We didn't have Defense Against the Dark Arts the next day.

Not that I was going to start complaining about that.

Maybe I could dream myself back into the third year, so that I could at least have a teacher who cared. Or at least let me learn a few spells to protect myself from it. Not all the crap Umbridge was giving us.

In our free period I helped think of insane things to write in Harry and Ron's dream diaries. It had been a beautiful morning when I had woken up, yet again, in the four-poster bed. I wasn't complaining about that either, but I couldn't push away the unsettling feeling that settled in my stomach. After everything, I was still stuck in this dream. A dream that was becoming ever so realistic the longer I was in it.

I was been wrong when I thought the castle was the most beautiful thing I had seen in the world. That was before I had laid eyes on the grounds. It just completed the picture; everything was so green. Hundreds of trees surrounded stone towers and the crystal glass lake. The temperature had just dropped, so that it was an absolutely flawless and crisp September morning.

Hermione dismissed herself after breakfast, saying something about a report that she had to finish for Professor Binn's class.

"Wait? What report?" Ron looked up from his heaping plate of food, fork raised halfway to his mouth. How he had ever managed to stay so stick thin was above me.

"Weren't you listening in his class yesterday?"

The next look on Ron's face told Hermione everything. But, to Ron's credit, listening to Professor Binn's lectures wasn't on the top of my to-do list.

"It's the second day of classes, Ron," she said, raising an eyebrow. "You better start getting your act together before I rethink letting you use my Potions homework as a reference." She took off before he could get in a word.

"That report isn't due for a week," I said, staring at the back of Hermione's head until she disappeared.

"Well, that's Hermione for you." Harry gave a small smile as Ron turned back to his eggs, mumbling something incoherently under his breath. Probably something about Hermione.

It was as if last night hadn't happened. There were moments, though, where Harry stared at me a little longer than necessary, or I at him. Though it wasn't that kind of staring. Well, maybe not on his side. It was almost as if we didn't know what to make of each other.

The large oak Ron had picked out to study under was close to the Quidditch Pitch. He sprawled out on the ground as soon as we were under the shade of the leaves, pulling out his Potions essay and a textbook he had 'borrowed' from Hermione that contained everything one would want to know about moonstones.

It was hard not to get distracted. People dressed in dark, billowing robes were constantly walking around, back up to the castle or down a path that led to a quaint little hut. More than once Harry or Ron had tried to get my attention. Instead of doing my homework, I was busy staring aimlessly at two people playing a game of chess a couple trees over. But not just regular chess. Wizard's Chess. A glass bishop picked up a darker pawn and threw him over the student's shoulder and into the tree trunk, where he shattered into tiny shards.

By the time our free period was over, all of our essays were finished and the couple entries in Ron and Harry's dream journals done. Harry wrote most of his about the coming of his death and explaining that, at my disproving look, it was because Trelawney always got a kick out of it.

Muggle Studies was next and I can clearly compare it to sitting through Drivers Ed. But maybe that was a good thing as I got to answer most of the questions and, for the first time, Hermione seemed to be lacking some knowledge. When she asked me how I knew all that so well, as I grew up in the Wizarding World, according to my fabricated story. I laughed and brushed it off as if it was nothing.

As we entered the Great Hall, I couldn't help noticing the stretches of silent awkwardness between the trio and me were happening less and less. Hermione seemed to include me in every conversation, even if they were speaking of something that had happened years before (and that I wasn't supposed to know about). Ron no longer adverted meeting my eyes when he talked and wasn't afraid to say stupid comments when I was listening. Harry didn't mind at all when Ron and Hermione would disappear for a moment. Or at least he was really good at acting like it was no problem. And it could have also been the fact that we would be spending the next week sharing detention with the ugliest woman alive.

On the night of our first detention, it was ten minutes before five all too soon. I warned him Umbridge would probably keep us long. I had been dreading the detention. As we walked through the endless hallways, I couldn't help but stare at the flawless skin on the back of my right hand. Harry, who had been talking about the Quidditch tryouts that were this Friday, missed my tortured expression. Should I do it? I could make a run for it, right?

And let Harry face Umbridge alone? Well, that was out of the question. I almost felt like warning him, but what would be the point of that.

It was supposed to happen, right?

