Professor Mcgonagall looked down at him, eyes flashing brightly.
The woman in front of Harry was the one who had been born into a relatively average name and had clawed her way up the social ladder and secured a professional teaching position. The same woman who had stood up to both the Dark Lord Grindelwald and Voldemort without nearly so much as twitching her wand faster. The same woman with a back of iron and nerves of pure steel.
And also, apparently, the woman who was perfectly content to let him suffer.
He has gone up to her at Hermione's urgings and explained about the week of detention he has gotten from Professor Umbridge, where he had to write lines. But he had hardly gotten farther than that when she interrupted.
"I am afraid, Mr. Potter, that the only advice I can offer you is to keep your head down." Her voice was calm, collected. It didn't seem like she was signing Harry's death warrant.
Harry's mouth dropped open.
Through the heavy black robes, he tightly clutched his left hand. Pain was already bubbling up - he'd skipped his regular Essence of Murtlap soak in order to make it here on time.
The partially open scars were, since the last he'd checked them, bright red and oozing blood. He hadn't shown them to her yet - he was afraid, who wouldn't be - but she had shoved him off, focusing on the several scrolls out in front of her. He could read the top - Properties of Transfiguration on Toads - and even while she was looking at him, she scrawled notes in the corner of the page.
Didn't she understand? Didn't she remember?
All the last years where he, Ron, and Hermione had been correct? Correct about things that could have saved lives of she has just listened?
Harry scowled. "'Keep my head down', Professor McGonagall?"
Her eyes flared slightly, and she finally stopped writing on the paper. Tartan robes swished around her hand as she set her quill down, calm eyes meeting his angry ones. "Yes, Mr. Potter. I had believed that you were brave enough not to complain to me about detentions, but I see I was wrong."
There. Those were the words.
Rage flooded Harry's chest, fast and furious and strong. "But the quill, Professor McGonagall! The quill, it-"
"Mr. Potter!" Now her voice was hard. Her back straight, shoulders taut. Eyes boring into his, still call and collected but not nearly as much so as they had been. "The only enchantment allowed on quills inside the Hogwarts Wards are Self-Inking and Auto-Correct charms. Albus checked it himself!"
Her posture was annoyed, even as her face slid back toward her paper. "Now, unless you are suggesting that Headmaster Dumbledore has failed in his job as our Headmaster, then I suggest you keep your head down and do not complain."
Mad laughter bubbled up his throat and chest, the kind that Harry had only made when he was so furious he just couldn't hold onto it anymore. "Yeah. Okay. Sure." His voice sounded bright red and raw and so full of injured hurt he saw Professor McGonagall flinch, pulling her attention away from her papers and toward him.
But he had already stood up, defeat pooling around his feet. "I'll go keep my head down, Professor." He turned away and pushed through her office door.
As soon as he was in the hallway, Harry ran.
Feet pounded against the stones, robes whipping behind him, breath heavy and harsh and hurt, all deep within his chest. His eyes flicked left to right.
He couldn't go back to the common room. He'd have to fend off questions from Ron and Hermione and he wasn't ready to do that, not now, not ever.
He ran faster.
And now he was tearing across the hallways, thanking every deity he knew that there wasn't anyone out this late in the day. There was no one to stop him or make him go back to-
"Mr. Potter!"
But now he slowed, screeching to a stop all too fast yet too slow at the same time. He looked around, ready to crane his neck back to stare up at the stupid teachers that told him to keep his head down-
Only to find he didn't have to.
Professor Flitwick. A good solid 1.5 meters tall, as compared to Harry's 1.6 meters. Short hair, short face, short body, short everything, but only to everyone else in the castle. To Harry, he was the only person at eye level.
"What are you doing, Mr. Potter?" Professor Flitwick asked gently, eyes flicking over the visibly quivering boy. His face was pale and his eyes were red. There weren't any tears but something glittered at the corners of his iris'. His left arm was held in a death grip by his right, everything up to his fingers covered by his robes.
Harry looked at the Professor straight in the eye. He didn't have to crane his neck, didn't have to stare up, didn't have to change himself at all.
And Professor Flitwick looked genuine, too. Not the trying-to-care-but-really-don't feeling he had gotten from Professor McGonagall. He snorted.
Honestly, at this point, Harry didn't think he had any more shits left to give. Who cared whether Flitwick knew or didn't?
"Running." Internally, Harry winced. His voice sounded dead, his soul already having fled from his body. But in all honesty, that was how he felt. Each drip of blood from his hand carried a part of Harry Potter, and by the end of these detentions, he wouldn't have any left to bleed.
Though Professor Flitwick looked even more panicked now.
"Running from what?"
Harry paused. What was it he was running from? Professor McGonagall and her refusal to believe or even listen to him? Professor Umbridge with her cruelty and sadistic desire to make him pay for something he had no control over? The strange black quill with its tip stained red in his blood?
"Everything, I guess." He paused. "Sir."
