Chapter One Hundred and Six - The Scar

From the first moment Harry saw Umbridge, he'd felt an intense, deep-seated dislike. The actions she had performed in her role as High Inquisitor had only confirmed his instinct. Adding to the long list of reasons Harry had gathered for hating Umbridge, he could now add irrefutable proof that she was reading his mail. There was no way she could have known about Sirius's visit otherwise.

Harry had already promised Warrington to bring their team petition before Umbridge the following day. Slytherin and Gryffindor traditionally opened the quidditch tournament each year, and the loss of every second that could have been used for practice was a point against their chances of winning the inter-house cup. But after his near-encounter with Umbridge through the floo network, Harry felt it would be better for Warrington to handle the errand himself.

He settled for postponing the chore for as long as possible. He could use the extra time to practice being as cold and stoic as Snape had been during his evaluation. It was no easy task. Sarcasm dripped from his words in just about every conversation Harry had, whether with friends or foes. He didn't trust himself to hold his tongue before Umbridge. He even considered asking Snape to train him to be more reserved. It seemed like a useful skill to have.

He never got the chance to approach the Potions Master, however. The morning classes passed by without Harry taking a single step toward Umbridge's office, but he could delay no longer when Warrington confronted him over lunch.

"What do you mean it's not done yet?" he demanded when Harry was forced to admit his failing.

Harry could only look down at his feet, unable to meet the captain's glare, and mumbled something about "waiting for the right opportunity…"

"Listen here, Potter," said Warrington, "I trusted this task to you because you've got the best chance of making Umbridge listen. But if we're not able to open the tournament this year because of you… There will be consequences."

Harry could guess what this meant. His position on the team was in jeopardy, and the idea of being barred from playing outweighed his disgust for Umbridge. He skipped lunch and made his way directly to her office, hoping to catch her on break.

Harry had been to this office under two of the previous teachers. During Remus's stay, it had been filled with books and always smelled of chocolate and strong tea. When Moody had been there, the room was filled with all kinds of devices for detecting dark magic. Harry felt a pang as the recollection brought to mind that the tools had done nothing to protect Moody in the end. Forcing his negative thoughts down, he raised his hand to knock at the current professor's door.

He heard a voice call out "enter" in an imperious tone, and a second later found himself stepping through the portal and into a nightmare.

The office was unrecognizable. The cushions, curtains, and even the walls were tinted a rosy pink. In place of paintings or photographs, there were decorative china plates adorning each wall. Every one contained a moving picture of a kitten. Harry's vision swam as he watched them gambol about with balls of yarn or dip a mischievous paw into a painted fishbowl.

For a moment, he thought he'd made some horrible mistake. But Umbridge was seated behind the desk, the items atop its polished surface neatly organized in perfect rows and stacks, down to the last quill.

Umbridge rested her elbows on the desk, supporting her toad-like face upon her crossed fingers as she said, "Well, well! Mr. Potter! This is a surprise!"

Her syrupy tone made Harry's skin crawl, but he took a deep breath and approached her desk with a calm smile.

"Pardon my intrusion, professor," he said, attempting to match the intensity of Umbridge's tone with a voice just as sickly-sweet, "I hope I'm not interrupting anything?"

"Not at all," replied Umbridge, "Did you have a question about the last lesson?"

Harry repressed the urge to roll his eyes. Umbridge's lessons had not deviated since the first class. Every day, they had been instructed to put their wands away and open to the next chapter. The textbook itself was outdated and dull. The material it contained was so basic that Harry imagined even a troll could understand it without difficulty, and he didn't think trolls could read.

Rather than answer her question directly, Harry offered her Warrington's petition, saying as he did, "I came to ask you about the Slytherin quidditch team, professor. We would like you to consider approving us for practices."

Umbridge took the scroll from his outstretched hand, but she did not open it. Her eyes were carefully trained on Harry. He had read somewhere that complex curses required unbroken eye contact. He wondered briefly if Umbridge was trying to put a hex on him.

"I wasn't aware you played quidditch!" she exclaimed.

