I do not own The Aristocats; they are owned by the Walt Disney Motion Pictures Group. I also do not own any of the Disney characters mentioned; they are also a product of the Walt Disney Motion Pictures Group. I make no profit from writing this, other than personal enjoyment.

A beautiful song could be heard on a dreary bleak night in the sewers of London.

Rain fell down enough to make even a walking man's vision blur and his bones chill. Any vehicle mad enough to drive in that weather would've literally been parting the roads, which would've been a horrifying sight for anyone that would've bothered to see the flurry of blurry light on that dark night. All buildings resorted to lighting candles to see; they didn't have much choice, given that the electricity was kaput at that time. Not a single human walked the streets, or even the sidewalks, that night. Even the docks on the River Thames were abandoned.

If people were outside, though, they might've heard the soft, lullaby-like music coming from a storm drain near the docks. The music was constantly muffled by water rushing, running through the bars, but at certain times, where the drain was lucky enough to breathe, it could be heard. The water rushing down led into what was once a notorious criminal hideaway; now it had become another underground tavern.

Of course, the rain flooded the gang of mice and whatnot out from the luxurious bar, although no water even touched the red carpet. The mice avoided this place for an entirely different reason; the cold rain would've only added on to their current grief.

Now, at the bottom of the dark hole, were three inhabitants: one lucky enough to survive a fall of nearly 100 meters (96.3 meters minus the distance from the top to the hand at the ten position, to be exact), one exceeding brave (or exceedingly stupid) lizard named Bill, and one female mouse who was simply known as "Little Sister."

Bill, in traditional chimney sweep attire, guarded the door, listening to the playing gramophone. He had an inkling of what would happen if he disturbed his once-proud master, who had been sitting in that barrel of a room since he recovered, sulking his life away. He had been cared for by few of his loyal goons (those who actually had some sympathy for him) and one little mouse who had come from her church to help.

This little mouse, half the size of Bill, came out of the tavern with her apron full of a tray of goodies: a bowl of steaming chicken soup, a glass of (clean) water, and a few blueberry Danishes made personally by her.

Bill, attracted by the aroma of chicken, looked around to Little Sister wading in the water. "My dear, why don't I take that tray from ya? It looks mighty heavy."

Little Sister had no choice; her hands were hidden in her apron, and Bill had already slid the tray into his hands.

"But Bill," she began with her soft voice. "Won't he . . . you know?"

"Nah," the lizard said cheerfully. "He's always liked me, he 'as. I'll take it to him, don't ya worry." Bill opened the door, helping the music spread out and echo in the hovel where they were. "'Ello, gov'na! Your food's he-ee-ee-ya-ha-AAAHHHHHH!" The next thing anyone knew, Bill was flying like a javelin through the air, landing on the water and skipping across it until he slammed into the brick wall on the opposite side.

"WHY DO YOU DISTURB ME?"

Little Sister soon stood face to navel with a large, rather disheveled rat. His greasy hair went every which way (some even brushed his eyeballs); his sclerae were yellow, and blood vessels showed in them like a highway map. His clothes were fading black, and torn, and they reeked of salt water. His fur was unkempt, and his tail had tidbits of what appeared to be food stuck onto it. His fangs, yellow and dripping with who knew what, were barred at her . . .

Only for a short while; once he saw who it was, he slowly regained his composure.

"My dear," he wheezed; she coughed from the stench that protruded from those words. "Did you bring me that supper?"

Little Sister, after finally ceasing her coughing fit, looked at him with a small smile. "I did, Professor Ratigan."

"Please . . . call me Padraic. I am no longer a professor, and my last name haunts me still." He turned around to his room, slouching away. Little Sister turned away and was about to take a step down the stairs when,

"Please come in."

She stopped where she was. From the long while she had been there, caring for him, she had never been 'invited' into his room before. There was a moment of apprehension before a ripple of water caught her tail. She went inside.

His room was a complete mess! Papers were everywhere, not missing one inch of the floor. A broken box, which looked like it was once a control panel, stood in place next to a dilapidated table. Bits of food were seen every which way, even on the roof, and a dreadful mold began to grow in one of the corners.

