain-link fence separated them from the tracks. They could hear the sounds of trains in the distance and feel the pulse of air displacement as the cars on the Piccadilly line made their scheduled runs.

"Where to now?" asked Reg.

"I'm not sure," Hermione murmured. "I was hoping we'd find evidence of digging back there in the dormitory. See how the track switches over to this side and goes down the tunnel ahead. It goes on down to Aldwych, but I don't think Peter would dig there. Trains run through there at least hourly.

As if in response to her comment, they felt a strong breeze as of an approaching train, but there was no accompanying burst of light. Instead, something swirled about them.

"What's--who's that?" asked Hermione, squinting. "A ghost?

"Why--I think--is it not--Bea Lamb?" said Reg. He looked totally surprised and a bit out of countenance.

It's Miss Lamb to you, Reginald. a female voice said frostily.Or, if you must, Beatrice.

A pale woman in a lavender chiton or tunic of classical Greece coalesced before them. A long scarf-like chlamys was draped across her shoulders, falling to her bare feet.

"Beatrice, you look lovely. Are you still playing--what is it--Niobe?"

Yes, said Bea Lamb, Niobe mourning the loss of her children.

"And her audience," Reg said, sympathy apparent in his voice.

Ah, your words cut me to the quick.

"I'm sorry..."

The ghost began to swoop about, her drapes trailing after her. How could they tear down my beloved Royal Strand, Reginald? And replace it with this--this dungeon!

"Progress, my dear. By the way, this is my... erm... friend, Hermione Granger."

Miss Lamb stopped her fretful motions and descended to them. Her eyes glowed as she gazed at Hermione. Friend? You mean "protégé", I am sure.... Ah, Hermione, a name in the best Classic tradition. Daughter of Menelaus and the infamous Helen, grandchild of Leda... Have you read the Iliad, my dear?

"Yes."

In the original?

Hermione blushed. "No, they don't teach classical languages in the schools anymore."

The ghost sighed. Pity.

After an interval, Hermione asked politely, "But... are you an actress?"

"One of the greatest ever to tread the boards of the Royal Strand Theatre," said Reg, "and she wrote poetry too."

Beatrice Lamb tittered. You are too kind, Reginald. I dabbled. Dactylic hexameter, mostly.

"Oh, I suppose Reginald visited you when you ... erm... died," said Hermione.

He was most gallant in that respect. But I chose to remain here at my beloved Strand. And now, look at it. She began to swoop again and a low wailing chant emanated from her agitated frame.

"Are you really haunting this part of the Tunnel?" Reg called after her. "It must be very gloomy."

Well, it matches my mood at present. But I pop up to the street occasionally and give the tarts and the ponces a good scare.

Reg tutted. "For shame, Miss Lamb."

He was only kidding, of course, but Bea Lamb took obvious, diva-esque umbrage. She dropped like a stone in front of him. What would you have me do? I must have some reaction to my art, even if it is only the occasional fit of hysterics or the odd heart attack. As you say, it's so very dark down here. She drew her chlamys tightly about her as if she was cold as well.

Hermione took Reg's arm. "I'm sorry to hear about your troubles, Miss Lamb. Perhaps we can chat another time. I myself would be most interested in hearing more about the Strand. But, as it is, we have to be getting on."

Reg added, by way of polite explanation, "We have a sort of--eh--mystery to solve, Beatrice."

The ghost perked up immediately. A mystery? It sounds delicious. Could I... perhaps... be of service? There was a hint of longing in her voice.

"Perhaps," said Reg. "Have you in your travels ever come upon a ratty-looking fellow mayhap digging in one of the tunnels?"

Indeed I have. Clumsy twit. He's in the Museum Tunnel every day around this time.

"Museum tunnel?"

"Oh," said Hermione, "Is that the one where they hid the Elgin marbles during the War?"

Yes. It's behind that door. Bea Lamb pointed across the tracks at what might once have been a parallel tunnel, but its large arched entrance had been bricked up with just a small door in its center.

"Thank you Miss Lamb," said Hermione. "I sincerely hope you find an audience worthy of your talent."

As they moved down the track, looking for a place to cross over, Kirlie, who had remained strangely silent throughout the conversation, piped up, Who was that boffo chick, Reg? Girlfriend of yours?

