Chapter 14: Underestimating Umbridge

The woman was cowering before him, hand raised in self-defense. She was pleading with him, begging.

He paid her no heed. She was a worthless Muggle, a homeless leech.

She would die today.

She would die to make him greater.

His wand rose in one fluid motion. It wasn't hard to summon the intent.

"Avada Kedavra."

Harry woke to pain.

His skull was throbbing with every beat of his heart, a sickening rhythm. He lifted his head slowly, wincing at the movement. Something sticky was coating the side of his face. Looking down with a feeling of dread, Harry saw that there was a rather large stain of blood where his head had just been. He flinched backward, pressing his body against the headboard. What the hell was happening to him? What had happened last night?

He tried to remember exactly what had caused this, but everything was fuzzy, distorted.

He remembered trying to distract himself. He had tried to use Spell Sensing on something...but what? Suddenly, it hit him. The locket.

The locket!

He was still wearing it!

He ripped it off his neck, throwing it to the other end of his bed. Whatever the necklace was, it was evil. There could be no doubt about that now. He finally understood that the locket was producing the memories he had been seeing in his dreams. Worse than that, whoever had owned the locket was a murderer.

He tried his best not to panic, but it was a losing battle. He could feel his breath catching in his throat, his heart beating a mad rhythm against his ribcage.

This was too dark for him to handle.

He couldn't do this alone, but he didn't think the magic of the locket would allow him to tell anyone.

Worst of all was the fact that, despite his disgust for the necklace and whoever had owned it, he still needed it nearby. Even after the locket had caused him so much pain, had shown him someone being murdered, he was still drawn to it like a moth to a flame.

He buried his head in his hands, trying desperately to get his breathing under control. He needed to calm down. He had to do something about this.

He needed to move before anyone else saw all the blood. It was that sense of urgency that drove him from panic to action. He couldn't let anyone find out about this.

He cast a quick Tempus Charm, discovering it was just before seven. He had around fifteen minutes before the other boys would start to wake.

He had to clean up the blood.

It was difficult for him to aim his wand, hand shaking horribly. With a great deal of effort, he managed to cast a Cleansing Charm on his sheets, face, and pajamas, trying not to notice that there was far more blood than there should have been.

He opened his curtains and slid out of bed. As he tried to stand, he was hit with a wave of dizziness so strong he feared he might pass out, world spinning wildly around him.

Once he was steady on his feet, he grabbed the locket from the end of the bed, holding it as far from his body as he could manage. He opened his trunk and, after rifling around for a minute, pulled out one of Dudley's old shirts. He wrapped the locket in the shirt, stuffing it down into the trunk as far as it would go.

It wasn't a perfect solution, but Harry didn't know what else to do. He still couldn't be away from the locket for too long without that tugging sensation coming back and, after last night, he definitely couldn't wear it anymore. This would have to do until he could figure something else out.

Harry changed into his uniform and headed into the bathroom. As he brushed his teeth, he made the mistake of looking into the mirror. He looked like death. He was so terribly pale that even his lips looked white. His scar had the appearance of a fresh cut rather than a fourteen-year-old wound.

He let out a sigh, shaking his head at his reflection. There wasn't much he could do about it now.

After making sure Ron was awake, he shouldered his bag and headed downstairs. He would go about his day as if nothing had happened. He could do this.

Unfortunately, his decision to pretend everything was perfectly normal did not prevent several people from staring at him as he entered the Common Room, eyes taking in his sickly appearance. Hermione, upon seeing him, immediately came over to feel his forehead. After informing him that he felt like an icicle, she proceeded to pester him about going to the Hospital Wing all the way down to breakfast.

"Hermione," he hissed, growing annoyed with her nagging. "I'm fine! I just didn't sleep well."

"Don't play dumb with me, Harry Potter!" she said sharply. "I know something is going on!"

Harry let out a sigh. Hermione really was too smart for her own good. Of course, she would never buy that he'd merely had a bad night. He looked far too much like a zombie for that. He would tell her some of the truth. Not all of it. Just enough for her to understand.

"It was my scar, okay?" he explained, lowering his voice. "It just really hurt last night. This is the result."

Hermione frowned, worry filling her soft brown eyes. "Harry, if your scar is hurting again, you need to tell Dumbledore."

"No."

