Rescue

(Part I)

As McGonagall runs down her list of names, McKinnon keeps a running total in his head. When 98% of those jammed into the hallway beyond the portrait gallery are no longer present, the noise level drops considerably, and he feels the first low-level surge of event-related adrenaline. Time to get to work. Aware that, including himself, there should be no more than 19 people present, he counts heads, making certain he's got the right number. When he comes up with 20, he counts again, just to be sure the error is not his own.

"Who's here that's not supposed to be here?"

When all who are present, excluding a pretty redheaded girl, look around at the others, he has his answer but before he can say anything, Molly Weasley scolds, "Ginny, outside now."

"Mum, I can help. I'm good at the kinds of things you need."

McKinnon realizes only then that the mic on the two-way radio is still open when it buzzes unpleasantly, and he releases his hold on the transmission button.

Shortly thereafter, McGonagall says crisply, "Miss Weasley, you are not being excluded because of any lack of ability. I'm quite confident you would be an asset to the team. However, because of the event that brought us here today, your parents have already lost one of their children. I'll not be responsible for the injury or loss of another. If you do not wish to face expulsion from Hogwarts, you will leave the area immediately."

Ginny looks to her mother, her face going hard and hot when Molly simply points toward the grand staircase. She looks to Harry, seeking an ally. He shrugs apologetically but shakes his head.

"Harry!" She demands stubbornly.

"Sorry, Ginny, but I agree with them. If there's even a slight chance you could be hurt, I'd rather you were not here. Go outside. It's nice out. Find your dad and your brothers. Have a game of quidditch."

She stamps her foot. "Not okay, Harry."

He nods. "Right then, you can yell at me later. Just now, I'm a bit busy."

Ginny stomps away as Molly sighs, "You didn't have to do that, Harry dear. I could've done it. She'll be three times as bad-tempered with you."

He shrugs. "Invite me to dinner one night after things settle down a bit, we'll call it even."

Well, that's no price at all. You're welcome at our table every night."

McKinnon clears his throat. "We should get started if we dinnae still want to be here come dinnertime tonight. First, I'll be needin a moment with Molly Weasley, Madame Pomphrey and Professor… He points in uncertainty, and the plump little witch in question kindly supplies, "Sprout, Pomona Sprout."

Waving them over the threshold into the portrait gallery, like an usher, he says, "Right this way, ladies." On afterthought, he pokes his head back out into the corridor. "If ye aw will stay here, we wilnae be but a moment."

Inside the gallery, he quickly and quietly offers a full disclosure of the situation, the problems they face, along with what he will need from each of them. When they each have their assigned tasks clearly in mind, he steps back out into the corridor, and waves the others in as the three women exit, branching off in separate directions. While Sprout is off to find Minister Shacklebolt, Madame Pomphrey quickly pulls Chiara Lobosca away from the others and heads for the hospital wing to gather supplies. Molly approaches Clayton Rivers and, as gently as possible, separates him from the group. "Come with me, Mudd. I need a word in private."

Beneath the collapsed mountain of stone, using Lumos Maxima in conjunction with the Ferula charm, McGonagall magically applies bandages to the minor lacerations and abrasions visible on the arms and faces of her charges. As she works, she fills in her own captive audience. "First, I've got to let Mr. McKinnon and the others know precisely where we are in this heap. Then, I'm going to find a way to get the two of you…" She points at the faces of Cordelia and Ripley and can't help but notice the difference in the amount of dirt present there. "out of here safely and returned to your families. After that, Miss Rivers will have my full attention and we will find a way to get you out from under there."

Ripley shakes his head. "Professor, I'm not leaving my sister. I can't."

"You can, and you will, Mr. Rivers. By force if necessary. I'm asking you not to make me do that. I give you my word, everything that can be done for your sister will be done. I will not leave here without her."

"But…"

Weakly, but fiercely, Misti declares, "You're going Rip. I'll be out in a little while. If I'm not, I'll tell Mum how brave you were fighting those death eaters, and how good you did at school this year."

Again, Ripley shakes his head. "Don't say that Missy. You can't think like that."

"I have to. Can't help it, Rip. Somebody has to stay here and look after Dad. You know what he's like. He's hopeless without Mum. See if you can find him a girlfriend."

Ripley cringes. "Gee, thanks Missy. Ask for the impossible, why don't you?"

She shrugs and immediately wishes she'd foregone the simple movement. Hoarse with pain, she says, "That should keep you busy for a few years."

"Try decades."

"Find him a nice witch - or not a witch. Another muggle is okay. Just not Widow Humphries from across the street. I know she thinks she likes Dad. But she doesn't, not really. He's just available. She will steamroll him."

"I don't like her anyway." Ripley declares in honesty. "She's creepy the way she's always hanging around. She smiles funny, and she laughs too much at all Dad's stupid jokes. Besides, she makes me sneeze – too much perfume."

Cordelia looks to McGonagall and interrupts. "Aren't we in trouble? How come you're not scolding us, or taking house points, or something? Are we going to be in detention until we graduate?"

"No, Miss Drakes you will not be in detention until you graduate. I cannot think of a single punishment that would be worse than spending what must be nearly 36 hours trapped here. Disobedient as the four of you were, no one deserves this. The three of you are lucky to be alive. And you may need some luck yet."

Ripley's eyes widen with astonishment. "Oh man, 36 hours! No wonder I'm starving!" Lucky MJ wasn't here with us. He wouldn't make it that long, I don't think."

"Magnus would have been better company." Cordelia says snidely.

"Lucky indeed." McGonagall sniffs." I hope the four of you remember that the next time you decide to disobey school rules."

"Is MJ alright, Professor? The death eaters didn't get him, did they?"

"No. Mr. Thorne has also been found, unharmed. He was wandering around looking for the three of you."

"Told you he was looking for us, didn't I?"

"Shut it, Cordelia."

The girl turns wounded eyes toward the professor. "You see. He's been yelling at me this whole time."

McGonagall inhales with forced patience. "I don't hear anyone yelling. You might try being a little less overbearing, seeing as how the company you did have, kept you from being all alone in here. What have you got in this bag?"