"Heavens, no," said Reg indignantly. "She's someone I helped over many years ago. But she decided to come back and haunt the theatre she'd once played in. She couldn't stand the Afterlife. Too many egos, she said."

Hemione said quietly. "It really is too bad that the Strand had to be torn down. I suppose after that, she'd no place else to go but the Tube."

Hermione quickly found a rent in the fence and crossed the train tracks, careful to avoid touching them. At her request, Reg persuaded the door to the Museum Tunnel to open. Peering inside, Hermione felt a sudden dread come over her. This was the darkest dark she had ever encountered, a musty, dank, oppressive dark, and through it wafted the sounds, not of digging, but of torture: sobs and cries and cursing. The sounds cut through Hermione and made her draw back. That must be Peter. But who was he tormenting? And why? She breathed the lighter, cleaner air gratefully, trying to clear her head and calm her nerves.

More sounds came at her from behind, a humming, then moaning, then outright crying. Hoo... hoo... hoo... no, ohnonononono.... They got oddly louder and closer until she could make out words: Oh, don't gooooo...

Hermione turned. It was Bea Lamb, looking like a Maenad in full manic frenzy, pulling at her hair, her face, her clothes. Pleeeeeeze take me with you! she shrieked, diving at them, waving and jerking. I'm sooooo verrry loneleeeeeeeeeeee!

Hermione tried--unsuccessfully of course--to fend the ghost off with her hands and shivered when the creature penetrated her defenses. "Erm... well... I don't know... We'd like to... but..." She gasped the phrases out jerkily. She did have the presence of mind to fumble behind her and pulled the door to. It wouldn't do for whoever was in that dark tunnel to hear what was happening on this side. All the while, she thought frantically. Including a hysterical ghost in their party would mean quite a change in their plans, but Hermione didn't know if she could stop the woman. She could, after all, walk through walls. "We had this thing we had to do... a sort of plan..."

Does it involve swooning? Or imprecations? Or a death scene? I'm very good at all of those, cried Bea hopefully.

Hermione saw Reg through her. He was frowning and gnawing his lip.

"Eh, Beatrice, will you excuse us for a moment?" He reached through her and yanked Hermione to him. "Hermione, let's talk about this," he said loudly, "I am sure there's something we can do... " He smiled and nodded at Bea, who was busy wiping her nose on her chiton, then took Hermione's arm and walked her back up the tracks.

"What c-c-can we d-do?" Hermone whispered, her teeth still chattering from full immersion in sub-zero ectoplasm.

"Not much, I'm afraid. This is Bea's--eh--turf--as Kirlie would call it. I can't force her to stay away from us."

"But I don't think it's a good idea to let her come with us. I mean, I know she's an actress, and... I suppose she could... well... watch Kirlie do his thing...."

"Bea Lamb? Just stand by and watch? No, Hermione, the way she used to chew the scenery, she'd never be able to just sit in the audience and let a tyro... a mere amateur... No, she'd have to upstage him. The old habits are just too ingrained. And you heard her. She's dying for an audience and one last great performance."

"So what now?"

Reg sighed. "I suppose I shall have to keep her occupied."

"You?"

"Yes. I'll have her show me around the area where the Strand used to be. We'll reminisce about old times, recite poetry to each other, scare a few tourists, and, who knows? Maybe it'll last her an eon or two."

"Will she go for it?"

"Trust me. The only thing Beatrice Chatham Lamb likes better than a fat script is a witty, ardent stage door cavalier who will hang on her every word... even if only for one night."

"Oh. I guess we don't really need you for this last part...."

"That is correct. You do not. It is all up to Kirlie now and that Impervius spell the apothecary put on your jar of Ratnip."

"Well, all right... but I want you to know we couldn't have done it without you, Reg." She gave him a kiss on the cheek, and they walked back silently. On the way, he began to wish himself a new appearance. By the time they reached Bea Lamb, he was dressed as a Greek hero, complete with purple robe, carven staff and an olive wreath in his now curly locks. He bowed and Niobe took his arm. They walked up the tunnel talking for a while, then took off for and through the ceiling.

