Harry Potter and the Year he Broke Free

Chapter Thirty-One: Detention

Harry was on time. Early, in fact. He watched the hands on his watch tick round, the hour hand barely on six and the minute hand reading... four to? Harry couldn't make it out too well, but he knew it was definitely before six. His foot tapped on the wall behind him as he lounged by the door, longing to be back in his own bed. Whether it was back in his own house, Grimmauld Place, the Room of Requirement or Gryffindor Tower he didn't care.

"Ah, Mr Potter, on time I see," said Umbridge in a saccharine tone. One hand was clasped over the other, stubby fingers playing with the sleeve of her sickly-pink cardigan. She pushed open the door, gesturing for him to go first.

Walking into her office for the first time, the thing that struck him the most was how stupid it was. The room was unimaginably pink - so much so that Harry felt like his lunch was about to make a reappearance (dinner he had skipped to get a little more free time). The utter brightness of it all was bombarding his senses, kittens on dinner plates hung up on the wall adding despicably to the effect. There was a rich mahogany desk in the middle of the room, complete with some plants and other decorative rubbish.

He stood there bemused for a little while before realising that Umbridge was beconing him over.

"If you could take a seat, Mr Potter?" she said sweetly, a sharp smile curved onto her face. Still in a state of shock he lowered himself into a chair, keeping his arms firmly at his side and feet stiffly on the floor. Normally he would bounce his knee, but forsook the movement to remain as plain and boring as possible. He needed to appear as just Harry, a sweet little boy who accidentally detained her and then called her a manky bitch, resulting in some mildly undeserved detentions. Harry didn't want to give her any reason to pick on him, because God knows she would award him an extra month of detention for just breathing.

Her grin widened, revealing more of her pointy teeth. "First of all, I would like you to treat me with respect in here."

"Alright."

"Excuse me?" Her tone changed, becoming far more cold and accusatory. "I believe I just asked you for respect."

"Alright?" Okay, she had lost him. What about that wasn't respectful? He could just call her a moody sod. Perhaps she would appreciate a wider vocabulary.

"Professor," she hissed through gritted teeth. Oh well, so much for not making her angry.

"I- um, I agree that you should be treated with respect, Professor, and will do my best to do so." he said, watching her face for any warning signs. After living with Vernon for fifteen years he had gotten good at spotting those. Instead of her complexion going beet-red, she surveyed him with a disgusted look for a second before clearing her throat and straightening her robes.

"That will do, Mr Potter," she said calmly, fixing him with a suddenly warm smile, except it didn't quite reach her eyes. "Since you will be seeing me quite frequently over the next few months, I thought it best we got along."

Ha, bit late for that he thought. Harry met her gaze evenly, saying "Yes, of course," even managing a small smile. Not for a second did he believe any of the rubbish he was saying, but what difference did it make? As long as he complied, maybe she wouldn't go too hard on him. Maybe she would chip a few weeks of the sentence off if he behaved well.

"Let's begin, shall we?" she said, reaching under her desk and bringing out a murky quill. It was an odd sort of charcoal-brown colour, but discerning what colour it was underneath the layers of dirt and age was difficult. It looked a good few hundred years old, probably more. Nice, Harry got to use vintage stuff. Presumably he had to do lines judging from the parchment she was pulling out of her drawers.

She set the quill and parchment on top of the desk in front of him, and then smiled widely at him. Harry picked up the pen, and almost screamed. He dropped it at once, the electrifying pain that shot through his fingers fading slowly.

"Something wrong?" said Umbridge, frowning at him. Harry sat there, breathing in and out shallowly, trying to gather his thoughts. That was the most painful thing he'd ever felt, and he'd been bitten by a basilisk.

"I- uh, I don't know, Professor," he replied truthfully. His fingertips were still aching from where they had grazed the nib of the quill.

Umbridge picked up the quill with ease, and pushed it closer to him. "Go on, pick it up."

