Harry fell straight into bed after his detention. Correction: he fell straight into bed after his detentions.

It would have been impressive to say that after two days he had grown used to the pain that seared through his right hand, or that Umbridge's pink-painted office and sneering smile had somehow become less unnerving throughout, but to his misfortune, no such progress could be reported.

Night after night, Harry found that he was too exhausted and furious to even attempt his homework and so many of his waking hours were spent writing poor, cobbled-together essays and entries into his dream diary—even giving up lunch and dinner to finish drawing a picture of a Bowtruckle and practice charms. And while Harry did not go through this alone or hungry with Ron and Hermione by his side; what little comfort he could take from their time in the common room was soon spoiled when Angelina tracked him down and, on learning that he would not be able to attend Friday's Keeper try-outs, told him she was not at all impressed by his attitude and that she expected players who wished to remain on the team to put training before their other commitments.

"I'm in detention!" yelled Harry as she stalked away. "D'you think I'd rather be stuck with that old toad and not play Quidditch?!"

"At least it's only lines," Hermione whispered consolingly. "It's not as if it's a dreadful punishment, really…"

"Yeah imagine if she actually banned you from Quidditch or something…" Ron added. Harry opened his mouth, closed it again, and nodded as he sank back into the couch. No one knew about the true nature of his detentions. And he had yet to come to the actual decision of telling someone, anyone, for fear of the looks of horror that would dawn on their faces, or worse, the inevitable tide of pity that could not be stomached down. In that same line of thought, he also almost didn't want to find Cedric either.
Harry could not fathom what sort of sad or shocked face Cedric would make when—not 'if' but when—he would find out and wanted to avoid being the cause, though thankfully, the endeavour of actually encountering him seemed to be going just as well as everything else.

Hermione jumped as Ron suddenly threw his head back and groaned.

"I can't believe how much homework we've got," he said miserably. Harry, who was bent over labelling the Bowtruckle diagram, rest his head lightly against the table in muffled agreement.

"Well, why didn't you do any last night?" Hermione asked, turning to Ron, "Where were you anyway?"

"I was… I fancied a walk," said Ron shiftily, and then he yawned.

Harry had the distinct impression that he was not alone in concealing things at the moment.


In the afternoon, when he trudged through Umbridge's door, Harry slipped into the steel persona crafted specifically to guard himself during these hours. This Harry did not smile or frown. He was polite but only at the bare minimum and he stayed quiet in and out, acting more like a mannequin than a person.

Thursday's detention passed in the same way as the previous ones, except that after two hours, the words "I must not tell lies" did not fade from the back of Harry's hand. Instead they remained scratched there, biting and stinging, oozing droplets of blood.

The pause in the pointed quill's scratching made Professor Umbridge look up.

"Ah," she said softly, moving around her desk to examine his hand herself. "Good. That ought to serve as a reminder to you, oughtn't it? You may leave for tonight."

"Do I still have to come back tomorrow?" Harry croaked, his throat had dried from hours of no water and when picking up his schoolbag, he reached with his left hand rather than his smarting right.

"Oh yes," said Professor Umbridge, smiling widely as before. Tonks had once told Harry that some animals in the wild bare their teeth as a sign of aggression, "Yes, I think we can etch the message a little deeper with another evening's work."

Harry stared at her, unblinking; the blankest, most unfazed and bored expression masking his face. He noted once more that there were too many perfect teeth in her 'smile' and that her face was much too white compared to the rest of the flabby skin of her neck. He nodded.

"Great." he said, quietly. And then he walked away. Light against the floorboards until his shoes hit the next corner where then he began to step hard, fast to frenzied under the archways, footsteps echoing against deserted stone.

There was a faint feeling of something dripping down the fingers but in truth, Harry had never felt more disconnected from his body—it was like he was controlling his own Wizards Chess piece through the hallways while his mind spiralled into sinkholes of thought. He had never before considered the possibility that there might be another teacher in the world he hated more than Snape, but as he stomped back toward Gryffindor Tower, path made through muscle-memory more than conscious decision, he had to admit; he had found a worthy contender.

She's evil, he thought, and as he climbed a staircase to the seventh floor, he breathed hard and tripped over the steps, she's evil and twisted and mad and ugly and

"Ron?"

He had barely reached the top of the stairs and turned right when he walked into his friend, who gave a great leap of surprise when he saw Harry.

