Consoling with Death

After a couple minutes standing outside the Great Hall, Harry began to see how pathetic he looked. The thought that maybe his breakdown earlier was still visible repeated in his mind, Hermione would never let him avoid her if it was. He checked four times over in the bathroom so he knows he is just wasting time by standing in place. Part of him wasn’t ready to face it all: the eyes on him, the expectations, and the facade.

Inklings of panic coiled in his stomach, a snake slowly but surely suffocating its prey. Yet Harry persisted, as he always did. The door seemed to echo as it was opened, which was probably just his imagination from the anxiety Harry felt. His feet were lead weights, with each step leaving a resounding sound to follow them. Harry wasn’t sure if it was his mind or if the eyes he felt on his back were real.

“Harry Potter, where have you been?”

The stern face of Hermione ushered him to his seat at the Gryffindor dinner table as she started to rattle about what she has read so far in their new textbook in Defense Against the Dark Arts. However, she caught herself in her rambling and focused on her original question; the exact thing Harry didn’t want to happen.

“Well…uh- I mean Umbridge really frustrated me and I needed a breather.”

“Harry, you are the savior of the whole wizarding world, you need to learn how to deal with mild annoyance and really? You needed a two hour breather after the ridiculous outburst?”

The words were a little harsh, Harry will admit, but he knew they were said out of worry and care. Sometimes Hermione gets caught up in things and she can be a little insensitive with words. Harry, on the other hand, did not realize he had been moping in Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom for that long.

“The thing with Cedric kind of set me off, you know?”

Harry was picking at the ends of his robe again, glancing off to the food that lined the dinner table. It was almost ridiculous how much food laid in front of him and his time with the Dursleys taught him how difficult this must be for the house elves. His left hand moved from the frayed edges of his robe to his wrist on his right. The distraction of his short nails, lightly scratching over the skin stopped the panic from consuming him.

Hermione’s voice quieted for a couple moments as Harry looked down at his plate and continued scratching his wrist. Her voice began but paused carefully, full of concern.

“Harry, you’re one of my best friends, I want the best for you. Know that when you’re ready, you can talk to me about it, about anything that is bothering you.”

Now Harry has done it, he has upset Hermione yet again just like when he mentioned the thestrals. He loved Hermione but his problems only created trouble when anyone found out.

“I know…and I will, I will tell you.” His voice was more of a mumble, embarrassed that he would even have to tell this to his curly haired friend.

Ron began to take notice of the conversation occurring to the left of Hermione’s seat. With his stomach half full from the cooked chicken that covered his plate, he turned to face the two of him. He opened his crumb covered mouth to speak, giving Hermione and Harry a full view of the chewed chicken that filled his mouth. Before Ron could add his piece, Hermione shoved his head in the other direction.

“Honestly Ron, you’d think that at this age you’d have to have some table manners.”

His reply was unintelligible as his face pinked at Hermione’s comment. Harry snorted at his two friends and their antics, in due time they would get together.

Harry stared into space with a blank mind to the sounds of the bickering of Hermione and Ron. He felt Hermione’s hand gently touching his shoulder, so as not to startle him, and when she tipped her head towards the door he noticed the almost empty hall. It was a quiet encounter but a comfortable one, these were the simple moments that Harry cherished. These moments when the world and his thoughts silenced to be present, this time in the warm light of the dining hall. A small smile pulled on his chapped lips as he looked at his two friends, Ron yawning into his hand and Hermione watching Harry as he slowly got out of his seat.

“You did not eat much tonight Harry, anything wrong?”

“Sorry ‘mione, got caught up thinking.”

Ron decided to join the conversation, speech mildly slurred from him being tired. His arms wrapped about the shoulders of Hermione and Harry, Hermione’s eyes glancing down bashfully as this action was completed.

“He was probably thinking about his detention with Umbridge that will happen as soon as we leave this hall.”

Ron’s eyes moved to meet that of the smaller man, Harry groaning as he shoved Ron’s hand back from resting on his shoulders.