Ripley volunteers, "Nothing useful, Professor. I already looked, and she threw a fit about that, too. There's nothing in there but a bunch of makeup."

"Mr. Rivers, when I ask Miss Drakes a question, it is because I expect her to answer. And I want all of you to stop clyping on each other. Nobody likes a snitch."

They all go silent.

"That's better. Now, surely you must have something other than cosmetics in this hefty sack, Miss Drakes. It's nearly bursting."

Cordelia shrugs as McGonagall struggles to open one of the jam-packed zippered compartments. It takes her a long frustrating moment to empty the bag, and then she stares in astonishment at the pile of assorted bottles, tubes, brushes, and jars for another minute before she declares. "Good heavens, child. Cosmetics are meant to accentuate or enhance beauty that is already present. They are not meant to transform one's entire face, or to be worn like war paint. You are entirely too young to need all of this. I, myself, am too young to need all of this!"

A strangled sound coming from Misti causes McGonagall to glance her way with tightly controlled alarm, only to realize that the girl is trying to stifle her own laughter.

"I'm sorry Professor. I don't mean to be rude, but that was rather funny. I didn't think you were too young for anything."

"Neither did I, Miss Rivers, but this – Well, this is just." She turns to Cordelia. "You have a very pleasing face, Miss Drakes. Do yourself a favor and stop hiding it with all this unnecessary camouflage."

Stunned, Cordelia's face glows with a look that is equal parts doubt and delight. Too pleased to complain, she says nothing when McGonagall turns her bag over and opens the zipper in the center of the shoulder strap, making two out of one.

McGonagall shortens the shoulder straps, nearly to their smallest setting before magically fashioning a new strap that buckles horizontally outside the center of the largest compartment. Using Reducio silently, she reduces the bag in size. Where it was once big enough to carry a large drinking flask, now, when compared side by side, it appears scarcely larger than the two-way radio that allows her to communicate with those in the room beyond their current confinement.

"Professor, what are you doing to my bag?" Cordelia inquires, her confusion evident in every word.

"I'm securing your means for escape from this wretched pile of detritus."

"I don't see how my makeup bag is going to help with that."

Without comment, McGonagall points her wand at the bag again and works a bit more nonverbal magic before pulling the largest compartment open wide and lowering the now tiny bag to the pile of stones underfoot. Nodding at the bag encouragingly, she declares, "You first, Mr. Rivers. In you go."

Grinning curiously, Ripley approaches the bag. Turning to Cordelia as he cautiously attempts to insert the toe of one shoe, he announces, "If I tear this thing apart, just remember, she told me to." He pushes his foot in slightly, and then reflexively jerks himself free when his left leg disappears entirely inside the bag and he still can't feel the bottom. "Hey! What the -"

"It's alright." McGonagall assures. "There will be a short drop, but I promise you'll find the bottom before you fall far enough to be injured. When you do touchdown, move to one side to make room for Miss Drakes."

Ripley scowls until his sister says quietly, "It's okay Rip. It's just an undetectable extension charm. She made the outside of the bag smaller, so her cat can carry it on his back, but on the inside, there's enough room for you and Delia so you can get out of here."

His eyes widen dramatically. "Seriously? We're going out by cat?"

McGonagall offers assuredly. "I'll guide him out. You needn't worry, Mr. Rivers."

"Worry? I'm not worried." He looks at his sister. "Well, not about myself. This is too bloody weird to be anything but cool." Despite his enthusiasm, he eyes McGonagall somberly. "You won't leave her?"

"My word of honor." McGonagall swears.

"Missy?"

"Just go!" His sister whispers. "Get out of here already… And don't eat my entire stash of cauldron cakes before I get there."

Nodding, he puts the same foot back inside the bag. The same flicker of indecision crosses his face and then he relinquishes control and appears to be swallowed whole by the small nylon pouch. A long moment later, sounding as if his voice is coming from the bottom of an enormous canyon, he declares, "Hey Delia, get a move on. Time to blow this hellhole!"

Cordelia shakes her head. "I am not getting in that bag."

Misti laughs, coughs badly, and then, groans in abject misery. "Fine, stay here by yourself. Professor McGonagall and I are leaving. Maybe, if you learned enough magic this year, you'll be able to turn the place into a lovely summer cottage.

Cordelia looks terrified at the prospect of being left behind, but still resolutely shakes her head.

Misti sighs. "Professor, I think you're going to have to help her out."

Before Cordelia has time to object, she floats, momentarily aloft before being jettisoned into the small pack, that from the outside, doesn't look big enough for one of her hands. Landing on her backside at Ripley's feet, she scurries to her own and struggles to remain upright inside the nylon fabric. The zipper runs, pulled along its track, and closes all but the last bit, leaving a ½ inch gap open, and Cordelia lights the tip of her wand as she scowls repugnantly and whispers, "I can't believe she did that!"

Ripley shrugs and whispers back, "I don't know why not. Didn't you hear her when she said that she would make me leave by force, if necessary?"

"Yes, but that's you."

"There you go again, thinking you're special."

"Look, whatever. Just don't talk to me until we get out of here."

"Fine by me." Ripley tries to sit down on the floor of the bag, but before he can manage it, the bag is turned sideways and jostled about."

"Ugh, it's weird being small enough to fit in here."

"You're not small enough to fit in here. The inside of the bag was made big enough to fit around us."

When Ripley rolls into her, Cordelia slaps him away. "Get off of me at once, Ripley Rivers!"

"Sorry!" He grouses, "Believe me, it wasn't by choice. It's kind of hard to hold still when you're being moved about like this."

"Why are you whispering?"

Realizing it for the first time, Ripley shrugs. "Don't know. You've started it."

"Well, this is weird! What the devil is she doing to us, anyway?"

"She isn't doing anything to us - except trying to get us out of here alive."

Cordelia squeals as the pack is jostled about again. "Well, I don't like it!"

