Ron is walking through the twilit halls on his way to Umbridge's office when he sees Marietta Edgecombe, Cho's best friend, coming towards him. "Harry, I heard you and Cho split up," she says, her voice sympathetic.

"Whatever gave you that idea?" Ron says shortly. And can't you just shut up and go away?

"Well, I heard—"

"Gossip, the school's got nothing better to do than chitchat," he says with as surly an air as possible. But she has the light in her eyes of one who wants to uncover a mystery. "Look, I've got detention with Umbridge right now. I've got to go. 'Scuse me." And he stalks off.

On Harry's way to the toilets, he is accosted by Marietta Edgecombe. "Harry! What are you doing here?"

"Well, let's see," he counts on his fingers with an air of exaggerated patience, "I've only been coming to this school for the past one—two—three—four—"

"Oh, silly!" she bats at his hands, with a strange sort of smile. "I thought you had detention with Umbridge. You know, in her office."

"I used to," he says, "but she changed it to cleaning toilets."

"Oh, how awful for you!"

"It's all right," he says shortly.

"Can I come with you? I want to ask you about you-know-what."

He stares at her. It's one thing to suspect girls are barmy, and another to have it proved right before your very eyes. "Um, do you mean 'You-Know-Who'?" he asks carefully.

She rolls her eyes. "No, silly! You-know-what! Your split with Cho! Have you forgotten already?"

Oh. Oh, no. He really can't be bothered to get into this, not now; he still has two hours of detention and three feet of parchment to produce for Flitwick tomorrow. "Look, can we talk about it later?" he says, hoping to put this off. "I've got detention right away." Maybe, with luck, she'll forget – a girl forgetting to talk about depressing subjects, yeah, right. Elephants have nothing on girls' memories.

"All right," she says. "After your detention, then?"

"Right," he says and makes good his escape, reminding himself to use the long way back.

It's his last day. The horrible quill seems to cut deeper each time – today, he can definitely feel the nauseating queasiness that comes with it slicing right through some of the bigger veins, and scraping along his tendons. Still, he feels a perverse satisfaction in the pain. It's not so much that he feels guilty on Harry's behalf – from his account of the disastrous encounter at Madam Puddifoot's, his relationship with Cho couldn't have been much worse than it already was – and he couldn't find it in his heart to feel sorry for Cho, after what she'd done to Harry in the middle of the Great Hall like that – but the thing was, when he'd told Hermione what he'd said, she had looked… disappointed. And he did not like seeing that look from Hermione…

..especially when she was in the right.

I've made a right balls-up of things, haven't I? he thought gloomily. Still, what else could I have done? Let Cho see me recovering from an illegal potion? The thought that he'd had no choice cheered him up slightly. Still, all that confusion that Harry had to put up with…

I must not tell lies.

Well, I'm certainly paying for my misdeeds, so I'm not going to feel guilty about them. Who says there's no justice in the world? At least the punishment's going to an actual liar. He grinned inwardly.

Ow. We've established that I deserve it, but still, it doesn't half bloody well hurt. It might have been his imagination, but this time it seemed to hurt more than ever before. He'd already learnt all the tricks: to write the 'I' without the horizontal slashes; not to curve the 't' up at the bottom; his 'm' and 'n', formerly formed with a down-up-curve across-down stroke, now used the more economical up-curve across-down stroke. He'd exhausted the comic potential of the mental slogan 'Save Blood – Write Smaller' on the first, second and third nights. Now all that remained was burning pain, the shudder of nausea every time the quill cut into a tendon, and a weary desire for it to end.

By the time Umbridge's 'hem, hem' signaled the end of detention, he could hardly move his hand, which was bleeding freely, oozing fat drops of blood onto the parchment. On the third try, Ron managed to drop the quill onto the parchment – he didn't seem to have any control of his fingers at all at the moment. He couldn't quite stand to look into her eyes, because the smug satisfaction there might drive him to strangle her, so he focused his attention on the pink ruffle at her throat.

"…learned your lesson, Mr. Potter."

He was hit by a brainwave. "Oh yes, I've learnt my lesson," he said in the best contrite tone he could manage. "I'm sorry to have been so much trouble, Professor Umbridge."

"Well, that is better, Potter. Maybe I won't have to see you in here again." The smug, approving tone filled him with glee.

He stepped out of the office and promptly leant on the wall, gripping his right wrist tightly with his left. A small voice in his mind asked:

Whatever possessed you to grovel like that?

Well, Harry'd never apologize, and he keeps getting punished because of that, he explained to the voice, so this is the best of both worlds; I pull the wool over that toad's eyes, and Harry gets a reprieve.

Till the next silly thing he does, the voice added.

Well, yeah. Can't help that, can I? But this way, his pride stays intact.

What about yours? prompted Inner Voice.

It was him apologizing, not me.

But you said his pride—

He'll never know about it.

It's irritating when you're always right, said Inner Voice.

I try, said Ron smugly.

"Harry!"

His head snaps up from his reverie to see Marietta bouncing up to him. He whips his hands behind his back. He'd almost forgotten the pain, but now, fuelled by guilt, it returns full force. The last thing he wants to talk about now is how he's made a bollocks of Harry and Cho. He can't even meet her eyes. "Not now, Marietta, please."

"I thought you said you were in the loo!"

"Loo?" he repeats stupidly, staring blankly at her. Why is she interested in Harry's bowel motions? Girls are mental, he shakes his head. With a muttered "'Scuse me," he sprints off down the corridor.

Safely ensconced in the armchair, blood mingling with the Murtlap essence, he wonders just why Marietta is so interested. She's Cho's best friend. That's got to be it. Good thing I got away then – I don't want a repeat of the slapping incident.

Finally, Harry thinks as he leaves the toilet. Three feet of parchment on Invisibility Charms through the ages was a bit of work, but he's surprised to find he truly enjoyed it. It's because of the Cloak, he supposes; he's often wondered whether the Invisibility Charm on it could possibly be replicated—

"Harry, wait!"

Marietta is after him again.

Where's an Invisibility Charm when you need one? Harry looks left, right, and ducks into the boys' toilets. At her nonplussed stare, he calls, 'Scuse me, Marietta! You know where to find me!" as the door swings shut.

Standing alone, Marietta smiles. Yes, by all accounts, she certainly does know where to find him.