It came out much too harshly, and Hermione looked taken aback, shocked by the hardness in his voice.

Inwardly cursing himself for yelling at his friend just for trying to help, he softened his tone. "Look, it's happened before, okay?" he assured her. "I know how to handle this. Promise."

"Okay," she said. "But, Harry, you have to tell someone if it gets worse. It's just, you look really ill, and I'm scared for you."

She appeared ready to cry.

"I promise I will," he said. "Please don't be upset, Hermione." He hated making his friend worry like this. She shouldn't have to worry about him. "Why don't you tell me how you think Defense will be?" he asked, wanting to make her feel better.

As he'd hoped, talking about classes perked Hermione right up.

Breakfast passed quickly with Hermione chattering about how hard this year was going to be, Ron complaining about homework, and the twins trying to turn Neville's eggs green. Checking his schedule, Harry could see that it would be yet another long day.

Worst of all, they had their first class with Umbridge right before lunch.

That morning, throughout Transfiguration and Charms, Harry could feel his dread mounting, growing more and more worried about the first Defense Against the Dark Arts class. If he had a say, he would never be in the same room as Dolores Umbridge ever again.

He didn't like the way she looked at him.

At first, Harry thought that everything would be fine. Boring, but fine.

The class itself passed at a snail's pace. After Umbridge revealed that they wouldn't be using any magic, she had made them spend the entire period just sitting at their desks reading the first chapter of the Slinkhard book. It was utter nonsense, making Harry wonder if Slinkhard might be a criminal himself. That was the only reasonable explanation Harry could think of for why his defensive advice was so bad. Either that or the man was a complete idiot.

The bell rang, students rushing out of the classroom toward the Great Hall. Harry had just reached the door when Umbridge's voice sounded behind him.

"Mr. Potter," she called. "Would you please remain behind?"

All his instincts were screaming at him to leave, but he knew he didn't have much of a choice. He moved to stand in front of her desk, waiting for the rest of the class to file out of the classroom.

"Mr. Potter," she said, offering him a sickening smile. "I feel we have gotten off on the wrong foot."

What the hell?

"I wanted to give you the chance to start over. After all, you are just a little boy who has been dragged into a powerful man's lies. It's not fair for me to hold that against you."

Harry understood what this was: she was trying to get him to admit he was lying.

He wasn't going to do it.

"I wanted to give you the opportunity to tell me the truth. Just between the two of us. Now, can you tell me what really happened on the night Cedric Diggory was killed?"

Harry could hear his blood pounding in his ears, rage fueling him.

He wasn't going to give her what she wanted.

He wasn't going to lie.

"I've already told the truth, Professor. He was killed when Voldemort returned."

The smile dropped off Umbridge's face. "I was afraid of this," she said gravely. "You are in dire need of guidance, Mr. Potter. Without your parents here to show you right from wrong, it seems that you never learned that it is wrong to tell lies."

Anger was coursing through him. How dare this woman? How dare she?

"I haven't lied," He spat, rage coloring his words.

It was unnerving how pleased she seemed by his anger, smile growing wider. "That's another lie. Detention, Mr. Potter. For the rest of this week. You need to learn not to tell such lies to people who are only trying to help you. I'll see you in my office at five this evening. Dismissed."

Harry left the classroom, trying his best not to kick the door as he left. He couldn't believe how angry she made him.

As he made his way down to the Great Hall, his rage faded, quickly replaced by something much worse: fear.

Harry knew he was brave. After all, he'd fought a Basilisk, giant spiders, Dementors, and Voldemort. Harry also knew that being brave wasn't the same as being immune to fear. Harry was afraid of too many things to count. He was afraid of losing his friends, afraid of the Dursleys, afraid of failing the people around him. And, no matter how much he might want to deny it, he was afraid of Dolores Umbridge.

She reminded him of Aunt Petunia. Umbridge had the same look of disgust in her eyes when she looked at him. She was someone who dressed herself up in flowery niceness to conceal the evil beneath. She was someone who could hurt him and enjoy it.

Lunch didn't go particularly well for Harry. He felt like the walls of the Great Hall were closing in on him, hands shaking as he tried to eat. He was irrationally nervous, unable to stop thinking about the detention with Umbridge that night. Something about the sick smile on her face made him think that it wouldn't be anything as easy as lines.

