Previously on Better Be Slytherin:

Harry closed his mouth and fumed. He had no idea, really, how he could save the Stone. He couldn't tell Dumbledore, as if he'd be believed anyway . . . maybe he could tell the Bloody Baron, if he could find the ghost, but he wasn't sure that would do any good. As it was, the Bloody Baron couldn't stop anyone from stealing the Stone, either, as he didn't have a real body. Unless . . .

"See?" Millie said evenly. "I can go see him if you--"

"No," he interrupted. "I know what I can do."

With a frown, she said, "What?"

"I can go get the Stone myself."

--HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS--

AND:

The vines pulled tight around him and wrapped him in their coils, but he simply relaxed and the snare loosened, letting him fall through into the room below.

That must've been Pomona's contribution, he thought, as he brushed off his robes.

He walked forward, keeping one eye peeled for anything charmed (by Filius) or transfigured (by Minerva) and the other watching for a foolish Slytherin boy who was liable to get them both killed.

--HPSSHPSSHPSSHPSS--

After Harry left Millie that afternoon, he made some very fast plans. He didn't want to get either of his friends in trouble -- as he knew he was likely to be -- so he didn't share his ideas with them further. After dinner, when the Common Room was revved up with a post-finals party hosted by the 7th Years who were due to leave Hogwarts for the last time in a couple weeks, it was not difficult for Harry to sneak off under his Invisibility Cloak and go looking for the Bloody Baron.

Finding the Baron actually took the longest out of all his preparations. He had thought the Baron was watching him all the time, except while he was in his bedroom, but when he finally found the ghost, the Baron was hovering near the girl's bathroom on the second floor, the one none of the girls wanted to use, according to Hermione. Harry had never asked her why.

Harry removed only the hood of the Cloak as he approached the ghost. "Hello," he whispered. "I need a favor."

The Baron's eyes grew wide with surprise or fear. His voice was lower than usual when he intoned, "What are you doing out of bed, young Harry Potter? You should not be about on a night like this."

"A night when Snape tries to steal the Stone, you mean?"

"That is foolishness, as I have told you time and again. Severus Snape would never attempt to steal the Sorcerer's Stone."

"I heard him and Quirrell plotting," Harry said for the millionth time. The ghost sighed. "It's true!"

"I know what you believe you saw, but you must know that not everything you see is what is true."

Harry glared. He hated being told, however obliquely, that he was too stupid to understand what he had seen. "Whatever. Someone is going to steal the Stone tonight, and I want to stop them."

"That is a particularly Gryffindorish idea."

"Well, the Sorting Hat did say I could do well in Gryffindor."

The Ghost nodded slowly. "So you have said. I believe, however, on a night such as this, that you would do better to stay true to your more Slytherin qualities."

"I can't. If someone gets the Stone, then Voldemort will come back. He'll have even more power. Enough so he can kill me this time."

The Bloody Baron floated closer. His mouth was twisted angrily, and his eyes were like dark fire. "So you would put yourself within the man's grasp? Deliver yourself to a mad man by following him into the crypt? That is even more foolish than I imagined!"

"No, that's why I need your help!" Harry cried. "If we work together, we can get the Stone before Voldemort does."

"And how would we do that, Harry Potter?" the Baron spat.

"You have to possess me. Like you did before, when I was attacked in the dungeons. Possess me, but let me keep my memory."

"Absolutely not!"

"But you know way more spells than I do, and you can cast magic when you possess me." Harry pursed his lips and glanced over his shoulder, in the general direction of the stairs to the third floor, where Fluffy's room was. He tried his last gambit. "If you won't help me . . . it's not likely I'll make it out of there alive."

The Bloody Baron glared at him. "I could possess you and then just cast a stunner at us both. Keep you from the crypt."

"You could, but then I'd bleed out from your chest wound before anyone found me, like before. And you wouldn't be able to get help for me either, because of the stunning spell."

For a long moment, the ghost continued to glare, even as he moved closer and closer to Harry. Close enough that goose flesh rose on Harry's arms under the cloak. Finally, the Baron gave one sharp nod. A different, more admiring light entered his ghostly eyes. "You certainly are Slytherin enough, Harry Potter. I will do this. But you must let me control your body. I can not fight with you for control if we come up against an enemy."

"You can have control if we have to cast spells. But I control us the rest of the time."

"You foolish--"

"It's this way or no way, and I go alone!" Harry interrupted.

