Just to clarify... This story is six death-day one-shots. The first is the Bloody Baron, the second is the Grey Lady, the third is the Fat Friar. Then is Nearly-Headless Nick, Professor Binns, and lastly, Moaning Myrtle. The first three are completely written, the fourth is nearly finished. The last two will be written shortly after the fourth is finished.

Harry looked over at the Slytherin table and saw a horrible ghost sitting there, with blank staring eyes, a gaunt face, and robes stained with silver blood...

"How did he get covered in blood?" asked Seamus with great interest.

"I've never asked"...
-Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone, page 124.

Seduction of a Silver Knife:
The Bloody Baron

At first light, the Baron de Croteau had awakened. It was not the rising of the sun, however, which had disturbed him so, for the curtains had been drawn tightly shut the night before to prevent such a thing from occurring. Nay, his mind had been troubled by strange dreams, thus causing him to open his eyes abruptly that morn with a chilled layer of perspiration soaking his forehead. He had not an ounce of Seer's blood within his veins, at least that he knew of, and so could not have interpreted their meaning to anything of significance, if they had meant something at all. He doubted this, though, as Seers and their readings were not to be trusted by any means.

Still, there remained a small amount of uncertainty in his mind, an unusual occurrence, yet none-the-less persistent. He blotted the moisture which had begun to trickle into his eyes, his hands shaking slightly. "Elf," he called into the darkness. He waited for the small pop which signaled the creature's arrival, yet his summons fell upon deaf ears. Impatiently, he demanded once more for its presence.

"ELF!" he bellowed.

At last, the elf appeared in the doorway, its bat-like ears wobbling as it bobbed its head repeatedly in apology. "Master, Ebby is sorry! I is talking with the Mistress, Sir. Ebby is not wanting to ignore the Master's orders, but I is not being allowed to leave!"

He sneered in disgust. "I am feeling ill, Elf. Open the drapes and send for my breakfast."

"I is having a name, Sir, but Ebby will do as the Master says," the elf muttered, though true to its word, obeyed. The baron surveyed Ebby with a look of mingled revulsion and bitterness. How he loathed the horrid creatures, so loyal and willing. They had not opinions of their own, only that of their masters, and did not live for themselves, only others not of their own kind. The entirety of their race was pitiful; a joke. As she turned to leave, she paused, then once more faced the Baron. "Sir, the Mistress is wanting to speak with you now."

He considered this. What could the wretched woman want from him? "She will wait. I do not wish to speak with her at the moment." The man sighed and settled against the mount of cushions which bedecked his bed.

"But, Sir, she is telling Ebby—" the elf stammered, wringing her hands in distress. The motion caused her enormous ears to quiver, which would have amused him greatly if he had not been growing angry with the creature.

"SILENCE!" he demanded, and she was abruptly hushed. "You will obey me, Elf, not the whims of my wife."

With obvious reluctance, Ebby bowed. "Yes, Sire. Of course. Ebby is not listening to Lady Celia."

The man uttered his approval and dismissed her, his head throbbing with a dull aching pain. He rubbed his temples in a circular motion, attempting to relieve himself of such a hinderence, yet his efforts were for naught. Perhaps he would not even rise from his bed that day at all.

And yet, as he thought this very thing, there came a knock upon his chamber door. "Enter," said he with a disgruntled air. Who would dare disturb him at such an hour, and with him still abed? Celia was the only being who had acquired the knowledge of where he slumbered, though he was most certain the guards had not freed her from the confines of her chamber. They would not do so unless ordered by him alone, for it was all he could do to keep her there. The Baron scratched his chin beneath his thin beard, recalling the occasion by which she had been brought to him.

It had been autumn, he reflected, when the leaves had first begun to turn. The harvest was well underway, and the roofs of the cottages had been thatched for the weather which was most certain to come that winter. The air had a distinct chill to it, something which could have been held accountable to the season.

What had he been doing? He strained to remember. Ah, yes, collecting taxes. It was what they had expected of him, for they thought him a muggle like themselves. What were they to know that their money was of no use to him? He had played the proper role as Baron, even dressed himself in their non-magic finery. And they were common; uneducated; docile. However much it disgusted him, it was how he preferred them to be, though an uprising had its perks—and proved them better than house elves, at the very least.

Yet, there seemed to be one, at times, who rose above the others; one who chose to withdraw themselves and revolt in whatever way they could. Though, such men were easily persuaded, even without the aid of magic. Celia's father had been one of them.

"I've nothin', Sire," he had informed the Baron. "The livestock's been slaughtered, the meat salted an' dried. Surely, M'Lord, I've nothin' of interest fer yeh." The Baron had sneered at the man, whose crown had begun to grow bald. He remembered it now. It was the moment at which he had first set his eyes upon the girl.

"You know, then, what must be done–"

Her father had grasped her shoulders and wheeled her to him. "Sire, yeh must take m'daughter as payment. She'll be a good'n to yeh, won't yeh, Celia?"

