III
III
Thalia always dreaded the day following an Astronomy practical. The disruption to her sleep schedule—waking at 2 a.m. and working through until 4:30 a.m.—left her body groggy and her mind fogged. Though the professors encouraged students to return to bed afterward, Thalia had never managed it. Lying awake, staring at the slowly shifting constellations on her ceiling, she usually found herself too restless to sleep and too tired to focus on anything demanding.
That morning was no different. By 5 a.m., she had resigned herself to being awake, pulling a thick tome from one of her shelves to pass the time. The report by Nicholas Flamel was dense and required concentration, but it was fascinating enough to hold her attention for a while. The alchemist’s meticulous notes on the properties of various celestial metals intrigued her, and she jotted down some observations, though the words on the page eventually began to blur as her sleep-deprived brain struggled to keep up.
By 6:00, her stomach had made itself impossible to ignore. Its persistent rumbling echoed embarrassingly in the quiet room, and she sighed, closing the book with a soft thud. With tired uncoordinated movements she slipped into her robe, tucked her wand into her pocket, and made her way up to the Great Hall, hoping to find some sustenance to carry her through the day. Her tiredness and hunger had formed an unwelcome alliance.
The castle was eerily silent at this hour, save for the occasional creak of wood or the faint hum of wind against the ancient stones. Her footsteps seemed too loud in the stillness, echoing faintly as she climbed the stairs and navigated the corridors. When she finally pushed open the heavy doors to the Great Hall, she was greeted by the comforting warmth of the room, the enchanted ceiling above still tinged with the pale hues of pre-dawn.
A handful of early risers were scattered across the tables, most of them looking just as bleary-eyed as Thalia felt. She made her way to her usual seat near the far end of the Hufflepuff table, pouring herself a strong cup of coffee and savoring the rich, bitter aroma. She added a splash of cream and a heaping spoonful of sugar before taking her first sip, the warmth seeping into her bones and easing some of the weight that had settled in her eyelids.
Settling on a warm bowl of porridge that she topped with honey and berries, Thalia wasted no time digging in. As she ate, she allowed herself a moment of quiet reflection, her gaze wandering up to the ceiling where faint stars still twinkled against the soft hues of dawn. The day ahead loomed long, but for now, she let herself enjoy the calm before the inevitable storm of lessons and responsibilities.
The Great Hall had grown steadily noisier as the morning progressed. By the time breakfast was in full swing, the din of chatter and clinking silverware was nearly unbearable. Thalia, feeling her head begin to throb from the noise, drained the last of her coffee, shouldered her bag, and slipped out of the hall. On her way to Potions, she passed a pair of girls from her year lingering near the doorway. Offering them a timid smile, she continued on her way without stopping, her pace brisk and purposeful.
Thalia had always been something of a loner. It wasn’t that she didn’t like people—far from it—but she had a tendency to withdraw into herself, a trait that others often mistook for aloofness. Her peers saw her as quiet, reserved, even timid, though those who worked with her in class knew her as reliable and kind. She was the sort of person who smiled at passersby in the corridors, held doors open for others without a second thought, and readily offered help when someone was stuck on a difficult homework problem. A typical Hufflepuff if you will.
Her intelligence and work ethic were well-known, and many of her peers enjoyed working with her. She approached every task with diligence and focus, her intellect and knowledge often meant her partner walked away with good grades and a better understanding of the theory. Despite this, Thalia’s relationships with her peers rarely extended beyond the classroom. She blamed this, in part, on her unique living arrangement.
Unlike most students, Thalia didn’t reside in the castle year-round. Her grandfather’s strict rules meant she had to return home each evening unless she was granted special permission—typically only for Astronomy practicals or other late-night commitments. This arrangement had robbed her of the camaraderie that came from dining together three times a day, common room antics, late-night gossip sessions, and the shared thrill of sneaking out to explore the castle after hours. She missed out on weekend Quidditch matches, the raucous parties students threw to celebrate their victories, and even the rare rule-breaking escapades that became the stuff of whispered legends.
The absences cut deeper during major school events. Last year, she hadn’t been allowed to attend the Yule Ball or witness any of the Triwizard Tournament’s tasks. While her peers spent the year buzzing with excitement and forming memories they’d cherish forever, she had been relegated to the sidelines, her absence conspicuous yet largely unremarked upon.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want to make friends—she did, desperately. But her circumstances, coupled with her natural inclination to retreat into books and solitary study, had made it difficult to form the kind of close bonds her classmates shared. Sometimes, she wondered whether anyone truly noticed her isolation, or if her quiet, fleeting presence in their lives had rendered her as unremarkable as she felt.