Ripley sighs. "Look Delia, just try to relax, okay. Don't move if you can help it. She's just putting the bag on the cat. Once that's done, we won't be moving around quite so much. The cat will get us out. He knows the way."

"How do you know that?"

"He got in, didn't he?"

"Well, what if he forgets how to get out?"

"He got in less than half an hour ago. He'd have to be pretty stupid to forget the way out that fast, wouldn't he? I don't think Professor McGonagall would have a stupid cat."

"Whatever, you don't know."

"You know what, Cordelia? I think I liked it better when you weren't talking to me."

After slipping her cat's front feet through the miniaturized shoulder straps of the bag and fastening the newly fashioned chest strap around his middle, McGonagall sets Wordsworth on his feet and says to him, "You know the way." She points her wand in the direction he needs to travel and declares fervently, "Expecto Patronum!"

The ghostly image of a silver feline bursts forth from the tip of her wand and races up the narrow passage through which they arrived, acting as a guide and, if necessary, as a protector for her own whiskered companion and the students he now carries. Talking to Wordsworth again, she orders, "Fast as you can, back to the top." She then picks up the radio at her feet and depresses the transmission button. "Laird?"

"I'm here, Minerva."

"Go back up to the fifth floor - top of the heap. Where we talked earlier. Wordsworth is coming out. He's a big fellow. You'll need to widen the gap before he gets there. Otherwise, he'll start looking for another exit. You probably have about 25 minutes. Give or take ten."

"We're on our way." He clips the radio to his belt. "Okay, troop. You heard the lady. Up we go."

Taking the stairs two at a time, he talks as he goes, looking over his shoulder only once or twice to make sure that his audience is alert and following along. "Okay, team, ears open and listen close because I wilnae have time tae repeat this later. The work we're about tae dae is slow-moving, methodical, and tedious. In order tae go fast, you'll have to go slow. We move only as a team. No one acts independently. We move only the debris that can be moved without disturbing other bits. Whatever else is on your mind right now, whatever pain or injury you've suffered in the last few days, as of this moment, it is immaterial. Put it in a box and save it fir later. Your complete focus is mandatory. You dinnae make a single move that you're not 100% sure of. Work together. Work quietly. If I say stop. Ye stop. If I tell ye tae move, ye move. If ye see me run, make bloody well sure ye keep up. If ye get lazy or careless, young Misti and Professor McGonagall will likely be crushed to death. If ye lose yer focus, they die. If ye get impatient, they die. If ye move too fast, or too slowly, they die. Does anybody here nae understand that?"

Harry answers dryly, "I think everybody's up to speed, Mr. McKinnon."

"Dinnae call me Mister. It makes me look around for me grandda. I work best on familiar terms – and one other thing. I've got a grand girl who's a whiz with a wand. There's nothing she can't dae. Some of ye may ken her. Maybe you even went tae class with her. But me, I'm as muggle as they come. Can't dae a bloody thing with a wand. So, I won't tell you how tae work yer magic. I dinnae care what spells you use, long as you get the job done - just dinnae blow anything up unless I tell ye to - but understand this, I am the man in charge. If a'body here has a problem taking orders from non-magic folk, they should leave now."

As they step into the room on the fifth floor, he turns to face them. When nobody leaves, he nods appreciatively. "Right then. I heard Professor McGonagall call out yer names. If ye aw would, dae me a wee favor. Step forward one at a time and tell me again, so I can put a name with a face."

When they've each taken their turn, Luna asks, "If not Mr. McKinnon, then what should we call you, sir?"

"Just plain McKinnon will dae. Me friends call me Stone. If you all take a mind tae do likewise, it wilnae bother me one bit.

Why Stone?"

"That's me middle name."

"Seriously?" Katy Bell inquires.

He nods. "That's what it says on me birth certificate."

"That's an intriguing choice." Luna says airily

"Me Grandda was rather fond of the drink, at least until he found oot me da was due to arrive. I guess he figured that was reason enough tae sober up. It was just a pet name, but he called me da, Rock. Anytime anybody ever had the temerity to ask why, he'd always tell 'em, 'because the lad is my rock.' Da grew up, met me ma, fell in love. Along came me, and Ma absolutely insisted, 'We'll give him the middle name Stone because we can't call him Chip – you know, as in chip off the old block or rock, or what have you. She said with a name like Chip, I'd be a target for the schoolyard bullies, and that, she just wouldn't have." He chuckles. "Of course, then the woman - God rest her - she went and gave me the first name Laird, like that wouldn't paint an equally grand target on me back for the same schoolyard bullies."

Hermione squints in uncertainty. "What's so wrong with Laird? It sounds like a fine name to me."

McKinnon chuckles softly. "Laird is the Scottish word for lord. So, naturally, whenever ah'm first introduced to anyone, Ah'm sure Ah come off sounding a bit full of me self. Most of the men in me family are sailors and fishermen by trade. There might even be a few pirates in the old bloodline, but not a landowner in the lot. So, some of the family thought me ma was a bit too proud, givin' me the name of Laird. Most people feel more comfortable with Stone. Ma was the only person tae ever call me by me Christian name, at least until I met your esteemed headmistress a number of years ago. She seems to prefer it. Even me wife didn't call me Laird."

Katy Bell smirks. "No offense, sir but if I had a husband. I wouldn't call him Laird either. I'd be too afraid it might go to his head."

"None taken. Precisely why me Riona refused tae dae so. And now, on tae more important matters." He walks toward the apex of the collapse. "A short while ago, I sat up here and had a brief conversation with Professor McGonagall courtesy of this very small gap. Our first task, she tells me, is tae widen the gap, so that Wordsworth…" He stresses the name as if asking a question. "can come through.

"That's Professor McGonagall's cat." Harry and Hermione say in unison. They each look at the narrow slit between pieces of stone and Hermione follows up with, "Yeah, that won't do. He's going to need at least - what Harry – four or maybe six more inches around?"

McKinnon's blue eyes twinkle as he scratches his beard. "Noo, that really shouldn't surprise me, should it? Ah thought Ah saw twa cats."

