It took Harry a day to land detention with Umbridge. A personal record.
"You won't need your wands."
"How are we supposed to learn how to defend ourselves, then?" Harry spoke up, all heads in the classroom turned to him.
"You mustn't speak without permission."
He raised his hand.
"Yes, Mr. Potter?"
"Aren't you supposed to teach us how to defend ourselves?"
"What from?"
"The subject is literally called 'Defense Against the Dark Arts'" Harry said, "the answer is literally in the name."
"You shouldn't worry about facing any 'Dark Arts'" she turned to the entire class.
"Yes, because Voldemort is still dead, and Cedric Diggory's death was an accident." Harry said, enraged. This is the first time he talked to someone, even Draco, about the subject of his nightmares.
Umbridge frowned. "Lies!"
"You are telling lies," Harry yelled at her, pointing an accusing finger, "you know very well that Voldemort is back, yet you refuse to do anything about it, and, instead, you bury your head in the sand as if that's gonna do the wizarding community any good."
"Enough!" Umbridge said, angrily. "Your campaign of misinformation has just earned you detention, Mr. Potter, and I'm taking ten points from Slytherin."
All Slytherins, except for Draco, groaned.
"Honestly," Ron said, while him, Harry, and Hermione were studying together, "you keep it up, and we'll win the House Cup."
The next day, five O'clock sharp, Harry was standing outside Umbridge's office, knocking on her door.
"Come in," she said, and Harry did. "Ah, Mr. Potter."
Harry looked around. The room, just like her clothes, was so very aggressively pink. Behind her there were enchanted pictures of cats. Tens of them. At the center of a room was a desk, on it there was a parchment and a quill.
"Sit," she motioned, pointing towards the desk. He sat down. "You're gonna write for me."
"What would you want me to write."
"I mustn't tell lies."
He picked up the quill and started writing: "Ouch!"
He looked at the back of his hand. There was a scar, identical to the shape of the ink on the parchment.
"Something wrong," Umbridge asked, faking concern, "dear?"
Harry gave her a death stare, before saying: "No."
"Very well, then." She took a sip from her tea. "Go on."
Harry kept writing, and once he finished the first sentence, he looked at the back of his hand once more, and there it was, in blood: I mustn't tell lies.