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The Gryffindor trio made their way down from their common room. Harry had just enough time before his detention to grab a quick bite of food, so they wanted to be sure to arrive on time. Ron bemoaned what a shame it was that Harry would have to miss the 'best part of the feast' but Harry wasn't all that disappointed. After all, Halloween wasn't exactly his favorite day of the year.

Just as they had moved a few steps down one of the many staircases, the stupid thing decided to move, turning to join a different landing and rerouting them. The boys grumbled at the delay as the girl gave a put-upon sigh. Hermione loosely gripped the stone railing for balance until the staircase was closer to the wall.

“Mione, do you have to do that?” Harry complained with a grimace. He hated when she did that, always envisioning her hand being crushed between the rail and the wall. The girl gave him an amused look as Ron snorted.

“As if anyone's daft enough to let their hand get smashed,” declared the redhead. “It's not like the staircases move that quickly, mate.” Harry made a face at the both of them, showing how he felt about their dismissal of his admittedly irrational concern. He suppressed a relieved sigh when Hermione raised her hand from the banister to tuck her hair behind her ear.

“Honestly, Harry. There are-” she had begun in a kind, though pedantic voice, likely about to offer up a small lecture concerning the safety measures placed upon the school's stairways.

Neither Harry nor Ron would ever know for certain, for she didn't get the chance to finish what she had to say. Halfway to its new position, the staircase abruptly jolted across the remaining distance, slamming into the wall with such force that nearby portraits rattled in place, several falling from their hangings as the three students were flung forcefully against them.

“Bloody hell!” Ron exclaimed, blue eyes wide in alarm. He cradled his right arm against him, the limb sore from his collision against the wall. Hermione had taken a similar stance, except that she was holding her right hand protectively over her heart – the very hand that would have indeed been crushed had it remained even a moment longer upon the railing.

Harry couldn't help the bubble of panic that had taken root in his stomach. Since when did any of the staircases do that?! He knew the answer, of course: never.

Without another word between them, Harry led the hasty retreat to the landing, fighting to calm his own breathing. “You two all right?” he asked, sending a wary look at the steps behind them. His left side was sore from colliding with the wall and the picture frames, but he knew he was relatively unharmed.

“Well,” Ron swallowed, gingerly palpating his shoulder with his fingers, “reckon I might have a nasty bruise, later on, but nothing feels broken. Blimey, though, Mione – it's a good job you moved your hand when you did!”

“You're telling me,” Hermione agreed, letting out a noise that was bit too hysterical to really be a laugh. “I wonder why the staircase acted like that?”

“I don't wanna know,” Harry mumbled, hurrying down the corridor. Were he honest, he really wasn't looking forward to braving another set of stairs. At least, now that they were on the third floor, they had the option of taking stationary steps the rest of the way down. With this in mind, the dark-haired boy led the way towards the armory and the stairway down from there.

If only someone had warned the trio that things were about to get weirder. Granted, had it not been for their recent experience with the stairs, none of them probably would have thought twice about the sight which greeted them as they entered the gallery of armor. After all, it was a favorite hangout for Peeves, so strangeness wasn't all that unprecedented.

Not even the strangeness of every single suit of armor having its head on backwards.

At least, that is what they each tried to tell themselves.

“I don't like this,” Hermione whispered, voicing their shared unease as they hurried down the corridor.

“We're almost there,” said Harry, picking up the pace a bit. “Probably just Peeves up to his old tricks again.”

As though mention of his name had summoned him, they could hear the poltergeist's raucous singsong as he bounced along the hall. “Gathering 'round the precious stone, the glowing stone! Here they come, one by one, the pretty stone,” Peeves was chanting until his beady eyes fixed upon the Gryffindors, and then he gave a delighted chortle. “Looky here! Looky here! A Potty, a Weasel, and a Mangy Grangy! Ickle students all alone when everyone else is gathering for the feast!”

“Did you do this to the armor?” Ron demanded of the poltergeist, jerking a thumb over one shoulder.

