‘I’m in detention!’ Harry yelled after her as she stalked away. ‘D’you think I’d rather be stuck in a room with that old toad or playing Quidditch?’
‘At least it’s only lines,’ said Hermione consolingly, as Harry sank back on to his bench and looked down at his steak and kidney pie, which he no longer fancied very much. ‘It’s not as if it’s a dreadful punishment, really …’
Harry opened his mouth, closed it again and nodded. He was not really sure why he was not telling Ron and Hermione exactly what was happening in Umbridge’s room: he only knew that he did not want to see their looks of horror; that would make the whole thing seem worse and therefore more difficult to face. He also felt dimly that this was between himself and Umbridge, a private battle of wills, and he was not going to give her the satisfaction of hearing that he had complained about it.
‘I can’t believe how much homework we’ve got,’ said Ron miserably.
‘Well, why didn’t you do any last night?’ Hermione asked him. ‘Where were you, anyway?’
‘I was … I fancied a walk,’ said Ron shiftily.
Harry had the distinct impression that he was not alone in concealing things at the moment.
*
The second detention was just as bad as the previous one. The skin on the back of Harry’s hand became irritated more quickly now and was soon red and inflamed. Harry thought it unlikely that it would keep healing as effectively for long. Soon the cut would remain etched into his hand and Umbridge would, perhaps, be satisfied. He let no gasp of pain escape him, however, and from the moment of entering the room to the moment of his dismissal, again past midnight, he said nothing but ‘good evening’ and ‘goodnight’.
His homework situation, however, was now desperate, and when he returned to the Gryffindor common room he did not, though exhausted, go to bed, but opened his books and began Snape’s moonstone essay. It was half past two by the time he had finished it. He knew he had done a poor job, but there was no help for it; unless he had something to give in he would be in detention with Snape next. He then dashed off answers to the questions Professor McGonagall had set them, cobbled together something on the proper handling of Bowtruckles for Professor Grubbly-Plank, and staggered up to bed, where he fell fully clothed on top of the covers and fell asleep immediately.
*
Thursday passed in a haze of tiredness. Ron seemed very sleepy too, though Harry could not see why he should be. Harry’s third detention passed in the same way as the previous two, except that after two hours the words ‘I must not tell lies’ did not fade from the back of Harry’s hand, but remained scratched there, oozing droplets of blood. The pause in the pointed quill’s scratching made Professor Umbridge look up.
‘Ah,’ she said softly, moving around her desk to examine his hand herself. ‘Good. That ought to serve as a reminder to you, oughtn’t it? You may leave for tonight.’
‘Do I still have to come back tomorrow?’ said Harry, picking up his schoolbag with his left hand rather than his smarting right one.
‘Oh yes,’ said Professor Umbridge, smiling as widely as before. ‘Yes, I think we can etch the message a little deeper with another evening’s work.’
Harry had never before considered the possibility that there might be another teacher in the world he hated more than Snape, but as he walked back towards Gryffindor Tower he had to admit he had found a strong contender. She’s evil, he thought, as he climbed a staircase to the seventh floor, she’s an evil, twisted, mad old –
‘Ron?’
He had reached the top of the stairs, turned right and almost walked into Ron, who was lurking behind a statue of Lachlan the Lanky, clutching his broomstick. He gave a great leap of surprise when he saw Harry and attempted to hide his new Cleansweep Eleven behind his back.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Er – nothing. What are you doing?’
Harry frowned at him.
‘Come on, you can tell me! What are you hiding here for?’
‘I’m – I’m hiding from Fred and George, if you must know,’ said Ron. ‘They just went past with a bunch of first-years, I bet they’re testing stuff on them again. I mean, they can’t do it in the common room now, can they, not with Hermione there.’
He was talking in a very fast, feverish way.
‘But what have you got your broom for, you haven’t been flying, have you?’ Harry asked.
‘I – well – well, OK, I’ll tell you, but don’t laugh, all right?’ Ron said defensively, turning redder with every second. ‘I – I thought I’d try out for Gryffindor Keeper now I’ve got a decent broom. There. Go on. Laugh.’