The day had started promisingly enough for Thalia. In Potions, she had crafted a flawless Blood-Replenishing Potion, its ruby-red hue and perfect viscosity earning a rare approving nod from Professor Snape. He even muttered something about bottling it for the hospital wing—a rare compliment that sent a small ripple of pride through her otherwise modest demeanor. In Charms, her quick grasp of the Hair Growth Charm had brought a round of laughter to the class when Professor Flitwick’s usually tidy face was suddenly adorned with a luxurious, curling moustache. The little professor had laughed along with them, brushing the overly dramatic facial hair aside as he congratulated her.
By the time her final lesson of the day arrived, however, the weight of the early morning and her sleepless night was catching up with her. Professor Binns’s monotone lecture on the Troll Incursion of 1786 was doing little to help. His voice, dry and droning, blended seamlessly with the scratching of quills and the occasional snore from less disciplined students. Thalia stifled a yawn, her hand propping up her chin as her gaze wandered to the window.
The inky blackness of the evening sky had already begun to settle, stars faintly visible against the deepening gloom. The sight only served to remind her of the journey ahead—an arduous trek back to her grandfather’s house. She could already feel the cold seeping into her bones at the thought of it, the narrow, winding paths through the forest made even more ominous in the pitch-black night. She hugged her arms around herself instinctively, imagining the biting chill that would claw at her through her robes.
The loneliness of the walk was what she dreaded most. The castle, for all its sprawling size, was alive with warmth, voices, and light. Home, by contrast, was silent, oppressive, and cold. She tried not to dwell on it too much as she packed her books at the end of class, but the weight of the evening ahead lingered like a storm cloud in her thoughts.
Retreating through the castle’s labyrinthine corridors and descending a maze of winding staircases, Thalia let her mind drift. She had been puzzling over a theoretical problem from Charms—something about wandless magic applications she couldn’t quite resolve. Lost in thought, she barely noticed the flickering torchlight casting elongated shadows across the cold stone walls or the faint murmurs of distant voices. The castle was alive, but her mind was elsewhere.
She didn’t hear the faint whizz cutting through the air above her head, nor the pounding footsteps echoing behind her. She missed entirely the telltale pop that signaled some enchanted mechanism activating just overhead. The first thing she noticed was the sensation: a cool, sticky substance raining down over her, followed by a loud, echoing bang that startled her so violently she stumbled forward, her heart lurching in her chest.
Before she could even register what had happened, the entire corridor—floor, walls, and ceiling—was dripping with vibrant crimson paint. A metallic tang of magical pigment filled the air. As if this weren’t enough, a second wave of chaos followed. Glitter, fine and golden, exploded like a firework, adhering effortlessly to the still-wet paint. Thalia stood frozen, her mind blank with shock as she felt the cool paint sliding down her neck, seeping under the collar of her robes. Her hands reflexively swiped at her face, but it was futile. Glitter clung stubbornly to her hair, her eyelashes, even her lips, sparkling mockingly under the dim torchlight.
The sound of heavy footsteps skidding to a halt behind her broke her daze. Turning slowly, her sticky robes clinging to her back, she came face to face with none other than the notorious Weasley twins. Fred and George, tall and lanky, were bent over in hysterics, their laughter echoing through the corridor like a pair of mischievous ghosts.
“We didn’t think anyone would actually be down here when it went off!” Fred—or perhaps George—managed to get out between chuckles, wiping a tear from his eye.
George stepped closer, tilting his head as if appraising a particularly amusing piece of modern art. “But I have to say, it’s... quite the look.”
Thalia’s cheeks burned, the fiery heat of embarrassment spreading down her neck. It wasn’t just the humiliation of being caught in their prank—it was the sinking realization of what awaited her at home. Her grandfather’s sharp voice echoed in her mind, each syllable a reprimand for her inability to “carry herself with dignity” or “represent the Winterbourne name.” The thought was enough to make her eyes sting with tears.
Desperately, she fought them back, her fingers trembling as she reached into the sticky mess of her robes, searching for her wand to undo some of the damage. She refused to cry in front of them. She wouldn’t give the infamous twins the satisfaction of seeing her completely unravel.
