"So, what did Umbridge make you do last night?" Demelza asked at breakfast the next morning.

I hesitated, biting my lip. I had been unsure if I should tell Demelza and Amy the truth or not. I probably should, as they were my best mates and didn't deserve to have me keeping secrets from them. But then again, I felt like complaining about it would give Umbridge power, even if she didn't hear me do it, and I didn't want that.

So I just said "Lines"

"That's not terrible then"

"No"

"I thought Umbridge was capable of much worse than just lines" said Amy "you got off lucky mate"

I bit my lip. "Yes, very lucky" I said in a shaking voice, though thankfully neither of them noticed this.

The second detention was just as bad as the previous one. The skin on the back of our hands became irritated more quickly now, red and inflamed; we thought it unlikely to keep healing as effectively for long. Soon the cut would remain etched in his hand and Umbridge would, perhaps, be satisfied. We let no moans of pain escape us, however, and from the moment of entering the room to the moment of our dismissal, again past midnight, we said nothing but "Good evening" and "Good night."

Harry's homework situation was becoming desperate, so when we returned to the Gryffindor common room he did not, though exhausted, go to bed, but opened his books and began Snape's moonstone essay. I stayed up with him for a bit of moral support, though I couldn't actually help him with the essay. I didn't know anything about moonstone, that hadn't come up yet in my potions classes. It was half-past two by the time he had finished it. He then dashed off answers to the questions Professor McGonagall had set him and cobbled together something on the proper handling of bowtruckles for Professor Grubbly-Plank, which I could at least help him a little with, as it involved mostly common sense. We then staggered up to bed, and I fell asleep immediately without even undressing as soon as I reached my bed. Harry likely did the same.

The third detention passed in the same way as the previous two, except that after two hours the words "I must not tell lies" did not fade from the back of our hands, but remained scratched there, oozing droplets of blood. The pause in the pointed quill's scratching made Professor Umbridge look up. "Ah," she said softly, moving around her desk to examine our hands herself. "Good. That ought to serve as a reminder to you, oughtn't it? You may leave for tonight."

"Do we still have to come back tomorrow?" said Harry, picking up his schoolbag with his left hand rather than his smarting right. "Oh yes," said Professor Umbridge, smiling widely as before. "Yes, I think we can etch the message a little deeper with another evening's work." We had never before considered the possibility that there might be another teacher in the world we hated more than Snape, but as we walked back toward Gryffindor Tower we had to admit we had found a contender.

Friday dawned sullen and sodden as the rest of the week. Though I glanced toward the staff table automatically when I entered the Great Hall, it was without real hope of seeing Hagrid.

Demelza and Amy refrained from too much discussion of that night's reserve keeper tryout, as they didn't want to increase my anger at not being there, though we did briefly speculate on who the successful candidate was likely to be. We were all hoping for Ron of course, but as Alicia had said before, there had been a lot of interest, so we couldn't be sure he would make it.

Two things sustained Harry and I that day. One was the thought that it was almost the weekend; the other was that, dreadful though our final detention with Umbridge was sure to be, we had a distant view of the Quidditch pitch from her window and might, with luck, be able to see something of Ron's tryout. These were rather feeble rays of light, it was true, but we were grateful for anything that might lighten our present darkness. At five o'clock that evening we knocked on Professor Umbridge's office door for what we sincerely hoped would be the final time, was told to enter and did so. The blank parchment lay ready for us on the lace-covered tables, the pointed black quills alongside.

"You know what to do" said Umbridge, smiling sweetly over at us. I picked up the quill and glanced through the window. We had a distant view of the team soaring up and down the pitch, while half a dozen black figures stood at the foot of the three high goalposts, apparently awaiting their turn to Keep. We started writing. Angelina scored twice in the few seconds I dared watch. Hoping very much that the Keeper wasn't Ron, I dropped my eyes back to the parchment dotted with blood. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. I looked up whenever I thought I could risk it, when I could hear the scratching of Umbridge's quill or the opening of a desk drawer. The third person to try out was pretty good, and I thought I could see red hair on their head, though I couldn't be sure if that was just my mind wanting it to be Ron or if it really was him.

The fourth was terrible, the fifth dodged a Bludger exceptionally well but then fumbled an easy save. The sky was darkening so that I doubted I would be able to watch the sixth and seventh people at all. I must not tell lies. I must not tell lies. The parchment was now shining with drops of blood from the back of my hand, which was searing with pain. When I next looked up, night had fallen and the Quidditch pitch was no longer visible.

"Let's see if you've gotten the message yet, shall we?" said Umbridge's soft voice half an hour later. She moved toward us, stretching out her short be-ringed fingers for our arms. I saw Harry grimace with pain and then look scared, as if something else had just happened to him. He wrenched his arm hard out of Umbridge's grip, and she let go of mine.

"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" she said softly "Well, I think I've made my point, you two. You may go"

We left the room as quickly as we could, and when we were sure we were out of earshot, Harry turned to me.

"Ginny, my hand wasn't the only thing that hurt when she touched it!"

"What else did?" I asked, biting my lip nervously. I was sure I already knew the answer.

"My scar!"