‘I’m not laughing,’ said Harry. Ron blinked. ‘It’s a brilliant idea! It’d be really cool if you got on the team! I’ve never seen you play Keeper, are you good?’
‘I’m not bad,’ said Ron, who looked immensely relieved at Harry’s reaction. ‘Charlie, Fred and George always made me Keep for them when they were training during the holidays.’
‘So you’ve been practising tonight?’
‘Every evening since Tuesday … just on my own, though. I’ve been trying to bewitch Quaffles to fly at me, but it hasn’t been easy and I don’t know how much use it’ll be.’ Ron looked nervous and anxious. ‘Fred and George are going to laugh themselves stupid when I turn up for the tryouts. They haven’t stopped taking the mickey out of me since I got made a prefect.’
‘I wish I was going to be there,’ said Harry bitterly, as they set off together towards the common room.
‘Yeah, so do – Harry, what’s that on the back of your hand?’
Harry, who had just scratched his nose with his free right hand, tried to hide it, but had as much success as Ron with his Cleansweep.
‘It’s just a cut – it’s nothing – it’s –’
But Ron had grabbed Harry’s forearm and pulled the back of Harry’s hand up level with his eyes. There was a pause, during which he stared at the words carved into the skin, then, looking sick, he released Harry.
‘I thought you said she was just giving you lines?’
Harry hesitated, but after all, Ron had been honest with him, so he told Ron the truth about the hours he had been spending in Umbridge’s office.
‘The old hag!’ Ron said in a revolted whisper as they came to a halt in front of the Fat Lady, who was dozing peacefully with her head against her frame. ‘She’s sick! Go to McGonagall, say something!’
‘No,’ said Harry at once. ‘I’m not giving her the satisfaction of knowing she’s got to me.’
‘Got to you? You can’t let her get away with this!’
‘I don’t know how much power McGonagall’s got over her,’ said Harry.
‘Dumbledore, then, tell Dumbledore!’
‘No,’ said Harry flatly.
‘Why not?’
‘He’s got enough on his mind,’ said Harry, but that was not the true reason. He was not going to go to Dumbledore for help when Dumbledore had not spoken to him once since June.
‘Well, I reckon you should –’ Ron began, but he was interrupted by the Fat Lady, who had been watching them sleepily and now burst out, ‘Are you going to give me the password or will I have to stay awake all night waiting for you to finish your conversation?’
*
Friday dawned sullen and sodden as the rest of the week. Though Harry automatically glanced towards the staff table when he entered the Great Hall, it was without any real hope of seeing Hagrid, and he turned his mind immediately to his more pressing problems, such as the mountainous pile of homework he had to do and the prospect of yet another detention with Umbridge.
Two things sustained Harry that day. One was the thought that it was almost the weekend; the other was that, dreadful though his final detention with Umbridge was sure to be, he had a distant view of the Quidditch pitch from her window and might, with luck, be able to see something of Ron’s tryout. These were rather feeble rays of light, it was true, but Harry was grateful for
anything that might lighten his present darkness; he had never had a worse first week of term at Hogwarts.
At five o’clock that evening he knocked on Professor Umbridge’s office door for what he sincerely hoped would be the final time, and was told to enter. The blank parchment lay ready for him on the lace-covered table, the pointed black quill beside it.
‘You know what to do, Mr Potter,’ said Umbridge, smiling sweetly at him. Harry picked up the quill and glanced through the window. If he just shifted his chair an inch or so to the right … on the pretext of shifting himself closer to the table, he managed it. He now had a distant view of the Gryffindor Quidditch team soaring up and down the pitch, while half a dozen black figures stood at the foot of the three high goalposts, apparently awaiting their turn to Keep. It was impossible to tell which one was Ron at this distance.
I must not tell lies, Harry wrote. The cut in the back of his right hand opened and began to bleed afresh.
I must not tell lies. The cut dug deeper, stinging and smarting.
I must not tell lies. Blood trickled down his wrist.
He chanced another glance out of the window. Whoever was defending the goalposts now was doing a very poor job indeed. Katie Bell scored twice in the few seconds Harry dared to watch. Hoping very much that the Keeper wasn’t Ron, he dropped his eyes back to the parchment dotted with blood.