Harry nods. "I'd give him at least six inches in diameter. He's a behemoth."

"Can anyone tell me why she took the cat in with her? Minerva McGonagall doesn't dae a thing without a good reason."

Molly Weasley offers. "Another student supplied her with the twin to the radio you're using to talk with her. She had the cat with her when she arrived. I'm not sure what her original intent was. The radio was an afterthought. When the cat, Wordsworth, went in with McGonagall, he was carrying her radio. she didn't want to risk carrying it herself for fear of transfiguring it improperly and making it useless."

"If Wordsworth went in with her, basically as her pack mule, and he's coming out without her, there has tae be a reason why." He reaches for the radio at his hip. "Minerva?"

After a moment of silence, she answers, "Just a minute, Laird. I'm a wee bit busy just now."

He nods tersely and returns the radio to his belt.

"Well, we may as well get started. The sooner we dae, the sooner everyone gets tae go home. Everyone stand back a safe distance away from the hole. The floor is weakened, and I dinnae have enough safety harnesses tae go round. Me normal crew travels with their own. I'm going tae anchor and move closer. I will move small debris with me hands. If something clear for removal is tae heavy or is difficult tae reach, Ah will call on you all tae provide magical assistance. It might be braw fir the lot of you tae spread out in a circle around the apex. Pick your spot and stay there. Dinnae go movin' aboot unnecessarily. First, we'll widen the cat's window here, and then, once he's with us, we'll began working our way doon tae the professor and the wee yins."

Harry grins. We don't need safety harnesses, Stone. Hermione can cast Wingardium Leviosa better than any of the rest of us combined. As long as she's the one holding the wand, I'll levitate right down the middle of that hole if you need me to."

Hermione looks less confident in her ability than her friend. "I don't know about that, Harry. I've never levitated a person before. I think you'd be safer on your broom."

He points at her enthusiastically. "Now, that's brilliant thinking! If someone needs to go down the hole between floors…"

McKinnon looks doubtful.

Hermione assures, "It'll be fine. Harry is the best flyer in the school. Just ask McGonagall. She'll tell you. She bought him his first broom after he came to Hogwarts. Although, I don't know if she'll admit it, even now that he's done. She didn't sign the gift card that came with it. Probably wanted to avoid appearing biased or showing favoritism to him or the Gryffindor quidditch team."

Flitwick interrupts, "However it's done, no one's taking another step until we all have proper safety gear. Mr. McKinnon, if you will step aside for a moment and remove yours temporarily, I can replicate it all – make enough for the whole team."

McKinnon nods. "Aye, if that's possible, they aw need proper buits, harnesses, and cover for their heids, een, hands, and ears."

When Flitwick squints in uncertainty, McKinnon steps to the little man's side and removes his safety glasses, his hard hat, his gloves, and his ear plugs. It takes a moment, but in relatively quick succession, he steps out of his harness, his boots, and then on afterthought, his coveralls as well. "Ye can make more – to fit them?" He gestures to his impromptu crew.

"Certainly. I should've thought of it before we came up here."

"You thought of it. That's wit matters. AhI'm guessing you've never been in this situation a'fore. Nae have I. Dae the hats first. So, we can get them tae the professor and the wee anes."

Flitwick complies, and as soon as there are two hardhats available, McKinnon moves to retrieve his own.

"If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment longer." Flitwick says. It's not wise to make a replica of a replica. One replication probably wouldn't do much harm, but it does degrade the quality of the item being conjured."

"Nae something ye'll be wantin' with safety gear."

"My thoughts exactly."

With the flick of his wrist the Charms teacher creates hardhats enough for everyone and, following that if up with a bouncy little flourish, he replicates the other safety items enough times over to accommodate the group. He relegates each type of item to its own tidy little stack on the floor against one wall of the large room. "Everybody take only one of each. There isn't a person in this room, other than Mr. McKinnon who should not be well versed in the use of engorgement and reduction charms. If the items you take don't fit you, make them fit properly. If you're not certain about proper fit, particularly with the hard hat and the harness, I'm sure Mr. McKinnon can be of assistance. Equip yourselves quickly, and let's - as they say - get this party started. Headmistress McGonagall and your classmates do not need to wait any longer than they absolutely must."

While everyone is busy collecting their own gear, Flitwick places a hat squarely atop his head and when it slips down over his eyes, he immediately corrects the issue with the tap of his wand, then he picks up four more. "Tell Professor McGonagall that I'm standing here beside you and I've got two hardhats in each hand."

Once again, McKinnon reaches for the radio at his hip. "Minerva, the snappy dresser oot here, says tae tell ye that he's standing at me left, and he's got a couple of hardhats in each hand."

The hats clasped in the dwarf's left hand shimmer briefly as though bathed in sunlight and then disappear from sight. A moment later, McGonagall is heard through the radio. "Thank you, Professor Flitwick. Miss Rivers says she's already got a leg in bad shape. She's grateful to know her head has some cover. I can't deliver the other two hats. Mr. Ripley and Miss Drakes are already on their way out."

McKinnon smooths his mustache appreciatively. "I can't wait tae see how ye managed that! Thank you fir the good news. Their parents are all smiles. Stay with us a bit longer on the radio. We've got a couple of bundles of other protective gear fir the twa of ye an'aw."

McGonagall relays her understanding succinctly. "Standing by."

From her new vantage point, Luna takes in the sheer depth of the task before them as she dons her own protective gear. "We're just going to dig them out? One piece at a time?"

McKinnon nods. "That's the name of the game, Miss Lovegood - ane piece at a time- as slowly as need be, and as quickly as possible. Ah'm going tae see if I can snake some cameras in. If we can get an idea of their exact location, we may have a better idea of where tae start digging. I hope you all had a good breakfast this morning. This might be a long day people."

It isn't long before they develop a rhythm. Each of them acting only when called upon, and with painstaking precision. They move, they lift, and they lower various pieces of stone and debris. If a section of stone is too large for one person to move, they shrink it in size. Occasionally, to keep the whole structure as stable as possible, they engorge some pieces, making them larger. It all makes for very slow work, and after nearly 40 minutes, Harry and a few of the others are discouraged to see how little progress they've made, but when McKinnon detects a faint scratching sound and calls for an all-quiet, all movement and noise stop immediately.