Professor Flitwick's eyes hardened, but not in anger. Something built up from stone and strengthened in steel.
He gestured to the open doorway behind him, flicking his hand. "Come in, Mr. Potter." He gave a gentle smile. "Maybe I can get you to stop running from one thing, at least."
Harry looked around and shrugged. What did it matter of he talked with Professor Flitwick? If he was too late and got another detention, it would save him absolutely nothing, but it wouldn't change anything, either. Professor Umbridge would always find a way to assigned new detentions.
He followed the short professor, entering the coziest office he had ever seen.
While Professor McGonagall's had bright red and gold walls, pictures and posters of everything Gryffindor, and furniture so hard it made your back crick even looking at it, this was different.
A soft, gentle blue background, but the walls were played in thick, heavy wood bookcases. Two low torches flickered on the far wall, though they weren't nearly as impressive as the large fireplace hissing and crackling in the corner. Two comfy armchairs sat in front of a rather short desk.
Harry took a seat, and nearly leapt out of his skin in surprise as the chair twisted, shrinking and lengthening until it fit him perfectly. He shot a look at Professor Flitwick's, only for the man to raise an eyebrow and smile at him.
The professor took a seat behind the desk, fixing Harry with a powerful look. "Now, Mr. Potter, what - exactly- are you running from? I find that if you run from everything, it gets exhausting."
Harry couldn't help himself. His lips fluttered, falling into a loose grin. Why, oh why, was Professor Flitwick not the Gryffindor head of house?
But now he paused, but only for a second. It wasn't that hard of a question.
"I'm running from detention."
Professor Flitwick raised an eyebrow. "Running away from detention at such a close time to curfew does not exactly seem wise, does it?"
Harry grinned wider this time. "Well, from the torture that is detention with Umbridge."
"Torture, Mr. Potter?"
And it all came down to that, didn't it?
Forcing someone to write in their own blood was hardly good, but this was the Wizarding World, and Harry hadn't been able to find out what the quill was called to be able to research it. Maybe it was perfectly legal, but Harry sure as hell didn't think of it like that.
But it had taken Hermione days to convince him to see McGonagall, and that had gone horribly, even before he had told her the entirety of what happened. Why would telling Professor Flitwick be any different?
He didn't care anymore.
"I'd call it that, sir."
Professor Flitwick still sounded curious, but there was something stronger in his voice. "And why is that, Mr. Potter?"
Harry didn't think. He just did.
He ripped back the sleeve of his left arm and shoved it forward. "Because of this, sir."
There was a loud and pressing silence, the kind that swallowed any words before they even left your throat.
Professor Flitwick's eyes grew wider and wider as he stared at the mess that was Harry's hand.
He had had detention that night, so the cuts were deep and bloody and fresh. Clotted scarlet was crusted on the outlines of the loopy, messy words written over and over again on the back of his hand. There was still a hint of white scar beneath the new cuts, and scabs were dotted across his hand.
Professor Flitwick looked beyond furious. "Where did you get those?" His voice was cold and angry, somewhere between the roar of a lion and the hiss of a snake. His shoulders were iron rods, his back a mountain. Harry had never seen the small professor so mad.
"Professor Umbridge, sir. I have to write lines in her detentions and her quills writes it on the back of my hand."
There was a pause.
"What have you been using to heal it?"
Harry's eyebrows furrowed. He hadn't expected that questions. "Er- Essence of Murtlap, sir."
Without looking, Professor Flitwick snapped his wand up and down three times. There was a clink and then a drawer in one of the bookcases open. Out floated a small vial, twirling around in the air as it flew toward Harry. He snatched it out of the air, watching several bubbles rise in the pale green potion.
"A mild pain potion from the Hospital Wing, Mr. Potter. Please take it."
Harry paused for a second before downing it. The potion was bubbly, pleasant in texture - though the taste was somewhere between too-ripe bananas and overcooked meat.
But within a few seconds, his left hand tingled, and the stinging pain slowly bled away to nothingness.
Harry flexed his hand in shock. That had been the first time in several days that he hadn't had any pain there, and the feeling was foreign.
Professor Flitwick removed his glasses, face looking more worn than Harry had ever seen it. "Please tell me I am not the only one to have seen this?"
Harry paused. "Well, Ron and Hermione have," he admitted. "But that's it."
Professor Flitwick rubbed a hand against his forehead, sighing softly.
"You have been tortured with a dark device and the only person you thought to shown it to was your friends?"
Harry thought it best not to bring up that he hadn't wanted them to see it, either. "I guess so, sir."
Professor Flitwick sucked in a deep breath, eyes closed. "Do you know whether others have been forced to use the quill?"
Harry frowned. "I think the Weasley twins, but I don't know anyone else."
"And how often are your detentions with her?" His voice was still as strong as ever.
"Everyday, sir." Harry rubbed the back of his hand, looking down.