Harry could tell she was lying. He got the distinct impression that Umbridge already knew everything about him, including when and where he and his godfather held private conversations. He bit back the comment on his lips and stared at her with what he hoped was an impassive face.

"Are you the captain?" continued Umbridge, still not breaking eye contact.

"No, that would be Cassius Warrington."

"And why has Mr. Warrington sent you to make this request, rather than come himself?"

There was a hint of suspicion in her voice now. Harry shrugged, and though he had told himself to be on his best behavior, he couldn't resist replying, "You'd have to ask him that yourself… Professor."

Umbridge tutted and directed a sharper look at Harry, who was careful to keep his expression neutral.

"Well, no matter," she said finally, "This is actually a rather fortunate coincidence. There is a little matter I wanted to speak to you about."

Harry shifted uncomfortably. "Is it about quidditch?"

Umbridge's smile widened. "No, no… This is about another matter entirely."

Harry wondered if Umbridge planned on questioning him about his use of the floo network the previous night. He didn't think he'd broken any school rules, but it was evident that Umbridge thought he was up to something. If she had been reading his mail, perhaps she thought he was planning something with agents outside the school.

While Harry mulled over how he would respond if she began questioning him about Sirius and Remus, she surprised him by saying, "I must thank you for your behavior during my class. It is clear your peers think very highly of you, to follow your example."

Harry wasn't expecting the compliment. He reflexively began to disclaim his own influence when Umbridge silenced him with an indulgent smirk.

"There is no need for such modesty, Mr. Potter. I'll admit I was prepared for disobedience when I accepted this post. Given how this school has been run, it would be only natural. However, since you chose to speak up during my first lesson, my Slytherin classes have been the most… cooperative with the Ministry-approved curriculum I have implemented."

"I hardly think that's my doing professor," Harry said, feeling disgusted at the idea that he supported Umbridge in any way, "If the students are well-behaved, I should think that was due to your instruction, not to me."

The flattery appeared to work, for Umbridge mildly passed over the subject saying, "Be that as it may, your example has been appreciated. It came as a surprise, particularly when I expected you, of all people, to be… Shall we say, loyal to the current headmaster?"

"Loyal to Dumbledore?" Harry repeated, "But I've barely spoken to the headmaster since I've been at Hogwarts."

The lie sounded convincing because he believed it to be true. Although he'd certainly paid more trips to the headmaster's office than the average student, he hardly courted Dumbledore's notice.

Umbridge didn't seem to believe him, for she said, "Now really, Mr. Potter. Modesty is well and good, but I think you must have noticed that the headmaster cares a great deal about what happens to you."

Harry said nothing, curious to see where this line of questioning would go. When he remained silent, Umbridge continued, "I mention this because I think it right to warn you… Dumbledore's attention may only be in his self-interest. The lies he has been spreading about You-Know-Who are just one example of…"

"You mean Voldemort?" Harry interrupted, enjoying the way Umbridge flinched.

"Do not use that name!" snapped Umbridge, her mocking smile slipping from her face.

Harry knew it was a misstep to tease her, but he hadn't been able to help himself. The Ministry was so eager to convince the wizarding community that Voldemort was gone, never to return, and yet she was still afraid to utter the dark wizard's name.

Umbridge cleared her throat with another pert "hem hem" before she continued, "As it stands, He Who Must Not Be Named is no more, and there is no cause to raise such alarms. It begs the question, what does he gain from spreading these lies? Dumbledore must have some motive. Perhaps he wants to turn public feeling against the Ministry?"

She directed an accusing eye at Harry again, as if waiting for him to make some reaction. Harry wisely did not rise to the bait. He merely asked with naïve innocence, "Why would he want to do that?"

"For power, of course," Umbridge replied, as if this much should have been obvious. "He has been seeking an excuse to oust Minister Fudge for years. The tragedy that befell Alastor Moody last year has become his latest rallying cry."

Harry felt a surge of outrage that she dared to mention Professor Moody's name, but his bit his tongue to prevent himself from speaking against her. He must remain docile, at least while she held their quidditch petition in her grubby little hands.