"H-hu! I mean hi, hi—Harry… " Ron said, backing into a statue of Lachlan the Lanky. He fumbled backwards, attempting to hide his new Cleansweep Eleven behind his back, "What are you doing?"

"Walking back from detention, what are you doing?"

"Oh! You're early, that's great!"

"Yeah…" Harry frowned, "What are you hiding here for?"

"I'm—I'm hiding from Fred and George, if you must know," said Ron. He spoke in a very fast, feverish way. "They just went past with a bunch of first years so I bet they're testing stuff on them again, I mean, they can't do it in the common room now, can they, not with Hermione there..."

"And I guess you've got your broom to sweep the floor while you're at it then?"

"I—well—well," Ron sputtered, turning redder with every second. "Okay! I'll tell you, but don't laugh, all right?"

Harry waited, looking at him expectantly.

"I-I, I just thought that I'd try out for Gryffindor Keeper now I've got a decent broom. There. That's it. You can laugh now."

"I'm not laughing," said Harry. Ron blinked. "It's a brilliant idea! It'd be really cool if you got on the team! I've never seen you play Keeper, are you good?"

"I'm not bad," said Ron, who looked immensely relieved. "Charlie, Fred, and George always made me Keep for them when they were training during the holidays."

"So you've been practicing tonight?"

"Every evening since Tuesday… just on my own, though, I've been trying to bewitch Quaffles to fly at me, but it hasn't been easy, and I don't know how much use it'll be." Ron looked nervous and anxious. "Fred and George are going to laugh themselves stupid when I turn up for the try-outs. They haven't stopped taking the mickey out of me since I got made a prefect."

"They're proud and jealous, I'm sure—I wish I could be there," said Harry bitterly, as they set off together toward the common room.

"Yeah, so do—Harry, what's that on the back of your hand?"

Harry, who had just scratched his nose with his free right hand, tried to hide it, but had as much success as Ron with his Cleansweep.

"It's just a cut—it's nothing—it's—" but Ron grabbed Harry's forearm and pulled the back of Harry's hand up level with his eyes. There was a pause, during which he stared at the words carved into the skin, then he released Harry, looking sick.

"I thought she was giving you lines?"

"… She technically has—"

"No! No, she hasn't, the old hag!" Ron said in a revolted whisper as they came to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, who was dozing peacefully with her head against her frame.

"She didn't cut these in, its this special quill she has…"

"I don't care! She's sick! It's barbaric! Why didn't you say something!"

"I couldn't," said Harry who suddenly felt very tired, as if the pain of the last few nights had abruptly begun to hit him all at once. "I'm not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she's got to me."

"Satisfaction that she 'got to you'—? Harry, she'll get away with this if you keep quiet! You should go to someone, like-like McGonagall or—!"

"I don't know how much power McGonagall's got over her,"

"Dumbledore then, tell Dumbledore!"

"No!" said Harry at once.

"Why not?!"

"… He's got enough on his mind with the Order," Harry muttered, but that was not the true reason; Dumbledore had not spoken to him once since last June, and Harry refused risk to irritate the man further over something like this, "I can't go to Madame Pomfrey either, she'll be sure to tell other teachers," he added firmly.

Ron gaped at him. He blinked slowly several times, shook his head and then gripped his broom tighter, "Have you told Cedric then?"

"What?"

"Have you told Ce—"

"Why would I tell him about this?" Harry said. Ron made a noise that sounded like a tiny fuming elephant.

"Cause he's your friend, he's—! Don't you think he ought to know, at least so he doesn't run his mouth off?" said Ron, who was starting to look very cross, "If you're wanting to keep all this a bloody secret then you should try and keep other people from getting hurt too."

Harry gripped tightly on the strap of his bag, "Fine. But only Cedric, Ron,"

"Well, I reckon you should—" Ron began, but he was interrupted by the Fat Lady, who had been watching them sleepily and now burst out, "Are you going to give me the password or will I have to stay awake all night waiting for you to finish your conversation?"


Friday dawned as sullen and sodden as the rest of the week. Out of habit, Harry glanced toward the staff table when he entered the Great Hall but—and as it had proved every other day this week—Hagrid was still not there. He then immediately turned toward the Hufflepuff table but Cedric was not there either, nor was Evan's hulking figure or Hidiyah's signature yellow scarf and eventually he resigned himself to a seat; picking at his porridge and mind turned to the more pressing problems, such as the mountainous pile of homework he had to do and the prospect of yet another detention with Umbridge.