I took a deep breath and lifted my face up to smile just as Harry turned, voicing his concerns for Ron's tryout and his nervousness issues. The hallways had cleared, as everyone was either making their way to the Great Hall or back to their common rooms. Soon I could hear only our footsteps echoing through the empty corridors.

He paused at the door that led into Umbridge's office. His arm was raised, ready to knock, when he hesitated.

My eyes caught his and I tried to smile, but it came out more like a grimace. Harry smiled, a flash of white teeth, and a surge of happiness swept through me. I nodded. He knocked twice.

"Come in."

Harry turned the doorknob, letting the door open slowly.

I didn't know what to expect from Umbridge's office. What was I going to feel when I saw it for the first time? Surprise? Curiosity?

Disgust.

The tables and chairs had all been draped in lacy covers. There were several vases full of dried flowers. The walls were the pink. Every crevasse and every surface was pink. There were pink pillows and pink cushions. Pink pens and dyed pink papers. The curtains hanging from the wide window were like flowing bubblegum. It was as if a unicorn had puked over everything in her office. If unicorns puked pink vomit. The only thing that was saved from the onslaught of pink was her wooden desk and the black feather quill that had no matching inkwell.

And then there were the cats.

They stared back with their beady red eyes, meowing and licking their paws. They were enchanted to move, all wearing a different colored bow as a collar. Mugs and cat-oriented plates decorated the walls.

It was as if we weren't even in Hogwarts anymore. We had stepped into the world of crazy, population Umbridge and her fifty glass cats.

I risked a glance at Harry, who was staring, transfixed, at the giant, and moving, picture frame with a feline wearing Santa Clause hat. Come on, Umbridge, it wasn't even close to December.

There were two desks in opposite corners of the room, one facing the large window and the other facing the largest kitten plate I had ever seen. The desks were draped in lace but each had a plain black chair pushed up against them. A long piece of pink parchment lay each of the desks.

"Good Evening Mr. Potter, Miss Goodrich," Umbridge said. I hadn't noticed her, with everything she had going on in her office. She seemed to blend into the walls in her pink house and shaw. If it wasn't for the black bow that was back on the top of her head, I wouldn't have been able to find her.

"Evening, Professor," Harry said with the least bit of interest. And when she turned to look expectantly at me, all I did was nod shortly. Umbridge broke out into a grin. I didn't realize what was so funny to her until it was too late.

"When I address you, Miss Goodrich, I expect an answer back." Umbridge clasped her hands in her lap and cocked her head slightly. I couldn't help but watch how the bow bobbed on the top of her head. One of the plated cats above her swatted at her head, eying the bow like it was a mouse.

"I did hope that you would have benefited from yesterday's lesson. So let's do it one more time. I say 'Good evening, Miss Goodrich' and you reply with a nice 'Good evening, Professor Umbridge'. Ready? Good evening, Miss Goodrich"

"Good evening, Professor Umbridge," I said through my teeth.

"There," Umbridge said. "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

We started at each other as she stared at me expectantly, as if waiting for me to interject and disagree.

"Now," she said, "each of you pick a seat. You will be writing lines for me tonight. No. Not with your quill, Mr. Potter," she added when Harry had made a move for his in the bag. With one last glare, I crumpled in the seat that had the lovely view of the fat kitten, which meowed loudly in my face.

"You are going to be using a rather special quill of mine," Umbridge said, vanishing behind her desk. Harry took this opportunity to cast a quick glance in my direction but, as soon as he did, the cats began to meow. Umbridge twisted around quickly, like a snake ready to strike. The expression on her face was smug. And it only got worse when she saw that Harry was still standing.

"Yes, Mr. Potter?"

"Well, I'm . . . I'm on the Gryffindor Quidditch team," Harry started, his voice slow and hesitant.

No, Harry. No. Don't do it. It was just what that Umbridge woman wanted.

And he was falling straight into her trap.

"I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five on Friday and I was – was wondering whether I could skip detention that night and do it – do it another night . . . instead . . . so I could . . . maybe . . . "

I knew by the look on his face that Harry realized before he even reached the end of his sentence that it was no good.

"Oh, no," said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. "Oh no, no, no. This is your punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr. Potter, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilt one's convince."

