Author's notes: Thank you, thank you, thank you to my thirty reviewers from last chapter! That's the most reviews I've received for a chapter of NoE! I'm glad you all liked the last chapter so much and I hope you like this one as well. It's relatively short compared to some chapters (not even half the word length of some!) but that's because it's overly a relatively short period of time – twenty minutes. I'm sorry about that, but I'm sure you'll all like the fast update, which is in it's unbetaed form again.

The majority of dialogue between the officers of Titanic is from the movie. I've been trying to cut back on stealing from the movie (which has gotten better, wouldn't you agree?), but these scenes were some that I really couldn't change because that's pretty much how they happened.

Disclaimer: I don't own Harry Potter or any references to James Cameron's Titanic.

Chapter Eighteen

11:40 PM

"Iceberg right ahead!" Fleet's panic-filled voice roared.

"Thank you," Officer Moody replied levelly, his hands shaking. He slammed the phone upwards and raced to the door.

"Iceberg right ahead, sir!" he called urgently, pulling the door open just in time for Murdoch to rush in. He seemed to already know what was going on – Moody could've kicked himself. Of course, Murdoch had been out on deck, he would've seen the berg –

"Hard-a-starboard!" he roared, hanging off the doorframe over Moody's shoulder and gesturing furiously at Quartermaster Hitchens.

Hitchens stood, hands frozen at the wheel for a moment (they couldn't waste a moment!), but quickly flew into action once Moody screamed the command again. His hands wrenched the wheel to the left, urged on by Moody's cries of, "Turn, turn, TURN!"

Murdoch rushed past him again, sending his teacup crashing to the floor, and into the bridge. He heard the distant ring of the telegraph and realised there was nothing he could do but wait –

The telegraph dinged once in the nosy din of the engine room. Chief Engineer Fleming glanced at it briefly, slowing the stirring of his lukewarm soup, and then turned back to talk to his aide for a moment.

His soup went clattering to the floor seconds later as he glanced at the telegraph again and noticed the severe change.

"Full speed astern!"

The wheel jarred to a stop in Hitchen's hands.

"Helm's hard over, sir!" he called, voice trembling, to Moody.

The ship sped on, the iceberg growing closer with the passage of every vital second. Murdoch could only stare in wonder (how could those idiots not have seen this before!) and felt the impending horror in his chest as he realised his ship was not turning –

The engine room was a flurry of activity, men racing down ladders and running along steep catwalks, trying to quickly conform to the new order from the bridge.

"Hold it, hold it – "

Fleming watched the pressure gauge slowly lower down to the proper area, a bead of perspiration trickling down his forehead. Finally (finally!), the metre reached the proper level –

"Now!" he ordered. "Reverse the engine!"

A crewmember wrenched a lever downwards and Titanic gave a sudden jolt.

"You're sure it's hard over?" Murdoch called, not taking his eyes off the nightmare in front of him. His face was pale, limbs trembling.

"Yes, sir! Hard over, sir!"

Fleming pushed a young man out of the way, reaching the crank that would bring the ship back up to speed faster. They didn't have time to waste –
"Why ain't they turning?" Fleet demanded, furious and frightened at the same time. The iceberg was nearly level with the ship.
"Come on, come on," Murdoch muttered, seeing the prow headed straight toward the mountain in front of them. On the very edge, he could see an anxious deckhand, leaning on the rail to get a better look as the iceberg cast a long shadow on the deck. "Turn, you bitch, turn – "

As if heading his request, the forecastle began to (at last!) lean left, intending to skirt the iceberg all together –

"Yes," Murdoch whispered. "Yes!"

The deck hand on the prow, however, saw no cause for celebration.

Titanic was not going to round the berg in time.

"It's gonna hit!" he cried to no one in particular, ice metres away from his position as he ran from the prow.

Murdoch's face went as white as the ice.

Titanic continued to steam ahead, oblivious of the peril lurking inches from her vulnerable belly.
The berg struck.
Remus's book fell to the floor.

"Jesus," he sighed, getting off his bed to pick it up, barely noticing the slight tremors under his feet.

Ice ripped into the steel like a dagger, popping rivets, buckling plates, and exposing her innards to the vicious sea.
The wheel was shaking in Hitchens's hands.
Studying blueprints and lists of parts, Thomas Andrews did not detect anything awry until his brandy glass began wobbling on the table.