Before she could mutter a single spell, the sharp, deliberate click of heels echoed down the corridor. The sound was as grating as nails on a chalkboard. Thalia froze mid-motion, her heart dropping into her stomach.
At the far end of the hallway stood Professor Umbridge, her squat figure framed in the dim light of the corridor. Her expression shifted from one of shocked disbelief to something far worse: cold, calculated amusement. Her wide, froggy eyes roved over the scene, taking in every detail—the dripping crimson paint, the glitter-streaked girl standing in the center of the chaos, and the Weasley twins, who had gone suspiciously silent.
“Well,” Umbridge purred, stepping forward with an air of smug superiority. Her syrupy tone dripped with faux concern. “What exactly is going on here?”
Thalia’s heart sank as Professor Umbridge’s gaze swept over the scene, her heart racing as she forgot her embarrassment in lieu of the oncoming storm.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” Umbridge's syrupy voice oozed false sweetness. “I don’t believe decorating the corridors in this manner is sanctioned school activity.”
Behind her, the Weasley twins quickly straightened, their laughter fading. Fred—Thalia thought it was Fred—stepped forward, raising a hand in a gesture of explanation. “It was just a misfire, Professor. We’ll have it cleaned up in no time.”
“Indeed you will,” Umbridge replied, her smile tight and unkind. Her gaze flicked back to Thalia, and her eyes narrowed slightly. “And you, Miss Winterbourne, I trust you’ll have no difficulty explaining why you were loitering in this particular corridor at this time?”
Thalia’s throat felt dry as she struggled for words, her humiliation now compounded by panic. “I... I was just on my way out, Professor. I didn’t know—”
“You didn’t know,” Umbridge interrupted, her voice growing colder. “It seems to me, Miss Winterbourne, that you’ve found yourself in quite the predicament. Covered in paint and glitter, wandering a deserted part of the castle at an unusual hour... one might wonder if you were helping these two.”
“No!” Thalia exclaimed, horrified. “I wasn’t—I didn’t even know they were here until—”
“Now, now,” Umbridge cut her off again, a falsely gentle hand raised to silence her. “There’s no need to make excuses. I have little tolerance for such things.”
Fred and George exchanged a glance, clearly debating whether to step in. George took a step closer, his usual carefree grin replaced with a look of determination. “Look, Professor, she had nothing to do with it,” he said firmly. “We take full responsibility.”
“Ah, yes,” Umbridge said, her lips curling. “You two. Ever the mischief-makers, always ready to play the martyr. Very well, you’ll each serve detention with me this evening... and I’ll be speaking to your Head of House.”
Thalia’s heart sank further. The situation was spiraling out of control, and her grandfather’s furious face loomed large in her mind. She tried to speak again, to insist on her innocence, but Umbridge was already turning back to her.
“As for you, Miss Winterbourne,” she said, her voice dropping to a dangerously low tone, “I think some time in my office this evening will be quite educational. Report there immediately after dinner.”
The twins’ protests fell on deaf ears as Umbridge smiled triumphantly. Thalia could feel the lump of tears threatening to rise again, but she bit them back fiercely. As Umbridge turned and walked away, Thalia stood frozen, her sticky robes clinging to her and glitter catching the flickering torchlight like a cruel joke.
Fred sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair. “We’re sorry about this,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically serious. “We’ll help you clean up before dinner-”.
“Please don’t. Just leave me alone.” Thalia said quickly, her voice tight and brittle. “Go. You’ll only make it worse.”
Fred and George hesitated for a moment, their usual carefree demeanor faltering in the face of Thalia's outburst. George, stepping forward, tried to place a hand on her shoulder, his voice apologetic but awkward. “We really didn’t mean to—”
"You never do!" Thalia practically screamed at them, her voice cracking with frustration and anger. Her face flushed, a mix of humiliation and fury tightening in her chest. She drew a sharp breath, forcing herself to calm down, but the words just kept pouring out. “You never think of the consequences for those around you. You're selfish, egotistical, and hell-bent on ruining everyone else's lives for your amusement. You think that you're popular? Most of the school actively avoids you so as not to feel your wrath. The little Gryffindor friends you have outside of your family circle are too brain-dead to realize that you are toxic!”