Harry's expression grew darker and I too felt anger boil in the pit of my stomach as she blamed him for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories. Like she didn't know anything of the sort.

"No." She clasped her hands in front of her like she was praying. "You will come here at five tomorrow, and the next, and on Friday too, and you will do your detention with Miss Goodrich as planned." I hated how she brought my name into her little speech. "I think it rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lessons I am trying to teach you."

It was extremely hard not to look at Harry. They were still staring at each other, Umbridge with her head still titled stupidly to the side, watching as Harry's anger flared dangerously. I tapped my hand on the high back of my chair softly, diverting Harry's attention. Seeming to realize what he was doing, he tore his eyes away from her and sat down.

"There," said Umbridge in her sugary voice, "we're getting better at controlling our temper already, aren't we?"

I thought if he was at least going to suffer from this the most, he might at least get the desk with the view of the pitch. Maybe he could watch the tryouts. But all my sympathy disappeared as Umbridge turned around to retrieve the black quill from her desk. Harry turned in his seat, ignoring the cat's mewing, and his eyes full of guilt. I didn't have to think about what he was trying to say.

Umbridge, with one smug glance at me, walked in Harry's direction, the black quill shaking slightly in her hand. She was excited about this. Harry took it without a word, staring down at the parchment in front of him.

"I want you to write 'I must not tell lies,'" Umbridge said.

"How many times," Harry said, right on cue.

"Oh, as long as it takes to sink in," she said with an odd tone to her voice that Harry even caught.

"Professor?" I asked in the most polite voice I could muster. Umbridge turned around and my heart dropped as I saw another black quill quivering in her meaty hands.

"Yes, dear?" Umbridge set the quill on my desk, but I didn't make a move to pick it up. She smiled again and leaned forward until her face was inches from mine. Even though I was sitting, she didn't have to bend down at all. I knew she could guess what I was thinking; I knew she could see I was scared. I thought about trying to persuade her out of the punishment with the lines, but now that I looked at her, I knew there was no changing it. What I had been planning to say had been stupid. There was no way I was going to back out of it now. If Harry had been able to do it, I would be too.

"Is there a problem, Miss Goodrich?" she said.

"Not at all." I actually smiled. For a moment, Umbridge seemed confused.

"Good." Umbridge returned to her desk and I stared at the evil thing in front of me. My hands were trembling as I picked it up. I snuck a look over my shoulder and watched Harry lift his quill over the parchment and hesitate. Setting it back down, he turned back to Umbridge.

"You haven't given us any ink," Harry said stiffly.

"You won't need any," she said. Harry's eyebrows knotted in confusion. Sighing, he looked at me with a bored expression and pressed the tip of the quill into the paper. I couldn't start, my own quill hovering just over the page. Instead, I watched Harry out of the corner of my eye, a lump forming in my throat.

Harry gasped and dropped the quill as if it had bit him. Beside me, Umbridge looked up from the papers she had been marking. Harry was staring at the back of his hand in horror, and I didn't miss the pink marks on his skin when he lifted his hand.

Umbridge stood and slowly walked over to him. She stopped in front of his desk.

"Yes?"

Harry hesitated for only a moment. "Nothing."

Umbridge started to turn back to her desk, but her gaze landed on me.

"Dear, I'd start soon or the longer you'll be here," she said in that sweet voice that was dripping in poison.

I turned my attention to the blank page in front of me. Harry gasped and finished his second line, his left hand clutching his wrist to keep it from shaking. Trying to calm myself, I pressed the black tip into the paper and cautiously wrote: I must not tell lies.

The words appeared in shinning red ink that sparkled in the setting sunlight. My own blood.

At first, nothing happen.

Then it hit me. The words began cut themselves slowly into the back of my hand as if a blade was hovering over my skin. Just as suddenly, the skin smoothed over and the letters were gone. The only thing left was a pink smear from the healing skin.

Umbridge was still watching when I heard her walk up behind me and glance over my shoulder. My eyes flashed towards the oversized kitten in front of me. It cocked its head to the side, mocking me.

"That's perfect, Miss Goodrich. I suggest you keep it up."

I brought down the quill and the back of my hand split open again, sliced by the invisible scalpel. When I looked back, the skin did not heal. I saw the words in the same spot, in my own handwriting.

I must not tell lies.