Chapter 9
After Dinner, Harry stood outside Umbridge’s office, his stomach in knots.
Hours ago he was foolhardy and reckless, unconcerned about the consequences of his actions, so how come such a sense of dread had taken hold of him now? He could hardly keep track of his emotions these days, and wished he could conjure a face of cold indifference half as well as someone else he knew.
An image of Snape flashed through Harry's mind. He was missing an occlemency lesson for this… no doubt there would be another punishment later.
As Harry raised his hand to knock, the door opened, and Umbridge stood there, her nauseating smile plastered across her face. “Come in, Mr. Potter,” she said, stepping aside to let him enter.
Harry walked into the office, the scent of lavender overwhelming his senses. The room was as sickeningly pink as he had heard, and the sight combined with the overwhelming smell of it made his stomach churn.
“Sit,” Umbridge instructed, gesturing to her desk nearby.
Harry walked to it and reluctantly took a seat, eyeing a bit of blank parchment and the quill which sat, waiting.
“You will write, ‘I must not tell lies,’” Umbridge said, her voice dripping with false kindness. “Until I think the message has really sunk in.”
Harry glanced at the desk again, realizing something was missing.
"I haven't got any ink." He stated.
"Oh, you won't need any ink." She replied almost wryly.
Harry was puzzled at that but took the quill in his hand. With great skepticism, he pressed it to the parchment, but nothing came out.
He shrugged and scratched the quill on the corner of the page, until finally, he saw signs of ink.
He was a bit surprised, but began to write the words as instructed, eager to complete this mundane task and return to Snape, hoping he could make up for their lost time.
‘I must not tell lies.’
As the words filled the paper, Harry's left hand began to ache.
He didn’t pay it much mind at first, but soon, a sharp stinging sensation shot across it.
He gasped, and dropped the quill as he automatically retracted his hand and held it close to him
Umbridge turned from her place staring out a window and gave Harry a grin that sent a chill down his spine.
He looked at his hand, and there, in raw, angry red lettering were the words.
‘I must not tell lies.’
Harry met Umbridge’s eyes and glared at her. He look filled with surprise and spite.
This is nothing. Harry thought, trying to convince the shock away by reminding himself he had been through so much worse. And in an attempt to prove exactly how little it affected him, he picked up the quill again, and began to write.
Umbridge turned back to her window, and Harry gritted his teeth as he watched the words etch themselves into his skin, blood oozing from the fresh cuts. He wouldn’t let her have the satisfaction of hearing his pain, wouldn’t let out another gasp or a cry or even a groan of discomfort. But the pain wasn’t akin to the searing of his scar, though it left a mark on his mind in a terribly similar way.
To rationally comprehend the situation was not something he could do, though, it wasn't at all rational, he supposed.
Umbridge must not have been satisfied by Harry’s silence, and by the time she finally dismissed him, his hand was shaking, and a small pool of blood had gathered on the writing desk.
She smiled and held the door open for him as he left, beaming. Perhaps she thought that if his face writhing in pain weren’t enough, at least his blood would be a good enough trophy. Harry felt sick, and his anger having long since been replaced by a hollow emptiness.
In this moment, he truly felt nothing.