“Please pray for me, I’m not sure I’ll survive.”

Hermione ended her silence, looking up at Harry from where Ron’s arm still cradled her shoulder, “Remember, you can tell us if she does anything crazy.” Her eyes portrayed her concern and Harry sought to reassure her after their conversation earlier.

“I promise I will tell you Hermione if anything happens,” and with that comment, Harry started in another direction of the two with a wave and one last smile. Ron still had not removed his arm from Hermione’s shoulder and Harry wondered for how long on the trek back to Gryffindor would it remain in that place.

Of course, whenever Harry receives some semblance of happiness or at least comfortability, something always has to ruin it. Across the corridor walked a newly prefect, Draco Malfoy. His chin stood high, projecting his narcissism that Harry was well acquainted with. A haughty smile graced his mouth, growing with each step that brought him closer to Harry Potter.

Damn Umbridge and this detention, she was crazy if she thought he was going to show up now. Turning in the opposite direction, Harry tried to stomp off before Malfoy caught up to him but fate had other plans.

A hand yanked his shoulder back as Harry stumbled backwards into the chest and shoulder of Malfoy. Clearly repulsed from his touch, Malfoy immediately shoved Harry’s body away from him as he began, “Potter, you didn’t think I would let you get out of detention with Umbridge, did you?”

Harry tried to listen to Hermione in his head, attempting to walk past Malfoy to the room in which Umbridge resided, ignoring his sharp retorts.

“Woah, wait– Potter, were you crying?” A laugh filled the empty corridor, cruel and mocking. Harry felt embarrassment beginning to rise in his cheeks and a simultaneous confusion: how had Malfoy noticed something that both Hermione and Ron did not have an inkling of?

“No– it was just– it's just allergies.”

Malfoy seemed to find this hilarious and allowed for Harry to walk on to serve his detention. His laugh echoed to Harry’s ears and with one glance back, Harry could see Malfoy hunched over with hands holding his stomach as he laughed to his heart’s content.

That humiliating encounter left Harry burning but distracted him from what was about to come. The ominous door to the office of Umbridge was what one expected: pink. With a deep breath, Harry pushed the door open to face whatever hell was waiting for him.

And hell it was, pictures of cats of all sorts covered the pink walls. There was a cat Cinderella, a cat Merlin, and even a cat dressed in what looked like a replica of the clothes Umbridge wore, all framed and hanging on the wall. The room was a nightmare, everything that Dumbledore’s room was not. Her desk had three quills arranged neatly to the right side and a small glass of pink lemonade sitting by her hand.

The room had disoriented Harry so much that he had forgotten to notice the woman in front of him with a cruel smile sharpening her features.

“You’re two minutes late Mr. Potter.”

With the last shred of his dignity, Harry forced out a quiet apology which only seemed to make Umbridge happier.

“Please sit here, today we’re going to have you write lines.”

It sounded easy enough, dare he say even a normal detention for once. He sat in the uncomfortably small wooden desk and reached over to his bag to get out his quill.

“Put the quill back Mr. Potter, today we will be using one of my own quills, special for the occasion. It does not use ink so you do not have to worry about that.” It almost seemed like the Professor was holding in a gleeful laugh by the way she was positively beaming at Harry. Although the boy would not let his fear show to the woman, he lightly held the quill in his hand and examined it. It seemed like a normal quill so it confused him as to why she insisted she used her quill.

“For this detention and the next one, you will write the line “I must not tell lies” for the rest of the hour.”

“Professor, I was not lying, Voldemort is here and he will–” Umbridge held up her hand to silence Harry as she scowled at him. Yet her anger dissipated and she quickly resumed her joyful attitude.

“Enough of that, please write your lines if you want to finish early.”

Anger sparked in Harry as he turned his head down to the paper in front of him. With a movement that collected the quill in his hand, Harry put pen to paper and began to write.