He stared in ill-disguised confusion, watching the glass rock back and forth to the ominous twinkling of the beaded light above his head.

Sirius paused in the tight, third class corridor, startled by the faint, screeching sound interrupting the quiet of the night.
Murdoch felt the wood railing trembling under his fingertips as he watched the iceberg scrape along the side of the ship.

They had hit the berg, they had hit –

"Hard a port!" he cried, overcoming his shock momentarily, hoping to spare Titanic's stern serious damages.

"You idiot!" Riddle howled, leaping out of his seat and tossing a napkin into a server's frightened face. "You spilled brandy all over my best suit! Do you know how much this cost?"

"Suh – Sorry, sir…There was a – a jolt and the buh – bottle slipped – "

"Look out!"

Jack Dawson pulled Rose aside as a shower of ice came out of nowhere, raining down on the deck in a clatter.

Transfixed, he held her close as they watched the iceberg move past them, into the night.

Pandemonium had broken out in boiler room six.

Torrents of water suddenly came gushing in through the walls, roaring down the helpless stokers. Hissing like a chorus of snakes, steam rose in a haze as cold spray hit the fires and clouded the engine room. Men panicked, screaming and crying over the thunderous noise of the rushing sea, abandoning their positions and scrambling towards the exits in knee-deep water.

"Stop that incessant rattling, Potter!" Snape demanded, cracking open an irritated eye.

"I'm not doing anything!" James replied, exasperated.

"Then what's making that – ?"

Snape trailed off, following James's eyes to the cabinet across the room where rows upon rows of keys were clanking on their hooks.

Just as suddenly as the trembling and the screeching began, it stopped.

Murdoch hesitated for an instant and then ran back into the wheelhouse, skidding to a stop in front of an electric panel of the ship. He turned a switch, activating the watertight doors.

There was no sense in taking chances.

"They're closin' the doors!" Frederick Barrett roared, knee deep in water and chilled to the bone, violently gesturing his fellows over toward the closing watertight doors.

A red light was flashing and the door was slowly being lowered like the blade of a guillotine, the telltale clinking barely heard over the noise of the flooding boiler room.

Steam billowed as men fought their way to the door, lurching through the water. Barrett physically tossing some men out himself, screaming, "Get under the door! Let's go lads, MOVE IT – !"

Not all of them would make it; Barrett barely had time to save himself.

The iceberg faded into the distance as Titanic steamed ahead. A glaring red streak of paint left the
only proof of its encounter with the grandest ship of all time.
"That was a close shave, wasn't it?"

Lee grabbed Fleet by the collar and growled in his face, "Next time, smell the bloody ice sooner, you bleedin' bastard!"

Pale and shaking, Murdoch turned away from the illuminated panel.

"Note the time," he said to no one in particular, still reeling from the shock. "Enter it in the log."

From behind him, Moody muttered an affirmative, "Right," and moved off. Not a minute later, a door snapped open, light flooding the wheelhouse.

Murdoch didn't need to turn around to see who it was.

"What was that, Mr. Murdoch?" Captain E.J. Smith asked, concern gracing his features. He was without his coat and hat, tie loose around his neck, ready to settle down for the night.

"An iceberg, sir," Murdoch responded, surprising even himself with his calm. Smith's eyes widened. "I tried to port-round her, but she hit and – "

"Close the watertight doors," the captain ordered, over-riding him. He shot a look at Hitchens and walked out onto the deck. Murdoch followed behind him.

"Doors are closed, sir."

Smith leaned over the well deck, trying to spot the iceberg. Murdoch hung back, figuring the ice would've been long gone by now – they were still moving, after all. When he did not see anything, the captain walked over to Murdoch, as if to say something, and then stopped, staring at the poop deck.

Murdoch followed his gaze, noticing the ice gleaming innocently on the wood below.


11:43 PM

Remus cracked his door open and leaned out into the corridor. He had been ready to turn in at last, but had been distracted once he had heard voices outside his door.

Passengers in all states of dress were mulling about in the corridor, hanging out their cabin doors and talking to those passing. Several looked angry; others were rubbing their eyes, but the majority simply seemed confused.

"Do you know what's going on?" Remus asked to his neighbour across the corridor.