Feeling more and more dubious by the second, Harry stretched out his hand but could feel a dark sense of foreboding. He dropped his arm, feeling Umbridge's eyes on him.

"What is it? Pick up the quill, Mr Potter. If you don't- well, you know what will happen."

Harry winced. "I can't."

"What do you mean you can't? It's a quill. Pick it up."

Harry braced himself, and plucked up the quill. Again, it burnt him - the very surface seeming to scorch his brain. It dropped from his fingers, and at once relief rushed through his veins. The pain wasn't as blinding as last time but still enough to make him want to throw the quill out the nearest window.

"What did you do to it?" he asked in alarm. Umbridge stared at the quill before picking it up herself, rolling it around in her fingers unharmed.

"Stop lying, Mr Potter. This quill is perfectly adequate." she barked. "In fact, that will be what you write. I must not tell lies. Perhaps it will teach you not to lie about a certain Dark Lord returning."

"I told you, I can't pick it up. And I'm not lying - why would I? I don't want Voldemort to be back!" Harry could hear his voice raising.

Umbridge looked furious now. "Begin writing at once. I won't ask you another time."

Harry glared at her for a second before again trying to pick up the quill. As soon as his fingers touched it, it felt like Harry was trying to touch fire. But if he dropped it again... Umbitch would murder him. So, he hung on, despite the sickening pain that threatened to pierce through his skin. Harry felt like his hand had been electrocuted, and here he was still holding onto the fuse for dear life.

Not for much longer, though. Suddenly, the fierce sting retracted, and Harry looked down to see the quill had snapped. A thick, gloopy substance was flooding out of the middle and pooling on the parchment, the broken remains of the quill swimming in it. It was a deep, ebony black, like boot polish. It smelt a bit like that too; the pungent odour filling the room immediately.

Umbridge practically screeched, shoving his arm out of the way to try and gather the quill. But when her fingers touched that strange substance it was her who cried out, cradling her arm and shuddering as the liquid bubbled and blistered on her skin. It left behind red blotches that bloomed all up her hand where her skin had met the ink.

She stretched out her burning hand, screaming "Hospital wing!" before clattering out of her office and practically booking it down the hallway. Harry sighed and went after her, because she'd probably tell him off later if he didn't.

Harry observed that Umbridge looked a bit like a flamingo when she ran. He would've laughed if he wasn't in danger of being expelled. After all, it was he that had broken the damned quill (somehow) so Harry would probably get the blame for this whole fiasco.


Upon entering the infirmary, Harry found Umbridge sat on one of the beds with Pomfrey sat beside her. They were having quite a heated argument, from the sounds of it.

"Yes, but does it really matter where it came from? Can't you just fix it already?" said Umbridge impatiently, thrusting her hand into Madam Pomfrey's face.

Pomfrey huffed. "Dolores, I can't do a thing unless I know the source. Now, if you could just-"

"You're quite a pathetic healer, aren't you? Perhaps I should have your licence revoked."

Harry walked over to the two, inclining his head at the matron. "Madam Pomfrey."

She sighed. "Harry. Could you tell me where this ink came from?" said the matron, gesturing at Umbridge, who was still whimpering and cradling her pudgy fingers. She glared at Harry as if to say, 'don't you dare'.

Harry looked back at her blankly before turning his gaze back to Madam Pomfrey. "It was a blood quill."

She gasped, looking at Umbridge in disgust and horror. "A blood quill? Why in the name of Merlin would you have one of those?"

"I think she was going to use it on me," Harry said, narrowing his eyes at Umbridge. Of course he knew what a blood quill was - they had been outlawed in 1913 for being far too brutal. It was a torture method dating back to almost medieval times, used on disobedient children for the most part. The idea had come to him on the way to the infirmary - no ink, and considering how old it was, he had guessed it was a blood quill. They were known to contain blackwood resin, an almost lethal ink-like substance which had gotten all over Umbridge's hands, and his own.