“Oh, my, oh, my – would Peevesy do that? Maybe they done it to themselves. Twisted their own heads right around. Round and round! Here they come! The pretty stone...”

“What on earth are you on about?” Hermione questioned the being. If anything, the poltergeist's antics were somehow more unsettling than they usually were.

Peeves gave a maniacal laugh, twirling about almost playfully in the air. “What'sa matter, don't you see it? Don't you hear? But of course you don't! It's not for you – it doesn't beckon to you! The precious stone, here they come, one by one, the pretty stone...” He continued his nonsensical singing as he bounded off down the hall once more.

Harry repressed a shudder. “Let's just get to the Great Hall. I want to grab a bite before my detention.” Murmuring agreement, the other two followed and they all but fled the long gallery. No sooner had they departed than the hall was filled with sharp, metallic scraping as one by one, the heads of each set of armor swung back around to their fronts.

0o0o0

Harry had been slow to comply with Snape's directive to retrieve the ingredients necessary to re-brew his potion from class. For once, the teen was honestly wishing the man would put him straight to work on some disgusting task rather than enter that enclosed space. It was just too soon after the staircase and the armor and the weirdness with Peeves. He knew he was being a bit ridiculous, but he was reluctant to reenter the potions supply closet for fear that the face from earlier would once again appear in one of the jars.

“Potter!” the Potions Master addressed him sharply, causing Harry to shoot him a startled look. The man sneered impatiently. “Get... to... work.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry replied softly. Somehow he coaxed his feet into obeying him, and soon he had gathered the items and returned to the classroom without further incident. He wondered yet again if he hadn't imagined what had happened during class. But then, if he were imagining things, why would a figment of his mind be calling Snape's name? Wouldn't it have called for him, instead?

Deciding it didn't matter, the Gryffindor set to work. The sooner he finished his potion, the sooner he could get to his real detention and the sooner he could join his friends back up in the common room. Snape had gone into his office for something or other, although Harry paid him little mind. He knew the Potions Master would be aware of anything taking place in his classroom, even if he wasn't present.

Harry reached for the beetle carapaces he had ground into a fine powder a few minutes before, only to find it clumping together, as though it had gotten damp. Frowning, the teen inspected his supplies more  closely, finding it was not only the beetle carapaces that had gotten damp. In fact, the air itself seemed to have grown moist and dank, a thin film of condensation coating ingredient vials and potions table alike.

Tensing instinctively, the teen had reached for his wand before he was consciously aware of the sound of footsteps moving up from the door at the back of the room. The steps were accompanied by a soft squishing noise, as though whoever it was walked in wet shoes. More concerning was the fact that before he'd noticed the steps, Harry had failed to hear the door open. He turned quickly, still surprised to find a person standing there even though he held his wand at the ready.

The man was soaked from head to toe and dripping water upon the flagstones. He could not have been much older than Harry himself. In fact, he looked disconcertingly familiar to the teen with his chin-length black hair and somewhat haughty features.

“Potter, what-” Snape began to chastise the Gryffindor before breaking off abruptly as his gaze fell upon the visitor. “Black.”

“Snape,” returned the dripping man. Harry recognized his voice as the one from earlier in the supply cupboard. He looked quickly between the two men, feeling more perplexed, though now that Snape had spoken the man's name, he could see the resemblance to Sirius.

“So, he did kill you for your betrayal.” There was no real inflection in the Potions Master's words as he made the statement. Part of him had hoped the rumors weren't quite true.

An almost rakish grin pulled across the spirit's features, and he really did look like his brother, then. “Is that the story that went around?” he questioned rhetorically. He grew serious. “I suppose it's not untrue, although the Dark Lord's part in my death was incidental. I was killed retrieving one of his horcruxes.”

Harry had glanced at Snape just as the man rested a hand atop one of the tables, as though suddenly in need of the support. By then, his wand had already fallen uncertainly back to his side. He wanted to ask what a horcrux was, but it seemed that neither Snape nor the spirit remembered he was there.