Hermione pulled open the door to the musty tunnel again. She edged forward in the darkness, clinging to the rough, damp wall, feeling for stones, old track, and other obstacles with her feet. Kirlie wafted on ahead for a bit. When he returned, he whispered in her ear that there was a hole in the side of the tunnel about fifty feet ahead. When she got to it, she could see a faint light coming from it, illuminating a pile of bricks on the side. The moans and squeals were much louder now, coming from the gloom deep below them.

She climbed into the hole and clambered down an endless, rocky grade, keeping to the shadows of boulders and chunks of concrete. Finally she detected a stronger light ahead, so she signaled Kirlie to go invisible.

There was Peter Pettigrew, his luminous silver hand waving about, casting weird streaks of light and shadows on the walls of a large hollowed out space. It looked like it might have been part of another abandoned and filled in tunnel. But the gleam of light glancing off his hand was not coming from from a lantern or a Lumosed wand, but from a small hole in the wall behind him.

Three figures cowered in front of the raging Pettigrew: house-elves. He was shouting something--screeching almost.

"You have to take more. I don't care how heavy the sacks are. You're not holding up your end, Stub-Toe. We're almost through, but he is coming soon to see how we're doing, and this place needs to be cleared--completely. Do you understand? I want him to see what I have done! I, Peter Pettigrew, the first wizard ever to break into Gringotts."

Squeaky voices gave hasty assent, and the elves began shoveling rubble from several great mounds into canvas bags. Then each shouldered some heavy bags and disappeared with a crack. Peter returned to his work, carving swathes of rock out of the wall in front of him with his glittering hand. Now was the ideal time to act. Hermione opened her bottle and buried it partially in the dirt. The pungent scent of ratnip filled the air. She crept backwards behind a boulder and whispered for Kirlie, who appeared and began to dart about. His eyes glowed a ghostly green.

Peeeeeeter! Peter Pettigrew--woo--woo--woo. His voice echoed about the cave, as he flitted from crevice to rock to precipice.

Peter looked up, horrified, then angry. He turned in circles, trying to follow the flapping form. "What? Who are you? How did you--?"

It is I, your old friend, your best mate, James Potterrrrr! cried Kirlie.

"Oh no--"

Oh yes! said Kirlie You killed my wife and ruined my son's life, you scabby little nit. I've to take my revenge out of your filthy, worthless hide. Kirlie laughed maniacally and dived after Peter. He was really into this.

Scmpering about frantically, Peter drew his wand and changed instantly into Scabbers the rat. He scurried up the incline, but the scent of the ratnip was too much for him, and the jar mouth, jutting from the rubble, looked just enough like a drain-pipe...

Instantly Hermione placed the lid on the jar and tightened it.

Kirlie swooped down. Woo hoo! That was just too easy.

"Yes, wasn't it," said Hermione as she slipped the jar into her shoulder-bag, relishing the terrified squeaking of the rat who had once turned Sirius Black's life a hell on earth. As they climbed up the steep tunnel, Hermione could hardly congratulate herself. Peter said someone was on the way, so they'd have to keep a look out for Death Eaters. As they climbed out of the hole at the top, a light flared, blinding them, and they heard a high, cold voice that pierced Hermione's heart.

"Ah, who have we here? A witch... " It was Voldemort. It had to be. He sniffed the air delicately. "No, a Muggle pretending to be a witch... and... is it possible? The ghost of my old nemesis James Potter... "

As she got used to the light, Hermione made out red-rimmed eyes, a flat, pallid face, and thin, sneering lips. He fit Harry's description to a T.

Kirlie dove at him, but the Dark Lord dodged his icy fingers, chuckling. "You have no power here, you useless puff of wind. Haven't you heard? I have conquered Death."

He smiled mirthlessly as he examined Hermione's face. "Aha, one of Harry Potter's devoted followers, isn't it? A Mudblood girlfriend for a half-breed failure. I shall finally have the pleasure of doing away with you, you worthless fraud!"

She shrank back from him, and he crowed, "Go ahead; run if you like. You'll never escape my power... or my pet."