Listening closely, McKinnon moves four steps to his left and begins digging a new hole.

"Where are ye fella, Ah hear ye. Come on up."

When the male cat is heard yowling in frustration beneath the surface, Hermione joins McKinnon at the edge of the hole. stepping carefully to his side before kneeling, she quietly requests, "Harry, you spot me, okay. I've never worn one of these harnesses before. I don't know exactly how much trust to put in the thing. Don't let me fall."

Without leaving his designated spot, Harry points his wand with the phoenix tail feather at its core at a spot between her shoulder blades and stands ready. "I'm here, Hermione. I've got you."

Confident in his ability, she uses her own wand to lift the heaviest pieces of stone and mortar from the area and move them to the far side of the room against a wall where they are no longer a threat to anyone, before stowing her wand up the sleeve of her shirt and using her gloved hands to gently set aside the smaller, more manageable, refuse. As she works, Hermione croons. "We're coming Wordsworth, hang on. Just a little bit longer. That's it. There you are. I see you, big guy."

Before the opening is large enough for Wordsworth to press his head through, McGonagall's patronus erupts from the gap, startling McKinnon and throwing him momentarily off balance as the ethereal silver cat leaps into the room.

Hermione catches him by the collar of his shirt just in time to keep him from toppling headfirst down the hole; nearly strangling him in the process.

Sitting back on his heels and breathing deeply, he says gruffly, "Next time, you let me fall, lass. This harness will catch me and keep me fae most harm, but I'm big enough to take you along for the ride. Let's not test the worthiness of your harness unless we absolutely must." Then he turns, glaring at the silver specter of a cat. "Hell, and damnation, Minerva! What are ye trying tae dae, woman? Give me a bloody heart attack? Not all of us have nine lives, ye ken!"

Luna can't help giggling as she explains, "That isn't her, McKinnon. It's just her patronus."

"Oh. Well it bloody looks like her!"

Dean Thomas cocks his head to one side. You know, you're right. It does look like her. Almost exactly, except for the whole ghostly vapor part. That's uncanny. How come I'm never noticed that before now?"

Katy Bell shrugs. "I don't think I've ever seen McGonagall cast a patronus before. I mean, I assumed she could, but this is the first I've seen it. Does anybody else's patronus look like its - I don't know what to call it. Owner? Person?"

Harry speaks up. "Not every witch or wizard who can cast a corporeal patronus is an animagus, and even if they are, I bet it's possible to have a different patronus than your animal form. Although, it sort of makes sense that the two would be similar. Think about it. Animagi do not choose their animal form. It's kind of like a spirit animal, and if the corporeal patronus is an animal that the caster, in some way, identifies with…"

"Right." Hermione agrees. "In most cases, the two would be very similar, if not identical."

McKinnon finds himself feeling like the odd man out. "Whit exactly is a patronus."

Hermione's eyes widen. "You don't know? Never mind, I'm sorry. That was a stupid question. You wouldn't have asked otherwise. A patronus is a magical shield that protects the one who casts it. Its primary use is to protect a witch or wizard from the dementor's kiss."

"Those awful things that work as guards at the wizard prison? Karolyn told me about them."

"Yes sir." Hermione and McKinnon resume their work, trying to free Wordsworth as she talks. "They feed on a person's worst pain and suffering. They make them relive their most heartbreaking memories. When the dementors perform their kiss, they suck out a person's soul. A patronus is a way to drive them away. You have to think of your happiest moments to be able to produce one, and the dementors can't penetrate a shield generated from that. It's really powerful magic, but sometimes a patronus can be used to protect others besides just the one who casts it. I've also seen them used as messengers in a pinch. I don't think a patronus can protect people or animals from falling objects, so it's not likely she cast hers to protect Wordsworth. She probably meant it to be his guide in case he got lost or confused."

With the hole finally wide enough, McKinnon reaches in with his grifter and grabs the cat by the scruff of his neck, hauling him out before he has time to flee from the unfamiliar metal device.

I see Harry was'nae kidding aboot. You are a grand beast, aren't you?" McKinnon brings the dirty cat in close to his chest and rubs his head with his good hand. I bet ye need some water. Are ye thirsty? "What is this thing yer wearing, eh? What has your mistress sent us?"

Rising to his full height, McKinnon untethers his harness from its anchor around a wide marble column left ironically undamaged in the midst of chaos, and steps carefully away from the site of collapse before he removes the small pack from the cat's broad back and sets the animal gingerly on his feet. He's vaguely aware of Hermione and Mrs. Weasley talking soothingly to the feline as he unzips the largest of the bag's compartments. Startled again, he nearly drops the bag when Ripley Rivers' head and shoulders suddenly emerge.

Grinning broadly, the boy says, "Sorry about that, sir. Didn't mean to give you a fright. If you don't mind, set the pack down on the floor please."

Completely flummoxed, McKinnon does so, and the boy climbs out of the pack amid thunderous cheers of pure joy and clapping.

"Rip!"

Instantly pulled into his father's arms, the boy laughs nervously and returns the intense hug. "Hi Dad."

"Are you alright, son? Are you hurt?"

"Not too badly, Misti pushed me out from under a falling chuck of stone. That's how she got trapped. I'm sorry, Dad."

"None of that. Not now. Let's just move out of the way, and let these people do their work. They got you out."

Professor McGonagall is still with Misti. She's going to dig her out from under the stones." Ripley catches sight of the panic-stricken faces of the two remaining hopeful parents. "It's OK Mr. and Mrs. Drakes." Turning back to the pack on the floor, he calls, "Hey Delia, it's okay, you can come out now. Your parents are here waiting for you."

When she doesn't emerge, Ripley makes the huge effort necessary to keep from rolling his eyes. "Hang on, Dad. She's just a little bit scared." Stepping away from his father, he walks back to the small nylon pack on the floor and kneels.

