The Cursed Ones

Chapter Six: Closing in for the Kill

I don't even make it out of the dining hall after breakfast when Umbridge swoops in on me in all her pink glory. She yelps my name angrily, and slowly, not in the mood to be trifled with, I turn around, grinding my heel harder than necessary into the floor as I do so. Her smile is poison, and her hands are clasped neatly together in front of her as she surveys me with her creepy little eyes.

"I noticed, Miss Mortisia, that you failed to show up for your detention yesterday." She tilts her head, her smile widening. "Why is that?"

How observant of her. I fight not to roll my eyes. "There was an emergency," I tell her, stressing the word 'emergency' for emphasis. I add in a low voice, "An actual emergency."

She doesn't care, not that I in any way thought that she would. She tuts with pity, and her smile curves down onto an exaggerated frown of disappointment and feigned sadness. "Oh, but you see, Miss Mortisia, an emergency can be solved by someone else. It comes as second priority to your detentions. I'm sure you can understand why I will have to give you detention straight away."

I really do roll my eyes. "I don't give a fuck about your detentions. The day I care will be the day Merlin resurrects as Elvis Presley, Professor. So leave it be, you ugly little mandrake. I'm fucking busy."

Minutes later, I'm sitting in Umbridge's office, face to the same kitten-covered pink wall, a blank piece of parchment on the table before me. Over the top is scrawled, in obnoxiously curled letters, I will never forget my uselessness. I think it's a really cute touch. Beside it is another piece of parchment, the top bearing the usual line I already write: I will not speak in Professor Umbridge's class. It's three thousand lines for each.

Once I begin the lines, it is impossible to miss the fact that the quill has very clearly been sharpened. It digs so far into my hand, I can almost feel it grazing my veins and tendons. I'm sure that, if a vein does end up being sliced into, me dying would just be an added bonus for Professor Umbridge. I write for hours, over, and over, and over, and over...

I'm really not focused on the lines, to be honest. I'm entirely preoccupied with the one thing that hasn't left my mind since Friday: Darwin and his friends. I've thought up countless scenarios, some in which they're beaten until they're bruised and bleeding, and others where they're hexed and cursed into complete madness. But what I have concluded upon quite firmly is this: I am recruiting the help of Fred and George. They'll be able to get to the enemy from within, with their access to the boys in the Gryffindor dormitories. I know they'll agree to it. Regardless of how they view the Malfoy family, they know right from wrong, and although they can fool, swindle, trick, and outwit the very best, they know which lines never to cross.

Two hours in, and my hand is numb. I can hardly feel the quill slicing my hand magically, and the blood from my wound has shrouded a few of the lines I've written as it drips relentlessly onto the parchment. I know Umbridge will have me rewrite any lines that have so much as a pinpoint sized droplet of my blood on top of or around them.

Sitting here for so long has never been so agonizing. I feel as though I'm stepping aside to let Darwin attack with ease, and the thought of what he could be up to right now and me being unable to stop it is killing me inside. I shouldn't have talked back to Umbridge this morning, but I had been so angry, I almost couldn't help it. This is the first time I've ever regretted poking at and insulting Umbridge. And now I'm trapped. I'm useless to the ones I'm leaving more vulnerable. With even one of us down (Draco, Pansy, and me), a difference has been made, and there is less defense. Just as importantly, there's less power behind any of our attacks.

Three hours tick by. I'm still in my pajamas, and I'm tapping my slippered toe on the ground restlessly. I'm in a slow but steady state of unraveling.

Four hours. Umbridge has made me start over every piece of parchment that has been dripped with blood even minutely, which, at this point, is all of them. She has me ensnared, and I can feel the pleasure this gives her radiating off of her even with my back turned to her.