And all the while, the beautiful lullaby was playing from the gramophone next to a cozy looking (well, apart from the torn mattress and ripped blankets) bed supporting Ratigan, who eyed her with the utmost patience.

"Padraic, this place is . . . uh,-"

"In a state of disarray," he moaned in miserably. "I'm fully aware of that."

Little Sister was about to pick up one sheet of paper when she heard a rather loud "STOP!" She dropped the paper and froze. "Your hands . . ."

Blast, she thought to herself. Out of all the things to notice-

"Allow me to see them, please."

There was no denying Padraic Ratigan after that last outburst; Little Sister held her hands out for him to see, closing her eyes, waiting for the inevitable pain. Ratigan only grabbed her wrists, and observed her hands in this fashion.

"Erythema present, but no visible blisters, no eschars. This is a first-degree burn, my dear."

Little Sister had never heard of any degree burn before. "Is that a bad thing?"

"It depends." He looked seriously at her. "How did this happen?"

"I couldn't cook with the power out, so I made a fire and-"

"Enough said." He got up, and quickly went to the only cabinet in the room that wasn't broken. He rummaged through bottles and boxes until he found what he was looking for. He looked back at her with a small smile. "It could've been worse."

And from that moment, he wrapped a long bandage around each arm, soothing her, as she constantly flinched from the pain. He took everything slowly, and stopped at every silent gasp she made. Soon both of her hands were completely bandaged over twice, and Ratigan was left to slouch into his bed again, and stare at the dripping ceiling. The music continued to play, the woman continued to sing, the piccolo continued to blow, the harp continued to strum, the chimes continued to be swayed every which way, ever so softly.

Little Sister couldn't help but laugh to herself. Ratigan instantly looked at her, a frown on his face.

"And what makes you laugh, Little Sister?"

"I laugh," she began, and he could see a tear building up in her eye, "only to keep myself from weeping."

Ratigan's eyes widened and his gaze intensified on her. "What would make you wanna-"

"Look at yourself, Padraic! "Her breathing became heaving, and a few more tears ran down her face. Ratigan did so quickly, obeying her command to look at himself, and yet he looked away just as quick.

"It's a monster!"

Little Sister placed one of her small bandaged hands on his shoulder (he was slouching, which helped her quite a bit); Ratigan didn't look back. "You're a right mess, and you need to recover from this nightmare. You're alive, and that's a blessing."

"But Basil-"

"Basil, the second-rate detective?" She had never been one for insults, but she thought that if it was the only way to cheer her friend up, then it was necessary. "You would've finished him off had that clock not struck ten." Unexpectedly, Little Sister vomited. Ratigan silently listened as she finished. "My apologies for that."

"It matters little," he said monotonously. "You may be right, but circumstances always favor Basil of Baker Street . . . they always have." He turned to face the wall, and curled up into silence. Little Sister stood there, not knowing exactly what to do. Then, she remembered of something in the room, something that could begin a conversation.

"This song's beautiful."

Ratigan's ear perked up, and it turned to the still-playing gramophone. "Yes, it is."

Little Sister invited herself to the cover of the vinyl that Ratigan was playing. On it, a female singer was in the front, and eight musicians were in the background. The women had forever been painted with her mouth open, and one could almost see her tonsils vibrating from her voice.

"Is this the band?"

Ratigan slowly rose like a vampire, a turned to see the cover. "Actually, they're more like a small orchestra."

She eyed them all carefully. There were two flautists, one harper, one piano player, two violinists, one violist and one cellist. "I don't recognize any of them, and there's no name on the cover. Do you know who they are?"

"Of course," he replied with a wave of his hand. He turned and glanced at it, and then said, "Do you see those violinists?"

She turned her attention to the four with the bow-and-string instruments. "Yes, Padraic."

She looked back to see that he wasn't looking at the cover. "The one on the far left has an earring on his left ear, with a lapis lazuli stone in it. He's a hefty man decorated with an insignia for a Major of the British Army hidden underneath his jacket. He's the only man there of British nationality."