Strangely, after two lines a tingling feeling began to overtake Harry’s hand. When he looked up at the Professor, he found her to be standing up, carefully watching him write his lines. He continued on as he noticed that the ink from the pen began to shine through, a deep red that almost looked black to the naked eye. As the ink on the paper grew, the pain in his right hand blossomed. Suddenly a sharp piercing pain began to slowly move down his hand as he looked down to see an “I” carved into his skin. Harry looked up to the Professor and opened his mouth to anxiously question her but Umbridge beat him to it.

“Now you see, this is where it gets its ink from. Keep writing Mr. Potter, the line hasn’t been completed.”

Panic struck Harry to his core as he realized that the object held in his hand cut into him to use his blood as ink. The quill had to be illegal in some way or another but with one thought back to the trial against him this summer, the trial Umbrdige was at the centerpoint of, he realized that the ministry would do nothing to stop this from happening. At the very least, Harry could comfort himself with the thought that if he did this, no other child would have to.

With each line written on the paper in front of him, a new letter engraved itself on his hand. The pain was continuously growing and Harry was struggling to hold the quill in front of him, the blood running down his hand was no help either. Here he was, The Boy Who Lived, giving in to what the adults around him wanted.

He is weak.

It was maddening and humiliating the way tears pricked the end of his eyes while the fire of fury burned deep within. This is who Harry Potter was and this is who he will ever be, a boy who has to sacrifice his mind, body, and soul for the will of the greater good.

Umbridge’s bony hand harshly gripped Harry’s bleeding hand and examined it through her glasses.

“That will do for now Mr. Potter, tomorrow at the same time. Do not forget.” Her strict words burned into Harry’s mind as the “I must not tell lies” was burned into Harry’s hand. She was going to scar him, never letting him forget how utterly expendable he is in the minds of everyone else. As he moved to leave the professor’s office, he looked over his shoulder to see Umbridge smiling at him; yet another price to pay for the comfortability and happiness in others.

The wound had already started to scab over, Harry noticed as he stood outside the empty hallway of Hogwarts. The anger was gone and with it came resignation, this is what Harry Potter was meant to do. He focused on the empty taps his shoes made on the stone floors as the torches burned lightly along the wall. His mind was blank and this was a good thing, none of the pesky emotions from the bathroom earlier. As he approached the portrait of the Fat Lady, he recalled the promise he made to his female friend.

After moments of thinking how to explain what happened to Hermione without bursting into tears, Harry spoke the password to the portrait who was carefully watching him. It was late at night and he wasn’t even sure if Hermione was still up but he couldn’t see himself to have the courage to tell her any other time except for now.

Both Ron and Hermione loved him, it was silly to not tell them what had happened. They cared about him and how he felt and they would feel betrayed if he kept this secret quiet. As he entered the red and yellow common room, Harry pulled down his sleeves to cover the wound from any unwanted lookers. He glanced around to the spare students still up and spotted a redhead laughing with a curly haired girl. They spotted him immediately as they entered and ushered him towards a seat across from him.

“Harry! How did your detention go?” questioned the girl across from him as the boy next to her listened intently.

“Uh… well not so good, you see, I don't know how to say this but–”

“That’s too bad mate, I suppose she taught you not to mess with her during class again,” Ron said with a mild teasing nature.

“It wasn't a regular detention, she actually had this quill and it–”

“I am sorry it didn't go well Harry but I have just learned that Professor Sprout plans to give us a pop quiz tomorrow so we all should go to bed.” Hermione’s mothering nature hit Harry as cruel, his shoulders slumped and all the previous confidence he had to share what had happened, disappeared. His body curled in on itself as he slowly nodded while staring at his shoes. As he climbed the stairs to the boys dormitory alongside Ron in a daze, trying to think of another way that the interaction could’ve gone differently. He laid in his bed before he even realized it and as the curtains pulled shut, a tear slowly slid down the side of his face.

Harry turned to lay on his left side as he curled into a ball, cradling his injured hand in the silence. He closed his eyes as he willed himself to stop thinking, to be strong. But in the dark, Harry Potter was gone and he was just left with scared little Harry.

And so Harry continued to cry.