Screaming Victory, a harry potter fanfic

Disclaimer: I am not JK Rowling. So, unfortunately, I do not own Harry Potter. Sorry. ;)

I hope this isn't too out of character… once I started writing this, I couldn't stop.

Sooo… yeah. Enjoy.

Harry didn't want to give her what she wanted.

From the time he first felt wounds burry themselves into his hand, to the moments, days and weeks after, he felt as though he didn't want to give her any weakness. Harry knew that even though he followed every order she gave him, including digging invisible knives into his own hand, he wouldn't be giving her enough gratification if he had just sat there and done the ugly order she had given him obediently. Though the thought of leaving Harry Potter to inflict wounds on himself could have been entrancing in its own, he knew him taking it quietly and soundless would be like a blow to Dolores Umbridge.

I must not tell lies.

And he knew - the fact that he didn't cringe or cry as he bled made her sick. He knew as he left her office, she would feel as though he were defying an order that wasn't exactly spoken, but so very clear to the ear: like an unseen spell had been cast in monotone, muttering the word "scream" into his ears.

But even though they were slowly becoming scars – slowly becoming a part of Harry's own hand, the words "I must not tell lies" were turning into deeper lies themselves. And as he wrote them more and more with that accursed pen, and more and more scars appeared, they dwindled even more in meaning. Sure, he knew exactly why she said he was supposed to be in her office - but, deep down, he knew what he was doing had nothing to do with school. She just wanted to hurt the child that had caused her so much trouble during the times she was supposed to "teach."

I must not tell lies.

When he had first started, he had muttered the words he was given and made soundless motions with his lips. But, after a while, he had to close his mouth. That was because, if he hadn't of bit down hard on his lower-lip, he would have cried out.

Wounds inflicted on him by other people were one thing, but wounds he had received from his own hand were another completely. In that particular situation, he could have just stopped his hand from moving; he could just put the pen down and sat there in front of Umbridge ominously. He could have just taken his wand out of his pocket where he now always kept it, and could have yelled out and casted all of the many curses he knew – all aiming in her direction.

But he knew he shouldn't; he'd just get himself expelled, or worse.

I must not tell lies.

To keep the pen moving, he kept telling himself one thing, and one thing only. It wasn't "I must not tell lies" or "I must not show weakness." It wasn't even those random thoughts of himself attacking Umbridge that kept him going.

In reality, he knew he may be the one writing on that parchment – using his own blood as crimson ink – but he also knew that was all Umbridge's doing. Her estranged orders were the things that made him, and gave him no choice but to just write. The fact that Umbridge were the one giving him the real blow, right below the surface, gave him that precise reason to just keep doing it.

I must not tell lies.

In this daily little game of theirs, Harry Potter and Dolores Umbridge were both the king pieces. Every day, they'd have a battle – and the same outcome would play out every time. Umbridge would give the orders, and Harry would receive and do them. Harry would be the one leaving with the aching hand, while she'd be the one left with the ongoing throbbing pride that made her mouth every little dirty order for Harry Potter, and make him do it every single time.

In a game of normality, no player would know what the outcome would be. But, in this particular game, Harry knew. He felt it. He felt it every day, sitting at that same desk in Dolores Umbridge's office – just writing. He would always feel that gratifying writhe and pull in his bones, right as his nerves screamed pain. e

That was because, in the end, he knew the Order would win. He knew he would win. And so, as he wrote "I must not tell lies," he never, ever put down his pen, cried out, or gave up.

After all, he mustn't tell lies.