The woman in pink spluttered. "Of course it's not!" she said, feeling the heat of Madam Pomfrey's gaze. "Not exactly... more of an enchanted, regular quill. Approved by the Minister, of course." said Umbridge.

"The Minister's approval aside, it is still a blood quill. What does the board think of this 'new punishment'?" Pomfrey asked a suddenly pale Umbridge. She tutted. "I can heal you, but I have a lot of questions. I will certainly be notifying the Headmaster. Harry, did you get any ink on you?"

He looked at his fingers, which were completely stained with the stuff. The liquid was blotted underneath his fingernails, splattered up his palms. "You could say that," he replied.

Pomfrey looked at his hands in alarm. "Doesn't- doesn't it hurt? That's pure blackwood there, extremely dark. It should burn."

"No, it doesn't hurt at all. But when I tried to pick up the quill, it was awful. It felt like my hands were on fire."

"Perhaps you became accustomed to it," said Pomfrey. But her eyes had misted over, and her tone was just... off. Harry turned his hands over in the light, watching as it shimmered over the shiny surface of the gloomy ink. It had already dried, and when Harry tried to rub it off, it stuck like tar.

He sighed heavily. "Damn, it's dried. I'm going to go and rinse my hands under the tap, that alright?"

She nodded, pointing to some sinks. Harry made his way over to the taps on the other side, and while the cool water made the blotches fade, it was still stained on his hands. No matter how furiously he scrubbed, or how much soap or hot water he used, it stuck. Permanent.

After a few minutes, Harry resigned himself to the fact this wasn't going away, and so with scrubbed red and ink-stained hands, he made his way back to Pomfrey, who had been joined by a few others. Professor McGonagall was talking to her in hushed whispers, and when she saw him, sighed heavily.

"Oh Potter, how did I know you would be here?" she said.

"Evening, Professor," he said dully. This evening was just getting better and better.

"So Madam Pomfrey tells me Professor Umbridge attempted to use a blood quill on you?"

Harry laughed shortly. "She tried. I couldn't pick the bloody thing up, so-"

"Lanuguage," she reprimanded him curtly.

"Sorry." Harry held up his hands. "Anyway, then the quill broke, and then the blackwood resin got all over my hands. Umbridge touched it too, started yelling and came here." he shrugged. "I decided to tag along."

McGonagall nodded, then frowned at him. "Why couldn't you pick it up?"

"It hurt too much: felt like I was trying to stick my hands on a fire."

"Do you know why?"

"Does it look like I do?"

She sniffed. "Less of the attitude, Potter."

"Sorry, Professor." Harry said, trying to conceal his smirk.

Madam Pomfrey joined in. "How could this happen? Why was a blood quill deemed a suitable punishment? That's torture!"

"Considering they want to throw me in Azkaban, I'm not too surprised. But how many other people have had detention with her?" said Harry. The thought had only just struck him - how many people had had to suffer where he just narrowly escaped? And that was probably because of his freakish magic.

The idea seemed to disturb Professor McGonagall. Her face blanched, and lips became drawn and pursed. "I will have a word with Albus. Dolores, could I have a list of the students that you have served detention with?"

For the past few minutes, Umbridge had been examining her hand with a sour expression on her face, but looked up when she was brought into the conversation. "I assure you," she began in that aggravatingly sugary voice, "I have full support from Cornelius Fudge himself. He agrees that in recent years, the behavior at Hogwarts has spiralled out of control-"

"You mean the Ministry's control?" said McGonagall dryly, one eyebrow raised. Umbridge glared at her before continuing.

"Anyhow, Hogwarts and its reputation has slipped. It is no longer at the standard that the Ministry thinks it should, mostly due to certain students-" (she looked pointedly at Harry) "- and drastic measures needed to be put in place to make it a fit place of education."

"So torture was what you resorted to?" said McGonagall exasperatedly. "Really, and I thought the Ministry could sink no lower..."

"Excuse me?" said Umbridge affrontedly. "I'm afraid you've lost me, Minerva."