His neighbour shrugged, replying, "No hablo ingles, Señor," before stepping back into his cabin and shutting the door.

"Christ," Remus grumbled, ducking into his cabin and grabbing his coat off his bed. He spared a glanced at James's empty spot for a moment and then stepped out into the corridor, closing his door behind him.

More people had already crowded into the cramped quarters of the hall, chattering in a myriad of languages, but it seemed they were all asking the same question: What was going on?

It appeared that no one knew that answer either, as everyone Remus stopped to talk to said the same thing:

"I don't know."

Everything seemed incredibly loud, from Remus's footfalls on the wooden floor to the crying of a baby behind a closed door. Even the slightest whisper seemed like a shout. His ears felt strangely hollow, like he had just removed plugs, like he wasn't hearing something he should be –

"Excuse me," he said, stopping by a group of burly looking Englishmen, "but do you – "

"No, lad, we don' have a fuckin' clue what's goin' on," the tallest answered quickly, glaring at Remus in annoyance. He turned to his compains. "Right time fer a bloody party, this is. Woke me up – "

"Sorry," Remus interrupted, feeling a sudden sense of urgency, "but I was just wondering whether any of you noticed that the engines had stopped."


11:46 PM

Petunia strode out into the corridor, glancing up and down the way for a steward. Behind her, hovering in the doorway was Lily. Clothed in only her nightdress, hair spiralling down her back, Lily's face displayed the anxiety knotting her stomach.

"Excuse me," Petunia called, stopping a portly, moustached steward. "Why have the engines stopped? I felt a shudder just a moment ago."

"We've likely thrown a propeller blade, ma'am. That's the shudder you felt." The steward replied calmly. "I wouldn't worry – routine failure. Happened once while I was stationed on the Mauritania. Can I bring you anything to calm your nerves?"

A tall man in a rumbled black suit pushed between Petunia and the steward before she had a chance to reply. The man did not apologise for his rude interruption, shifting the scrolls of paper under his arms as he hurried down the corridor.

Lily stepped out beside her sister, staring after him.

"Ah…No thank you," Petunia replied, following Lily's gaze, her tone wavering as the man disappeared around the corner.

As soon as the steward had left, Petunia turned and grasped Lily's arm tightly.

"That was Thomas Andrews! The architect!" she whispered urgently, her voice shrill. "Surely the captain doesn't call on the architect for a thrown propeller blade!"

Lily didn't respond, staring blankly down the length of the corridor. The steward had said nothing was wrong, but Andrews had been carrying blueprints with him. Blueprints.

"Lily!" Petunia hissed, shaking her arm.

She turned to her sister, blinking away her own doubts, and responded in as convincing of a voice she could muster, "I'm sure it's nothing serious. Everything's fine, Petunia…Titanic's a new ship; I'm sure once Mr. Andrews gets a good look at the problem, we'll be on our way again."

Petunia's grip on her arm loosened just a bit and she nodded, relieved.

"Of course, you're right. Titanic's nigh unsinkable, isn't she?" She said, letting out a shaky laugh. "I feel so silly, getting worked up over a little tremble. Don't you?"

Lily nodded, not quite hearing her sister's question.

"Let's…Let's wait in the stateroom for Lucius, shall we?" Petunia suggested, tugging on Lily's arm.

As Lily allowed her sister to lead her back inside, she wondered why the floor suddenly felt uneven under her feet. Perhaps it was her imagination, worked into overdrive already, but perhaps it was something worse, something quite unimaginable…

Fleetingly, Lily wished that James was here.


11:53 PM

Remus slithered through another group of people, looking around for a bright white shirt. Why was it that when you needed a bloody steward they were never around?

He came to an intersection and glanced both ways, noticing that there were hardly any people out in these corridors. It seemed that those who had noticed the shudder were in the minority on his deck, and even they were beginning to pack up and go back to bed after finding no answers to their questions.

How hadn't those in their cabins noticed the sudden death of the engines or the commotion the other passengers were making? Why didn't those who had noticed seemed worried? Why didn't anyone have a bloody clue what was going on? Why was he the only one concerning himself about a little shudder?

"Moony!"

Remus turned, just as Sirius squeezed out of the crowd behind him, and he exhaled, relieved at the sight of a familiar face.

