It was nearly lunchtime and as Lyla had only had one bit of treacle toffee since dawn, she was keen to go back to school to eat. They said goodbye to Hagrid and walked back up to the castle together, Daphne hiccoughing occasionally, but only bringing up two very small slugs.

They had barely set foot in the cool entrance hall when a voice rang out.

"There you are, Potter's– Weasley!" McGonagall was walking toward them, looking quite stern. "You will both do your detentions this evening."

"What're we doing, Professor?" said Ron, nervously.

"You will be polishing the silver in the trophy room with Mr. Filch," said Professor McGonagall. "And no magic, Weasley— elbow grease."

Lyla gazed down at her hands and cringed inwardly. She'd completely forgotten about their punishments and felt her insides go cold.

Ron gulped. Argus Filch, the caretaker, was loathed by every student in the school.

"And you, Miss Arabella, will be helping Professor Lockhart answer his fan mail," said Professor McGonagall.

Arabella looked absolutely horrified.

"Oh no— Professor, can't I go and do the trophy room, too?" she asked desperately.

"Certainly not," said Professor McGonagall, raising her eyebrows. "Professor Lockhart requested you particularly. Eight o'clock sharp, both of you."

Arabella and Ron slouched into the Great Hall in states of deepest gloom, Hermione behind them, wearing a well-you-did-break-school-rules sort of expression. The Slytherins followed at a slower pace, finding a small secluded section of the long House table.

"What's Snape got you doing?" asked Daphne, still looking green.

"Working with Snape in the dungeons," she replied, feeling a numb coldness creep over her skin, "he didn't really tell me what we'd be doing… It can't be that bad, can it?"

"Can't be too bad," said Theo cheerfully, "I mean, to me, it sounds like Snape wants to win the House Cup, and we can't necessarily do that with an incomplete Quidditch team, now can we?"

Everyone nodded in agreement, but Lyla was no longer listening. Days after classes had officially swung into full, she'd come home one night to find a letter resting on her bed that thoroughly explained that she was to meet Professor Snape inside his office that upcoming Sunday. What they'd be doing, he didn't say.

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was five minutes to eight, and Lyla was dragging her feet along the dank dungeon floors. Sooner than she'd liked, she faced his office door. Gritting her teeth and taking a few deep breaths, she knocked.

"Come in," came the professor's cool voice.

Like everything in the dungeons, his office was dimly lit, a low greenish hugh illuminating very little. Snape sat behind a desk, piled with the oddest assortment of items from strange potion ingredients that Lyla decided not to look too closely at.

"Miss Potter, please, have a seat," said the Potions Master, gesturing to a chair that faced him. Without a single word, Lyla did as she was asked.

"For tonight's punishment, I thought I'd give you something worthwhile."

Curiosity getting the better of her, Lyla flicked her gaze upwards. Gesturing to his right, to a large door with a heavy lock.

"That is where I keep the majority of my potion ingredients," continued Snape, "a place heavily protected as oddly enough, I've caught a handful of students trying to knick an ingredient or two for something more, let us say, diabolical."

"Wh– what am I to do?" asked Lyla, feeling her throat close around her words. "Am I supposed to– to charm the door and add another layer of protection? I– I can't possibly–"

"Nonsense," waved Snape with a curled lip, "I've called you down here to organize it as it once was, in alphabetical order. It appears over the summer, an infestation of rats made their home. I have not entered since."

With a quick flick, the lock that held the door closed clicked.

"The door isn't going to open itself, Miss Potter," reminded Snape as Lyla remained glued to her seat, "and I do believe that in the end, this experience will help you in your potions. Now get to it."

Stealing her nerve once again, Lyla got shakily to her feet and steadily made her way towards the daunting door. She opened it to expose a narrow walkway, which was surrounded by shelves and shelves of ingredients. It seemed to go on forever, despite from the outside, appearing as if it was only a small storage room.

"Um, professor?" she asked timidly, turning to face Snape whose nose was turned down as he wrote down something, "I don't– I don't, uh, recognize a lot of these ingredients."