He turned away from her and started making strange noises as she crept up the tunnel, looking for a place to hide, with Kirlie flitting about her. The Dark Lord was speaking another language, yet somehow it was familiar. It was the hissing sound Harry had used to speak to the snake that had tried to attack Justin Finch-Fletchley four years ago. It's Parseltongue, thought Hermione. Who or what could Voldemort be speaking to? Now she heard a dreadfully familiar sound in the distant dark. A lithe, serpentine body slithering over stones and an ominous, sibilant snarl. No ordinary snake, this. She thought she knew the nature of the monster, and she dared not turn around.

"Kirlie, don't look!" she screamed.

It was too late. She saw her companion's eyes go wide as he stared down the tunnel behind her. Then they went blank and he collapsed back, floating supine and inert, undoubtedly paralyzed by a Basilisk. Now, heedless of the dark and the obstacles, she ran for the door. As she swung it open, Voldemort, who was now crooning to his pet, was caught off-guard. He wheeled and threw a spell after her. It must have been some kind of Freeze-Blast for it hit the door and glazed it with ice. It ricocheted off and penetrated her shoulder. At first her arm felt numb, then painfully tingly, as if it had been frozen and was thawing. She stumbled out into the larger tunnel. Cool moving air revived her. She tried to push the door to, but her arm hurt too much. She ran on up the track. She could hear footsteps behind her.

"You can't run forever, girl," shouted Voldemort. "This Basilisk is young yet, but more than a match for the likes of you."

The breeze got stiffer. She knew this had to mean a train was coming. Deliberately she continued up the track, drawing the Basilisk on. At the last second, she leapt aside and clung with her good arm to some metal sheathing that protected the tunnel lights. She could feel it breaking under her weight and prayed that it would last long enough to save her from being thrust under the train's wheels. She thought she heard squeal, a curse, and possibly the crack of Disapparition. Surely the Basilisk had been smashed to smithereens, but what of the Dark Lord?

The train passed, and the sheathing did indeed break off. She tumbled to the track with it, remembering just in time not to let herself or it touch both tracks, which she knew could cause a short-circuit and immediate electrocution. She saw the remains of the Basilisk; it had been crushed to a pulp. It had been rather a small one. A good thing. Likely the train conductor hadn't even seen it.

She felt inside her bag. Thanks heavens for the Impervius Charm. Peter's jar was still intact. She might yet save Professor Dumbledore if she could make it back up the stairs and to the Ministry. She didn't like to abandon Kirlie, but he was, after all, a ghost. Probably Reg would know how to revive him.

Now there was another crack. Voldemort had Apparated again and was walking towards her, slowly and deliberately, tapping his hand with his wand. He looked at the snake guts sliming the track.

"I'm afraid you've made the Dark Lord very angry, little Mudblood. Do you know how long it takes to raise a Basilisk even of that size? Many, many years. You've destroyed a lifetime of work. And now, you're going to have to pay...."

Hermione, against all her instincts, began walking towards him as well, holding the metal sheathing before her in her hands. She could see him smiling disdainfully, as if he thought this a paltry weapon against his formidable power. When she was within five feet, she stopped, gave a little sob, and cast the sheathing at his feet as if in surrender. As she had hoped, it hit both sides of the track at the same time and slid to rest against Voldemort's boots. Sparks flew into the air as a massive current surged through his body. The force of the concussion threw him back several yards.

Hermione ran up to him. He was out--cold, but she couldn't be sure for how long. She leaped over his body and ran back to Kirlie. Somehow she must get both of them out of here.

~*~

The rock star was not only paralyzed, but encased in ice. Voldemort's Freeze Spell must have hit him too. This solidified him, but since Hermione had had it in mind to blow him out onto the tracks and let an oncoming train waft him to the next station, this change in physical state put the kibosh on that idea. Then she had a brain-storm. She pushed him into the tunnel Peter had made and jumped on top of him. Soon they were sliding down the rocky slope as if they were on a toboggan run. Hermione only hoped that when they got to the bottom, she could use the house elves' shovels to widen that hole into Gringotts. Surely the goblins would help them.

When they reached the bottom, their momentum crashed them right through the remaining wall, which turned out to be very thin. Now they were in a corridor lined with metal-clad vault doors. Here were tracks of a different kind--the carts the goblins used to escort their clients to their valuables. Just then along came just such a cart, full of shouting goblins armed with fearsome weapons like maces and meathooks. We're saved, thought Hermione, until one of the goblins encased her outstretched hands in manacles and pushed her into the cart.