Reaching in, his arm disappears up to his shoulder. "Cordelia, come on out. You're being silly."

Her parents' faces instantly brighten when she can be heard bellowing, "Ow! That's my hair, don't pull!"

Placing one eye to the small opening, Ripley laughs, "Well then, get yourself out here, girl. Come on. I'm starved and, as soon as Missy is out, I want to go and find Magnus."

Cordelia finally emerges, grumbling under her breath as she smooths her dark curls back into place, "Boys! That's all you ever think about, food and your mates!"

Mr. and Mrs. Drakes instantly swarm their daughter and rush her from the room sandwiched between the two of them, without bothering to look back.

McKinnon looks around to find radiant smiles on the faces of most people, including Molly Weasley. "Molly, the lad doesn't look as if he requires extensive medical care. Nonetheless, have Madame Pomphrey check him oot, and then, if ye will, please escort Mr. Rivers and his son down tae the scullery for a quick bit of scran. But, bring them back. I'm sure they'll want to be here when Misti is extracted. While you're at it, take Mr. Wordsworth with ye. Find him the largest dish of tuna ye can. He has, most definitely, earned it!"

When the large male cat vocalizes his own agreement, another round of laughter and cheering goes up.

Deep inside the mountainous pile of refuse, McGonagall speaks encouragement to her remaining charge. "Come now, girl. Open your eyes. Do you hear that? Do you hear that ruckus? I'm guessing that means your brother and your friend have made it to safety."

"Good." Misti whispers faintly. "Professor, I'm so tired, and I'm getting cold."

McGonagall searches the pockets of her robes, not finding a handkerchief, she wipes perspiration off her own forehead with the back of her hand and fights to keep the desperation out of her voice, when she says, "I know, dear. You just keep your eyes open a little bit longer. You just hang on."

When the girl murmurs incoherently and her eye lids flutter before closing, McGonagall rises from her knees, snatches up the radio, and turns her back.

"Laird McKinnon!" She calls out over the radio as quietly as possible.

When he answers, he's laughing, "If I have tae go fishing every day for the rest of me life, that beast of yers is going tae have fresh caught salmon fir dinner every night for the rest of his. He's pure braw!"

"Never mind that! You cannot go fishing yet. There's a little girl down here who still needs your help. I am moving the stone."

"Minerva, haud on a wee bit longer. Ah dinnae ken yet if it's safe for ye tae dae that. You might bring the whole thing down on yer heids."

The room is too noisy for him to hear her properly, and he takes his finger off the transmission button before he pulls in a great breath of air and roars from deep inside his chest, "Haud yer wheeshts!"

Confused, Dean looks to Harry, who is nearest him, and whispers, "What's that mean?"

Harry shrugs, just as mystified, until he sees Mrs. Weasley holding a finger sternly to her lips.

The silence that follows is somehow twice as deafening as the noise that preceded it, until McGonagall's voice is heard, asking, "Where is her father?"

"Molly took he and her brother down to the scullery fir a piece.

"Good. It's probably best they don't overhear this. I think I'm losing her, Laird. She's barely conscious. She's shivering uncontrollably and it's got to be 100 degrees inside here. Whatever her injuries may be, I don't have a hope of treating them, if I can't see them. If I do nothing, she'll be dead long before you get here. Where's Madame Pomphrey? Get her on the radio so I can talk to her first, before I do anything. First aid I can handle, but I am not a field medic."

Striding into the room with Chiara Lobosca in tow, each of them pushing a trolley that is loaded down with medical supplies, Madame Pomphrey snaps her fingers authoritatively to get his attention, and then snatches the radio from McKinnon's outstretched hand. "Well you are today, sister. You were the only one brave enough - or certifiable enough - to crawl in there with her. You're all she's got. So, prepare yourself for a crash course."

McGonagall breathes heavily. "Okay, well, no time like the present."

"What you described a moment ago sounds like shock; most likely brought on by the emotional strain of being stuck under there, or possibly, blood loss."

"I don't see blood but, then again, it is dark in here and she is lying under a giant piece of stone. I thought I smelled it earlier though."

"Before you returned to your human form?"

"Yes."

"Could be simply hidden from view, or she could be bleeding internally. Can you check her pulse and respiration for me?"

"Nine breaths per minute. Pulse rate 49."

"Those were awfully fast answers, Minerva."

"I checked 30 seconds ago, Poppy. I'm sitting here alone with her, I've got nothing to do but watch her, and she's in and out of consciousness so I can't rely on her to tell me how she's doing."

Madame Pomphrey turns to McKinnon. "We've got to get her out of there. The sooner the better."

He runs his fingers through his hair in frustration, thinking as he talks. "Minerva, can ye dae that patronus thing again, but instead of having it guide Wordsworth, can you send it oot the nearest possible exits – have it take the path of least resistance?"

"It doesn't work that way, Laird. It only worked as his guide because I'd already traveled the path. I knew which way to send it. But, wait – maybe…"

"Maybe what? Dinnae ye stop noo!"

"Verdimilious sempre."

"Say Again." He clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "Well, would ye look a yon! Did ye mean to send out green bangers?"

"It worked? They're coming out?"

"Fae a few different places, aye."

"Good, they'll keep going until I turn them off. Get out those spy cameras of yours and backtrack the sparks. Find out which path in is the fastest in and/or the most stable – and Laird, you might want to hurry."

While McKinnon works with his cameras and his team of helpers, Madame Pomphrey takes the radio out into the corridor to continue her conversation with McGonagall.

"I don't like this, Poppy. She's under for longer each time she loses consciousness. She's fighting, that much is obvious, and I know that's good but at some point, probably some point in the very immediate future, she's going to find her limit. There's only so much willpower can do once the body is incapable of complying. I want to do something. What good is my being here if all I'm doing is sitting on my hands."

"She knows you're there, Minerva. That's what good you're doing. She probably would have given up already if she were alone."

"I just…"

"You just need to breathe. You're sounding just the tiniest bit edgy. Try and relax."