For a brief moment, the twins stood frozen, their faces an odd mixture of guilt and surprise. George—Thalia thought it was George, though it was hard to tell with the twin’s matching expressions—opened his mouth, his words tentative. “We didn’t even realize you were down here…”
“Yeah, well,” Thalia’s voice turned bitter, each word like acid, “you’ve still landed me in detention alongside you. But who cares, huh? This is probably your thousandth one, and it’ll have as little impact as all the others before it.” She turned away from them, her eyes stinging as she blinked back the rising tide of emotion. “Now leave me alone.”
The silence stretched on, thick and suffocating. Fred and George exchanged a glance, their shoulders slumping slightly, but they didn’t move toward her. Thalia could feel the tension in the air, her pulse pounding in her ears as she tried to steady herself. Her fingers curled into tight fists at her sides.
After what felt like an eternity, Fred finally muttered, “Sorry, Thalia.”
Without waiting for a response, the twins turned and walked away, their footsteps receding down the corridor. Thalia didn’t turn to watch them go. Instead, she took another deep breath, her hands still shaking slightly as she wiped her face with the sleeve of her robe, the faintest trace of tears mingling with the paint.
Flicking her wand towards the walls, ceiling, and floor, Thalia effortlessly removed the paint, the spell sweeping over the corridor like a gust of wind, leaving no trace behind. The glitter vanished with a final spark, the area once again looking pristine. Looking down at herself, Thalia huffed in frustration, her now dry uniform clinging awkwardly to her skin after the paint had settled into her clothing.
She quickly made her way down the corridor, feeling the weight of the situation settle in her chest. The emotional outburst at the twins had taken its toll, and she couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that lingered from it. She found herself at the girls' bathroom eventually, and the next half-hour became a battle of patience and charms.
For once, her usual skill with magic seemed to fail her. No matter how many cleaning charms she cast, some stubborn paint clung to her hair, causing her to mutter more and more profanities under her breath. With each failed attempt, the frustration mounted until, finally, with a well-aimed charm, the last of the red paint dissolved, leaving her hair feeling like it belonged to someone else—sticky, stiff, and awkwardly unnatural.
She grabbed her old uniform from the previous day from her bag and quickly peeled off the paint-smeared one. The clean and flexible fabric of the second-hand uniform was a welcome relief, even if it was a little creased. Pulling on her robe, Thalia glanced at her watch with a start. Only 20 minutes left to get to Umbridge’s office. She cursed under her breath, pulling her hair back as she swiftly tied it into a tight knot to make it look presentable.
With her uniform straightened and her hair at least somewhat tamed, she set off at a run, the castle corridors stretching out before her. The stone walls seemed endless, and the twisting turns made her feel like she was running in circles. She could barely catch her breath, her legs burning with effort. The clock was ticking, and every second felt like a small eternity.
Finally, she skidded to a stop outside Umbridge's office, her chest heaving and her hands trembling. She had made it with only a minute to spare. Her stomach churned with anxiety, but she took a moment to steady herself, fixing her hair one last time and making sure her uniform was as perfect as it could be. She looked up to find Fred and George approaching, their faces downcast. The mischievous gleam was gone from their eyes, replaced by something resembling guilt.
Noticing that one of them had opened their mouths- probably to apologise or make a badly timed joke- Thalia turned on her heel and knocked on the door, the sharp sound reverberated through the stone walls, and the tension in her chest only deepened.
To her surprise, the door swung open independently, revealing the pink-hued office beyond. The sight of it made her stomach churn. The room could only be described as gaudy, over-decorated, and utterly stifling. The walls were adorned with an excessive collection of cat plates, their glassy eyes staring down at her like an endless sea of mock innocence. The room felt almost oppressive, as if every inch was designed to irritate.
And there, sitting behind her desk, her stout frame dwarfed by the immense high back chair was Professor Dolores Umbridge. The woman’s round face seemed to brighten at the sight of them, a smile stretching wide and too-perfect.
"Ah, Messrs. Weasley and Miss Winterbourne," she said, her voice dripping with saccharine sweetness. "So kind of you to join me this evening. Please, take a seat."
She gestured towards three desks that had been arranged in a neat row in front of her own, the implication clear—there would be no escaping whatever was to come. Taking a deep breath, Thalia walked in and stood behind the desk, hooking her bag over the back of her chair before taking a seat.
“You know why you’re here, don’t you?” Umbridge asked, her eyes glinting with something almost predatory. She motioned to the chairs across from her desk, her smile unyielding.
Thalia stiffened, taking the seat as instructed. “Yes, Professor.”
