Wood Stakes

Harry irritatedly walks through the corridors on the way to Umbridge’s office, where he would be(unfortunately) having his detention. His mood only worsens when he bumps into Angelina, who had been chosen as Captain of the Quidditch team this year and who kindly lets him know that his little stint of detentions means that he will be missing the entirety of the Quidditch tryouts this year.

Harry thinks about asking Umbridge to move their detention, and nearly laughs at the ridiculous idea.

He’s hurrying through the halls, internally ranting about missing the Quidditch tryouts, when he hears voices.

It’s two of the foreigners, Jason and Leo, talking just around the corner. Harry pauses, unsure.

On one hand, he has to get to detention, or no doubt Umbridge would find some way to punish him even more. But on the other, what are they doing in some nondescript corridor this late?

The question lingers in the back of his mind, and Harry can’t help his awakening curiosity.

Making up his mind, he moves silently towards the wall, straining his ears to hear what they’re saying. Even so, their voices are too low, and all he can hear are vague mutterings and the occasional clear word that do nothing to tell him what they’re talking about.

Hesitantly Harry scooches forward as quietly as possible, his stomach lurching as he remembers how Jason had seemed to have heard him under the invisibility cloak when they were following him two nights ago.

However, his efforts are worth it, because he reaches a point at the wall where he can hear their voices, crystal clear, and can even see them slightly by peeking haphazardly around the corner. Neither of them are wearing their cloaks, instead having changed back into Muggle clothes.

They’re so close, barely a couple meters apart, Harry only hidden behind the corner of a wall, but he can finally hear them.

“Come on… Percy gets away with it!” He hears Leo complain, a slight creak vibrating across the wall as Leo leans onto it. 

He hears Jason sigh, and even without seeing Jason’s face Harry can still picture it, his lips pressed into a thin line and his eyebrows slightly scrunched together in a chastising manner. He’d only known the guy for a couple of days, but the expression was so remarkably Jason that it was practically ingrained in Harry’s memory. 

Harry perks up as he hears Jason speak, but his following words cause him to nearly fall over. “Leo, Percy can and has gotten away with murder. If you’re asking me, the guy can get out of anything.”

Harry’s blood runs cold. For a moment, a sort of white noise fills his ears, and he feels faint. 

He was right. 

The transfer students were up to something.

And Percy… is a murderer.

Dazedly he remembers that Jason and Leo are still talking, and catches the last bit of their conversation.

“You, on the other hand… I don’t like your chances.” Jason says, and Leo’s laugh echoes through the corridors.

Then the sound of Jason shushing him, and Harry can hear the stumbling steps of the two chuckling boys as they walk away.

Harry isn’t sure quite how long he stays there, his brain racing through every time he’d talked to Percy. He’d thought something was up, but he never would have guessed this.

His next thought is that he should tell Dumbledore. For a moment, Harry encourages the fantasy, imagining himself racing up to Dumbledore’s office and telling him what he’d heard. But then he remembers how Dumbledore had practically been ignoring him all year. Who says he’d even be able to talk to Dumbledore? Who says he’d even believe him?

Now that’s not true, another part of Harry’s mind says. Dumbledore believed you last year about Cedric and Voldemort.

For some reason, that part of Harry isn’t half as believable anymore.

And then, oh god, Harry remembers he has detention, and so does Percy. He wildly hopes that Umbridge will split them up, but knowing his luck, that won’t be the case. He gets up hurriedly, groaning quietly at his cramped muscles. For a moment, he thinks about ditching, and just going to see Hermione and Ron to tell them what he’d heard, but bitterly he realizes that Umbridge will just take that chance to punish him even further.

When he gets to Umbridge’s office, cheeks red and out of breath, Umbridge clucks disapprovingly but lets him in.

Thankfully, he’s only a couple minutes late, so she lets him by without extra punishment and sits him down in a chair. There’s a second chair, right next to his, confirming to Harry his fears that he and Percy would have detention together. It seems that Percy is even later than Harry, though, because his chair is still empty. 