Without looking up, Snape once more flicked his wrist, a thick, leather-bound book drifting to where the second year stood.

"Thank you, sir," she murmured, grabbing the voluminous book. The moment she stepped inside, she heard a loud squeak and jumped backward as a large black rat scuttled right across her foot.

Getting to work was fairly easy, as Lyla was able to recognize a handful of the ingredients strewn about. She'd been given a bin to toss ingredients that had been half-chewed or looked moldy and managed to shift the others that were in better condition into their properly labeled drawer. It wasn't so bad, and with Snape invested at his desk, no awkward conversation concluded.

"Come… come to me… Let me rip you… Let me tear you… Let me kill you…"

"What?!" yelped Lyla, leaping from the ingredients storage room with a start.

"Excuse me?" asked Snape, raising his brows.

"That voice!"

"I'm Sorry?" asked Snape, now frowning deeply. "What voice, Miss Potter?"

"That— that voice that said— didn't you hear it?"

Snape was looking at Lyla with narrowed eyes.

"What are you talking about? There's no one else here but us, is there not?"

"I– I–"

"It is getting late," said Snape with a slight glance at a clock that hung above. "It's been nearly three hours, and you've made much progress. You may leave."

Feeling dazed, Lyla left without another word.

Arabella didn't enjoy her shepherd's pie as much as she'd thought. Both she and Ron felt they'd got the worse deal.

"Filch'll have me there all night," said Ron heavily. "No magic! There must be about a hundred cups in that room. I'm no good at Muggle cleaning."

"I'd swap anytime," said Arabella with a roll of her eyes. "I've had loads of practice. Answering Lockhart's fan mail… he'll be an absolute nightmare…"

Saturday afternoon seemed to melt away, and in what seemed like no time, it was ten minutes to seven, and she was dragging his feet along the second-floor corridor to Lockhart's office. With a deep inhale and great sigh, she gritted her teeth and knocked.

The door flew open at once. Lockhart beamed down. "Ah, here's the scalawag!" he said, eyes twinkling brightly. "Come in, my dear, come in—" Shining brightly on the walls by the light of many candles were countless framed photographs of Lockhart. He had even signed a few of them. Another large pile lay on his desk.

"You can address the envelopes!" Lockhart told Arabella jovially, as though this was a huge treat. "This first one's to Gladys Gudgeon, bless her— huge fan of mine—"

The minutes snailed by. Arabella let Lockhart's voice wash over her, occasionally saying, "Mmm" and "Right" and "Yeah." Now and then he caught a phrase like, "Fame's a fickle friend, Arabella," or "Celebrity is as celebrity does, remember that."

The candles burned lower and lower, making the light dance over the many moving faces of Lockhart watching him. She moved her aching hand over what felt like the thousandth envelope that night, writing out Veronica Smethley's address. It must be nearly time to leave, Arabella thought miserably, please let it be nearly time…

And then she heard something — something quite apart from the spitting of the dying candles and Lockhart's prattle about his fans. It was a voice, a voice to chill the bone marrow, a voice of breath-taking, ice-cold venom.

"Come . . . come to me. . . . Let me rip you. . . . Let me tear you. . . . Let me kill you. . . ."

Arabella gave a huge jump and a large lilac blot appeared on Veronica Smethley's street.

"W— what?" she said loudly.

"I know!" exclaimed Lockhart excitedly. "Six solid months at the top of the best-seller list! Broke all records!"

"No!" said Arabella frantically. "Not that! The voice!"

"Sorry?" said Lockhart, looking puzzled. "What voice?"

"That— that voice that said — didn't you hear it?"

Lockhart was looking at her in high astonishment.

"What are you talking about, dear Arabella? Perhaps you're getting a little drowsy? Great Scott— look at the time! "We've been here nearly four hours! I'd never have believed it— the time's flown, hasn't it?"

Arabella didn't answer. She was straining her ears to hear the voice again, but there was no sound now except for Lockhart telling her that she mustn't expect a treat like this every time he got detention.

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