Disclaimer: Well…I'm not forty-five, I don't have blond hair, I'm not the creator of one of the best series of all times…yet…but I do have glasses! No? Fine…I don't own Harry Potter.

Stuff: So, it's another story. No, LtL will not be abandoned, the Dursleys are just being difficult. This one popped into my head because there are so many stories where Snape finds out about Umbridge's detentions and helps Harry. But what about McGonagall? She's his Head of House. So here's a story where she finds out about it, and there are more extreme repercussions for Harry due to the quill. I mean, he was sleep deprived, the quill was dark magic, he probably wasn't eating enough as it was…so yeah. And everyone was calling him a liar and insane, plus the stress was high what with OWLs and everything…

The Art of Torture and Recovery

I must not tell lies

As he wrote, the words were carved into the back of his hand as though an invisible person were taking an invisible razor blade to the previously flawless flesh, intent upon torturing the fifteen-year-old until he cracked. Essentially, that was what was happening. His torturer was sitting, seemingly innocent at a desk in front of him, shuffling her papers. He hated everything about her, from the stupid black bow on the top of her mousy brown hair down to the tips of her revoltingly pink shoes. She looked up for a moment, beady eyes meeting his as she smiled a toothy smile as sweet as honey laced with basilisk venom, and just as potent as well. He stared defiantly back for a moment before dropping his gaze back down to the blood-stained parchment on his desk.

I must not tell lies

He bit his tongue in order to keep himself from crying out when the quill's magic lashed at a tendon. He refused to give his torturer satisfaction in the knowledge of his pain. At first it had been difficult; the quill was quite unlike slapping hands or pounding fists. It was sharper—somewhat like a knife, but different, leaving a heavy feeling wherever it ripped across his flesh. It was dark magic, that much he knew—he wasn't the top Defense student in his year for nothing—but there was nothing he could do but sit and bear it. He was well aware that his right hand could be left crippled for the rest of his life—however long that was—but he just couldn't bring himself to care.

I must not tell lies

Again he suppressed a moan of pain. Of course, it was only when the quill's magic managed to work itself this deep that it hurt anymore—any other pain had long since faded. He was left numb until he had written enough, until he had cut deep enough—the unreality was more of a torture than the pain, to him. The pain let him know he was there, alive and fighting, living a small rebellion as he silently denied everything the ministry now seemed to stand for as he inflicted more and more damage on his hand.

I must not tell lies

Though using the quill seemed only to further his apathetic state, he did not go looking for pain. Indeed, the razors in the boys' shower looked very appealing on many days, but he resisted the urge. He was very unwilling to allow his torturer's preferred punishment to take any more of his blood.

The sickening sound of his torturer's faux cough broke through the silence. He gritted his teeth and looked up. A small smirk appeared on her face at the sight of his subtle insolence. She would have him for another night, another night of torture. She looked at him pointedly when he didn't rise. He sighed and stood up, forcing himself not to sway on his feet. He slowly made his way to her desk, presenting his hand as was now the routine. She smiled a gleeful, venomous smile as she felt the barely suppressed tremors coursing through his body. A sadistic, pleasure-filled glint appeared in her eyes as she pressed on the swollen purple flesh of his hand, just over the cuts. Yet her twisted feelings were still rather bitter-sweet—he still hadn't truly broken. But he would come again, just as he had before, and there was nothing he could do to escape her wrath.

When she dismissed him he left as quickly as he could without allowing his cold mask to slip, getting as far away as possible on his shaking legs. He slipped into a little-known passageway and sunk down to the ground. The stone made it a nice, cool alcove for him to recover enough from his torture sessions to return to the normal world—the world where teens weren't punished in such brutal manners, where the most students had to worry about was homework and dating. But he would never belong in the normal world. They didn't believe in him, and he couldn't relate to them.

Because, honestly, who in their right mind would call Harry Potter "normal"?

!

A/N: So, this is just the first chapter, kind of to set the scene. A bit of a prologue, if you will. Review! (No flames)