Roman Holiday

Chapter Thirty

It was a fast trip, straight down through darkness.

Hermione grabbed for her wand, almost bobbled it, caught it again, and muttered, “Lumos!” Looking down was an exercise in self-mastery; as it turned out, she needn’t have wasted the effort. The wand’s light didn’t penetrate all the way to the bottom of the tunnel.

She could, however, hear the crash of breaking water beneath her, and it was getting louder as she descended. There must be an underground river, feeding into the lake, Hermione thought, and tried not to think about how hard she was going to land, when she got to the bottom.

She flashed past a sizable opening in one side wall of the tunnel, but didn’t grab for the ledge soon enough to stop her fall. The sound of running water was quite loud now; risking another glance downward, Hermione saw what looked like the metallic gleam of a grate, far beneath her, and groaned.

This was getting worse and worse.

Making it all the way to the bottom was no longer an option. Time for an experiment, she thought wildly, as almost anything would be preferable to breaking both legs at the end of this hellish oubliette and waiting for the rats to find her. Taking a deep breath, she turned her wand on herself and shouted the first spell she could think of.

“Mobilicorpus!”

She stopped falling so suddenly that her whole body jerked in a whiplash. Despite the neck pain, she sighed in relief. She hadn’t been sure that spell would work on a body that wasn’t unconscious.

She was very close to the bottom of the tunnel now - so close, in fact, that if she pointed her toes, they almost brushed metal. She swallowed hard.

That had been a close one.

The walls of the tunnel were gray-green and slimy with moss. No traction there. Even with her pesky gravity issue dealt with, Hermione wasn’t sure how she was going to get back up. Wingardium Leviosa wasn’t supposed to be used on beings, only objects. And though she’d read about Hovering Charms and thought she remembered the words, she was a bit apprehensive about trying one out for the first time in this particular circumstance.

Do it the old-fashioned way, then, she thought, and began an awkward breast-stroke through the air, back up the way she’d just come.

It was slow, exhausting work, like swimming through pudding. What was worse, Hermione could feel the strength of her Mobilicorpus beginning to slip as she tired. She could have cheered when the opening in the side wall finally came into view.

Time for a breather, she decided, and collapsed gratefully onto the clammy stone floor.

A few minutes later, when she’d finally caught her breath, she shone her wand curiously around her. The floor on which she sat wasn’t simply a ledge; it was the entrance to a side tunnel, tall enough for her to stand upright in and nearly as wide as one of the Hogwarts corridors. These walls were furred with moss, too, though less heavily, and in one place the moss had been stripped away altogether to make room for some hastily etched words. Hermione stood up and moved a little closer, in order to read them.

“Fred and George were here.”

Startled, and more relieved than she cared to admit, Hermione laughed out loud. If the irrepressible Weasley twins had been down this rabbit hole and made it out alive again, maybe there was hope for her, too. The question was: which way had they gone?

She leaned out into the vertical passageway and peered up toward the floor of the Potions classroom. Not so much as a pinhole of light. Either the trap door had closed behind her after she fell, or Avery and Parkinson had kicked it closed out of spite. Whichever it was, she didn’t fancy another long, exhausting swim up to the top, only to discover that she couldn’t open the door from this side - and, considering that it was Hogwarts, that was a very real possibility.

Well, then. That left this tunnel. She’d just have to find another way out.

Gripping her wand in a hand gone clammy with trepidation, she headed into the narrow stone hallway.

**

Some time later, she came to a fork in the path and groaned.

Right or left? The Lady or the Tiger?

She examined the wall for possible clues in the form of Weasley-graffiti, but there was nothing. Apparently she was moving away from the river, however - as she’d gone along, the moss had become increasingly sparse and finally disappeared. Now the walls were bare, though still damp to the touch.

Hermione glanced down one corridor, then the other. They looked identical: black and forbidding, beyond her small sphere of light. She bit her lip, undecided, and pushed her hair irritably out of her eyes for the hundredth time.

Dammit, Harry, she thought. If you hadn’t been snooping last night, I wouldn’t be in this mess right now, I’d be at the Wand and Razor asking for a trim and a shape and possibly an eyebrow wax. You’re the adventurer, not me: why couldn’t this be happening to you and Ron, instead?

It was then that she heard the music coming down the left-hand passageway.

It was a thin, eerie, echoing sound - much like a flute, but without the warmth and the wide fluttering vibrato. The tune was unfamiliar … haunting, heavily ornamented, and in a minor key.

Hermione frowned. If you discounted the obvious skill of the musician, the instrument sounded almost exactly like the soprano recorder she’d learned to play in her third-grade Muggle music class.

Immediately, and most unwillingly, she had “Hot Cross Buns” stuck in her head.

Good God. She’d managed to block that particular memory for years.

She glanced down the silent black corridor to the right, then transferred the perspiration from her wand hand onto her robes, gathered her courage, and turned toward the left, feeling rather like a rat following the Pied Piper.

If this turned out to be the biggest mistake of her life, she thought, Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes could damn well pick up the tab for her funeral.