The only bright spot was his friends' reactions to the detentions. They were all outraged. Angelina's reaction was his favorite. She called Umbridge a foul bitch, immediately telling the rest of the team that Quidditch practices would be moved to the morning until Harry was done with detention. Harry could have hugged her.

After lunch, they headed to History of Magic, settling down at their normal table in the back. Harry spent the period working on the homework they'd been given for Charms and Transfiguration, knowing he wouldn't have time to do it later on. He wouldn't put it past Umbridge to hold him until curfew that night. With the amount of homework they had, these detentions were going to make his life a lot more difficult.

Despite Hagrid's absence, Care of Magical Creatures proved to be rather enjoyable. They were studying Bowtruckles that day, tasked with drawing intricate diagrams of the creatures. The long, stick-like animals were quite fascinating, long-limbed and fragile. The only problem came when Harry tried to become friends with the Bowtruckle. He reached his magic out to the creature in the same way he'd reached out to the snail and the rat the day before. He was just trying to calm it down so it would be easier to draw.

There was only one problem: after he'd linked to the Bowtruckle's magic, it became weirdly attached to him. It kept climbing up his hand and trying to wrap itself around his wrist like a living bracelet. No matter how adorable it was, it did make drawing the thing pretty difficult.

Harry didn't realize the depth of his mistake until he tried to leave class. The Bowtruckle freaked out, making a high-pitched keening sound and refusing to let go of him. Finally, Harry gave up and allowed the Bowtruckle to accompany him to Herbology. Thankfully, Professor Sprout had a supply of enhanced Woodlice that distracted the Bowtruckle enough that it seemed to forget about him.

Hermione thought the whole thing was rather hilarious, pointing out that Harry was very much like a Disney princess. "You're literally attracting woodland creatures," she observed, giggling madly.

Harry did not appreciate the comparison, but he enjoyed seeing her look so happy.

After Herbology ended, Harry had to hurry back to the castle to make it to Umbridge's office in time. The woman had scheduled it so that he had only ten minutes to make it from his last class to detention. Harry wondered if she hoped he would be late so she would have an excuse to assign him more detentions.

When Harry arrived at Umbridge's office, sweaty and red in the face from running across the grounds, he thought for a moment that he'd misjudged her. It looked like he would just be doing lines.

There was a desk set up in the corner of her office, bearing a small stack of parchment and a quill. Umbridge gestured for him to sit down.

"You'll be doing lines for me today, Mr. Potter," she said, moving to stand behind his chair. "I want you to write I must not tell nasty, attention-seeking lies."

Harry tried not to flinch at the venom in her tone. Those were horrible words, eerily similar to the ones Aunt Petunia had used when he'd tried to tell his primary school teacher about the cupboard.

"How many times?"

"For as long as it takes for the message to leave its mark," she said, patting his shoulder, sending chills down his spine.

Not yet understanding the implications of that last statement, Harry picked up the spiky black quill, preparing to write. It was only then that he noticed that something was missing. "I don't have any ink."

"You won't need ink," she said easily, still standing right behind him, breath hot on his neck.

Hoping she would go away, Harry set the quill to the parchment and began to write.

I must not tell nasty, attention-seeking lies.

He let out a gasp of pain, gritting his teeth against the sudden burning sensation that had started on the underside of his left arm, pain rippling across his skin.

He rolled up his sleeve with shaking hands, panic growing as he saw what she was doing to him. There, spanning from just below the crook of his elbow to several inches above his wrist, were the words he had just written.

They were carved into his arm, etched into his flesh. He watched, numbly horrified, as a drop of blood fell from his arm onto the desk. As soon as it hit the surface, the red liquid vanished, leaving not a trace behind. Umbridge had clearly charmed the desk to hide all signs of what she was doing.

Umbridge moved to the front of his desk, watching his face closely. "Keep writing, dear," she said sweetly. "You need to do this. It will help you learn."

Fighting back his rising nausea, Harry continued to write, not knowing what else to do.

She had too much power, too much influence.

He didn't have a choice.

I must not tell nasty, attention-seeking lies.

He wrote and wrote, unaware of the sun setting in the window, unaware of Umbridge ordering dinner from a House-elf and watching him with a smirk marring her toad-like features. His only focus was on the pain. He did his best not to show how much it hurt to carve these words into his arm over and over and over again.