"You're right to be angry," said Umbridge, misreading the expression on Harry's face, "He should never have used the death of a decorated Auror as a bid for power, but I'm afraid he's done much worse than that. It seems he now wants to use your name to further his aims."

"How do you mean?"

"Why, you're the Boy Who Lived! If you said You Know Who had returned, it would give credence to his story, don't you see?"

"But I haven't said anything like that," Harry replied. While it was true that he'd never spoken to the papers, he'd actually told quite a few people about what he saw the night of Voldemort's return. But this was not what Umbridge meant, and he knew it.

"Dumbledore has sadly taken advantage of your silence," said Umbridge with a shake of her head. "He has used you, most shamefully. Unless, of course, you believe the lies he's been spreading…?"

Her words were spoken as if they came from a concerned friend, but she eyed him closely. Harry knew what she was driving at. If he spoke out in support of Dumbledore, there would be severe consequences. He made a quick and rash decision at that moment. He lied.

"I honestly don't know what Dumbledore is planning, professor," he said, surprised by how easily the words rolled off his tongue, "It's true that I… That I was there when Professor Moody was killed, but that was only Crouch… Sorry, I mean Barty Crouch Junior. He was insane. He kept saying that he thought killing me would bring Voldemort back… Sorry, professor."

He hadn't been able to resist using the name a second time. Umbridge flinched again, but she waved her hand dismissively, impatient to hear what Harry would say next.

"So it was like that. Barty Crouch Junior had been a follower of… Of You Know Who. But all this stuff Dumbledore's been saying about him coming back? I don't know what he's talking about."

"But you never told anyone else this?" Umbridge pressed, "You haven't given any private interviews, for example?"

It dawned on Harry that she hadn't discovered where his letter was from. She must have thought he was meeting with a reporter in the fire the previous night, rather than simply speaking to his godfather. He quickly shook his head.

"He wanted me to," he said, "But I was too afraid to say anything at the time. I thought… I thought Dumbledore would expel me if I tried to tell anyone the truth."

Umbridge's expression seemed much kinder to Harry after he had told this lie. She unfurled the petition without further question and signed it, placing one of her ostentatious wax seals at the bottom of the page. As she passed it back to Harry, she said, "You've been very brave, Harry. I'm sure you will be rewarded for it in time."

Harry turned to leave, tasting bile in his mouth for having to compromise his integrity for the good of his team. He paused at the door, as Umbridge added, "And don't you worry about Dumbledore. The time may come, very soon in fact, when you will be able to tell everyone the truth without his interference."

"Excellent work, Harry!" Warrington cheered when Harry passed him the signed petition that afternoon, "So what did the old bat want for it?"

"What do you mean?" asked Harry.

"C'mon, you don't really think I'd put you up to the task for no reason? I tried talking to her myself, but she declined the petition. She specifically requested that the Seekers submit the requests for each house team. That doesn't make any sense, so I assumed she just wanted an excuse to talk to you."

This confirmed Harry's suspicions. Umbridge had already known he was on the quidditch team. What's more, she knew what position he played. Feeling intensely creeped out by her spying on him, Harry shrugged off the question and asked Warrington about resuming their practices.

The captain was so eager to train up their newest members, he ordered the team to gather that evening before the dinner hour.

"Gryffindor hasn't got their petition approved yet," he cheerfully announced, "We'll get a leg up on them if we get started right away."

The rest of the team was no less eager to begin, and Harry was no exception. With everything else that had plagued him in the short time since he'd returned to Hogwarts, it was a relief to be on his broom again. His thoughts were focused when he was airborne. It was as if his expanded field of vision also gave him clearer insight into his worries. He could consider them objectively while in the air, or even blissfully ignore his cares as he searched for the snitch.

At least, that had been his plan when the team first took to the air. But a mere fifteen minutes into their practice match, he felt a sharp pain in his scar. He'd become used to the occasional twinge of discomfort, but this was far more severe. Harry felt his hands slip further down his broomstick, directing him into a shallow dive as a searing heat ripped through the lightning-shaped mark. Blinded by the pain, he unknowingly flew directly into the path of a bludger. It struck him heavily in the side, nearly throwing him from his broom.