Professor Umbridge clasped her hands in front of her, her gaze piercing. “You seem to think you’re above following the rules, Miss Winterbourne. Pranks are one thing, but your conduct this evening has been most disruptive. I expect better from my students, especially ones with your potential. You are a Winterbourne, after all.”
Thalia swallowed hard, the mention of her family name feeling like a weight she didn’t want to carry. She knew what Umbridge was implying — that she should behave better, maintain her historic pure-blood image.
“Of course, Professor,” she said quietly, not meeting her eyes.
Umbridge's smile faltered for a moment, but she quickly recovered. “Good. Then I’m sure you understand that a proper punishment is in order. As you can see in front of you, Miss Winterbourne, there is a quill and parchment," Professor Umbridge began, her voice a sickly sweet drawl. "You will be writing lines for me this evening. Let's see... Miss Winterbourne, your task is to write, I will respect the authority of my superiors."
Thalia’s spine stiffened as the words sank in, her gaze narrowing on the quill. She could feel her pulse quicken in her throat, but she forced herself to take a slow, steady breath. The professor’s eyes gleamed with an almost sadistic pleasure, knowing the torment she was about to unleash.
"Yes, Professor," Thalia replied flatly, her voice betraying none of the emotions roiling inside her. She squared her shoulders, lifting her chin as if to hold on to some shred of dignity. "How many times?"
Professor Umbridge’s smile widened in a way that made the hairs on the back of Thalia’s neck stand on end. "Hm... Let’s see how long it takes to sink in," she said, her voice dripping with malice. The professor’s gaze lingered on Thalia for a moment longer, savoring her discomfort, before she turned her attention back to the Weasley twins, who sat across the room with their heads bent, exchanging quick whispers.
Thalia took a deep breath, shaking her head slightly as she reached for the quill. It was a thin, delicate thing, its feather tip unnervingly sharp. The parchment before her was perfectly white, almost too pristine. As her fingers curled around the quill’s handle, she looked around the tiny desk.
“I have no ink,” she called, interrupting Umbridge’s long winded speech regarding vandalism and insubordination.
“You will not need any young lady. Detention with me, Miss Winterbourne is a lesson in decorum and discipline, remember that. Perhaps this will teach you the importance of following school rules, don’t you think?”
Thalia nodded stiffly. With a deep, controlled breath, she pressed the quill to the parchment, trying to block out the low murmur of conversation between Umbridge and the twins. She began writing the sentence, her neat, flowing cursive spilling across the page as the words etched themselves into the surface.
I will respect the authority of my superiors.
As she finished the first sentence, a sharp, burning pain spread across the back of her hand. Thalia flinched but kept her focus on the page, determined to endure. She continued to write, the pain intensifying with each word. I will respect the authority of my superiors.
By the time she reached the eighth sentence, the pain was unbearable, sharp and biting, radiating from the back of her hand like a thousand pinpricks. A small red welt had formed where the quill had touched her skin, but she didn’t dare stop. She didn’t want to give Umbridge the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.
It was the twelfth sentence that made her gasp aloud. The words she had written on the parchment—each letter meticulously formed—began to appear on the back of her hand, burning into her skin in her own handwriting. I will respect the authority of my superiors.
The words were etched in angry, red lines across her hand, glowing with an unnatural intensity. The pain was sharp, like fire, and her hand trembled.She could feel the blood rushing to her face, her throat constricting.
Putting the quill down, she took a shallow breath, trying to stop the sound of her heart pounding in her ears. She stared down at her hand in disbelief. A small whine escaped her lips as she inspected the damage, her body aching from the sheer intensity of the cursed quill.
From beside her, Thalia heard the twins shift in their seats. George—she was pretty sure it was George, though it was hard to tell in her disoriented state—raised an eyebrow and leaned forward, his gaze flicking between her and the professor. He opened his mouth as if to say something, but Thalia quickly shook her head, pressing her lips tightly together. She didn’t need their pity or the punishment they would each receive for insubordination.
Umbridge’s voice cut through her thoughts, syrupy and sickly sweet. “Something the matter, dear?” She was peering over the rim of her china teacup, her eyes gleaming with malicious amusement. The professor's false concern made Thalia’s blood boil, but she forced herself to remain calm.
Thalia didn’t trust herself to open her mouth, not wanting to give Umbridge the satisfaction of hearing her discomfort. Instead, she shook her head sharply, her teeth gritted in silent defiance. She picked up the quill again, her hand trembling slightly, and resumed writing, keeping her gaze fixed firmly on the parchment before her.