Of course, the only ear visible in the picture was the cellist's left, but there it was, a lapis lazuli stone carved into an earring. Indeed, he was a hefty man, the heftiest on the stage, and Little Sister could see, just under his jacket, a crown. He had indeed served as a Major of the British Army.

"Impressive, Padraic!"

He didn't move, but she could hear the slightest hint of a chuckle emanating from him. "It's nothing, really."

"Can you do the violist next?" She watched as his eyes never shifted to her direction, but they stared at the ceiling, moving and squinting for some time.

"He's the man on the far right. He has no jewelry on . . . they probably would've taken the attention from his big ears, and pale face, and heterochromatic eyes."

He had been right about all of his attributes as well . . . even the eyes. "What color are they?"

"The left is . . . his left is green, while his right is blue."

Spot on again! "Astounding!"

Ratigan was smiling now. "I really don't understand how you could be entertained by this. I'm just remembering what I've seen."

"But that's the fun of it."

Ratigan chuckled again. "Very well, then . . . if it makes you happy." He cleared his throat. "The violinists are twin brothers, both black haired, pointy-nosed, and green-eyed. In case you're wondering, the one on OUR left is playing right handed, and the one on OUR right is playing left handed, on purpose so that the bows could cross, to create the image of two blades clashing in midair."

Little Sister oohed in surprise. Despite all of this, she wasn't satisfied just yet. "How can one tell the difference between the brothers in this photo?"

"Their hair," Ratigan said relaxed. "The brother on the left of the cover has neat, combed hair, while the other's is ruffled and rugged, completely disheveled."

"Unbelievable," Little Sister exclaimed loudly as she traced, from her left to right, the hefty Major, the neat haired twin, the messy haired twin, and the pale, brunette violist. Padraic laughed louder.

"Yes, well these four are-or I shall say were-members of Les Poètes Infatigables, The Tireless Poets."

Little Sister chuckled. "They sound very good, but they're not the only one's one the cover. You still have five people to go."

"Yeah," he said as the music changed to a more upbeat tune. "You're absolutely right."

"May you do the pianist next?"

"Of course," Ratigan said in a higher, more cheerful tone. "He has gray hair, but very few wrinkles on his face, and grayish . . . grayish-blue eyes! And a mole on his right cheek."

"Very good, but there is one more thing . . ."

"The white rose on his suit?"

"That's it." Little Sister still shook her head in disbelief at what he was doing.

"One more thing, though . . . look at his legs." She did, and gasped loudly. "That's right . . . clubfoot, his left foot, barely visible. The artist made sure to only hint of his condition."

"Poor man . . ."

"Yes, indeed," Ratigan said with some sympathy. "Shall we move on, then, to the harper?"

"Yes, we should," Little Sister said quickly, not wanting to focus on the old man's foot too long.

"She is blue-eyed, has long white hair, tied in a ponytail with three ribbons: red, blue, and pink, from top to bottom. She actually differs from the others in that she's wearing a long blue dress, and she is wearing no jewelry . . . or shoes, for that matter."

That had been true from her white hair to her bare feet. "And the piccolists, Mr. Padraic?"

Ratigan was becoming more excited by the second, just as the music picked up even more. "Uh, the nearest one is a young redhead, with curly hair and green eyes. She has earrings and a ring on her ring finger, conveniently. She smiles to the point where you can see her teeth, unlike the other musicians in the picture . . . save the pianist, who's mouth is open, as he looks upward smiling, like he's singing to the heavens.

"The other woman is a chubby brunette with short hair, brown eyes, glasses, and rosy pink lips. She wears a pearl necklace. Both piccolists wear black dresses."

Little Sister could only stare at what he had correctly said; everything was correct. All that was left was the singer, who, now that she truly stared at her . . .

"The singer looks familiar."

"You don't recognize her," he asked playfully. "You see her every night at the House of Mouse."

Little Sister looked at the lady a little closer. She couldn't have been any younger than her fifties. Her hair, her dress, her mannerisms-

Little Sister gasped. "Lady Bomfamille?"

"Yes," Ratigan said right behind her, startling her a bit. "The Adelaide Bomfamille, fifty-two years of age, twenty-one years ago."

