[a/n: Title's in reference to Titanic, obviously. In which the fine director decided that his extras weren't acting scared enough, so he was going to truly drown them if they didn't act well enough.]

Harry's feet were wet. This was nothing new. He'd often had shoes that had holes in the bottoms, ones that weren't quite worn enough to justify finding something in the Goodwill Bin (he was constantly terrified that the sharp-eyed lady who ran the shop would tell the Dursleys). Harry knew the feeling of squelching feet.

Harry's legs were wet. He remembered running from Dudley, through a freak (anomalous) summer thunderstorm. Then, the water had run down the fronts of his legs - now, his legs were wet all over.

Harry's shoulders were wet, and he remembered cold November rains, without a raincoat. Mostly, that had been his fault, not the Dursleys. There was always a bent boombershoot somewhere in the house, he just needed to remember where it was and Take It.

Harry'd tried spells, tried wishing his way out, tried, even, touching every brick in the wall, as if there would be MORE hidden packages.

Now, now, he was swimming, floating higher as the waters rose. His hands pressed against each brick.

Harry had been so focused on getting out, that he'd nearly failed to notice the creak of a hatch, directly in the center of the room. He paused in his search (the water wasn't rising fast, it just wasn't stopping), and looked up.

A rope ladder, of all things, rolled down into the water. Harry swam over and looked up it, cautiously.

From above, a goblin's high pitched voice called out, "How much for a rescue, Boy-Who-Lived?"

"The name's Harry Potter," Harry snapped back, "Use it. How does a hundred galleons sound?"

"For your life?" The goblin snorted, "Sounds like a steal."

Harry had gotten at least a partial agreement. It was good enough for him, as he grabbed onto the rope ladder and started hauling his body upwards. He could negotiate actual terms when he wasn't nearly drowning.

When he was nearly out of the death-trap room, he called up to the small goblin perched on the rope ladder, merry as could be. "Who are you, anyway?"

"I'm Bevel, your account manager."

"Where is he?" Hermione cried. As was typical, the Gryffindor had broken first. Snape mentally gave Team Slytherin two points.

Malfoy, deciding to be the voice of reason, said, "Negotiations often go on for days. I vividly remember wanting to show my father my first broomride - he'd gotten me a broomstick for my sixth birthday, but I couldn't wait even a day. It took him a whole week to make it home."

Snape snorted, "I remember that. He was negotiating with Dumbledore, so three quarters of the time was taken up with Albus' twinkling staring contests."

Hermione asked, gently, "How did the negotiations turn out anyway?"

Snape said, "Dumbledore didn't get anything of what he wanted, other than to waste Lucius' time."

Malfoy asked, "That was a goal?"

Snape responded, "Yes, there were some delicate negotiations occurring in the Ministry and your father was best kept out of it." Snape's mouth quirked, "I commiserated with him later over the quirks of inimicable fate, of course."

Malfoy said, with a sigh, "You mean you both got stinking drunk, and then my mother Aquamenti-ed the two of you to get rid of the smell!"

Snape smirked, "You do remember!"

[a/n: Snape's "good friend" Lucius Malfoy. Leave a review.]