The words danced across the page once more, her neat handwriting contrasting against the scalding pain still emanating from her hand. As she wrote, she could feel the weight of the punishment settling deeper into her skin, a constant reminder of her place in Umbridge’s cruel game.
Minutes later, Thalia was aware of the gasps from beside her. She knew the twins were beginning to feel the effects of the quills as well. Their faces contorted with discomfort, but they too said nothing. Thalia didn’t look up, though. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—breaking her concentration now would break her resolve entirely. No. She would endure this, just like every other punishment, every other moment of humiliation. She would keep her focus on the page, keeping her composure intact. She wouldn’t let them break her. She’d had plenty of practice after all.
The trio endured another agonizing 45 minutes of writing under the cursed quills. By the time Professor Umbridge finally stirred from her desk, Thalia's hand was a ruin of raw flesh and blood. The carved words on her skin had deepened to the point of bleeding freely, forming small rivulets that pooled on the desk. The crimson liquid seeped into the grooves of the wood, trailing down her arm and dripping onto the cold stone floor in a rhythmic pattern. Each drop seemed deafening in the silent, oppressive room.
The pain had become unbearable, a fiery throb that radiated up her arm, but Thalia forced herself to keep writing, her handwriting growing shakier with every word. Her vision blurred with unshed tears, and her head swam with lightheadedness, but she refused to stop. She would not give Umbridge the satisfaction of seeing her broken.
Finally, the professor pushed her chair back with a sharp scrape that echoed through the room. She rose with a predatory air, her movements deliberate and slow, savoring the moment. She approached the Weasley twins first, plucking their parchments from beneath their trembling hands with an air of haughty indifference.
“Mr. Weasley. Mr. Weasley,” she said, addressing them in turn, her saccharine tone a sick parody of civility. “You may leave. But do remember... the consequences for stepping out of line again will be far less pleasant.”
Fred and George cast quick, worried glances at Thalia, their expressions tight with guilt and discomfort. She refused to meet their eyes, staring resolutely at the blood-smeared parchment before her. After a moment’s hesitation, they shuffled out of the room, their footsteps fading into the corridor.
Thalia’s heart sank as she realized she was being held back. She gripped the quill tightly in her trembling fingers, her hand ached as she continued scratching out the cursed lines. Another ten minutes passed in torturous silence, the only sounds the faint crackle of Umbridge’s quill as she scribbled notes and Thalia’s own labored breathing.
Finally, Umbridge stood again and crossed the room toward her with deliberate slowness. The toad-like professor loomed over her desk, her florid face twisted into a sickening mockery of concern. "Right, Miss Winterbourne," she said, her voice soft but brimming with menace. “Let’s see if you’ve learned your lesson.”
Before Thalia could react, Umbridge grabbed her wrist with a surprisingly strong grip and yanked her injured hand upward. Thalia gasped, a strangled cry escaping her throat as the motion sent a fresh wave of searing pain through her arm. She clenched her teeth, trying to suppress any further sound, but tears spilled over her cheeks despite her best efforts.
Umbridge held Thalia’s hand close to her face, scrutinizing the damage with a grotesque fascination. The words carved into her flesh were swollen and raw, the surrounding skin blistered and bloody. Ribbons of flesh hung loose in some places, the open wounds glistening under the harsh light of the office.
With an air of cruel curiosity, Umbridge extended a pudgy finger and pressed it into the deepest part of the wound. Thalia’s composure shattered as a strangled sob broke free from her lips. The pain was blinding, sharp enough to make her stomach churn. She instinctively jerked her arm back, but Umbridge’s grip was ironclad.
The professor withdrew her finger, inspecting the blood now smeared across it with detached interest. “Hm,” she mused, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together as though testing the viscosity of the fluid. “Satisfactory, I suppose.”
With an air of casual cruelty, she dropped Thalia’s wrist, letting her hand slam against the desk. The impact sent another jolt of pain up Thalia’s arm, and she couldn’t hold back a cry. She clutched her injured hand to her chest, cradling it as fresh tears blurred her vision.
“I truly hope you’ve learned your lesson, Miss Winterbourne,” Umbridge continued, her voice dripping with false sweetness. “I am not keen on giving second chances. Should you find yourself in my office again, rest assured your punishment will be significantly more severe.”