Even though she knows it's sound advice, McGonagall laughs. "Relax?"

"Yes. Relax. You know, cooler heads and all that. Hang on! I never thought to ask. Well, I've never had reason to ask before today. You're not claustrophobic, are you, Minerva?"

"I've never thought of myself as claustrophobic. I have always lived in small cozy spaces. I've never needed much room for just myself, but I must tell you, I've never been any place less desirable or with less elbow room. To say that I am eager to leave – well it might just be the understatement of the decade."

"The last time you weren't in this castle - where did you go?"

"I don't know. What does it matter?"

"Humor me. Think Minerva. Where did you go?"

McGonagall scowls with concentration. "That would've been… to a pub in Inverness."

"Say that again."

"I went to a pub in Inverness."

"I thought perhaps this contraption was malfunctioning."

McGonagall answers crisply. "The radio is fine. You heard me correctly. I went to a pub known as The Owlery."

"Merlin's pants, Minerva McGonagall! You're the last person I would've ever expected to hear admitting to visiting one of those underground places inside the muggle community."

"The joke's on you, Poppy. It's not an underground establishment for witches and wizards. It's a muggle pub."

"Now I'm even more confused."

"It's within walking distance of the hospital where my niece, Logan, works. She was performing. She asked me to attend."

"But the name?"

Being so close to the hospital, the place is frequented by doctors, nurses, and other young single professionals with busy lives. The man who owns the place has a rather twisted sense of humor. Owls are birds of prey. He says they are not unlike young single people looking for their next short-term commitment."

Madame Pomphrey chuckles dryly. "Dear, I believe those are called one-night stands."

"I'm aware of that." McGonagall deadpans. "What they ought to be called is sheer stupidity. Young people running around as if they have not a care in this world. Never mind the fact that such behavior, in this day and age, will likely put you six feet under."

"Did you say Logan was performing there?"

"I did."

"Not surgery, I hope."

"Of course not. When she's not busy saving lives, she sings."

"I didn't know that. Is she any good?"

"I think the girl has a voice that would please the gods. But I might be just the tiniest bit biased."

"How are you feeling now?"

"Better, thank you. "

"How's our girl?"

"Out cold but holding steady. Pulse and respiration are the sa... Hey, what's he doing out there?"

Mr. McKinnon? I don't know. I'm out in the corridor. I wanted to talk to you without other people listening in."

"Well, get back in there, now! Tell him I said to stop!"

McGonagall hears Madame Pomphrey's tense voice courtesy of the open mic. "She says, "I'm to tell you to stop now!"

Looking up from his work, McKinnon raises an eyebrow. "Stop wit. Ah'm only tryin' tae snake in a camera for a wee keek at things."

"Well, Professor McGonagall says for you to stop!"

"Fir wye?"

When the radio in her hand makes an unpleasant noise, Madame Pomphrey jumps, badly startled.

"Stuff and nonsense. Use yer heid, woman! Gie's that thing. Ye gonnae haud the button doon. She cannae talk tae a'body if ye haud the mic open."

Offended, Madame Pomphrey hands over the radio as she sniffs, "My apologies. I'm not familiar with these contraptions. I've never even seen one before today."

"Then perhaps ye shouldnae be messing aboot with dis ane."

"Laird, take a breath!" McGonagall demands quietly.

"Ah'm breathing plenty."

"You might do with another. The higher your blood pressure climbs, the harder it becomes to understand that heavy Scottish brogue of yours. And, you will not alienate my staff. We're all just doing the best we can, Laird. I need her. I cannot do this without her."

"Fir wye ah'm no putting the cameras in noo?"

"Because something is shifting in here. Things are moving. Just hold still for a minute."

"Is'a comin' doon?"

"Not at this very moment, but the sooner you make me an exit the better."

"Wit is'a noise?"

"Misti is awake again." McGonagall tells him before turning her attention to her student. "Shh, I'm here, girl."

"Professor, it hurts. Something mov..." Misti screams.

"Wit's happening?" When he receives no answer, McKinnon demands, "Minerva?"

Ignoring him, McGonagall drops the radio and focuses on the girl. "Miss Rivers – Misti, you've got to be still."

The girl shakes her head wildly, and strains ineffectually against the piece of stone that is pinning her down. "I'm getting out!"

"No, stop. You'll only do worse damage to yourself, girl." McGonagall tries to still her movements, but already in less than the best condition herself, she cannot manage it. Giving in, and doing what she must, she prays before pointing her wand. "Poor child. God forgive me. Immobulus!"

"Minerva! Dammit woman, talk tae us! Wit's happening a'yon?"

Stepping back into the room, Clayton Rivers looks to be a single breath away from panic. "Was that my daughter screaming? What's happenin'?

Madame Pomphrey, Professor Sprout, and Kingsley Shacklebolt all gather around the man, trying to walk him backward through the door he just entered. When he resists, Shacklebolt pleads with him in a quiet voice. "Please sir, you don't need to be here for this."

"The hell I don't!"

"Mr. Rivers, I know you want to be here for Misti. I understand completely, but it would be less of a distraction for the people working to free your daughter if you would kindly wait in the corridor. You won't be that far away. You will know something as soon as we do."

"I'm not going any damn…"

"Minister, let him in." McGonagall declares calmly, courtesy of the radio. "She's his daughter. He's where he needs to be, and I need to talk to him anyway. Laird, give him the radio."

Shaking his head emphatically, Mr. Rivers pushes the device back toward McKinnon. "I don't know how that thing works."

"Is nae trouble. Ah can work it fir ye. Ah haud the button doon. Ye talk, she can hear ye braw."

River starts uncertainly. "Professor, why was she screaming?

As gently as possible, but without sugar-coating anything, McGonagall explains, "She returned to consciousness a moment ago, sir – is your son with you?"

"No ma'am. Molly escorted him to one of the downstairs bathrooms so he can freshen up a bit."

"Very well. Each time Misti does regain consciousness, there's a brief period of confusion. In that moment, she struggles. It causes her pain. She won't do it anymore. I've immobilized her for her own safety. The spell can be easily reversed when the time is right. The spell itself will not harm her."

