"you will stay young and I will grow old, forever."
↠ In which Marigold Knight has to face her 7th year at Hogwarts while trying to cope with the death of her best friend, keep up with her classes, manage joining a resistance a...
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Umbridge's office reeked of overly-sweet perfume and George's nose crinkled as he stepped inside.
There was a pink ticking clock gleaming at him from it's place amongst the display of cat plates against the wall, two desks had been strategically placed at opposite ends of the room. George pulled the chair out of the one nearest to him, cringing at the way it's legs screeched along the stone floor.
He spared a sideways glance at Marigold, she still held no expression on her face as she dropped quietly into her seat behind the other desk.
On the desk, a quill sat next to a stack of parchment. George stared at it, he already knew what was coming. He'd heard the stories of Umbridge's infamous blood-ink quills.
It seemed that Marigold knew as well, because when he looked to her - she was staring down at the quill with an unreadable tilt of her brow.
"Both of you will be picking up your quills," George had almost forgotten that Umbridge was there. She approached the side of Marigold's desk with arrogance in each step, looming over her with a barely noticeable grin: "I would like fifty pieces of parchment of lines from each of you, the line I would like you to start with is:"
Umbridge leaned over Marigold so she was barely a few inches from her, the professor's small smile stretching to cover her entire red, round face. "'Cedric Diggory was a reckless fool'."
Anger seized George's chest and he bit hard on his lip to stop him from saying something that could get them both into deeper trouble.
Marigold still hadn't met Umbridge's gaze.
Umbridge knew exactly what she was doing. Ripping Marigold to shreds from the inside out - dangling the prospect of losing her captainship in front of her face by forcing her to disrespect the memory of what she held dearest: Cedric. George watched on, his grip on the edge of his desk tightening until his knuckles began to whiten.
He could only imagine the thoughts running through Marigold's head.
The professor straightened up, a pleased look plastered across her features. "You will be allowed to leave at ten o' clock."
By then, George simply couldn't help himself, "Ten o' clock? Professor, that's four hours!"
He'd had experienced a lot of detentions in his time at Hogwarts, but they'd never been four hours long.
"You should have thought about that before you decided to talk back to me in my classroom, Mr Weasley." She squashed back into the arm chair behind her desk, "I suggest you get started."
He spared a final glance at Marigold, watching how she lifted the pen - noticing how it shook slightly in her grasp. The single only sign of weakness she'd shown since that morning. George took a deep breath, settling into the realisation that he didn't regret a damn thing. He'd defend Marigold a hundred times more, even if it meant a thousand hours of slicing his hand open with Umbridge's vile quill.