Thalia didn’t trust herself to respond. She nodded mutely, her breath hitching as she fought to regain control. Umbridge waved her hand dismissively, as though shooing away a bothersome insect. “You may go.”
Thalia rose unsteadily, clutching her bag with her good hand as she stumbled toward the door. Her knees felt weak, her body trembling with exhaustion and pain. As she stepped into the corridor, the cool air stung her raw hand, but she welcomed the reprieve from the suffocating atmosphere of the office. She didn’t look back. She didn’t want to see the satisfaction on Umbridge’s face.
Thalia turned a random corner, her vision blurred by tears, and felt her legs give out beneath her. She crumpled against the cold stone wall, sliding down until she was sitting on the hard floor. Sobs erupted from her chest, raw and uncontrollable, her injured hand clutched protectively against her torso. The pain coursing through her arm was unbearable, spreading like fire across her shoulder and down her side. Her breaths came in ragged gasps, and the oppressive weight of everything—her punishment, her isolation, her fear—felt like it might crush her entirely.
As she cried, lost in the haze of anguish, she suddenly felt the warmth of another person kneeling beside her. Gentle hands wrapped around her trembling shoulders, pulling her into a firm yet comforting embrace. She stiffened at first, startled by the sudden contact, but the stranger's presence was soothing. They began to rock her gently, their motions rhythmic and calming. A soft voice, barely above a whisper, murmured words of comfort.
“Shhh, it’s okay,” they said, their tone tender and sincere. “I’ve got you.”
Thalia didn’t have the strength to resist. She buried her face in their shoulder, her tears soaking into the fabric of their robes as they held her close. Their arms were strong, steady, and unwavering, a stark contrast to her shaking body. The warmth of their embrace seemed to shield her from the cold reality of the castle’s corridors, and their quiet shushing felt like a lifeline in the storm of her emotions.
Time seemed to blur as they stayed like that. The stranger’s presence grounded her, their steady breaths calming her own ragged ones. Her sobs gradually subsided, giving way to soft sniffles and the occasional hiccup. Her throat burned from the force of her crying, her voice hoarse and raw, but her chest felt just a little lighter.
Finally, she pulled back slightly, her red, tear-streaked face looking up to meet the concerned gaze of the person who had comforted her. Their expression was one of genuine care, their brows knit together with worry.
George knelt before her, his usually mischievous eyes now rimmed with red and swimming with unshed tears. The twin’s ever-present smirk was nowhere to be seen, replaced by a pale, tight-lipped expression that seemed to war with guilt and concern. Brushing a wayward strand of her hair away from her tear-streaked face with careful fingers, he sent her a small, sympathetic smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“Come on, let’s get you up,” he murmured, his voice soft and unusually tender. “You’re going to freeze down here if you stay like this.”
Gently, he began to untangle himself from her trembling grasp, rising to his feet with a quiet grunt. Once he was steady, he turned back to her and extended a hand, his expression imploring. It was clearly his good hand—his other hung stiffly at his side, his fingers curled slightly as if even moving it was too painful.
Thalia stared at his outstretched hand for a moment, hesitant and unsure. Her own injuries made her slow to respond, but there was a warmth in his gesture, a quiet reassurance she couldn’t ignore. Finally, she reached out with her uninjured hand, letting him help her to her feet. His grip was firm but gentle, steadying her as her legs wobbled beneath her.
“You alright to stand?” George asked, his brows knitting together as he studied her face.
Thalia nodded weakly, though she wasn’t entirely certain it was true. Her body felt heavy, and the searing pain in her hand radiated all the way up to her shoulder. George didn’t let go, keeping a steadying arm around her waist for support, allowing her to lean into his side.
“I’m sorry,” he said suddenly, his voice cracking just slightly. He looked away, his jaw clenching as if he was fighting back tears. “I didn’t think—I didn’t know this would happen to you. I swear, if I’d known…”
His words trailed off, and his free hand balled into a fist at his side. Thalia watched him, her chest tightening. Despite her own pain, she could see his guilt weighing on him heavily, and it softened something in her heart.
“It’s not your fault,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. “She’s the one who did this.”
George’s head snapped back to her, his eyes wide and brimming. For a moment, neither of them spoke, the unspoken weight of what they’d endured hanging thick in the air between them. Then, with a determined expression, George nodded, his jaw tightened and his grip around Thalia’s waist strengthened. His free hand curled into a fist at his side, his knuckles white with suppressed anger. “I’ll make her pay,” he said, his voice low but fierce, the trembling guilt from earlier replaced with a smoldering resolve. His gaze was cold with unyielding determination.