"Why is she still under there?"

"I apologize for that, Mr. Rivers. Mr. McKinnon is working as fast as he can."

"Can't you get her out from under that stone?"

"I can but, you should know, that will be very risky. Moving the stone could cause further collapse. Doing so, may put us beyond rescue. However, things are starting to shift in here on their own which makes me think our time may be limited. Additionally, I've talked with our hospital matron, Madame Pomphrey who informs me that, in spite of the damage the stone has done to your daughter, it may also be keeping her alive. Pressure from the stone may be preventing massive blood loss. There's really no way to tell for certain until the stone is moved. Doing so, means I can provide her with much needed medical attention. However, I'm not a trained healer. If we move the stone too early, and Misti needs more help than I alone can give her… Well, forgive me sir, but it's dicey either way."

"Will immobilizing her, the way you have, improve her odds?"

"Possibly. It's also possible that doing so has done just as much harm as it has good. Misti can no longer injure herself further by struggling, but she is conscious at present. She cannot move, or speak, or even blink. To not be able to manipulate one's own body must be a horrifying experience. To experience such a thing while trapped where we are - it was a monstrous choice to have to make, and I am so terribly sorry Mr. Rivers."

"So, if we wait, that could be putting her at greater risk. If you move her, we might still be putting her at an equally great risk?"

"That is correct. The choice is yours, sir."

"I don't know that it should be. Not all mine, anyway."

"Is there someone else in Misti's life that you would like to consult before deciding."

"No. You've misunderstood me. It's not just my daughter's life that's at stake Professor. It's yours too."

"That should not influence your decision at all, Mr. Rivers."

"Shouldn't it?"

"No, sir. It should not. No matter which choice you make. You are not risking my life. It is not yours to risk. It is my own, and I've already made my choice. I made it the moment I decided to come in here."

"Does the thought of death not scare you, even a little, Professor?"

"Fear of the unknown does give me a moment's pause. As it does most people, but there are other things that scare me far more."

"Such as."

A meaningless existence, for one."

"I don't think you're in any danger of that, Professor McGonagall. I don't think a single person in this room thinks you're in any danger of that at all."

"What would you like me to do, Mr. Rivers?"

The man is quiet for an interminable beat before he says, "You think you can get her out from under that stone by yourself?"

I know I can lift the stone. I can't promise you things will go the way you want them to."

"I can't stand the thought of her laying there unable to move, in pain, in the dark. If the end result might be the same either way – well, If it's all the same to you, I'll bet on my daughter. Can she hear me?"

"She cannot respond to what she hears. But the Immobulus charm doesn't affect hearing. She can hear you. You can talk to her."

He's quiet for several long seconds before he says, "Hey baby. You stick around, okay. I know what I said last month, but the hell with work. We'll make that trip. Next month, Shea Stadium - Just you, me, and Rip. All you gotta do is hang in there."

McGonagall opens the mic. "I presume someone in the family is a baseball fan."

Clayton Rivers nods as he talks. "That would be Missy. She wants to see all the major league stadiums in the world before she's 25."

"Sounds like a worthy endeavor to me." McGonagall declares easily. I will do all I can to help her make it a reality. Put Mr. McKinnon back on, please."

It takes a second or two before he responds, "Ye got me, lady."

"I know you want me to wait - and I understand why. Don't make me waste time arguing with you. Her respiration is decreasing by the minute. I've got to do something, Laird. So, listen closely and don't make me repeat myself."

"Ah'm hearin' ye."

"If things don't go well. You get Madame Pomphrey, or Pomona to let you into my private quarters. You'll need one of them to escort you. Under my bed, there's a metal box. The key to that box is taped to the underside of the lid on Wordsworth's dry food container. There are only two things in that box. One is my will. Make sure that my niece, Logan, gets it. She'll know what to do with it."

"Minerva, ye keep yer last will and testament under the bed with the oose? Ye havnae heard of a bank?"

She inhales and stifles a cough. "Yes, I know, banks have safety deposit boxes. Little metal boxes that only the bank, and the person who leases the box have keys to. The box under my bed serves the same purpose."

He frowns but says nothing. When she doesn't speak again immediately, he prompts her; just to get it over with, "And the other thing in the box?"

"The other thing is a stack of old letters. Burn them."

McKinnon squints. "Ye keep these auld letters in a box with yer will, they must be pure important. Ye just want them turned to cinders?"

"Yes, I do. I should've done it myself years ago. I couldn't. That's why they are in the box. I don't want anyone to read them. They were - personal."

"Not happy, but willing, he nods, bobbing his chin once in resolution "It shall be done."

"Thank you, Laird."

"Can, ah ask you something, Minerva?"

"If you must."

"Time's gone round the way more than once. Wis it nae more than 12 ½ years? The week after Elphistone's funeral? Ye ken wit ah'm in mind of?"

McGonagall inhales deeply. "Yes, I know what you're talking about. Laird, there is a reason we haven't talked about it for nearly 13 years. It's one of those things best left alone.'

"Ah'm no allowed wan wee question?"

"If you ask it quickly before I change my mind."

"Wis it only the grief?"

She chuckles dryly. "Good god, man! You do like to ask questions, don't you?"

"Truth?"

"It was mostly grief. At least 95% of it. So much so, Laird, that I'm not even sure the rest of it really matters."

"It does. Ah want to ken the rest of it; the other 5%, and if this is me last chance to ask…"

McGonagall sighs in mild exasperation. "Call it … curiosity."

McKinnon's mouth stretches into a wide grin. "Ah can live with that."

She laughs. "Yer oaf yer nut, McKinnon."

"Ye say the sweetest things, Professor."

"Do you have any more questions?"

"Thousands…but ah dinnae ken the wean has time enough fir aw that."

"No, I don't think she does either. I'm putting the radio down now. You keep working."

Swallowing against the lump in his throat, he returns the radio to his belt. Turning to face his crew, he informs them, "The boss lady says, we're gonnae tae stand around greetin' - back tae work."