As much as I had hated this class I had hoped very much that it wouldn't be over, for when it ended I would have to see her at the end of the lesson, and as composed as she was now, quite like this six year old I envisioned her as I was sure she could throw quite the tantrum. In all honesty she scared me.

Time is fickle in that way, however. It seemed every time I looked at my watch, merely a second had gone by, but it seemed like no time when the bell had rung for the end of lessons. As all the students packed their books away and hurried out of the room, a few shot me reproaching glances. Of course, I had been stupid in my persistence, but I definitely did not merit the telling off I would be receiving. I made my way towards the front of the classroom, waiting for the last of the Slytherins, Malfoy and his cronies, to pledge allegiance to the abhorrent woman. When she had practically patted their heads and stuck shiny gold stars onto their chests, I approached her. Frighteningly, she maintained her calmness as she led me into the adjoining office.

I entered to see the strangest room I had ever seen, and yet the only possible room for Umbridge to inhabit. It was draped from ceiling to floor with pink lace and doilies under dried flowers and in every available corner, an ornamental plate with a kitten on it, each with a different coloured bow around its neck. It was sickening.

"It seems, Miss Wint, that you have been raised in the muggle world far too long, and that such notions as the one you voiced in class, of which we shall not speak again, have been bred into you. There is only one cure for such and ailment. Discipline." she handed me a quill and a scroll of parchment. I looked at it confused. A letter of apology perhaps?

"I would like you to write lines." What was this, the eighteenth century? "If you could sit down, and write I must not act like a muggle."

The woman was clearly mad, but seeing as they were only lines, and I really saw no use in complaining, I sat, laying out the parchment in front of me. She smiled. Then I realised what I felt was missing.

"Professor, I don't have an inkwell..."

"You won't need it," she said, dismissively, turning her gaze to look out of the window, which was frosted by puffy pink draperies. Again, the woman was mad, so I decided not to ask again. As I settled down to begin writing, I thought again.

"How many should I do?" I asked. Umbridge turned her head, and although her voice was sweet, her eyes were lit with evil anticipation.

"As many as it takes."

It was threatening and ominous, and I felt a chill run through me to the very core. On edge, I began to write.

I... well the quill did not need an inkwell, as red ink flowed out perfectly, as if privy to some enchantment, which I'm sure it was. I found myself absent-mindedly wondering what its source was.

Must not... ouch! My left hand suddenly began to hurt, but it was probably nothing, only momentary. It was practically gone now. Clenching my hand now into a fist, I carried on with grim determination.

Act like a... that definitely hurt, some kind of sharp pain with every letter. I looked at the letters, blood red on the page. Blood red. I looked over at my left hand, to see something that looked distinctly like my own handwriting etched into it. I had to test the theory.

Muggle. I wrote the letters slowly, to see them all appearing on my hand, one by one, leaving a painful gash. I felt tears spring to my eyes as the true horror of what was being done to me became apparent. What kind of repugnant, immoral, hateful human being does one have to be to inflict this on someone else? I looked up, hatred and defiance burning in my heart, but my eyes filled with pain. She only nodded at me, smiling, insisting me to go on. I decided to oblige her. Grimacing, I put pen to paper again and began to write line after line, each time the cut becoming deeper, more defined and certainly more painful. I held back the whimpers in my throat and held my left hand into a fist until my knuckles went white. Finally, when I thought I might just pass out from the pain, she called for me to stop.

She walked over, her heels leaving a triumphant click on the floor every step she made. She grabbed my hand roughly and inspected it. Deciding the wound was deep enough, I was dismissed, and I walked out of the room.

I kept an even pace all the way out of her office, and halfway through the classroom, until the pain I felt in my hand became too much for me, and I began to run, tears breaking free and cascading down my face, my whole body shaking with anger and hurt. As I ran through the doors of the classroom, a strong hand took my arm and spun me around to face its owner.

I did not have time for Draco Malfoy, and his face was the last I wanted to see. Especially now, after the woman who's heels he had practically kissed had just done such unspeakable things to me. I looked into his eyes, not caring if he saw me cry, and saw something in them. Not a jeering accomplishment, more like disbelief as he saw my bloody hand, disbelief that anybody could do that. He looked back at my face again, pitying, and I found myself bursting into fresh tears.

He pulled me into him then, and allowed my to cry into his strong, well built chest. I wrapped my arms around his waist and sobbed into him, appreciative of the warmth he was showing me as he pressed his cheek into my head and stroked my hair. It was a strange kind of affection I had never seen from him before.

When I felt the sobs still, I pulled away from him.

"You should get Madam Pomfrey to check that," he said, his voice cracking somewhat.

"I will." I said, looking at him for a long moment, thanking him in ways I had no words for, he nodded, as if to say he understood, and I turned and left quickly, making my way to the Great Hall for dinner, and then to bed, to lie down and try to understand what had just happened.