I must not tell lies.
I must not tell lies.
He looked up whenever he thought he could risk it; when he could hear the scratching of Umbridge’s quill or the opening of a desk drawer. The third person to try out was pretty good, the fourth was terrible, the fifth dodged a Bludger exceptionally well but then fumbled an easy save. The sky was darkening, and Harry doubted he would be able to see the sixth and seventh people at all.
I must not tell lies.
I must not tell lies.
The parchment was now shining with drops of blood from the back of his hand, which was searing with pain. When he next looked up, night had fallen and the Quidditch pitch was no longer visible.
‘Let’s see if you’ve got the message yet, shall we?’ said Umbridge’s soft voice half an hour later.
She moved towards him, stretching out her short ringed fingers for his arm. And then, as she took hold of him to examine the words now cut into his skin, pain seared, not across the back of his hand, but across the scar on his forehead. At the same time, he had a most peculiar sensation somewhere around his midriff.
He wrenched his arm out of her grip and leapt to his feet, staring at her. She looked back at him, a smile stretching her wide, slack mouth.
‘Yes, it hurts, doesn’t it?’ she said softly.
He did not answer. His heart was thumping very hard and fast. Was she talking about his hand or did she know what he had just felt in his forehead?
‘Well, I think I’ve made my point, Mr Potter. You may go.’
He caught up his schoolbag and left the room as quickly as he could.
Stay calm, he told himself, as he sprinted up the stairs. Stay calm, it doesn’t necessarily mean what you think it means …
‘Mimbulus mimbletonia!’ he gasped at the Fat Lady, who swung forwards once more.
A roar of sound greeted him. Ron came running towards him, beaming all over his face and slopping Butterbeer down his front from the goblet he was clutching.
‘Harry, I did it, I’m in, I’m Keeper!’
‘What? Oh – brilliant!’ said Harry, trying to smile naturally, while his heart continued to race and his hand throbbed and bled.
‘Have a Butterbeer.’ Ron pressed a bottle on him. ‘I can’t believe it – where’s Hermione gone?’
‘She’s there,’ said Fred, who was also swigging Butterbeer, and pointed to an armchair by the fire. Hermione was dozing in it, her drink tipping precariously in her hand.
‘Well, she said she was pleased when I told her,’ said Ron, looking slightly put out.
‘Let her sleep,’ said George hastily. It was a few moments before Harry noticed that several of the first-years gathered around them bore unmistakeable signs of recent nosebleeds.
‘Come here, Ron, and see if Oliver’s old robes fit you,’ called Katie Bell, ‘we can take off his name and put yours on instead …’
As Ron moved away, Angelina came striding up to Harry.
‘Sorry I was a bit short with you earlier, Potter,’ she said abruptly. ‘It’s stressful this managing lark, you know, I’m starting to think I was a bit hard on Wood sometimes.’ She was watching Ron over the rim of her goblet with a slight frown on her face.
‘Look, I know he’s your best mate, but he’s not fabulous,’ she said bluntly. ‘I think with a bit of training he’ll be all right, though. He comes from a family of good Quidditch players. I’m banking on him turning out to have a bit more talent than he showed today, to be honest. Vicky Frobisher and Geoffrey Hooper both flew better this evening, but Hooper’s a real whiner, he’s always moaning about something or other, and Vicky’s involved in all sorts of societies. She admitted herself that if training clashed with her Charms Club she’d put Charms first. Anyway, we’re having a practice session at two o’clock tomorrow, so just make sure you’re there this time. And do me a favour and help Ron as much as you can, OK?’
He nodded, and Angelina strolled back to Alicia Spinnet. Harry moved over to sit next to Hermione, who awoke with a jerk as he put down his bag.
‘Oh, Harry, it’s you … good about Ron, isn’t it?’ she said blearily. ‘I’m just so – so – so tired,’ she yawned. ‘I was up until one o’clock making more hats. They’re disappearing like mad!’
And sure enough, now that he looked, Harry saw that there were woolly hats concealed all around the room where unwary elves might accidentally pick them up.