Was Professor Flitwick looking at him the same way McGonagall had? The sadness, the disappointment, the annoyance laced within her eyes, hidden behind the gleam of her glasses but still there. If he looked up, would that be what he saw?
"Okay." Harry looked up and met Professor Flitwick's eyes. They were filled with nothing except powerful, raw determination- so far from the emotions inside Professor McGonagall's eyes.
"Mr. Potter, I will request you meet with me tomorrow at 5 o'clock - I believe you have a free time then?" At Harry's nod he continued. "I will do everything in my power to stop this, Mr. Potter. Trust me."
Harry didn't. Oh, how he wanted to, wanted to trust everyone person that asked him to, but with everything from the Dursleys to Parseltongue to the stupid Triwizard Tournament to even Umbridge, he just simply couldn't do that anymore.
But he hoped. Oh, he hoped with all of his heart and mind and whatever soul he had left.
A few minutes later, Harry left Professor Flitwick's office, slightly dazed but happy. He held a pass from him explaining why he was out after curfew so he couldn't get detention, and he was out late enough that both Ron and Hermione had fallen asleep.
He wondered what Professor Flitwick was going to do.
The next day dawned bright and early, and Harry quickly got dressed. He only had breakfast and Transfiguration today, and then it was lunch and then it was town for him to meet Professor Flitwick again. He found himself unable to wait, quivering in both excitement and far. Would it be over soon?
He found that he was up so early that even Hermione was still in her bed, so he walked down to the common room and hung out for the next couple of minutes. He spent most of his time tapping his fingers up and down the backs of the chairs and trying to casually wave to any other Gryffindors leaving the common room. But finally Ron and Hermione came down the stairs, nearly at the same time.
"There you are!" Hermione exclaimed, darting toward him. "How did it go?" Her face was a bit pale from sleep, but her energy levels were as high as ever. Harry grinned despite himself.
"Later, Hermione," he said. "I'll tell you about it over breakfast - I'm starving."
"I'll agree to that, mate," Ron grumbled, rubbing his eyes. He already had his bag of books for the day, and Harry cursed and ran back upstairs to grab his. Hermione laughed.
They walked together to the Great Hall, Ron and Hermione laughing and joking together. Harry didn't join in. He didn't find many things funny nowadays, more happy to stay in the backgrounds. While it had only really started this year, Ron and Hermione seemed to have adjusted to it, and for that he was grateful.
Breakfast was rather simple, just pancakes and sausage and bacon. He ate quickly, but found that his stomach was nearly already full. He pushed it off as nervous for getting on with the day.
Hermione prepared her barrage of questions for how his talk with Professor McGonagall went, and had asked the first question when Professor Flitwick stood up.
Harry fell silent immediately, ignoring Hermione's confusion. He only had eyes for the professor.
Standing barely changed his height, only boosting him a tenth of a meter. But Professor Flitwick didn't care; quickly, he stood up on the table, quickly drawing attention from every student and teacher in the room.
"I have an announcement to make," he declared, voice strong and confident.
He saw, in the corner of his eye, Harry Potter looking up at him with something unreadable carved into his face. He ignored his friends, focusing only on the Charms Professor. Hermione looked even more confused than he did.
"It has come to my attention that there are certain teachers at this school that are willing to use illegal and dark objects on our students."
There was a gasp that rippled over the room, whispers and murmurs and hisses rising and falling like tides. But Flitwick noticed Professor Umbridge sit ramrod-straight up in her chair, fixing him with a glare strong enough to melt stone. He grinned, just a little.
"So I have decided to contact the necessary Ministry forces needed to stop this. Please, if any of you students have experienced torture under the hands of this teacher, come to my office. I can arrange an anonymous interview or simply get you the healing you need."
Professor Flitwick inclined his head to the Great Hall, but Harry could see it was aimed at him.
"That is all." Then he sat down to the rumors of the students to the panicked silence of Professor Umbridge to the confused looks from Professor McGonagall.
Harry felt the edges of his lips twitch up.
Though his hand still stung painfully and his friends were demanding answers from him and Professor Umbridge looked like she was planning his funeral, he was happy.
Harry Potter met Professor Flitwick's eyes, and they both shared a smile.
Hello!
So this is an interesting (I hope) idea I had for a rather long fic. It explores a bit more of a depressed Harry, one who is quickly deteriorating with Professor Umbridge's detentions. Then he stumbles into Professor Flitwick and bam! The story is born!
You probably noticed how Harry is thinking a lot differently. That's because he is a bit more clinically depressed and even a bit suicidal. If you notice something ok writing or doing wrong, please tell me! I'll fix it, because I want to make this as correct as possible.
So anyway, I hope you like the idea. A bit policital, a bit depressed, a lot co fused, and one lone little Harry wondering what he's going to do.
I'm not sure how often I can update this, as I recently had my school computer taken away (I wasn't in trouble, the school year is just the over). So I'm pretty much writing everything here on my phone. My poor fingers!
But anyway! Please read and review!
Frost OUT!