Two things reassured him, and two things only.

The first was the thought that it was almost the weekend. Nothing could beat a Saturday sleep-in after a long week, and it was sweetened by the fact that the teachers seemed to respect the weekend enough to not hand out homework due on Monday. The second was that, dreadful though his final detention with Umbridge was sure to be, Harry would have a distant view of the Quidditch pitch from her window and might, with luck, be able to see something of Ron's try-out. It would be unlikely to make out even Ron's flame of hair underneath the Keeper helmet, not from that distance, but he hoped that maybe he could tell from the way his friend flew.

These were rather feeble rays of light, but Harry was grateful for anything against his present darkness; and he was glad that his worst first week of the term would, at least, be over soon.

"I'm glad that you're going to his try-out," he said, turning to Hermione, "I know you guys are sort-of fighting, but..."

"Of course," Hermione said nonchalantly. She was scouring The Prophet again for 'enemy movements' but you could not mistake the blush that crept on her face. Harry smiled with his mouthful of porridge and said nothing.

The day went quickly by and when he had made it through all his classes and sent Ron and Hermione away with fervent"Good-luck!"s and last minute tips, Harry rushed to the Great Hall and filled his stomach with an early dinner.

Around four o'clock, he decided to stroll through the castle and took a long, winding path to Umbridge's office; it was a first-year rookie mistake sort of trail, almost like a Hogwarts pilgrimage that tramped through portrait passages and cut through the second and third floors, avoiding the regular flow of people and allowing Harry to say hello to various portraits and one Nearly Headless Nick—who weaved and pirouetted through stained windows like he was being thrown around by the breeze. As Harry passed through the Viaduct, a mixture of excitement and dread as he counted half an hour until five, he heard someone call out among the few students that drifted through the corridor—

"Harry! Hey, Harry!"

A familiar head of brown hair bobbed up and down as Cedric ran forward, ignoring the attention he garnered and looking like he had conquered a steep hill; cheeks flushed, the hair swept from his brow and a bright and breathless grin so infectious—Harry found himself smiling just as widely back.

"Guess what!" Cedric said, his hand stretched forward, and Harry instinctively reached out, "They're going to let me back on the team! I'm still in the season, I-I'm still Hufflepuff Captain for the year!"

Though already on a high, Harry felt something lift from inside and he grabbed Cedric's palm with a laugh, "That's magnificent!"

"I know! Professor Sprout just gave me the news! This whole week, actually, we've been lobbying for—" Cedric's shining face dropped, "Wait, what's that?"

At once, Harry retracted his hand inside his sleeve, with a sinking sense of deja-vu.

"What's what?" he said, heart beating loudly.

"That, on your hand. It looks like a wound," said Cedric with wide concern, "Are you alright? Did you fall?"

"It's just a scratch—nothing really—it..."

"Let me look—" he said, but panic must have slipped into Harry's face because suddenly, Cedric seized the cuff of his sleeve.

"Erm!" Harry shook him off and took a step back, startled when Cedric followed, marching determinedly behind him until they found themselves backed into the window of a completely different hallway.

"It's isn't anything, really, Hedwig just got a little playful and—"

"Harry."

His voice, again, was soft—trying to hide insistence. And in turn, Harry could not resist as gently Cedric took his hand and rolled down his sleeve, though he himself recoiled at the bright daylight that shone down the gruesome slits in his skin. You could see bruisings of pink and yellow that flowered underneath the cuts, and how the edges of each stroke grafted to the rest of his skin—already red and freshly scabbing, raw and it looked foul and—

There was a sharp breath that made Harry wince. From above him, Cedric blinked, his mouth working open and closed—speechless—before finally he said, "What… What is this—who did this to you?"

Umbridge. It was Dolores Umbridge, he thought. But when Harry opened his mouth, he faltered.
The words did not come.

"Was it that Malfoy person?" Cedric asked, filling his silence. Harry shook his head.
Nothing was spilling out, only the dim amblings of shame and a grimace at the prickle of his wound while he blinked very, very fast and tried to decide whether to lie or tell the truth.

"Someone else then? The fellow you argued with?"