‘Great,’ said Harry distractedly; if he did not tell somebody soon, he would burst. ‘Listen, Hermione, I was just up in Umbridge’s office and she touched my arm …’
Hermione listened closely. When Harry had finished, she said slowly, ‘You’re worried You-Know-Who’s controlling her like he controlled Quirrell?’
‘Well,’ said Harry, dropping his voice, ‘it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’
‘I suppose so,’ said Hermione, though she sounded unconvinced. ‘But I don’t think he can be possessing her the way he possessed Quirrell, I mean, he’s properly alive again now, isn’t he, he’s got his own body, he wouldn’t need to share someone else’s. He could have her under the Imperius Curse, I suppose …’
Harry watched Fred, George and Lee Jordan juggling empty Butterbeer bottles for a moment. Then Hermione said, ‘But last year your scar hurt when nobody was touching you, and didn’t Dumbledore say it had to do with what You-Know-Who was feeling at the time? I mean, maybe this hasn’t got anything to do with Umbridge at all, maybe it’s just coincidence it happened while you were with her?’
‘She’s evil,’ said Harry flatly. ‘Twisted.’
‘She’s horrible, yes, but … Harry, I think you ought to tell Dumbledore your scar hurt.’
It was the second time in two days he had been advised to go to Dumbledore and his answer to Hermione was just the same as his answer to Ron.
‘I’m not bothering him with this. Like you just said, it’s not a big deal. It’s been hurting on and off all summer – it was just a bit worse tonight, that’s all –’
‘Harry, I’m sure Dumbledore would want to be bothered by this –’
‘Yeah,’ said Harry, before he could stop himself, ‘that’s the only bit of me Dumbledore cares about, isn’t it, my scar?’
‘Don’t say that, it’s not true!’
‘I think I’ll write and tell Sirius about it, see what he thinks –’
‘Harry, you can’t put something like that in a letter!’ said Hermione, looking alarmed. ‘Don’t you remember, Moody told us to be careful what we put in writing! We just can’t guarantee owls aren’t being intercepted any more!’
‘All right, all rig
ht, I won’t tell him, then!’ said Harry irritably. He got to his feet. ‘I’m going to bed. Tell Ron for me, will you?’
‘Oh no,’ said Hermione, looking relieved, ‘if you’re going that means I can go too, without being rude. I’m absolutely exhausted and I want to make some more hats tomorrow. Listen, you can help me if you like, it’s quite fun, I’m getting better, I can do patterns and bobbles and all sorts of things now.’
Harry looked into her face, which was shining with glee, and tried to look as though he was vaguely tempted by this offer.
‘Er … no, I don’t think I will, thanks,’ he said. ‘Er – not tomorrow. I’ve got loads of homework to do …’
And he traipsed off to the boys’ stairs, leaving her looking slightly disappointed.
— CHAPTER FOURTEEN —
Percy and Padfoot
Harry was first to wake up in his dormitory next morning. He lay for a moment watching dust swirl in the ray of sunlight coming through the gap in his four-poster’s hangings, and savoured the thought that it was Saturday. The first week of term seemed to have dragged on for ever, like one gigantic History of Magic lesson.
Judging by the sleepy silence and the freshly minted look of that beam of sunlight, it was just after daybreak. He pulled open the curtains around his bed, got up and started to dress. The only sound apart from the distant twittering of birds was the slow, deep breathing of his fellow Gryffindors. He opened his schoolbag carefully, pulled out parchment and quill and headed out of the dormitory for the common room.
Making straight for his favourite squashy old armchair beside the now extinct fire, Harry settled himself down comfortably and unrolled his parchment while looking around the room. The detritus of crumpled-up bits of parchment, old Gobstones, empty ingredient jars and sweet wrappers that usually covered the common room at the end of each day was gone, as were all Hermione’s elf hats. Wondering vaguely how many elves had now been set free whether they wanted to be or not, Harry uncorked his ink bottle, dipped his quill into it, then held it suspended an inch above the smooth yellowish surface of his parchment, thinking hard … but after a minute or so he found himself staring into the empty grate, at a complete loss for what to say.
The Order of the Phoenix Page 27
