Harry knows he deserves it.
Each cut into his skin is like dispelling his worst thoughts.
I must not tell lies.
I must not tell lies.
I must not tell lies.
The words echo in his head and bounce around his skull, they resonate from his hand with a sickening darkness.
He knows he deserves it, especially because the Dursleys were easy on him this summer with the threat of Sirius hanging over their heads. He’s equal parts grateful and angry Sirius has such an influence on them, and the warring emotions leave him confused and sick in the stomach.
As he starts another line he hears a little giggle come from Umbridge, he looks up to see what she’s laughing about but her eyes are directed right at him, or rather his hand.
He looks down, and sure enough, the blood from the scar is running down and
creating a small pool on the desk. When he looks up again Umbridge is taking a slurping sip from her pink teacup, and there’s an evil glint in her eye where she’s staring at him over the rim.
“How many lines is that Mr.Potter?” She asks, her voice dripping syrupy sweet lies.
“I don’t know, how ever many I can write in the 40 minutes I’ve been stuck here.” Harry snaps, he regrets the sass the second he sees Umbridge’s eyes darken and the grip she has on her cup tighten.
“Well, why don’t you write for another hour and I’ll ask you again.” Harry internally groans but paints a falsely sweet smile on his face before touching pen to paper once again. He was only supposed to be here another 20 minutes.
The next hour passes very slowly as Harry’s eyes are almost glued to the clock, and Umbridge has to remind him, ‘Harry remember what you’re task is’, every so often.
Finally there’s only 20 minutes left of his detention, his leg is shaking with the anticipation of getting away from umbridge’s suffocating presence and the seconds seem to tick just that much slower.
Harry takes a deep breath before letting it out and really focusing on the pain of the pen. He thinks about Cedric. The way the green light hit him making his body jerk back, then immediately going limp. He thinks about how he had to run to him with the trophy, hoping against hope that he can get Cedric’s body back to his father. In that moment he didn’t care if he were to live, all he cared about was Cedric’s body getting a proper burial, for his father to have a proper grieving process. And maybe, though Harry would never admit it, maybe there was the slightest hope that if he could just get Cedric back he could be saved. He wasn’t all dead yet right? There was still blood and a heart it just needed to be started again, right?
But Cedric’s dead and everyone in the school thinks it’s his fault, like he cared about a competition he didn’t even sign up for enough to kill someone for the trophy.
He digs the pen deeper into the paper as he recalls Seamus’ hateful glares, his words of how Harry’s a murderer, a glory seeking selfish dick. And though Harry knows, he knows, he didn’t kill Cedric, not in the way everyone believed him to have, he can’t help but feel responsible.
Just by being who he is he got Cedric killed, just by being the golden boy, the chosen one, the savior of the wizarding world. Why is he the one chosen to save everyone when he can’t even save one person, why is he the one when he can’t even stand up to someone who is his friend, can’t make them see sense. There are much more powerful wizards out there, if harry never existed they would rise up to fight against
Voldemort, so why don’t they just do that now instead of leaving it to a 16 year old boy? Honestly Harry should cease to exist, fade into the shadows, be forgotten by everyone, kill himse-
Buzz Buzz Buzz
Umbridge’s wand starts to vibrate and make a buzzing sound as the hour ends, it’s buzzing so violently it’s about to fall off the desk before Umbridge traps it under her hand. The room becomes eerily silent as Harry waits for her to do something, anything.
“How many lines do you have Mr.Potter?” Her voice is still sticky sweet but there’s an edge to it, a threat to defy him once again. And Harry can feel the ache in his hand from how many lines he’s done tonight, probably broken some kind of record for how long he’s been here. He knows he deserves it and yet he wants to leave, he wants to go play chess with Ron and talk with Hermione and forget this whole ordeal even
happened until he has detention once again.
So with this in mind, he starts to count how many lines he’s written tonight.
“Ah, Mr.Potter you’re forgetting something.” He looks up confused, “you need to make a mark next to each line, don’t want to miscount do you?” She puts that frustrating smile on her face again and Harry suddenly feels the strong urge to rip it off. But if Harry knows one thing best, it’s that going with what people want is a lot easier than defying them.
