When class was over, he prepared a bin of black beetles for Potter to crush into powder during his detention tonight, with explicit written instructions, as he would not be there to supervise. Amazingly, he knew he could trust the boy to do his detention as assigned.

When Harry arrived at Snape's office for his detention at 7 o'clock on Friday evening, there was no answer when he knocked and a quick test of the knob found the door locked. Then he noticed the folded piece of parchment stuck to the door, next to the list of Snape's office hours and the "Do Not Disturb Upon Pain of Flagellation" sign. Harry's initials were on the front of the parchment, so he yanked the note off the door. The script inside was tiny, crabbed and slanting, and Harry had to squint to make it out.

Mr Potter,

Your detention assignment is readied in my classroom. I have temporarily changed the password to permit you entrance, namely an infusion you seemed to have no knowledge of in class today. I trust that is no longer the case. When I return, I expect to find you have completed the work and cleaned up after yourself.

Do not disappoint me.

S. Snape

Odd, Harry thought. But he didn't dwell too much upon it and simply continued down the corridor to the Potions classroom, where the door opened to the word "Wormwood," letting Harry inside. On a table near the front of the room sat a bin of black beetles, a number of small glass jars, and a mortar and pestle. A set of instructions on the proper method for grinding the beetles and how much went into each jar was on another piece of parchment leaning up against the bin, in that tight scrawl of the Professor's.

With a sigh, Harry got started. Using a small scoop, he moved beetles from bin to mortar then took up the club-shaped stone pestle and ground them to a fine powder before scraping them into one of the jars. It took three full scoops of beetles to fill each glass jar half-way as instructed, and Harry soon lost himself in the mindless, repetitive work.

His thoughts drifted to the last couple of days, and the highs and lows of his first full week at school. From almost being expelled to that session with Flint on the Quidditch pitch, where the large Prefect had first explained about the different roles on the team, then watched, with his mouth hanging open, as Harry caught the little golden snitch over and over. At dinner time, Flint actually clapped Harry on the back when he touched ground after his last catch, and smiled at him for the first time ever.

"Good one, Potter. That Cup will be ours for sure this year."

Still riding that high at dinner, he'd almost forgotten to go to detention afterwards, and had to scramble to get there on time. Then the Professor had been so weird, watching him dice those disgusting worms . . . flobber worms, were they? What kind of name was that? Their insides were chock full of the most sticky and viscous slime he'd ever had the misfortune to touch, although his textbook said they were good for thickening potions, so he supposed he'd need to get used to them. If possible.

Snape had studied him as he worked; he'd felt the man's dark eyes on him the whole time. And then, asking him about being a chef, of all things, and saying Harry'd been starved at the Dursleys.

As if he cared.

Then all that rot about Draco, and how to use information against him. Like it made a difference to Harry if Draco was afraid of his father. It wasn't like Harry didn't understand being wary of adults, even afraid of them. Adults couldn't be trusted, he knew that. But he wasn't going to hold stuff like that over Draco's head, no matter how much Draco knew about the Dursleys or how often Harry had been to the Infirmary. It just wasn't on.

But he'd thought Draco wasn't a complete arse and hoped they could be friends. They'd gotten along for the most part, except for that run in over the Remembrall, so it had hurt more than Harry wanted to admit when Draco had laughed at him in class earlier today, when he couldn't answer any of Snape's questions. As if he'd have any idea what those things were. He'd gotten his books at Diagon Alley with Hagrid and barely had the chance to crack them, with all the chores and glares and the rest of it he'd dealt with for the remainder of the summer before the Dursleys dumped him at King's Cross. He'd read ahead what he could since getting to Hogwarts, but with all his detentions, plus getting used to the castle and classes and magic, and now with Quidditch, too, he hardly had enough time to breathe some days, never mind memorize the Potions text.

Besides, Teddy told him later that none of that stuff was even in the first third of the book, and he shouldn't have been expected to know any of it yet. How Miss Bloody Granger knew it all was anyone's guess. Teddy had a few theories, mostly having to do with her living the library, with books for pillow, blanket, bed and even the loo . . . the latter made of History of Magic books, of course.

Harry had been grateful to Teddy, and had avoided Draco for the rest of the day. He noted Crabbe and Goyle snickered right along with Draco, same with Zabini and Pansy Parkinson. But not Millicent, not Teddy, and not Neville Longbottom or even Ron. Instead, the red head had looked almost . . . angry at Snape, and on Harry's behalf! The thought had lightened his mood, which had plunged rather deeply as Snape mocked him in front of everyone. He'd thought the man would be fair; he'd said he didn't play favorites, hadn't he? That was the most disappointing thing about the class, in the end. And he'd been looking forward to Potions, too.

Looking into the bin, now, Harry saw he was more than half through his work after only an hour. Maybe he'd get a chance to actually study tonight with his group, instead of having to get up early and do his work in bed. Tomorrow was Saturday, though, so maybe they'd quit the study group early in favor of hanging out or playing Exploding Snap or Wizard's Chess.

It was just after nine when he finally finished, bottles of ground beetles lined up precisely and the table wiped down. He closed the door, unsure if he needed to lock it again, or if would happen automatically, and decided to just leave it shut like that, for surely Snape would have told him if he needed to do anything special when he left.

He headed back to the Slytherin common room, passing through several twisting corridors on the way. It was easy to get lost down here. Easier than the rest of the castle anyway. The torches - spelled to stay lit all the time - didn't give off as much light as one might hope, when wandering through dungeons, and the flickering light made shadows appear in odd places, so sometimes you could miss a turn or a recessed alcove you needed to take.