Little Sister was astounded. It was Adelaide indeed, with that smile and that hairstyle, although it still had a trace of black in the cover, and her face had probably a third of the wrinkles that she had today. Little Sister wondered how she didn't recognize that slender body of Adelaide's [clothed in a magenta dress], or her dainty hand, lifted above her head as she sang.

"I don't believe it. So that person singing now . . . that's her?"

"Sure is." Padraic let out a long sigh. "And this particular vinyl is rare."

Little Sister looked up to him. "Did something happen?"

"Shortly after, they all disbanded in different directions. No one really knows why, and Adelaide hasn't told anybody."

"Do you know what happened," Little Sister asked as she sat next to him on the bed.

"Some say they disagreed on something, like a song; others claim that there was a disappearance. I personally don't know, and all we are sure of is, Ms. Bomfamille retired shortly after." Ratigan looked like he was about to fall to sleep. Little Sister smiled, and helped him to lie down, quickly making his bed in the process. She then walked back to the vinyl cover, looking at the men again, and the women again, and Adelaide again. This was all unbelievable to her.

I wonder if I can find out what this song's called.

There were no words on the front of the cover, and Adelaide was singing in French which made it almost impossible for her to figure it out, so Little Sister squeezed herself behind it. On the back, at the bottom, were words written with what looked like chalk. Little Sister had a thought to touch it, but staved her temptation.

"Padraic?"

"Yes, dear?" It sounded like he was drifting into sleep.

"Can you remember one more thing on this cover, please?"

"Ask, and ye shall receive." She could hear a quiet chuckle from him. She couldn't help but smile.

"Can you translate these words?"

"Words?"

Now Little Sister began to worry, for Ratigan's voice went from drowsy to alert in a matter of seconds. "Th-there is words written on the back of the cover, but I can't make them out."

The next thing she knew, he was right behind her, looking at the words himself. Little Sister looked out to see that the bed was still neat.

"I never noticed words here," Ratigan said stroking his chin curiously. "These words are written in French; they could be Adelaide's."

"What do they say?"

"Un tribut final à ma Duchesse. Je peux me sacrifier pour son bonheur." Ratigan furrowed his brow in concentration. "A final tribute to my duchess. May I sacrifice myself for her happiness."

"That's really sweet," Little Sister commented, running her finger across the penned signatures. One was Adelaide's, and the other one was someone else's. The chalk didn't fade away. "Do you think she was talking of her Duchess?"

"I doubt it," Ratigan said, setting his hand on her shoulder. "Duchess would not have been born at this time. It might be a daughter, or a boss, or . . . a dying friend . . ."

But Ratigan trailed off. He looked like he was concentrating on something, and he remained silent for some time. Then, suddenly, he whirled around to the front cover and stared at it. Little Sister followed as fast as she could.

The music's become creepy. Those violins screeching . . . it fits the mood.

Ratigan was staring at something on the picture, but she couldn't tell exactly what, or who. "Impossible."

"What's impossible," Little Sister asked, reaching up to put a hand on his bony shoulder.

"And yet it's becoming more obvious . . ." Was he looking at the cellist's brown eyes, or the previously unmentioned ankle bracelet on the younger piccolist? Was there anything on Adelaide that attracted his attention? "Yes . . ."

"Padraic-"

"Come," Ratigan yelled to the sky. "We must make haste to the House of Mouse; this might truly be the greatest revelation I've ever made!"

Little Sister couldn't say anything else as Ratigan quickly disappeared into another room for only a moment, then came out in a new suit, with combed hair and white teeth. He merely gestured for her to take his hand.

"Padraic-"

"Ratigan, my dear," he said with a sneer. "My work isn't over just yet." And he took her hand, and pulled her onto his back. Then, with a joyful laugh, he leapt out from the room, and climbed out of the sewer, and began to sprint towards the direction of the House of Mouse, a distance away.

The music had ceased at its climax; the sewers became silent apart from the rain and the rushing water. Little Sister had an inkling that this was the beginning of an adventure.

Hey guys. I'm trying to write my own novel, so if you see anything that can be improved from writing in general, please let me know. Also, if you enjoy this fic, please let me know. I do sincerely hope you enjoy it.