"Very well," the Bloody Baron said, not sounding very happy.

"Swear on it."

"I swear on it," the Baron said, and Harry let the ghost flow into his body before he pulled the hood of his cloak over his head again and they vanished from sight.

It took a fair amount of wriggling inside his own skin for Harry to get accustomed to the feel of the Bloody Baron inside his head and body. No, accustomed was not the right word; it made it sound like he'd gotten used to the sensation; he could never get used to this . . . persistent tingling cold, so bitterly icy that his nerves burned, as if on fire. The only outward sign of the Baron's possession was a low level gleam of Harry's skin, which could almost be attributed to moonlight . . . if moonlight could have penetrated to this long, dark hallway.

The Bloody Baron's "voice" inside his head was the worst part, though. The words seemed to echo through him while at the same time feeling almost like his own thoughts. Don't want this, he thought, and immediately got the thought back, then tell me to get out, as if he were arguing with himself. Can't. Sucking chest wound, remember? An odd, disjointed chuckle bubbled up in his mind. I could Obliviate you again afterwards. Take control and . . . No! That was worse. I can . . . we can handle it.

He was not sure who the last thought belonged to. It was beyond freaky.

By the time they reached the third floor corridor and Fluffy's door, Harry had started to feel less ragged about the intrusion of the ghost.

Ready? Harry asked him/Baron/self as he reached out to cast Alohomora at the door. But the door was already open, just a crack. From inside, they/he could hear the tinny sound of a small, slightly off-key harp. Harry inched the door open wider until he could smell the heavy scent of dog, along with sulfurous undertones.

Sulfurous undertones? he wondered. Where did that term come from? . . . Oh.

Another low, ghostly chuckle burbled from his subconscious. Creepy.

Harry eased himself through the door to find Fluffy, the three-headed hell hound, sound asleep. Excellent. Seemed Hagrid was right about music soothing the beast. Before he had gone three steps, however, the somewhat soothing sound of the harp ceased and Fluffy's eyes started to open. One blink, then another, was all it took for Fluffy to be on his feet and growling. The hellhound could not see Harry/Baron beneath his Invisibility Cloak, but the beast was sniffing the air like a hound dog, attempting to home in on him.

Harry gulped, loudly.

Fluffy jerked around and hunched down as if to lunge.

The flute, his mind reminded him.

Oh, yeah. He whipped the thin, carved flute out of his back pocket and played a few quick notes, then a few more, more slowly, as he watched Fluffy's eyes droop.

Well done, he thought -- no, the Baron thought -- when Fluffy yawned hugely, showing teeth, before turning thrice and lying down again. Fortunately, he was well away from the trap door when he did; in fact, with the sound of snapping matchsticks, he had settled on the harp in the corner.

With one hand holding the flute to his lips, Harry kept playing a couple notes back and forth, thanking Hagrid once more for the gift. He opened the trap door with his other hand, and with some maneuvering, he was able to settle on the edge, legs dangling over, into the darkness below. Then, gathering his courage, Harry pushed himself off the edge and dropped out of sight. . . . He kept falling and falling and finally landed on something soft and kind of leafy.

He pulled at a vine that had wrapped immediately around his chest, but it just tightened further. The same happened when he yanked his arm away from vines that grabbed his arm. Starting to panic, he wrenched himself this way and that, trying to get free, even as he kept telling himself to calm down, calm down, the only way to get past the Devil's Snare is to sit quietly!

Wait, he didn't know this was Devil's Snare!

Oh.

With great effort, Harry made himself stop thrashing and take as deep a breath as he could with the vine strangling him and choking off more and more of his air. But slowly -- almost too slowly to be borne -- the vines gave way, loosening their hold. When they released him completely, he sank through the tangle of vines to the room below.

Thanks, Harry thought.

He could feel the Baron's smile. You are welcome, Harry Potter. Would you reconsider gifting me with control of the body at this time?

No! . . . No, I can't do that. Harry shuddered. He couldn't bear to have someone else in control of his body, not for this. Not for anything. I'll be fine. You can help if he have to cast spells. Or come up against Voldemort.

There was silence from the Baron.

Harry walked down a long passageway that sloped slightly downward. The place smelled of mildew and rot. Up ahead, he heard a soft fluttery sound and came into a room filled with flying . . . keys? Across the room was a battered door with a silver handle. Against the wall next to Harry stood several broomsticks. Aha!