After a while, the pain from the cuts began to spread, shooting pains spasming down through his left hand and up into his shoulder. With every letter, his right hand shook violently, handwriting growing more and more illegible.

He tried to remind himself that he'd been through worse. He'd been hungry before, hurt before. He'd spent weeks locked in a cupboard, alone and abandoned. He could do this. He could do this and not show how much it pained him.

So, he wrote, his face an impassive mask. With every word, he felt his resolve crumbling. He wanted to stop, wanted the pain to stop, wanted everything to stop.

What kept him going was not stubbornness or strength, not noble ideals about bearing pain with stoicism.

It was guilt.

Because, deep down, Harry felt that he deserved this pain. He felt that, maybe, if he bore this pain without complaint, it might help make up for some of the pain he had caused.

Blood dripped from the wounds, forming rivers down his arm. He was glad it disappeared. He didn't want to see the reality of what was being done to him, what he was doing to himself.

After an eternity, Umbridge's voice broke the silence. "Come here, Mr. Potter."

He rose to his feet, every limb shaking. He moved over to her desk, trying not to meet her eyes. She reached out a pudgy hand and gripped his wrist, prodding at the cuts with one of her hot-pink fingernails.

"Good," she said, obviously satisfied. "This is a very good start." She gripped his arm tighter, fingernails digging into his skin. "I need to be sure that we'll keep this just between us, Mr. Potter. If you were to let slip what had happened here tonight, I may need to hand out some detentions to your friends."

He snapped his head up to stare at her, horrified.

He couldn't let his friends go through that. He couldn't.

"I have rather a lot of power at the Ministry, you know," she told him, smirking. "If you were to tell someone about these detentions, I may have to lodge a complaint about Arthur Weasley's job performance." Harry felt his heart sink, knowing she wasn't bluffing. "He would undoubtedly be fired over such a complaint," she continued, nails digging deeper into his arm. "I know you're rather close to his family. I can only imagine how difficult things would be for them if Arthur was to lose his job. You wouldn't want that. Would you?"

Harry shook his head, feeling sick.

She smiled, sweetness returning. "You'll tell them that we did lines," she said kindly. "You will bandage your arm. You will keep your sleeves down. You will say nothing to anyone. Am I understood?"

Harry nodded, not knowing what else to do. "Yes, Ma'am."

She searched his face, smiling smugly when she found no resistance. She patted his hand gently before releasing his injured arm. "Very good, Harry," she praised, voice sending shivers down his spine. "You're learning." She waved her hand toward the door, clearly dismissing him. "I'll see you at the same time tomorrow. You may go."

Harry stumbled from the office, clutching his arm tightly, grasping at the fabric of his sleeve, trying desperately to stem the flow of blood.

Not wasting any time, he hurried to the nearest boys' bathroom, slamming into a stall and locking the door firmly behind him.

He rolled up his sleeve, trying not to look too hard at the deep cuts spanning most of his forearm. He muttered a quick Cleansing Charm, removing the fresh and dried blood from the wounds. Without the blood to cover them, the words stood out terribly against his pale skin, glistening and horrific. A muttered "ferula" concealed the cuts beneath fresh, white bandages, hiding the terrible reality of his situation behind crisp fabric.

He pulled his sleeve back down, trying desperately to forget.

Harry was barely aware as he made the journey back to Gryffindor tower, feeling strangely detached from his surroundings.

He found his friends waiting for him, homework spread around them. Ron had saved him some food from the feast, watching with keen eyes as he ate it. Harry choked down the meal, nausea threatening to bring the food back up.

When his friends asked him what Umbridge had made him do, he told them that he'd just done lines, feeling as if another person was speaking with his voice.

It was frighteningly easy to lie.

Harry was quite good at lying about things like this, years of experience from the Dursleys teaching him exactly how to spin tales of falsehood, hide injuries, conceal pain.

Harry sat with his friends in the Common Room for several hours, doing homework, trying his best not to grimace as each quill stroke sent tendrils of fiery pain down his arm and into his hand.

As he lay in bed that night, Harry finally let the pain of the day wash through him. He let himself feel, welcoming the negative emotions that swept through him, welcoming the despair.

Hours later, arm throbbing with dull pain, Harry finally fell asleep, slipping into restless dreams of locked doors and darkness.