“Merlin's beard, Regulus!” the professor exclaimed. “Horcruxes? Plural? Why bring me this information? Why not go to Dumbledore, or your brother, for that matter?”

“Sirius is not likely to desire speaking to me, even in death,” Regulus stated dryly. “Even so, informing you is informing the Headmaster, is it not? Furthermore, I did not come to tell you that the Dark Lord made horcruxes – he made seven, by the way. But it is not why I came to you, friend.” The spirit's gaze wandered over to Harry and the teen fought the urge to fidget under those dull, gray eyes.

“Then, why? We were not so close that you'd waste your precious time on me,” Snape said, watching as Regulus studied Potter for a long moment before turning back to him.

“You always did hold others at arm's length, Severus. I came to warn you. Dumbledore brought something into this school that he shouldn't have, and now you're all in danger. Especially you.”

Snape gave a quiet scoff. “The Headmaster regularly brings dangerous objects into this school. You should have seen the havoc this caused just a few years ago. He's been lobbying to hold the Tri-Wizard Tournament, again, in fact. What could he have possibly brought that would endanger me in particular?” He raised an inquiring brow.

“It's a soul stone, and he's not even aware of what it is,” Regulus informed him in a sharp tone. “Hogwarts is already a beacon, attracting all manner of creatures to its borders. Acromantulas, thestrals, centaurs – and that's just to name a few. Now, just imagine if that beacon was specifically tuned to those who've crossed the Veil. You can only imagine how loud it is, how bright, and the wards around the castle are only magnifying it.

“Of all the nights to keep such a thing here! All kinds of spirits will be coming here, and I don't mean the kind, benevolent sort stopping in for a chat. I'm talking about the mindlessly violent, those fueled only by their hatred and rage and cruelty, the truly evil, the darkest of the dark – I'm talking about your father, Severus!” the spirit forcefully declared.

Were Snape not already impossibly pale, Harry might have sworn that the man had grown paler. As it was, the professor seemed to swallow, clearly caught off-guard. When he finally spoke, his voice was a low hiss.

“What do you know of my father?” the Potions Master demanded, advancing a bit towards the spirit.

“Enough to know you didn't trip down the stairs before returning to school every year,” retorted Regulus. “He still blames you, Snape, and he's coming to make sure you know it.”

Harry's green eyes were wide in shock, a little knot of unease and horror forming in the pit of his stomach. His gaze was fixed on his professor as he waited for the man to refute what Regulus had just implied. There was no way that Severus Snape had been mistreated by his father, that he had been – Harry always shuddered to even think the word – abused. Was there?

“My father was a muggle,” Snape declared, voice too taut to be dismissive.

“The Veil does not discriminate between magical and muggle. Not tonight.”

“Even if what you suggest is true,” the Potions professor began, tone raising, “there are wards-”

“Not all wards are fail-proof,” Regulus interrupted curtly. “He is coming, he and who knows what others. They won't care about the soul stone, but they will be drawn by it. Act now, act quickly to protect yourselves. People will die this night, old friend.” He turned to look at Harry once more. “Take care that you and young Potter here aren't among them.”

The spirit took a step back before turning towards the door. Before he could move towards it, if that were his intention, spectral arms covered in gray, rotting flesh reached up through the floor, dragging him down into the flagstones. A puddle of water on the floor was the only evidence that he had been there.

“P-professor?” Harry finally found his voice. He had so many questions that he wanted to ask, half of which he didn't dare. His expression must still have shown his surprise and unease about what had been spoken of Snape's father, for the man scowled fiercely at him.

“You are not to speak one word of what you've heard to anyone, Potter,” the professor spat. “Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Cut the heat under your cauldron. Your potion is undoubtedly ruined by now, anyway. We're going to see the Headmaster.”

Harry did as he was told before grabbing up his belongings to follow the man from the room. As they headed for the door, he couldn't help but notice that the room didn't feel damp and musty anymore.

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