Not for nothing was Harry the youngest Seeker in a century. It only took him a few minutes to catch the right key -- one with a slightly bent "wing" from being captured once before -- snitch style, and insert it into the lock.

Well done, the Baron intoned as he opened the door to reveal another room.

Thanks, Harry replied, feeling much better able to tell his own thoughts from the Baron's now. Maybe they could really do this. They'd gotten through three traps already, after all. The next one couldn't be much worse.

As he stepped into the room, light flooded the chamber to reveal a giant chessboard and huge pieces that were taller than he was. They looked to be made of stone. The ones directly in front of him were black, and across the board were the white pieces, and none of them had faces. It was eerie.

You will have to play your way across, the Baron said. But Harry decided to try and get to the door behind the white pieces anyway. He tried sneaking around the sides, thinking he could get past this test invisibly. But some (also invisible) force pushed him back time and again, back to the board and the black stone pieces.

I have to play, he agreed.

Be the King, the Baron told him.

Harry nodded and put himself on that space, and the Black King removed himself from the board. After a few moves, when one of his pawns was demolished by the opposing knight, Harry realized he was playing Wizard's Chess. If he lost, he would be demolished!

I will not let that happen, the Baron promised.

As if you could stop it.

I am a very good chess player. You are becoming one yourself, according to your Professor Snape. He taught you, did he not?

Harry gritted his teeth. Yes, he said, but refused to discuss Snape further and called out, "Queen's bishop to king's knight three." The piece moved as it was meant to, threatening the white team's knight. They managed to capture (and pulverize) that knight as well as a bishop, a handful of pawns and then the white queen. A mere four turns later, victory was assured. The Baron had only needed to interject once, when Harry was moving a rook into a position that would have meant its capture in three turns. All in all, a satisfactory game.

Once the white pieces moved aside so he could get through the far door, he opened it to find a passageway. He charged up the corridor to find another door, behind which lay a huge, smelly troll, not unlike the one he, Millie and Teddy had dealt with last Halloween. It lay face down with a nasty bump on its head. More than ever, Harry was positive that Quirrell was down here, somewhere. He was the one with all the troll experience, after all. Whether or not Snape was here, too, was another matter, but Harry would bet anything he was.

The thought made him both angry and sad, all at once.

Severus Snape is not after the Stone, the Bloody Baron put in. He has only ever wanted to protect you.

Harry growled at the Baron to shush while he crept past the troll to another door, wondering what could lie beyond. Instead of a monster or some kind of trap, all he found was a table with seven flasks upon it in a line. As soon as Harry crossed the threshold, a curtain of purple fire sprang up behind him to cover his retreat, and nasty looking black flames shot up in the doorway just beyond. He was trapped.

There is a note on the table, the Baron told him, and he approached to read the thing. It seemed like a puzzle of some kind.

"Danger lies before you, while safety lies behind,

Two of us will help you, which ever you would find . . ."

It went on and on, and Harry tried to reason it out, but he had never been good at these sorts of logic problems. Fortunately, he had a secret weapon.

Severus Snape is a rather clever man, the Baron thought. Decent enough for a Slytherin. But since I have had many more years than he to perfect my own brand of cleverness . . . drink the smallest bottle.

Are you sure? Harry didn't relish the idea of being poisoned.

Of course.

Well, he had to rely on the Baron's aid for this one, didn't he? He had to trust his word. Harry had always found trust a fragile thing, but the Baron had never steered him wrong. With a small sigh, he lifted the littlest bottle and drank. It was as if ice flooded his veins.

The rounded bottle on the right end will get us through the purple flames, to get out.

If we get out, Harry thought, but very quietly. The Baron made no response, so it was possible -- though unlikely -- he had not heard.

Harry peered at the black flames for another moment, squared his shoulders, and walked into the last chamber.

The flames rippled around him but did not burn. For a moment he could see nothing but dark fire, but then he was through the fire and on the other side.

There was someone already there. It was not Snape, but Professor Quirrell.

Quirrell smiled. His face did not twitch at all. "I wondered if I might be meeting you here, Potter." He was standing in front of the Mirror of Erised, Harry realized suddenly. Is that where the Stone was hidden? "I expect you are surprised to find me here."

"Not particularly," Harry replied. His voice, with the ghost inside him, sounded deeper and carried more weight, like it had in the chess cavern. He'd thought before, that it was due to the size of the cavern, but it was just his voice. "I'm only surprised that Snape is not here with you."