"I am trying to insinuate, Dolores, that it was foolish of you to dismiss You-Know-Who's return. It is exactly what he wants."

"How can you be sure?" Umbridge laughed shrilly. "You only have his word, and everyone knows Mr Potter is not in a stable state of mind-"

"Excuse me?!" said Harry angrily. "Why would I lie? I don't want Voldemort to be back; I would rather he stay dead, or whatever he was before. What reason would I have to lie?"

"You are far too used to the attention. You are nothing but a spoilt, attention-seeking little boy who-"

"Oh fuck off. You're just scared because of what his return would mean! But refusing to acknowledge it will come back and bite you in the arse one day, and it won't just be you who pays for your cock-up. Time is everything - you could be putting up protection and preparing people, but instead you Ministry pricks decide to discredit me and spread lies and rumours about me. Really, what good will that do but make things worse when Voldemort decides to make his return more public?" He paused to take a breath, so caught up in his ranting that he didn't care how many detentions he had to serve.

"And you don't even care! All you bloody care about is yourself, and what effects you! How you are so impossibly stupid I don't know! As the Ministry, you are supposed to have the public's best interests at heart - good job you're doing of that." he laughed. "So don't try and sit there and pretend you are better than me, when all you are is an insolent, grovelling, idiotic, brain-dead, egotistical woman who probably got her position as Senior Undersecretary to the Minister by shagging a few Ministry officials."

Umbridge just looked back at him, face growing redder and redder. Although her mouth was shut Harry could almost hear all the expletives she was just dying to call him, her mouth drawn in a tight frown and eyebrows knitted together furiously. Finally, she growled at him.

"Potter! How dare you- how could you- that- completely outrageous- I can't even believe!" She glared daggers at him, walking over to him with little heels tapping on the floor. She stopped a foot or two in front of him, a smirk curling the edges of her mouth. "Oh dear, it seems the detentions are having no effect. I will have to... ramp things up a notch. I believe," she snarled, shooting a satisfied grin at McGonagall, "that it would be best for you to be banned from the Gryffindor quidditch team."

Professor McGonagall gasped, her hopes of winning the quidditch evaporating in front of her eyes. "Dolores, that is going too far-"

"Really? Did you just hear what he said to me? Perhaps not, maybe your age is getting to you," said Umbridge kindly. McGonagall's eyes glinted dangerously.

Harry didn't know what to say. Well, what else had he been expecting? But it still hurt. And he knew that no matter how much people despised him, they still valued his quidditch talents. What would they do now?

"Oh Dolores, I could be three times your age and I would still be more competent than-"

"Professor!" said Harry quickly. He didn't want her to say anything she would regret later.

She glared at him fiercely. "What is it, Potter?"

"What about my detention? Can I have today off, considering I nearly had a blood quill used on me?"

She pursed her lips. "If only. Although your words did carry modicums of truth, some of it was incredibly inappropriate to say to a member of staff. You will serve the rest of your detentions with myself, or whoever I deem able to not torture you."

"All three months of them?"

"Yes, Potter."

Well damn. Harry thought he might be able to get away with it. But this was better than nothing - at least he wouldn't have his hand sliced open everyday. Well, not more than it already was, by his own hand or just smashing stuff. He should really stop doing that.

"Now, I must go to Albus at once to inform him of recent events. Potter, you may as well come along, unless you don't have a clean bill of health?" This last statement was more of a question directed at Madam Pomfrey.

"He's fine as far as I can tell, but I would like to try some... tests."

"What kind of tests?" he asked.

Pomfrey pointed at his unmistakeably ink-splattered hands. "That. It is completely unheard of. Hundreds of people have been hit by pure blackwood, and each of them broke out in burning rashes. While some were more painful than others, it should still be incredibly painful. And then you mentioned being unable to pick up the whole dark object, which is not unheard of. But then the core dark elements having no effect on you? It makes no sense."