Thalia shook her head, her expression weary. She looked down, avoiding his intense stare. “It’s not worth it,” she murmured, her voice tinged with sadness.
George crouched slightly, leaning into her line of sight and forcing her to meet his eyes. “It wasn’t a suggestion,” he said firmly, his voice carrying a weight that made her breath hitch. “It was a promise.” His tone softened, but the steel beneath it remained unyielding. “And I keep my promises.”
Thalia searched his face, unsure of what to say. She could see the fire in his eyes, the sheer resolve etched into every line of his expression. “George…” she began, her voice faltering as she tried to gather her thoughts. But before she could say more, he gently squeezed her shoulder, a ghost of his usual mischievous grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he said. “Just trust me. She’ll regret what she’s done.”
There was a fierce protectiveness in his tone, one that left Thalia momentarily speechless. Despite everything—the pain, the humiliation, the fear—she felt a tiny, flickering sense of comfort in his words. George Weasley wasn’t known for idle threats.
With that, he began to guide her down the corridor, his arm still securely around her waist, supporting her every step; His own steps were measured, careful not to rush her, and though his own pain was evident in the way he carried himself, he didn’t falter.
Once they reached the entrance hall, Thalia slowed her steps, her hand still cradled against her chest, and gently pulled away from George’s guiding arm. He stopped in his tracks, his brow furrowing in confusion as she took a step back.
“You can leave me here,” she mumbled, her voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t bring herself to meet his eyes, focusing instead on the worn stone floor beneath her feet.
George blinked, his head tilting slightly as if he hadn’t heard her correctly. “Leave you?” he repeated, his tone carrying a mix of concern and disbelief. “Thalia, your hand—”
“I’m fine,” she interrupted quickly, though her trembling voice betrayed her words. When he stepped forward she waved him off half heartedly.
“Your common room is only down there, Thalia,” George persisted, pointing down the corridor leading to the dungeons and the Hufflepuff Common Room beyond. His tone was gentle but firm, his concern etched into every word.
“Exactly,” she replied, her voice quiet but steady. “I can make it on my own. I don’t want you to get caught outside your common room after hours.” Her gaze flicked up to meet his briefly, an unspoken plea in her eyes.
George scoffed softly, crossing his arms despite the stiffness in one shoulder. “Caught? I’ve been sneaking around this castle since my first year. I think I’ll manage.”
Thalia shook her head, biting back a small smile despite herself. “I mean it, George. You’ve already done enough tonight—more than you needed to. I appreciate it, I do, but I’ll be fine from here.”
He frowned, his lips pressing into a thin line. “I’m not leaving you to walk alone like this. Not after what happened.”
“I’ll be okay,” she insisted, standing a little straighter, though her body still trembled slightly. “It’s just a few steps away. You need to get back before a prefect—or worse, Filch—catches you. The last thing either of us needs is another detention.”
George hesitated, glancing down the dim corridor before looking back at her. “You’re sure?” he asked, his voice heavy with reluctance.
“I’m sure,” she said firmly, though her heart clenched at the sight of his worried expression. “Go. Please.”
He sighed, ruffling a hand through his hair in frustration. “Alright, fine. But only because you’re about to be at your common room,” he muttered, his tone more resigned than satisfied. “And if you don’t show up to breakfast tomorrow, I’m hunting you down. Deal?”
Thalia managed a weak smile. “Deal.”
George hesitated a moment longer, as if he were debating whether to argue further. Finally, he gave a small nod. “Goodnight, Thalia. And sorry, again” he said softly.
“Goodnight, George,” she replied.
He lingered for just a heartbeat more before turning away, his footsteps echoing down the hall. Thalia watched him go until he disappeared around a corner, the faint warmth of his presence lingering in the cold air.
Throwing one last tentative glance behind her, Thalia slipped out into the darkened grounds, the cool night air biting against her cheeks. The towering silhouette of the castle loomed behind her, its windows glowing faintly with golden light, a stark contrast to the shadowy expanse ahead. The wind whispered through the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, carrying with it the faint rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl.
Pulling her robe tighter around her shoulders, Thalia quickened her pace. The grass, damp with evening dew, softened her hurried steps as she made her way across the grounds and towards the school gates.