And afterwards, she’d haunt their shop. Forever.

**

Snape was in a foul mood.

First of all, he had a head cold. (Which was what came of getting naked - even partially - on a chilly damp floor, at his age.)

Second of all, his routine had been thrown off today by the discovery of mildew in his storage cabinets. Nearly his entire store of dried bat wings and pickled sparrow tongues were wiped out - both ingredients, of course, being things he needed for Monday’s classes - and he’d subsequently had to spend most of the morning in Hogsmeade, replacing damaged supplies.

Now, it was three o’ clock, and his peaceful afternoon was being disturbed. For some reason, the Fates had seen fit to punish him with Harry Potter.

“Go away, Potter,” he snapped. “If you need help with your classwork - and I daresay you do - my office hours are posted.”

Harry looked put out by this, but to Snape’s great annoyance, he didn’t budge. “It’s not that,” he said. “It’s about Hermione. She’s missing.”

Snape scowled. Hermione had been studiously avoiding him ever since the Momentous Event of Thursday evening. “Tell your Head of House, Potter. Miss Granger’s whereabouts are not my concern.”

Potter persisted. “She was coming to see you this morning,” he said stubbornly. “About something important. The Illuminata, I think. Didn’t you talk to her?”

The Illuminata? Snape blanched. How much did Potter know?

He rubbed his eyes wearily. “Not that it’s any of your business,” he said. “But this once, I will accede to your extreme and unwarranted nosiness long enough to inform you that I’ve been in Hogsmeade all morning. I haven’t seen Miss Granger since class yesterday.” His head was pounding. He thought his sinuses might explode. “Now. Will you kindly take your bothersome self away, and leave me alone?”

Harry took a deep breath. “But. Professor.”

“What now?” Snape snapped. Harry met his eyes levelly.

“Her books are outside your office,” he said. “And I’ve been looking for her ever since she didn’t come to lunch. She’s not anywhere. And nobody’s seen her.”

Snape rolled his eyes. “Did you ask Mr. Malfoy?”

“Yes,” Harry said evenly. “I’d say he’s about as worried as I am. He’s checking all the third-floor classrooms again right now.”

Dear me, she had come clean, hadn’t she? Snape gave Harry a sharp look. He was paler than usual and trembling almost visibly with anxiety. “What else?” he asked, less sharply, and Harry held out a piece of black cloth.

“Found it on the floor of the Potions classroom,” he said, swallowing hard. Snape took the rag reluctantly.

There was no mistaking the fabric - this had come from a standard Hogwarts student robe. Snape felt his stomach lurch, and took another swig from his bottle of Pepper-Up.

“All right, Potter,” he said, pushing back his chair. “Lead the way.”

**

Hermione wasn’t sure how long she’d been walking, but her feet hurt, and she was starting to get hungry. Breakfast seemed like a distant memory.

She thought the music was a little closer now, though with the echo it was difficult to tell for certain. She blew out a shaky breath. She’d be glad to see just about anyone right now, even Parkinson and Avery - the ghostly faraway piping and the dank, dripping stillness that closed in on her from all sides were wearing on her nerves.

She had almost convinced herself to turn around and go back when the corridor suddenly widened and turned. Hermione rounded the bend cautiously, hesitated for a moment underneath an imposing granite arch, then walked resolutely through it.

Holy shit.

Whatever she’d been expecting, it wasn’t this.

She was in a torchlit chamber about the size of the Gryffindor common room. A gorgeous Oriental carpet shimmered underfoot. Shelves of books lined the walls. On the far side of the room, a fire crackled merrily in the grate, and a log gave way with a hiss and a shower of sparks.

Two overstuffed armchairs flanked the fire. One was empty. The other held a ghostly-gray figure Hermione didn’t recognize.

He was austerely dressed in unadorned robes, through which Hermione could faintly see the back of the chair. He had short hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and held what was indeed a descant recorder to his pale lips. When he saw Hermione, he laid his instrument aside, but didn’t rise from the chair.

“Good afternoon, young lady,” he said. “And who, pray tell, are you?”

“Hermione Granger,” Hermione said faintly, stepping forward into the circle of firelight. “I’m a student here,” she added, when he didn’t say anything.

“So I see,” he said, sounding slightly amused. “A Gryffindor, I see. And with a prefect’s badge at that. Dear me, you Gryffindors do get around, don’t you?” He laced his fingers behind his head. “I met a most entertaining pair of redheads … was it two years ago? Three? Quite a conversation that was, too. Though for sheer visual aesthetics, I must say you’ve handily defeated them, Miss Granger. It’s been at least a century since I saw a pretty girl; I must thank you for dropping in.”

Hermione bit her lip. He talked more than any ghost she’d ever seen, including the ever-obnoxious Sir Patrick of the Headless Hunt. And he looked vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t think why.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” she said. “But I don’t believe I caught your name.”

“How impolite of me,” said the ghost. “An oversight, I assure you.” He reached for her hand and brought it to his icy lips.

“Salazar Slytherin, Miss Granger. At your service.”

**