Disclaimer: All things you recognize from the seven Harry Potter books belong to J.K. Rowling. I am merely borrowing for my own entertainment and do not earn anything, especially money, for writing these stories.

2020.11.28.

Title: A Bloody Hand: Things Just Seem to Happen Together (Nov 2020)

A Bloody Hand: Things Just Seem to Happen Together

Chapter 1

Harry sighed softly and glanced out of the window of Umbridge's office for the third time since this detention had begun and saw the darkness rapidly falling outside. He decided it must be six twenty or so now, maybe nearly seven. The weather here this September was rather unpredictable, but very warm and sunny, with a soft breeze after sundown.

Turning back to the parchment, he wrote, once again, "I must not tell lies," and just managed to not wince as the words pierced his right hand. Of course, the pain wasn't much, considering what his Uncle Vernon did to him sometimes, but it hurt all the same.

Harry glanced at his hand, scratching out the sentence again as he did so, and grimaced. It was red and swollen now—and bleeding.

Taking a chance, Harry peeked at Umbridge through his eyelashes and heaved a quiet sigh of relief which was immediately gone; he now felt sick and wished he hadn't looked at her; she hadn't been looking at him, but he still felt sick when he saw her face, bent over a piece of parchment: there was a sickly sweet smile on it, obviously delighted with what she was making him do—and maybe with whatever was on the parchment, which might be ideas from Filch for punishing students or even worse ways to do lines than using this quill, Harry added to himself, and hastily shook away the foreboding thought—and also an evil glint disguised by sweetness in her eyes.

Turning back to tearing open his right hand, Harry wrote for several hours more before stopping and glaring at the piece of parchment, and letting out a small sigh. The parchment was now nearly completely covered with blood-red words. He decided he would need a new piece of parchment if he was going to be there for some time more and spoke. "Professor Umbridge?" he said, hoping he sounded somewhat polite even though his insides were squirming with nerves and slight anger at this treatment and his brain was foggy with sleepiness.

She turned a sickly sweet smile on him and he forced himself to not be sick and look directly into her eyes in case she gave him even more detentions for not looking at her when she was speaking and being disrespectful. Not when he was doing the last one—for now. "Yes, Harry dear?" she said.

"I've nearly filled up this piece of parchment, ma'am," he told her, still carefully polite. "I'm going to need another, please, Professor." He hoped he wouldn't have to fill up another piece of parchment before she let him go. He wouldn't be able to get up for class tomorrow or finish his homework if so.

She stared at him for a moment and then glanced at the window. "You may leave," she abruptly said. "I hope you've learned your lesson, Mr Potter."

He didn't answer; instead, he inclined his head once, hoping it would do, and when she didn't say anything, picked up his bag and hurried out of the office, wondering why she had let him go without checking if "the message had sunk in." He shook his head. He wasn't going to complain about not being touched by Umbridge.

He broke into a slight jog and had barely left the corridor her office was in when he ran straight into someone and fell down, losing his grip on his bag at the same time.

"Potter!" The shocked voice of his Head of House greeted him.

He looked up in slight alarm, but then reminded himself he had been in detention and so couldn't possibly get into trouble (unless she got angry at the fact he had received yet another detention despite her warnings), at the same time wondering where Snape was (he had seemed to be the only professor who was around at night to Harry). "Sorry, Professor," he apologized. "I didn't think anyone would be about."

Then he turned red as he realized he was sitting on the cold floor and what that must have sounded like to McGonagall and hastily scrambled up, grabbing his bag as he did so and checking that nothing had fallen out of it. Once he had straightened up and was facing her, McGonagall spoke, glaring slightly at him.

"What are you doing?" she demanded. "It is two in the morning," she continued briskly.

"Why are you awake, Professor?" asked Harry, frowning.

"I am patrolling today," she informed him coolly, and seeing his confused expression, added, "as Professor Snape is ill."

"Snape's ill?" said Harry, surprised. He had never known Snape to be ill, and had never even considered that his professor could get ill.

"Professor Snape, Potter," corrected McGonagall, frowning slightly, "and yes, he is. But that does not concern you. What I want to know is what you are doing, wandering around the castle at two in the morning. I'll have to take house points, you know."

"I'm not wandering around," said Harry, "I've just finished detention with Umbridge—I mean Professor Umbridge. Professor," he added hurriedly.

McGonagall's lips thinned. "Detention, at two o'clock?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am," he said. "It's nothing, Professor," he continued at once, seeing the look of slight anger on his head of house's face, "I'm going back to the common room now and finish my homework then get some sleep." He paused, then added, "May I be excused, Professor? I'm really tired, and I still have homework that are due for tomorrow that I need to finish." He nervously ran his right hand through his messy hair, hoping she wouldn't scold him for his slight daring, and McGonagall spoke sharply.

"What's wrong with your hand, Potter?" Her sharp eyes followed his right hand as he quickly hid it behind his back, silently berating himself as he did so. How could he have forgotten?

"Nothing," said Harry. "Really, Professor," he said, when she stepped closer to him and reached behind him for his hand, "it's just a small scratch. Nothing much." He moved his hand out of her reach, making sure it was still out of her sight and being careful to not jostle it.

"Then it should be fine to let me see, shouldn't it? Unless it isn't 'nothing' and you are keeping something from me. Something that could be very important," said McGonagall, frowning. And without warning, she reached behind him and grabbed his right hand firmly, making him cry out in pain.

She held it up to her face, and Harry saw shock and anger appear on it when she saw just what was wrong. There was a long silence and Harry knew she was reading the sentence over and over again, as if she couldn't believe her eyes, from the way her eyes roved over his hand repeatedly.

"I didn't realize a scratch could be a sentence carved into skin, Potter," she icily said, looking up from his hand and dropping it surprisingly gently, considering how she looked: she was white with anger and shaking slightly.

"No! I—it—" Harry tried to talk his way out of it but couldn't come up with anything.

"Be quiet, Potter," said McGonagall briskly, anger clear in her tone. "We are going to my office, and you are going to explain."

And grabbing Harry's right arm very firmly, she turned and strode with long, purposeful strides towards her office with him in tow.