"Oh, yes, he does seem the type, doesn't he? But he has only caused me trouble from Day One."

Harry frowned, but did not wish to argue -- nor divulge that he had eavesdropped on a conversation -- so he asked, "What happened to your stutter? It's gone."

"Never had one to begin with," Quirrell said with a chuckle. "But who would suspect poor, s-stuttering P-professor Quirrell of trying to steal the Sorcerer's Stone?"

"Well, me for one. And my friends." And Professor Snape, he thought unhappily.

"You see, you miserable oaf," cried another voice, this one more sibilant, high and weak sounding, seeming to come from Professor Quirrell, except that the man did not move his lips. "You could not even throw off the suspicions of a child!" It was Voldemort's voice, he knew it. But how?

"Show yourself!" Harry called.

"Why, Harry Potter," the voice crooned. Harry craned his neck to see where it was coming from. "Such a forceful little boy. I shall enjoy killing you tonight."

Put up your left hand, the Baron thought, so we can have a shield ready.

"So you've said," Harry taunted as he casually followed the Baron's instructions. He moved slowly forwards, too, to be in better range for throwing spells. "But so far . . . nada."

"A fact that shall be remedied shortly. Kill him!"

"But, Master, the Stone!" Quirrell complained.

"We shall retrieve it once he is dead."

"But I cannot figure out how," Quirrell whined, and Harry wondered how on earth Professor Snape ever got along with this loser.

Apparently Voldemort was thinking along the same lines. "Shut up, you loathsome, disgusting worm. I cannot bear to be saddled with you a moment longer. Turn around and let me see the boy."

"Master, you are not strong enough!"

"I have strength enough . . . for this . . ."

Harry felt as if Devil's Snare was rooting him to the spot. He couldn't move a muscle. Petrified, he watched as Quirrell reached up and began to unwrap his turban. What was going on? The turban fell away. Quirrell's head looked strangely small without it. Then he turned slowly on the spot.

Harry would have screamed, but he couldn't make a sound. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake.

"Harry Potter..." it whispered.

Harry tried to take a step backward but his legs wouldn't move.

"See what I have become?" the face said. "Mere shadow and vapor ... I have form only when I can share another's body... but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds.... Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks... you saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest... and once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own....

"I had hoped," the face continued, its tone almost cozening, "when I learned you had come to Slytherin, that you might aid me in my quest to correct all that is wrong, all that is hurting the Wizarding world. I want you to stop this ridiculous fight, and help me retrieve the Stone. Better to save your own life and join me, else you'll come to the same end as your parents.... They died begging me for mercy..."

"LIAR!" Harry shouted suddenly.

Quirrell was walking backward toward him, so that Voldemort could still see him. The evil face was now smiling.

"How touching..." it hissed. "I always value bravery... Yes, boy, your parents were brave.... I killed your father first; and he put up a courageous fight... but your mother needn't have died... she was trying to protect you.... Now help me find the Stone, unless you want her to have died in vain. Such deaths are unavoidable in times of war, Potter. You must realize this."

"Unavoidable? You tracked them down and killed them. You tried to kill me, too. I was just a baby!"

"An unfortunate turn of events, yess."

Quirrell was only steps away from Harry now, and Harry stared into the misshapen face of his worst enemy. Unfortunate? Unavoidable? Who is he trying to kid?

You, of course, thought the Bloody Baron softly.

Well, it's not working.

Good, and once again, Harry could feel the Baron smile.

In that moment, a spell leapt toward Harry from Quirrell's wand. Almost instantly, a thought of Protego from the Baron and a twitch of Harry's wand created a blockade. The Professor's spell skittered off into a wall where it exploded, blasting off chips and shards of stone.

"I thought you wanted to be friends!" Harry cried. "Friends don't blast friends to smithereens!"

"What need has Lord Voldemort for friends, you impudent little boy?" the Dark Lord inquired while casting another spell.

Harry countered it again and zipped off an Expelliarmus, which Quirrell/mort dodged.

"No wonder your minions despise you." The Baron cast a non-verbal spell that Harry only caught the last part of in his mind even as a bright yellow light sped toward Quirrell.

"They fear me and my power!" Quirrell/mort snapped up a shield that absorbed the yellow light instead of reflecting it. "They know I am the most powerful Dark Lord who has ever lived!"

"You call that living?" Harry asked and laughed as he cast another spell.