The first mark isn’t that painful, it appears right next to the words on his hand, a little slash mark.
The second mark is a deal more painful, he can feel the needle digging into the already marked skin, blood rushing to the top making it bright pink and angry.
The fifth mark brings blood bubbling out of the wounded area in little beads.
The next are all blurred together in a mix of pain and blood.
When he gets to his 77th line Umbridge stops him, “That’s enough Mr.Potter, you are taking much too long in counting those lines, you may leave now.” Umbridge is smiling as always but she seems even more malicious than usual, as though she’s planning something. But Harry can’t find it in himself to care at the moment when the prospect of the common room is so close to him he can almost taste it.
He quickly picks up his bag and flees the classroom, he scared himself back there thinking about death. He would never commit suicide, would he? The fact he’s even questioning that scares him even more.
Once he’s made the long and tiring trek up to the gryffindor corridors, he says hi to the fat lady who tuts at his messy appearance before sending him in. He sees Ron and hermione sitting on one of the loveseats heads inclined toward each other and he’s just grateful they don’t notice him so he can run up to the boys dormitory.
Once on the landing he opens the room door but before he can step any farther, Seamus is suddenly there.
“How’s it goin Potter?” Seamus asks, but not in the friendly way he used to say it, but darkly, evilly. “I heard you were in detention for spreading rumors about Voldemort’s return.” He laughs darkly.
Harry quickly puts his hand behind his back, hoping Seamus won’t notice.
Of course he does.
“What’re you hiding there potty?” Before he could blink his hand was taken from behind him, when Seamus read the words scarred into his hand he started laughing almost maniacally.
Harry tugged on his hand but he wouldn’t let go, “give me my hand back” he said but Seamus kept laughing.
Seamus composed himself enough to stare at Harry with a hard expression, looking straight into his eyes.
“You know Harry, you should really take those words,” at this point he stopped talking and looked down to where he still gripped Harry’s hand, “to heart.” With those last two words he dug his thumb into Harry’s wounds, making Harry cry out, all while holding his gaze.
Harry sealed his mouth shut and held Seamus’s gaze with the same intensity, refusing to show any other reaction than the one he let out before.
Seamus, unsatisfied with the lack of response, dug his thumb in further and began moving it around but all Harry did was grit his teeth and take the pain.
“Whatever Potter, you’re no fun,” Seamus said, throwing Harry’s hand down and storming out of the rooms.
Once Harry was sure Seamus was gone he pressed his back against the door and gulped in heaving breaths. He was sweating around his brow, and his whole body felt like it was on fire from the pain he just endured.
Harry then remembered the plan he had set for tonight, and determined to have a good time, made his way to the bathrooms to clean up.
He wrapped his hand in some gauze after putting a disinfectant spell on it. Then he splashed some water on his face one handed. Deciding he’s presentable enough he makes his way downstairs.
Once he’s reached the bottom of the stairs he can feel half the people in the common room glaring at him, but he forgets about all of them when he hears Hermione yell his name.
“Hey Harry want to play a game of chess?”
“Yes, that sounds perfect.” He says grinning, happy his plans were working without him having to say a word.
After Ron has taken all of his pawns and Harry has carefully moved every piece with his left hand rather than his right, he slips up. He moved his knight with his right hand exposing his bandages for his friend to see.
“What’s on your hand?” Hermione asks, ever the inquisitive one while Ron remains oblivious, focusing on his next move.
“It’s nothing,” he says accompanied with a pleading look. He didn’t want to talk about this right now, just one peaceful evening where he can forget about Cedric, the Dursleys, and Umbridge was all he wanted. Hermione seemed to understand and went back to reading her book commenting out loud when she read something she wanted to share.
Harry breathed a sigh of relief, happy he could live in this safe bubble for just a little longer.
“Check mate!” Ron yelled laughing at Harry’s eye roll, they both knew who was going to win anyway.
“Yeah yeah, now let’s play exploding snap, something I can win at.” Harry laughed back, feeling lighter than he had in days. Sure he could still feel the glares of people around him who thought they knew anything, but with Ron’s smile blinding him and Hermione’s thoughtful comments floating into his ear, he felt as content as he’ll ever be.
End.