 A minute later Percy saunters in, looking perfectly at ease and not at all like somebody who’s late for detention. He gives his trademark lopsided grin to Harry, and Harry fights the urge to move as far back as possible. Jason’s words echo back in his head.

Gotten away with murder.

Harry unconsciously fingers his wand inside his cloak.

Is it his imagination that makes Percy’s eyes seem a little darker, no longer their ethereal sea-green color but something far closer to black, or his teeth sharper, his smile a little more cold, cruel in its edges?

He shifts uneasily in his seat, and Percy catches the movement, watching him curiously. 

Harry keeps his eyes trained carefully on the floor.

“Now, you two, please, make yourself comfortable.” Umbridge announces, taking a seat at her desk and causing both Harry and Percy’s attention to snap to her.

“Today you two are going to be doing some lines for me today. No, not with your normal quill, Potter.” She says, as Harry gets out his quill.

“You’ll be using some of mine.” She says, her voice sickly sweet, as she pulls out two long, thin, black quills with unusually sharp ends.

Percy eyes the quill with boredom mixed with the slightest curiosity, before grabbing one with a tired sigh.

“Potter, I want you to write ‘I must not tell lies.’” Umbridge says softly, a victorious smile curving on her toad-like face. “And Jackson, I think you should write ‘I will not disrespect my betters’.” 

Percy glares at her, before giving the quill and paper in front of him a loathsome look.

“How many times should we write it?” Harry asks.

Umbridge’s smile looks more like a sneer when she speaks next. “Oh, just until it sinks in.”

Percy gives a small scoff, shaking his head, but when Umbridge turns to look at him he’s already bent over his paper, quill in hand.

Umbridge doesn’t take out any ink, so Harry assumes that these must be some of those inkless quills, and he grabs his dutifully.

Before he can put the quill to paper, however, Percy from beside him gives out a small sharp intake of breath, and Harry glances over to him. On his hand he can see a flash of crimson before Percy tucks it away, eyes narrowed at Umbridge. 

Umbridge is watching him carefully, a perfect smile poised on her face. “Is something wrong, Mr. Jackson?” She asks, and something in the tone of her voice rings with danger.

Harry’s mind races as he tries to figure out what’s happening, as Percy and Umbridge stare each other down.

Percy has gone rigid, his eyes alight with a silent fury. 

Harry curiously presses his quill onto the paper, writing out his assigned sentence, and then feels a rush of nausea as the skin on his hand splits open, copying the writing done by his quill. In a moment, it’s healed, leaving only a reddish hue and a thin barely-there trace of the words.

He notes with a dull interest that the ink on his paper is in fact not ink at all, but blood. His blood.

Suddenly, Percy’s reaction makes a lot more sense.

Harry’s mind can barely understand what’s happening. It seems ridiculous, almost like some sick sort of nightmare, sitting next to a probable murderer in a room with his professor who was forcing him to do… this.

Should he stop? Again his mind goes to Dumbledore, but he pushes the thought away angrily. 

Umbridge is watching him smugly, her gaze a silent command to continue, and Harry does, forcing the pained gasp back as his skin once again splits apart, blood trickling down and onto his palm. He writes it two more times, almost in defiance, each time feeling just as painful as the first.

This is sick. Umbridge has gone mad. I should stop. I need to stop. The thoughts pass, utterly ignored, as Harry writes the lines again on his parchment.

“Pick up your quill, Percy.” Umbridge’s words cut through the silence of the room, and Harry dimly notices that Percy’s still sitting there staring at Umbridge, his quill discarded on the table.

Percy’s shaking. Harry would guess that it’s from fear, but the horrible light in his eyes that speaks of ill-intentions make him think it’s from anger.

“No.” Percy says.

It’s one word, but it’s almost toxic in the amount of loathing Percy puts into it.

