William eyed Pete, eyed the tub, and sighed. It didn't make any sense for Pete to be the one in the pool and William standing sentinel in case of elf incursion, which meant he ought to go in. "If you see blood," he told Pete sternly, stripping off his shirt and laying it out carefully on one of the taps, "I expect you to jump in and save me."
There were no House-elves lurking in the tub, for which William was profoundly grateful. There was, however, as he pressed the tile to open the door to the compartment, a pervasive feeling of wrongness. It didn't take him long, as he searched the chamber and put up wards, to figure out why. Blood chilled, he ripped one of the pockets out of his soaked trousers and used it to carefully bundle up the disk hanging from familiar black and yellow threads.
He sealed the antechamber behind him and swam for the surface, the sick feeling creeping along his arm from the hand holding the cloth bundle. As soon as he broke the surface of the water, he tossed it up onto the tiles at Pete's feet. "Don't touch it," he gasped, lungs burning from the long swim. "It's a bindrune."