"Padfoot!" he cried, genuinely surprised, clapping his friend on the back. "What are you doing down here? I thought you were going back up."

"Gates lock at eleven," Sirius explained briefly, brushing dishevelled hair out of his eyes. "I was a deck or two below, trying to find a steward to unlock it for me, but then there was this shudder and this horrible screeching sound…" He paused, noting the confusion on Remus's face. "You didn't you hear…? It happened just a – "

" – moment ago?" Remus supplied, shaking his head, perplexed. "No, I didn't notice the noise. A book fell off my trunk, but other than that…The engines have stopped, you noticed that, right?"

Sirius nodded, unusually grim.

"You don't think…we hit something, do you?" he asked after a pregnant pause, looking into Sirius's pale eyes. Their playful light was gone, replaced by utter gravity and an emotion Remus did not want to identify. Sirius knew something, something he did not want to share, something horrible…

"Padfoot, what's going on?"

"Well," Sirius said slowly. Remus noticed suddenly that he was shaking, "while I was below decks, a few people came running past me…and – and their feet were wet, Moony!"


Midnight

A crowd of blue uniformed officers filed into Captain Smith's office, followed by the black suit of Thomas Andrews and the brown robe of J. Bruce Ismay, White Star Line's ship director. Among the worried tones and drawn faces, Ismay seemed out of place with his scowl and annoyed temperament.

Andrews threw his scrolls onto a nearby table, unrolling the first blueprint quickly, and weighing it down with a measuring instrument.

"Most unfortunate, Captain," Ismay was saying, running a hand through his dark hair. "I'd like to – "

"Water fourteen feet above the keel in ten minutes," Andrews began, quickly overriding Ismay. Smith and another officer crowded around him as he pointed to the paper Titanic on the table with shaking hands. "In the forepeak, in all three holds, and…in boiler room six."

"Right," the other officer confirmed, pale faced.

"When can we get on the way, dammit?" Ismay roared, furious at being ignored.

"That's five compartments!" Andrews returned, alarm clutching to his every syllable. The office quieted, the silence seeming unnatural without the throb from the engines, and all eyes focused on Andrews. "She can stay afloat with the first four compartments breeched, but not five. Not five." He looked up briefly, into Captain Smith's eyes, trying to make him understand the gravity of the situation. "She'll go down by the head. The water will spill over the bulkheads at E deck…from one to the next, back to back. There's no stopping it."

"The pumps – " Smith began, moving toward the blueprints.

"The pumps will buy time, but minutes only," Andrews answered. His voice wavered and broke as he continued on in the silence of the office. "From this moment on, no matter what we do, Titanic will founder."

Ismay stared uncomprehendingly at Andrews.

"But…But this ship can't sink!"

"She's made of iron, sir! I assure you, she can, and she will." Andrews looked pained as he gazed down at the blueprints of his dream. "…It's a mathematical certainty."

Smith swallowed the bitter shock, face contorted as though a heavy weight had just been swung in his face.

"How…How long?" he asked.

Andrews looked at him again, the pain and horror pooling in his eyes.

"An hour," came the soft reply. "Maybe two at the most."

The ship of dreams, the unsinkable majesty, his ship could not be sinking. Not now, not on his last voyage. Smith could not believe this. This wasn't supposed to happen…

"And how many aboard Mr. Murdoch?" he asked robotically.

Murdoch gulped, face the palest of all gathered, and whispered, "Two thousand, two hundred souls, sir."

Two thousand two hundred people's lives were entrusted to his hands. His ship didn't carry enough lifeboats for half of them. For a moment, he couldn't breathe.

Smith could feel the weight of a thousand people's lives dropping on his shoulders as he turned, in silence, to face Ismay.

He remembered the talk he and Ismay'd had only days ago, about increasing speed and shattering records. He'd wanted to make the morning papers, wanted headlines for the White Star Line's crown jewel.

"Well," he said softly, bitterness overcoming his shock momentarily as he gazed upon his employer. He wondered if Ismay could feel the weight of those innocent lives too. "I believe you may get your headlines, Mr. Ismay."

Thanks for reading and please review! It will give me something to do on this snow day besides shovelling! Also, remember to visit my LiveJournal (greenconverses) for the low-down on new chapters.