Umbridge’s smug smile turns more into a sneer. 

“Pick up your quill.” She orders again, every syllable clear-cut and overly pronounced, as though Percy has failed to understand. Her gaze on Percy is one full of warning of the consequences of disobedience.

Harry feels a wave of pity for Percy, but he can’t deny that the brief respite of writing has made his hand — which had previously been throbbing painfully — feel slightly better. 

Percy leans back in his chair, the motion undeniably obstinate, and watches her coolly. 

She’s going to punish you. Harry thinks listlessly. She’s going to make it worse now.

Umbridge does indeed look horribly victorious, not as though she’s now going to win but as though she was always going to win, and now it will be even greater.

Suddenly, Percy doesn’t seem like the most terrible person in the room. Perhaps the most dangerous, with his eyes dark and murderous, but not the most terrible. 

Because Umbridge is there, her toad-like face stretched out into a self-satisfied smile.

“Very well. If this punishment doesn’t work for you, I can give you another one.” Umbridge’s words come easily, as though the concession is totally normal. 

Harry knows it’s not. Clearly Percy does too, because he watches her with a distrustful expression, before finally nodding once. 

If anything, Umbridge looks even more pleased with his response, and she stands up quickly. 

“Right then. Both of you, stand up.” She instructs, and Harry realizes with a jolt that that includes him.

Umbridge must notice Harry’s slightly aghast look because she nods in a pleased sort of way. 

“Yes, that includes you too, Potter. I couldn’t possibly leave you alone here, so I’m afraid you also will have to take this new punishment.” Umbridge’s voice is malevolent and faintly vindictive. 

Harry glares at her, but the dried blood on his hand stops him from saying anything further. 

Umbridge escorts them both out of her office, and they both obediently follow her as she marches through the halls. The halls are dark and covered in shadows, and every footstep echoes. Every footstep, of course, except for Percy’s, who walks without a sound, his gait fluid and silent. 

For a moment, Harry is reminded of Jason that night that he and Ron had followed him, and how he’d seemed to be able to walk without making a sound. 

It is oddly frightening.

They turn onto a different corridor, one that leads to one of the big empty rooms in Hogwarts.

There were very few classes held in this part of Hogwarts, meaning that very few people came over here, and so the room had been reutilized into a storage space. 

The room is dark and poorly lit, most of the light coming from a broken chandelier that hangs suspended in the air. A mountain of tables and chairs, old and broken, loom over Harry to the right, casting a large shadow over the room. 

Umbridge walks to the center of the room, her pace unhurried. Percy surveys the room warily, eyeing the tables and chairs as though they’re going to suddenly animate themselves and attack him.

Which actually was possible, now that Harry thought about it.

Umbridge still hasn’t spoken, so Harry bites the bullet and turns to her.

“Er- Professor?” He asks, the title slightly garbled from his gritted teeth. 

Umbridge raises a single eyebrow, waiting. 

“What exactly is our new punishment?” Harry asks.

Umbridge smiles sweetly at the question. “Ah, yes. This room has been used for storage in Hogwarts for quite some time, or so I’ve been told. I do believe it has acquired a small boggart problem that your headmaster has failed to deal with, so I was thinking that we could get to that today.” 

“A boggart problem?” Harry almost can’t believe his ears. A boggart? He’d learned how to fight these in Year 3. This was miles better than his previous punishment. He shudders at the thought of it, and his hand throbs in reminder.

“A… boggart?” Percy’s question is slightly hesitant, and Umbridge smirks.

“Yes, Mr. Jackson, a boggart. Do you know how to get rid of them?” She asks.

Percy watches her carefully, clearly weighing the odds of the consequences of each answer, before shaking his head.

Umbridge doesn’t seem bothered. “That’s perfectly alright. There are two in this room, so I’m sure Potter can give you a perfectly good demonstration. Right, Mr. Potter?”

Harry nods numbly. 