Somehow, Harry managed to hang on. Pulling himself together, he quickly brought himself back to the ground. The rest of the team came to an immediate halt as both Warrington and Montague flew down to his side.

The pain in his scar lingered, but Harry played it off as discomfort from where the bludger hit him. It was easy enough to fake. The blow had hurt something fierce.

"Could be a broken rib," suggested Montague to a scowling Warrington.

"I'm fine!" Harry insisted, "I just need a moment to catch my breath. I can play."

"No, Graham's right," Warrington decided, "We can't have you injured before the first match. That's enough for today. Go get changed and have Madame Pomfrey check out that bruise."

Harry reluctantly made his way toward their locker room as Warrington signaled to the rest of the team. In part because of his disappointment, and partly because of the pain in his side, he moved slowly from the pitch. His teammates had soon caught up with him, and just as easily outpaced him.

"Don't worry about it, Potter!" Bletchley called over his shoulder, "Pomfrey will fix you up, and we'll break your ribs again tomorrow!"

"I was ready to quit, anyway," commented Baddock, one of the new beaters, "I'm starving!"

Harry appreciated their words of encouragement, but was glad to be left alone as their longer strides carried them further away. At least, that was what he thought, until he heard a voice behind him.

"It's your scar, isn't it?"

He turned. Draco was walking only a few steps behind him, holding his racing broom over his shoulder. Harry glanced back at the team to see if they had overheard, but no one had noticed the pair lagging behind.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, turning to continue the march toward their locker rooms.

But Draco ran ahead, blocking Harry's path.

"It's hurting you again," he insisted.

"Shut up and get out of my way!"

Draco rolled his eyes. "We've shared a room for over four years. I stayed with you over the summer. I know what it looks like when your scar is hurting."

"Well, it's none of your business if my scar hurts or not," Harry argued, a little irritated that he was so easy to read.

"What does it mean?" persisted Draco, "Does it have anything to do with… Him?"

Seeing that Draco was not going to let the subject drop, Harry relented.

"It's been hurting more since his return. Like when he's happy or angry…"

"So which one is it this time?"

"He's angry," Harry answered immediately, hardly knowing how he could tell. But there was more. Once he began talking, it was as if the emotions came unbidden to his mind, and he continued, "He's mad that he wants something done, and it's not happening fast enough."

Draco was awestruck. "It's like you can read his mind…"

"It's nothing like that," said Harry, though he was feeling uncomfortable himself. "Dumbledore warned me that something like this… He said that Voldemort and I have a sort of connection because of this scar… I guess he's right."

Draco continued to stare at him, spellbound, until Harry suggested that they hurry up before the rest of the team came searching for them.

He worried that Draco would insist on knowing more about the supposed connection between himself and Voldemort, but Draco walked on in silence. Since his impertinent questions had stopped, Harry found that he didn't mind the company. It gave him time to think.

He reflected on what Sirius had told him of Voldemort's plans. They said he was looking for something… Something he hadn't had before. Was he angry because he still didn't have it? Did the Order stop him? Or had something else foiled his plans?

His rib had been broken. Two of them, in fact. After accepting a draught from Madame Pomfrey that cured the fractures in three minutes, Harry made his way down to the common room, not stopping for conversation over dinner that night. He wasn't feeling hungry. The events of that week had made him exhausted, and he realized with a sinking feeling that between practice and his visit to the hospital wing, he hadn't done any homework that day. He decided to leave it for tomorrow, and fell onto his bed and into a restless sleep.

His dream was a familiar one. He was walking down the long, windowless corridor. His footsteps echoed off the cold stone floor. There was a single door at the end of the long passageway. His heart began to beat with excitement. Would he finally open the door? Would he see what was beyond that mysterious portal?

It was not to be. He was awakened roughly by Blaise, who was rarely up before Harry. This morning, however, he was dressed early. While Harry blinked away his sleep, frowning that once again he'd been disappointed by the dream, Blaise chattered with excitement. He hadn't been able to sleep.

"Why're you so happy?" Harry groaned.

"Did you forget?" asked Blaise, "Today's the day! Operation Thwart Umbridge is underway!"