"No… no, it wasn't Seamus—"

"Then did a teacher do this to you?" Cedric asked.

Harry felt like someone had thrown a pail of ice water at his stomach, and he swallowed, mumbling "Yeah."
And he felt Cedric's fingers halt, frozen on his wrist.

Neither of them seemed to know what to say.

"It was… it was that Umbridge woman but listen, it's not so bad—" he began,

"I'm going to kill her." said Cedric, his voice so low that Harry almost didn't catch it—only coming to his senses when Cedric had wheeled around and stalked off in the direction of her office.

"No!" he hurried after him, but Cedric didn't seem to notice, as he took strides long and quick, robes swaying in a wild way around his feet. "Wait, Cedric! Cedric! It's all right, I'm—...ugh!" and suddenly Harry doubled over and heaved heavy breaths, and he began to claw and wrench at his hand as though he could snap it off.

Pain had come like this, multiple times since the words had cut through but Harry had always managed to play it down or, get to a corner deserted enough where he could suffer as noisily as he liked. This time, however, the words that had etched onto his skin burned, the pain travelled up his arm, shooting—falling and surging at a rate that seemed cruelly random—dull fourth-fifths of a moment before it stabbed at him again, his sight flashing in whites as he felt his hand being skewered and reskewered over and over.

Harry gasped, unable to keep balanced. In seconds Cedric rushed to him, one hand cupped around Harry's palm while the other ushered them deeper down the corridor. His face—which had been previously clouded by something dark and harsh—creased in worry.

"Are you alright, what happened? Is it—"

"You… can't." Harry choked, he looked up with red eyes.

"What?"

"You can't storm Umbridge!" he exclaimed, gritting through the pain, "She'll… you'll end up the same as me!"

Slowly, Cedric frowned, and it set densely into his face. Then, without thinking, he opened his mouth and jerked upright; aghast—

"She hurt you!"

"You mustn't—!" Harry said and then he stopped, scowling at the growing number of oglers around them before he pulled Cedric down the corridor, and half-way through George von Rheticus's portrait passage. In a voice thick with urgency and strain, he said, "You'll be in worse trouble than before, she'll—she'll take away your captaincy,"

"Let her!"

"NO!" Harry barked, he had begun to sweat uncomfortably both from the pain and the enclosed space, "You've done enough, Cedric! I know that she, or.. the Ministry's been sending you letters and—… I know about it, I know. You've done enough."

Cedric looked away; his mouth squeezed into a thin line.

The cogs were spinning in his head, and the logic was sound.
The cogs were spinning in his head, and the logic was sound but Merlin—that would not keep the shadows from his face. It would not stop his teeth or jaw from clamping angular and sharp, or placate the temper that seared and stabbed at him; would not stop his fists from trembling under the torchlight.

But then, Cedric plucked Harry's hand and shakily, as if it took him great effort, he huffed "Enfizo."
And with eyes closed, the ends of his nails pressed against the lay lines of Harry's palm, he only kept repeating "Enfizo… Enfizo."; like a mantra. Though unlike Evan's tendrils of vine and flower; Light, a pure but warm glow that reminded Harry of fireplace hearths, floating lanterns and dandelions, wound around his hand like a bandage before it billowed out, coasting in beams that corkscrewed around them.

Harry stared at him, open-mouthed, "That's the spell your friend used…"

"Enfizo," said Cedric, "And who do you think taught him? Enfizo…"

"Oh, I-I didn't mean—"

"Enfizo, shush, I'm concentrating," said Cedric, eyes still closed, "Enfizo,"

Harry bit down a shrewd smile and closed his eyes. He tried his best to keep his hand from writhing, tried to swallow the excruciating sting and coil it around his bones but slowly, the pain ebbed away; and the spike, the fierce sore that gripped his hand cushioned to a manageable throb.
Though the passage was still cramped and stuffy with two people inside, Harry felt his sweat slow and the fabric of his robes unstick to his body. Overcome by relief, he let go of a breath that made his eyes flutter open and the lights were gone. Only the warm glow of the passage's torches lit up it's interior, and Cedric was already staring.

"Does it still hurt?" he asked.

"Only a little now, thank you," said Harry and they both stayed there, staring at his hand a while before Cedric spoke again.

"Have you told… anyone?"

"Only Ron. He found out yesterday."