Something’s wrong, A small part of his mind whispers. Something’s terribly wrong.

Even so, Harry pulls out his wand with relief, relaxing at the feeling of the smooth wood in his hand. This he knew. This he understood.

He steps towards an old wooden drawer in the corner, which Umbridge helpfully points him to, and takes a deep breath. It shakes ominously, making a rattling sound that echoes through the room. 

Harry points his wand at the drawer and, with a spray of red sparks, it bursts open, and a dementor floats out from the wreckage.

The cloying, death-like feeling that accompanies dementors reaches its icy fingers onto Harry, and he gasps at the chill. Ignoring it, he twists his face in concentration and jabs his wand at the dementor, summoning up an image in his head to focus on.

“Riddikulus!” Harry shouts, and with a noise like a whip-crack, the dementor stumbles.

Almost in slow motion, the boggart-dementor trips over its robes, gray and tattered, and they’re dragged off, revealing nothing more than a bony skeleton, which subsequently collapses into a harmless pile of bones.

Harry’s breathing heavily, and from behind him he can hear Umbridge slowly clap.

“Adequate job, Mr. Potter,” she says, which coming from Umbridge is practically the highest praise that can be offered. 

“Now,” she says, turning to Percy sharply. “Your turn, Mr. Jackson. As you can see, it’s really quite simple.” 

Before Harry can stop himself, he’s giving Percy advice. “Just cast the spell ‘Riddikulus’. And think of something funny, or else it won’t work.”

Percy’s eyebrows furrow at the last part, but he nods, and then, as though only now realizing that he has to cast a spell, blanches.

“Wait, do I have to use my wand? Can’t I, like, just fight it?” Percy asks worriedly.

Harry gives him an incredulous look. “What do you plan to do, wrestle? Yes, you have to cast the spell.”

And then it hits him. Percy is terrible with a wand. Completely and utterly hopeless. 

He couldn’t cast the simplest spells during class, let alone this. 

It wasn’t Percy’s fault, of course. They’d learned how to fight boggarts in their third year, and this was only Percy’s first year with a wand. 

But nevertheless… he wasn’t going to be able to do this.

Oh God. Harry had never quite realized just how terrifying boggarts were. The first time that he’d learned about them was also the first time that he’d learned how to fight them, and the knowledge that he could had made them seem far less scary than they were.

What if you didn’t know how to?

Harry had to give it to Umbridge. She had outdone herself with this punishment.

He feels such a wave of pity that he has to forcibly remind himself of what he’d heard about Percy earlier this evening. He’s a murderer. But does even a murderer deserve this? And who knows, perhaps he’d misheard, or it was a joke, or maybe Percy didn’t have a choice.

Harry recalls when Dumbledore had called Percy up to his office, when Percy had told him about the fight that had given him that scar. He could have a reason.

“Now, Mr. Jackson.” Umbridge’s voice jolts Harry back to reality, and Harry’s gaze turns back to Percy.

Percy sighs, but grabs his wand and turns to the tall cabinet that Umbridge points him to.

With a quick flick of his wand, a flash of red sparks shoots out of Percy’s wand, just like how Harry had done it.

This spell was one of the few that Percy could actually consistently do, although Harry was pretty sure that was only because the spell’s only intentions were to be destructive(most of the spells Percy casted ended up destructive, regardless of intent, and was probably an important factor in why this spell worked). Even so, Percy must have overestimated how much magic he needed to put into the spell, because the amount of red sparks that shoot out of his wand cause the cabinet to turn into cinders.

The cabinet must have been there for ages, because it had been coated in dust, and Percy’s spell causes all of it to take to the air. It seems to almost create a cloud of dust over where the cabinet is(or was, in this case), obscuring Harry’s vision and making him cough painfully.

The three of them wait for an agonizing moment for the boggart to come out, eyes squinting through the filthy air.

And then, impossibly, Percy steps out from the dust.