Don't Mess With The Chosen One....

7

When Harry entered Umbridge's office that evening, he was completely taken aback. The previous owners of the room had decorated the office with dark detectors, dark creatures, or portraits of themselves in various heroic acts and duels. Umbridge had decorated the office to suit her tastes.

The walls were pink. Doilies covered every surface. And cats! Cats were everywhere! Pictures on the walls. Figurines. Her clock. Even her teacups had kittens painted on them!

"Have a seat Mr. Potter." Umbridge said in her fake girlish voice.

Harry took a seat at the small desk in the corner of the office.

"You'll be doing lines. Ah ah! No need for a quill. I've got a particularly special one." A ghastly smile stretched her face.

Harry accepted the parchment and quill; It was black.

"You haven't given any ink..." Harry said.

"Oh, you won't be needing any."

Harry found that strange, and an uneasy feeling creeped up his spine.

"You will write, 'I must not tell lies'."

Harry gritted his teeth. "How many times?"

Umbridge inhaled. "Oh, I'd say.... Until the message sinks in. You may begin now."

Harry wondered how he was supposed to have write without ink. Perhaps she just wanted him to do some pointless exercise.

Because Harry didn't have ink, and he didn't want to be accused of not actually writing anything, he pressed the tip of the quill extra hard into the parchment, and scratched out his first sentence: I must not tell lies. Harry gasped, both in surprise and in pain. Red ink spilled out of the quill onto the parchment, and his right hand felt as if it were being cut into.

Harry stared at his hand, and saw his handwriting etched into his skin, before it faded. He stared up at Umbridge and saw that she was watching him with ill-disguised satisfaction.

"Yes?" The toad inquired.

"Nothing." Harry said, looking back down at his parchment. He wrote the next sentence, and his right hand stung, before it healed itself, and he moved onto the next line. His blood filled the pages, as he carved into his hand. A half hour later, the skin stopped healing, and instead it just continued to bleed.

It hurt so bad! Harry wondered how this could possibly be legal! Or how this witch could make him do this! Even Dumbledore had standards, right?

Two hours later, Umbridge finally told Harry he could stop.

"Let's see now," Umbridge said, walking over to where Harry sat. He expected her to check his work, but instead she snatched up his hand, running a thumb over the cuts.

Anger and hatred flashed through Harry, and his scar burned.

"I don't think the message has quite sunk in yet." Umbridge tutted. "We'll try again tomorrow evening. Good night, Mr. Potter."

Harry went straight to the bathroom, where he shoved his stinging and bleeding hand under the tap, letting cold water rush over it, both cleaning and soothing it. Then Harry went to Gryffindor Tower.