The Bloody Baron hovered above the Slytherin common room, staring toward the first-year girls' dorm for what felt like hours. He was done making reckless mistakes.
Finally he made up his mind. He needed to double-check a hunch with Peeves, and then—hardest part—he needed advice from the one person who actually hated him more than anyone else in this castle.
He wasn't telling any of the professors. One whiff of "Slytherin + mixed-blood + freakishly gifted + obsessed with souls" and half the staff would lose their minds. The Board of Governors would be worse. The kid could end up locked in a Ministry lab before breakfast. Or worse. He'd seen that panic before. He wasn't risking a lifetime of regret number two.
He found Peeves lobbing dungbombs at Filch and Mrs. Norris. Filch was purple, screaming curses; Peeves was having the time of his afterlife.
"PEEVES."
The poltergeist froze mid-throw. He knew that voice meant business.
"Y-yes, Baron, sir?"
Baron waved Filch away (Filch scurried off, grumbling but not stupid), then turned back to Peeves.
"You've seen Alice Norton, correct?"
Peeves played dumb for half a second, then gasped theatrically. "Ohhh, the new ghost girl's name is Alice Norton!"
"She's not a ghost and you know it."
"First time I saw her, she was totally a ghost!"
"When exactly was that?"
Peeves started counting on his fingers, got confused around seven, and finally shrugged. "Dunno. Like… a month ago? Month and a half?"
Baron just nodded once. "You are never to speak of Alice Norton again. Not to students. Not to ghosts. Not even to Dumbledore. If that secret gets out, I will assume it came from you, and I will make the rest of your existence a nightmare. Understood?"
Peeves saluted and bolted.
Once he was gone, Baron's stony face cracked—just a little. He drifted up through the castle, higher and higher, until he reached the lonely astronomy tower where one ghost always lingered.
She wore old-fashioned robes that pooled on the floor, long hair twisted into an elegant knot, beautiful and cold as moonlight on frost. The Grey Lady.
The second she sensed him, her calm expression iced over. She turned to float away.
"I need your help," Baron said quickly. "A question of wisdom."
"Are you mocking me?" she snapped, spinning back.
"No. I just don't want to make the same mistake I made when I was alive—and kill another brilliant girl because I was an idiot."
That stopped her cold.
A bitter laugh. "The Bloody Baron has a conscience now?"
"Mock me all you want. I deserve it. But I'm out of moves. Please."
The Grey Lady studied him for a long time. Then, quietly: "Speak your problem. I'll try to help the poor girl you've fixated on this time."
He told her everything: Alice's background, her personality, the way the other Slytherins had turned on her, how she'd once asked him point-blank about ghosts, and—worst of all—that she could apparently leave her body and float around like a spirit.
The Grey Lady's face grew more and more troubled. Even someone as detached as her couldn't hear that list of traits without thinking of the same name that still haunted Britain: Tom Riddle. Voldemort.
"You're sure this Alice could resist the corruption that kind of soul magic brings?" she asked. "We both know most soul-related spells are dark, and dark magic twists the caster."
"I've watched generations of Slytherins flirt with the Dark Arts," Baron said. "I know the signs. Alice feels… different. At least right now. But I can't trust the Board of Governors with this. They'll destroy her just for the potential threat."
The Grey Lady nodded slowly. "You're right. We can't punish her for something she hasn't done. That wouldn't be fair."
"Exactly. That's why I'm here. Tell me what to do."
She went quiet, staring out over the moonlit grounds. One word from her could shape the next Great Wizarding War—either raising the next Dumbledore… or the next Dark Lord.
One thought for heaven, one thought for hell.
Finally she spoke.
"Starting tomorrow, don't confront her directly. Don't tell her you know.
Instead, show up with Peeves a lot. Every time she's in the common room, give her one long, knowing look—like you're seeing right through her secret.
Make her sweat. Make her wonder if you've figured it out."
Baron frowned. "Why?"
"Because we put the choice back in her hands," the Grey Lady said simply. "If she's good—if she's brave—she'll come to you herself. She'll explain, ask you to keep her secret, and promise she won't lose her way. If that happens, swear you'll protect her secret and watch over her like a hawk to keep her on the right path.
But if she avoids you, hides, or—Merlin forbid—tries to silence you permanently?
You march straight to Dumbledore that same day."
"And then?"
"Then you hand the problem to the greatest wizard alive and let him handle it. Even if it means Azkaban. Even if she's only eleven."
She met the Baron's eyes, cold and ancient and sad.
"We've both got blood on our hands already. Let's not add hers unless she forces us."