Harry was mostly used to it by now, but his thoughts were still running away from him with all that had happened over the last few days, and he didn't realize until he hit a dead end that he'd missed a cross passage somewhere.

Turning to retrace his steps, he found himself face to . . . translucent face with the Bloody Baron.

Silvery blood covered the Bloody Baron's hands and clothes, and his face, also splashed with a streak of sliver, was caught in an expression of deep pain. A gaping hole in his chest leaked a never ending flow of that silver blood, dripping toward the floor, but then it winked out of existence before actually hitting the stone. Chains wrapped the ghost's torso and rattled ominously, even while he hovered right in front of Harry.

"Harry Potter," the ghost intoned.

Harry had seen a number of Hogwarts ghosts in the last week, but not the Bloody Baron, not since the Welcoming Feast. He'd felt the ghost's gaze studying him that night, but he'd been so nervous about everything else that he'd quite forgotten. Now he said, "Yes, sir?"

The ghost's mouth curved, opening wide like a rictus more than a smile. "I did not expect you, of all people, to find a place in my House."

With an almost impatient sigh, Harry said, "Yeah, I get that a lot."

Surprising him, the Bloody Baron tipped his head back and laughed, a full-throated joyous sound that made Harry's head reel. "Ah, Mr. Potter, thank you," the Bloody baron said as he wound down. "I have not found such amusement in a stone's age."

"Er, you're welcome." Harry peered through the ghost at the corridor behind him, at the same wondering if doing so was considered rude. "Could you, er, tell me where I ended up? I seem to be a bit lost."

"I should say so."

Harry was pretty sure the Bloody Baron wasn't talking about just tonight, but he didn't feel like getting into some kind of weird philosophical discussion with a ghost, so he ignored that jibe and said, "I'm meant to be back at my common room, now. For a study group."

"Of course," the Bloody Baron said and stared into his eyes. The ghost's eyes were black holes, like the entrance to a cave in which something deadly lived and breathed and drew unwary victims in.

A cold feeling enveloped Harry from toes to ears. He shivered and backed away from the ghost, until he came flush against the wall behind him. "What do you want?"

"What we all want, Mr. Potter." The dark caves narrowed, trapping the lurking danger inside. "Peace."

With that, the ghost floated right through Harry, raising goosebumps all over his skin and making him feel bloody and exhausted and bruised, as if he'd been in a fight. One he'd lost. But before Harry could turn or make a sound or call him back to explain himself, the Baron vanished through the wall behind him.

Harry leant against the wall for a long moment, catching his breath. Using the smooth, damp stone for support, he forced his feet to move, one after the other, until he was well away from that cul de sac. It took forever, it seemed like, before he finally reached an area he recognized. Aside from still panting a little and with a trace of a hitch in chest when he breathed, he was mostly recovered by the time he entered the common room at last - or as much as he could be after being run through by a ghost. He made his way directly to the table he and his study group used each night. . . but no one was there.

And the common room was oddly quiet, too, especially for this first Friday. Only a few older students lurked about in corners . . . including a couple snogging in the shadows near the corridor to the girls' dorm. Harry had expected a lot more activity. Wouldn't everyone be excited about the end of the first week of school? Teddy had said as much, when commiserating with Harry over his week's worth of detentions.

Checking the time on the mantel clock over the fireplace, though, Harry shocked, but he understood why it was so quiet. How in the world had it gotten to be 2 am?

It had been the Bloody baron, he was sure of it. Something weird had happened when the ghost went through him. But he didn't remember anything . . .

"Potter!" a voice said behind him, and Harry jumped, turning around for the second time that night to face something less than pleasant. This time, the person was very much alive, and very, very angry. Snape continued, "To what do I owe . . ." before he suddenly trailed off, eyes widening. "Come with me," he ordered, then turned on his heel and marched back out the portrait door and along the corridor toward his office.

More exhausted than he could ever explain, Harry just sighed and trailed after him, through the dark corridors, and through the door that slammed open to admit them both to Snape's office.

Snape pointed at the chair in front of his desk. "Sit." Harry did, watching as Snape opened the door behind his desk that led to his private potion stores and stormed in there. He returned a minute later with several bottles which he placed in a row in front of Harry at the edge of the desk. "Remove your shirt."

"Sir?"

"Do it now, Potter. You are covered in blood. I wish to discover if any of it is yours."

Harry looked down at himself for the first time since the Bloody Baron had slid through him. To his horror and disgust, the front of his robe was soaked with blood, as was the button down shirt underneath. He peeled both away from his skin, making a face as the shirt stuck to him and he had to yank it away. Doing so stung, and he winced.

"What, pray tell, have you run afoul of this time?" Snape asked as Harry pulled off his robe and let it fall to the floor. His fingers shook as he undid the buttons on his shirt, and then he saw that they too - no, his whole hands! - were red and tacky with blood.

"I . . . I don't know, sir," he said, starting to tremble as the coppery tang of the blood hit his nose and the pulse of his heart sounded extra loud in his ears. He could almost feel it flowing through his veins. Lub dub. Lub dub. It wasn't until his shirt was open and he saw the deep gouge in his chest that he realized at least some of the blood was his own. And then the pain hit, and somewhere in his mind was a little voice telling him he was in shock and that's why he hadn't felt anything before, but in the next second, he locked eyes with Snape, shook his head uncomprehendingly, and dropped like a stone as the world turned black.