"Mr. Potter."

Harry turned to see the hated High Inquisitor of Hogwarts looking down at him. "I believe you still have another five detentions with me?"

"Yeah," he said, his tone bordering on insolent. His hand twinged as she said 'detentions', but he looked her straight in the eye. The golden rule was no different from with the Dursleys, he told himself: never, ever show weakness.

There was something in her eyes that he couldn't quite place. Compassion? Surely he was mistaken.

"I have something different for you this week," she said, and his heart sank. What new form of torture did she have in store for him now?

His jaw dropped as she said, "For the remainder of your detentions, every night from eight o'clock to ten o'clock, I want you to clean the haunted second-floor girls' bathroom. Whether or not you use magic is up to you, but I want it to be sparkling. Do not attempt to deceive me, I will find out." As he stared, she went on, "At ten, after you have cleaned the bathroom, go straight up to your Tower and do not come to my office. I don't wish to have you in my sight more than strictly necessary." Her lip curled in disgust. "Understood, Mr. Potter?"

Harry stared.

"Well, don't just stand there gaping, boy! Answer me!"

"Yes, Professor Umbridge," Harry forced out, hardly believing his luck, and sprinted off before she could change her mind.

-------------------------------

At dinner that night, he regaled Ron and Hermione animatedly with the tale. "It must be Dumbledore," he said indistinctly through a mouthful of potatoes. "He came through in the end. He must still have some clout in the Ministry – pity he can't convince them Voldemort's back – but at least he seems to have made them put a stop to it. I mean, who else could have stopped her?"

"Mm," said Ron noncommittally, while Hermione said nothing at all and appeared entirely too interested in her shepherd's pie. His friends' eyes held what he could only describe as a kind of – unease.

Nervousness suddenly gripped him. "You two didn't do anything stupid, did you?" At their look of panic, he turned on Ron. "You didn't."

Ron had turned green. "Didn't what?" he stammered.

"Tell McGonagall, of course," Harry exploded. "I told you not to – oh no, you didn't write to Dumbledore, did you? I…"

The green tinge drained from Ron's face, leaving him much healthier looking. "No, I didn't, and neither did Hermione. I swear. May Hermione fail all her exams if I'm lying."

"Excuse me!" Hermione tried to seem affronted, but her eyes were dancing. She, too, looked relieved.

"Oh, all right, may Harry turn into a spotted toad if I'm lying."

Harry's eyes flickered from one to the other. There was definitely something crackling in the air between them. Was it possible that they were finally ready to admit…? He turned his attention resolutely to the mashed potatoes. "Watch it," he said darkly to Ron. "I'm the Heir of Slytherin. I could murder you all in your beds."

Ron snorted. "Just have fun snogging Moaning Myrtle tonight."

---------------------------------

The memory of Hermione's warm hug could only sustain one so far, and by the time he knocked at Umbridge's door, he was all but shaking.

"Come in."

At her call, he pushed the door open and walked in, blinking at the hideous décor of the room. He pushed his thick black fringe self-consciously off his brow, and Umbridge gave a high-pitched giggle that set his teeth on edge. "Your famous scar won't be of any use to you in this room, Mr. Potter," she said, and her voice held an undertone of steel. "You would do well to remember that."

Not trusting his voice, he muttered an assent and slipped into the chair, barely sparing a glance for the seat, the desk, and the writing implements on it. His vision seemed to be tunnelling down to the quill, with its curiously sharp point. He knew what it was for now, and his insides clenched.

"Off you go then," said Umbridge. "You know the rule. Write until the message… sinks in."

Bracing himself, he put quill to parchment.

I—

He stiffened at the stinging pain in the back of his hand. The hair on the back of his neck prickled at her amused eyes upon him. No, more than amused; relishing it, in a way that Harry might not see but Ron picked up on at once. He might have never so much as been near a girl, but having five brothers meant you didn't grow up without learning a few things.

And he would not give her the satisfaction of seeing him wince.

—must not tell lies.

As the cuts healed almost immediately, he wrote again.

I must not tell lies.

Ouch. Well, in a way, the punishment was curiously appropriate. He allowed himself a surreptitious, wry grin…

I must not tell lies.

His hand, and soon his whole arm, started to throb. The deep, penetrating hurt in his arm wasn't just the pain of your common or garden scratch or cut, Ron thought; it felt different: filthy, unclean, contaminated. Growing up in a wizarding family meant you quickly learned to recognize things like this; nevertheless, Ron was surprised that Harry, Muggle-raised or no Muggle-raised, hadn't noticed the Dark-object aura radiating from the quill. Probably too busy stewing in his own anger, he thought unhappily.

As he watched the cuts' hypnotic cycle of appear/disappear/reappear, he idly noted a few things. One, in spite of the pain, there was a curious sense of unreality about the whole thing; he felt like a spectator in another person's drama. Which he was, he supposed. Two, he noted clinically that however he tried to vary the position of the words on the lines, the cuts always traced their original path, guaranteeing it hurt far worse than if they had opened fresh skin each time. Three, and he felt it with a blazing anger borne of pain, how had Harry put up with this for ten nights running?

He'd never thought himself one of those idiots who enjoyed pain. But each time the quill cut into his healthy, unblemished flesh, causing him pain that was acute, yet not unbearable, he couldn't help remembering Harry's raw, swollen hand, inflamed from repeated abuse; he shuddered at the thought of his best friend gritting his teeth with the fear, leaving the sanctuary of the Gryffindor common room, and presenting himself here, night after night, for the sharp quill to cut into his hand again and reopen the wounds in already battered, half-healed flesh. It must have been absolute agony for him. He couldn't help thinking, and couldn't help being surprised that he was thinking it: Thank goodness this is happening to me, not Harry. He's had enough.

The thought sustained him through nearly five hundred repetitions.