Movement out of the corner of his eye briefly caught his attention before the Baron physically forced him to look away. But he had seen a dark, shadowy figure creeping around behind Quirrell/mort, as if it would attack the Professor from behind. That was fine with Harry. Unless . . . unless it was someone after the Stone? Like Snape? The height was right, the walk . . .

Cease speculating, Harry Potter. I am telling you this for the last time. You must trust me. Professor Snape is not attempting to steal the Sorcerer's Stone. The ghost's internal voice was so adamant that Harry was stunned for the space of a few heartbeats, leaving the Baron in complete control of his body. Rather than keep his control and fire off spells as rapidly as possible, however, he gave the reins back to Harry as soon as he could retake them.

That, more than anything else, made Harry believe him. Thanks, Harry thought, and tried to push whatever Snape was doing from his mind, even if the man was getting closer to the mirror and possibly the Stone.

Let me help, the Baron thought, and he put up a partial blockade to the worrying thoughts, leaving Harry's mind clear and focused on the fight. "Petrificus Totalis!" Harry shouted, then, "Protego!" as another spell headed for him. He sidestepped a second spell and cast another one silently.

The dark figure had stopped moving, now almost completely behind Quirrell/mort, which meant he was in Quirrell's line of sight. Just as Quirrell was saying, "My Lord, behind you--" the dark figure cast a spell. Dark red light sped towards Quirrell/mort and he tried to dodge it but doing so placed him in the path of Harry's spell.

A frantic, "Protego," saved him, though not completely. A measure of the Stunner had gotten through, making him wobbly on his feet. A look of pure rage crossed the twisted face in the back of Quirrell's head and the creature screeched, a hate-filled cry that pierced the air like an arrow.

"Seize him, seize him!" Voldemort's high voice shrieked. Quirrell's body lunged -- backwards -- toward Harry.

Not expecting the physical attack, Harry stumbled back as Quirrell/mort reached him. He held up his hands as Quirrell grabbed his wrist. A splinter of pain went through Harry's head, as if splitting his scar in two. He and Quirrell both gave a cry, and Harry struggled as hard as he could to get out of the man's grasp. Quirrell let go, surprisingly, and cradled his hand, which appeared to be blistered and red.

When Voldemort cried for Quirrell to seize him again, Harry tried to shove the man away, pushing at Quirrell's face when Quirrell grabbed his neck. Quirrell's skin roiled beneath his hands, writhing and churning as blisters formed, grew large and burst in gobs of pus. The hands tightened around his throat, and there was a sudden lurching sensation, as if he were falling down, down into a pit . . . something tore loose inside him, like losing a limb. The Baron! He was gone, wrenched away, and the immediate backlash of pain threatened to whirl Harry away, too. He clenched his teeth and his hands as his chest burst open like a cherry . . . oh, Merlin it hurt so bad . . . and the blood poured out of him . . . and Harry's own neck sizzled and burned, as did the flesh beneath his hands. Quirrell/mort was on fire everywhere his skin touched Harry's. The smell of burnt meat threatened to make Harry vomit.

But he kept hold of the piteous, shrieking monster and hung on as it screamed and screamed forever . . .

And then the dark figure was crouched over him, with dark hair hanging in worried dark eyes. "Harry, Harry, stay with me, you foolish child. Don't move . . ." A cold hand caught one of his burning ones and the relief made the world swim before his eyes. Only then did he realize the Quirrell/mort monster was gone.

"Where did he go?" he wanted to ask, but a glob of blood clogged his throat and made it impossible to croak out more than, "Whey . . ?" He coughed, spraying blood on the man's robes. "Sorr . . . sorr . . ."

"Shh, shh, Harry, don't talk. Save your strength." The man's other hand held a wand which he waved this way and that. He pulled a vial from somewhere and opened it with his one hand. Harry had secure hold of the other; he could not let it go. "Open up, child. It will be all right."

Harry opened up; what else could he do? But he knew nothing would ever be all right. The liquid burned going down but then the warmth settled in his stomach and spread out to his arms and legs. His eyelids were so heavy they hurt, and he thought he might let them down, rest them, just for a moment. Just a little while. . . .

"Harry, no, not yet. Stay with me. . . Don't go . . . don't go, please . . ."

He hated to ignore the plea, but he really was very tired. With a soft, "Sorry," he let the blackness engulf him and pull him into its dark depths.