Harry blinked at her, before giving a short laugh. "Almost nothing makes sense anymore. I've gotten used to it."

Pomfrey tutted. "But I would like to perform a few tests to make sure your hands just haven't gone numb, or are about to fall off."

"Fair enough."

McGonagall departed, and Pomfrey gestured for him to sit down on the bed. Together they began the usual spells, since Harry was too insistent to let Pomfrey take over completely.

"Everything looks good," she said, runnning her wand over his fingers, muttering spells as she went. Suddenly she stopped, and Harry felt his insides go cold.

"What?" he said, his tone harsh from smothering the anxiety beneath.

She looked at him strangely. "Why are you wearing a glamour?"

He paused mid-incantation, daring to peek at her through his fringe. He should've known those spells would pick it up. "I- well, I..." Shit, he didn't have any kind of excuse prepared. "I just do."

"Well, what are you trying to hide?" Pomfrey said in an accusatory tone. Harry snatched his palm out of her reach, and backed away from her.

"I think it's best that I go-"

"What are you trying to hide?" Harry was staring to panic; tendrils of it creeping up his body, tightening his throat and pushing down on his lungs. He stumbled past the beds, tripping occasionally.

"Harry, could you stop for a moment so we can talk about this?" said Pomfrey exasperatedly. She was tired of him always sprinting away whenever they tried to talk to him.

Harry gulped, trying to hide how panicked he really was. This wasn't so bad - he could just say that he had some bad spots or a naff haircut. But his brain wasn't cooperating, blindly insisting that everyone would find out what he did to himself. Or, in the very least would discover how completely knackered he was. Harry didn't want either.

So he wanted to escape, like he had been denied so many times before. When he was locked in the cupboard, pinned against the tombstone in the graveyard. Harry never got to be free, so now that he had the chance to he wanted to bloody well take it.

"I'm going," was all he could muster before he choked up completely before pushing open the doors to the infirmary. He didn't fucking care what Umbridge and Pomfrey were thinking in that moment: the relief that flooded through his system was enough to overpower those self-conscious feelings. At least for the moment.

Where to go now? Dumbledore's office? No, Harry was still shaking with terror, despite the fact the danger was long gone. Behind him. But again, his stupid brain just culdn't get the message. Before Harry knew it he was running for the toilets again, the trembling was threatening to make him fall. Gryffindor Tower wasn't safe - people asked too many questions. Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone?

He crashed into a stall, locking the door quickly so he could sink against it and wait for it to stop. For it all to stop. Harry could hardly draw in painfully stuttering breaths, and the ones he did manage to went straight to his head. He felt strangely dizzy, and the world before him swam as he drew his knees up in front of him and his chest heaving hysterically, the more breaths he took in the worse he felt.

Harry didn't know how long he was in there, but after a while he came back to his senses. He could smell the grotty little corner he had curled up in (which would most definitely result in him needing a good scourgify on his robes) and the stale air of the boy's toilets. He probably could have chosen a better place to... well, hee still didn't have a clue what to call that. All he knew was that he wished they stopped soon.

Well, there was no use sitting here feeling sorry for himself. Harry pulled himself off the grimy floor, dusting off his robes before making his way out of the loos. In the corridor, however, he was soon ambushed by Madam Pomfrey.

"Where were you?" she hissed as Harry came into view of the infirmary.

"Am I not allowed to have a piss?" he said, his words coming out sharper than he intended.

She frowned at him. "For half an hour?!"

"I- well, I'm... uh," Harry stammered. Half an hour? It had felt like mere minutes to him.

She tutted at him and shook her head. "You're either lying, or severely constipated. Which is it?"

Harry was stumped, opting to just sort of gape at her and hope that words graced his prescence.

Pomfrey sighed. "Never mind - I don't want to know. But I am curious as to why you are wearing a glamour."

"Bad acne outbreak. It's really awful," he said. Thank God he had gotten out a semi-believable coherent excuse instead of his usual awkward ramblings.