She hung limply in her father's grasp, her silvery blonde locks hanging lankly to her shoulders. "Papa, please…" she begged, but her pleas had gone unanswered, and she was thrust further toward the Baron.

"Take 'er!" Tears stained her fair cheeks, her blue eyes blood-shot and swollen. Such a pretty thing she was, not meant for the harsh, cruel life of a peasant. And so he had agreed, meaning to spoil the girl with luxury.

And yet…

The Baron clenched his hand into a fist with anger and directed his focus upon the door which had begun to open. He pulled the bedcovers closer to his chest, expecting Ebby or an important caller from the Ministry. (They had not forgotten him, even in the ids of so many muggles.) What he had not expected, however, was Celia, the very person he though secured in her chamber.

"Jonathon," she cooed as she strode to him. Her tresses hung freely at her side, for they had long-since grown past her waist. She was clad in nothing but the thin gown in which she slept, and it hugged her slender body gracefully.

"I am indecent, Celia, as are you. I must dress. If you will excuse me." He ignored the throbbing in his temples and placed his feet firmly upon the stone floor, making his way to the chest in which he housed his clothing. How had she escaped, or had she escaped at all? He inquired the former of her whilst he pulled on a pair of trousers and loosened the constricting buttons of his robe.

Celia laughed, a sound like to the twittering of birds. "The guards are easily bribed, my husband. You know as much as I that it is true. After all, you did not answer my request."

"Request?" he repeated with indignance. "I know of no request."

"Ebby did not tell you? She has been so reliable in the past."

"The elf? Celia, I have not the time for your whims."

"But you have the time for your own, I suppose," she retorted. "You cannot keep me prisoner here!"

"Do not tell me what I cannot do. It is not your place," Jonathon spat. "By law, you are my possession. Take kindly to it that I do not abuse such privileges!"

"Then why keep me locked away? What purpose does it serve?" she demanded, her slender body shaking with suppressed fury.

"Obviously, you have discovered your own means by which to escape. You have not yet been schooled in the ways of our world. Your powers have gone unchecked for too long, and as such, you are a danger to yourself and those around you. Do you wish that to be?" he hissed, and she slowly shook her head. "I thought not."

"Then educate me, Jonathon! Teach me spells and woo me with love potions! Whisk me away upon a broom; let me ride the winged beast you call a hippogriff! Dazzle me with unicorns and fairies! What harm could come from such things, I ask you!" Her chest heaved and she glared at her husband scornfully. "Why do you put me away when you know that I long to be free?"

"Is this why you wished to see me? To bother me with your besotted wishes?" he snapped. "To hell with them! And I suppose I were to teach you. Would you then not attempt escape? Or would you use your magic to leave me as you so desire? I cannot permit it, Celia."

"I would think of doing no such thing, my love. Is there to be no trust between us?" Her demeanor had changed, her voice lowered to a soft murmur.

"You must not lie to me. Do not even attempt it." He was beginning to soften, though he would not show it unless she begged. Perhaps he would teach her. However, he knew that her promises were hollow. He pinned the button upon his cuff and at last turned to her.

The woman stepped to him and ran her delicate hands across his face, caressing his skin. "Jonathon," she whispered into his ear, her breath tickling the minute hairs about it. "Is there nothing that I can do to persuade you?" She pressed herself to him and trailed her finger along his cheek. The Baron stiffened at her touch, though did not attempt to stop her.

"There is nothing," he smiled. Celia kissed him tenderly and pushed him back against the cushions upon his bed, sitting upon his legs.

"Then I believe," she whispered, "that you have chosen wrongly."

He blinked, for a moment, startled. From her bodice, she withdrew a gleaming silver dagger, its hilt encrusted with crudely-cut emeralds. In the fleeting moment ere she plunged it deep into his chest, he recognized the weapon as a birthday present given to him by his father the eve he had first received his Hogwarts acceptance letter.

"You will make me proud, boy," he had said, and patted the young Baron upon his head. "Remember that the snake can bring down the mighty lion with but one strike. But beware the eagle, my son, as its talons are quick and sharp."

He felt the metal gouge between his ribs and pierce his heart, blood flowing in torrents down his front. Celia watched in silent triumph, her eyes cold and stony. Laboriously, he grasped her throat in his weakened hand, and he grimaced as her eyes widened in shock. She desperately clawed at his arm in an attempt to release her constricted airway.

He sat upon the three-legged stool with a ragged hat perched atop his head. "Your father was great," it told him, "yet you could be greater. I see cunning and a love of morbid darkness. You'd best be put in-

SLYTHERIN!"

Was he really so cold? In horror and loathing, he let his hand fall. Jonathon felt the woman collapse upon him. Had he killed her? He did not know. Perhaps she had only fainted.

His life flowed from the wound in his chest and his vision began to blur.

"Celia…" he gasped. What have I done?