"Why haven't you gone to the teachers—?"

"Because she'll win," Harry said, flinching as he took his hand back, "Just because she leaves Hogwarts doesn't mean we'll be rid of her or the Ministry forever; they'll keep sending people."

"And you're going to pretend that this didn't happen?" Cedric stepped forward and pointed at his hand, "I'm supposed to pretend that this isn't happening?"

"I am trying—" Harry said quietly, remembering white knuckles clenching the leg of Grimmauld's dining table— "to protect you."

Silence.

A heavy silence.

From behind, the torch illuminated the back of Cedric's head and let shadow spill on his face, so much so that Harry couldn't see his expression very well. He could only sense the tenseness in the air, and the sound of his own heart thumping.

"I should've been there,"

"What?"

"I haven't been around—I should've been around…" Cedric shook his head, not making eye-contact, "This happened to you in just a few days and I wasn't around and now all you're wanting me to do is—!… I feel helpless!" he became very still and very quiet, staring at Harry's wounded hand, "I hate it."

"... You've done enough," Harry said, mouth dry. But Cedric twitched, and stood up to his full height.

"You're not—you're being daft! How could I have done 'enough'? I've barely begun to do anything to help you this entire time!"

"You're daft!" said Harry angrily. "You mustn't go and hurt yourself because of me. I don't want you going out of your way for 'justice' or anything like it! Cedric, you just got back onto the Quidditch team, if I cause any more trouble for you…"

"It's no trouble!" Cedric fumed. "It's no trouble at all! How could you be trouble?"

And in that moment Harry felt his anger dim. Something stirred in his chest and he lifted his head from the floor, not knowing what kind of expression he was showing, only that in the brief glimpses out of shadow, Cedric softened and stared—tender and unblinking under the luster of torchlight.

"You really think I'd leave you.. just because my record isn't as shiny as it used to be?" he murmured.

"It could get worse," Harry whispered, surprising himself as briefly, briefly, his eyes pricked and brimmed, "This week's been rotten but for what it's worth, there can always be something else much worse,"

"So I'm supposed to… let you get hurt? How is that fair?"

"It's fine," Harry said. Cedric scoffed.

"That's not fair," he repeated, just as quietly.

Harry wanted to say more. He wanted to add, I'd do it one hundred times so it wouldn't be you, but that felt like too much. It lodged in his throat and he swallowed it down because he was furious and worried and confused and regretful all at the same time.

But there was joy that Cedric was here again.

There was comfort. An ease, a delight that Cedric was here and that he was enraged about Umbridge and that he seemed ready to go to war at any moment, and Harry loathed that he was happy about the fact. He loathed that it comforted and soothed all the stress that had piled up from the week.

"It's not fair," he said softly, "But you know having… you alone—it's enough to have you beside me."

A gleam of fire flickered as Cedric stood still, looking at Harry indecipherably.

"Can you give me your hand again?"

Harry lifted it toward him, "What'll you do?"

Without answering, Cedric took his hand once more and then whispered something, something too soft to even sift between particles of dust off the stone, too soft for even air to register and weigh apart from itself in the breath of the moment but before he could dissect and realize—Harry felt electricity course through his entire nervous system as Cedric leaned down and kissed his hand with the briefest and gentlest of touch.
The dull, uncomfortable ache vanished and Harry felt his mind split; first reeling, as from Cedric's lips, that same warm light wisped around his hand like a golden ribbon before melting into his skin, and second—astonishment as he stared down, the revelation that his palm and all its connecting fingers and limb was now weightless and light—it had always been weightless and light.

Harry felt Cedric reach toward him, his fingers brushed the hair from his eyes.

"What did you do?" he asked, unable to breathe.

"A charm," said Cedric, "To keep you safe."

Harry knew he wasn't talking about the spell.

He was no longer in pain, but he felt his hand tingle. He was no longer in pain, but he felt his face heat up, and his heart batter loudly inside his ribcage as Cedric looked at him; sad but touched all at the same time.

"Cedric. Erm, I'm—"

"Excuse me fellows!" the interrupting, reedy voice of George von Rheticus bounced off the passage walls, "I'm sorry to interrupt but I'm afraid it is rather improper etiquette to loiter inside a portraits passageway—it gives us the bends! I think it's high time you move along to your destinations, don't you?"