She raised an eyebrow. "So you don't mind if I take it off?"

His jaw dropped. "Wait - you can do that?" he said, voice strangely much higher than usual.

"Oh yes," she replied, smirking and spinning her wand in her hand menacingly. Harry reached his hand into his pocket and curled his hand round his own, just in case. Thanks to his seeker's reflexes, (or rather, ex-seeker's), Harry was fairly certain he could stick up a shield charm if she tried anything.

Footsteps, coming round the corner. And quite speedily from what Harry could tell. Dumbledore and McGonagall came into view, the headmaster's periwinkle-blue robes billowing out behind him, McGonagall keeping steady pace beside him in claret-red robes.

"Harry," said Dumbledore, inclining his head cordially before brushing past the two gently to get into the hospital wing.

He frowned at the Defence professor currently sat rigidly on the edge of the bed. "Dolores? Did I hear correctly you have been torturing my students?"

She gaped at him for a second before seeming to find her tongue. "I wouldn't call it torture. Just tough love."

Harry scoffed. "Highly illegal tough love. Blood quills have been banned for ages."

Dumbledore held up a hand. "Harry, that will do. Madam Pomfrey, can you take him somewhere else while I talk to Professor Umbridge here?"

"Yes, Headmaster." she gestured at him to go into her private office, and Harry obliged. Not much else to do while he waited to hear what the bitch's punishment would be.

Pomfrey clicked the door shut, and sat down at her desk. Harry plonked himself clumsily into a chair, eyes fixed on the confrontation outside. It looked rather civil so far; damn, Harry was hoping Dumbledore would curse her into oblivion. After all, he was known to be fiercely protective over his students (except for Harry, of course).

"Now then, we can finally have a proper talk about why you are wearing a glamour."

"What is there to talk about? I already said, bad bout of acne." he said, still trying to follow the conversation outside. Damn, he was completely shit at lip-reading. Probably a spell for that.

The matron sighed. "Harry," he whipped his head round and glared at her.

"What is it?" Why was she always sticking her nose in his business?

"I don't know why you're getting so defensive about this, or why you seem absolutely hell-bent on keeping that up."

He sniffed. "I don't have a clue what you mean."

"You ran off for half an hour when I even brought up the topic."

"Uh... fair point. But I'm not lying about the spots - it's really awful."

"As the school nurse of hundreds of teenagers I assure you I have seen worse."

Harry shrugged. "It's just easier to stick up a glamour."

"Quite an advanced piece of magic for something so mundane," she remarked. Harry wasn't listening though - his eyes were back on Umbridge and Dumbledore, the former of the two beginnning to go ashen-faced rather rapidly. Good.

"Harry?"

"Hm?" Was she being fired? Hopefully. Then Harry might get his old spot on the quidditch team back. God, it hurt to call it his 'old spot'.

"We're not all out to get you, you know. I don't care what colour you dyed your hair."

Harry stared at her for a second before beginning to laugh. "I assure you, it's not that."

"Well, alright," Pomfrey said, smiling warmly at him before getting stuck into some paperwork. Did she believe that was why he was wearing a glamour? Just acne? No. She didn't know what kind of bloody piercings or mad tattoos he had gotten, but she didn't want him to clam up more than he already had. Pomfrey wanted at least a shred of trust between them - perhaps then he would tell her about those nightmares that had bothered him.

But for today, it was enough that they had had a civil conversation, and that she hadn't demanded to pull of the glamour at once. Harry still seemed relatively normal - or close to. He seemed quite tired, blinking dully and movements slower. He was utterly enraptured in the conversation outside, probably more invested in the one outside than the short one they had just had. Madam Pomfrey decided to leave him be.


*I don't own a thing, it's all J.K. Rowling's. Okay, how's quarantine been so far? I hope good. I've not done much, it's been pretty boring. But anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Plus, if things are confusing, don't worry, all will be explained. Probably. Anyway, thank you all so much for the favourites, follows and reviews! :)