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 atresh.
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 shining 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 dotted 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 Umbridges 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?