Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix (33 page)

As Harry was starving, and he had his first detention with Umbridge at five o’clock, he headed straight for dinner without dropping off his bag in Gryffindor Tower so that he could bolt something down before facing whatever she had in store for him. He had barely reached the entrance of the Great Hall, however, when a loud and angry voice yelled, ‘Oi, Potter!’

‘What now?’ he muttered wearily, turning to face Angelina Johnson, who looked as though she was in a towering temper.

‘I’ll tell you
what now
,’ she said, marching straight up to him and poking him hard in the chest with her finger. ‘How come you’ve landed yourself in detention for five o’clock on Friday?’

‘What?’ said Harry. ‘Why … oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!’

‘
Now
he remembers!’ snarled Angelina. ‘Didn’t I tell you I wanted to do a tryout with the
whole team
, and find someone who
fitted in with everyone
? Didn’t I tell you I’d booked the Quidditch pitch specially? And now you’ve decided you’re not going to be there!’

‘I didn’t decide not to be there!’ said Harry, stung by the injustice of these words. ‘I got detention from that Umbridge woman, just because I told her the truth about You-Know-Who.’

‘Well, you can just go straight to her and ask her to let you off on Friday,’ said Angelina fiercely, ‘and I don’t care how you do it. Tell her You-Know-Who’s a figment of your imagination if you like, just
make sure you’re there
!’

She stormed away.

‘You know what?’ Harry said to Ron and Hermione as they entered the Great Hall. ‘I think we’d better check with Puddlemere United whether Oliver Wood’s been killed during a training session, because Angelina seems to be channelling his spirit.’

‘What d’you reckon are the odds of Umbridge letting you off on Friday?’ said Ron sceptically, as they sat down at the Gryffindor table.

‘Less than zero,’ said Harry glumly, tipping lamb chops on to his plate and starting to eat. ‘Better try, though, hadn’t I? I’ll offer to do two more detentions or something, I dunno …’ He swallowed a mouthful of potato and added, ‘I hope she doesn’t keep me too long this evening. You realise we’ve got to write three essays, practise Vanishing Spells for McGonagall, work out a counter-charm for Flitwick, finish the Bowtruckle drawing and start that stupid dream diary for Trelawney?’

Ron moaned and for some reason glanced up at the ceiling.

‘
And
it looks like it’s going to rain.’

‘What’s that got to do with our homework?’ said Hermione, her eyebrows raised.

‘Nothing,’ said Ron at once, his ears reddening.

At five to five Harry bade the other two goodbye and set off for Umbridge’s office on the third floor. When he knocked on the door she called, ‘Come in,’ in a sugary voice. He entered cautiously, looking around.

He had known this office under three of its previous occupants. In the days when Gilderoy Lockhart had lived here it had been plastered in beaming portraits of himself. When Lupin had occupied it, it was likely you would meet some fascinating Dark creature in a cage or tank if you came to call. In the impostor Moody’s days it had been packed with various instruments and artefacts for the detection of wrongdoing and concealment.

Now, however, it looked totally unrecognisable. The surfaces had all been draped in lacy covers and cloths. There were several vases full of dried flowers, each one residing on its own doily, and on one of the walls was a collection of ornamental plates, each decorated with a large technicoloured kitten wearing a different bow around its neck. These were so foul that Harry stared at them, transfixed, until Professor Umbridge spoke again.

‘Good evening, Mr Potter.’

Harry started and looked around. He had not noticed her at first because she was wearing a luridly flowered set of robes that blended only too well with the tablecloth on the desk behind her.

‘Evening, Professor Umbridge,’ Harry said stiffly.

‘Well, sit down,’ she said, pointing towards a small table draped in lace beside which she had drawn up a straight-backed chair. A piece of blank parchment lay on the table, apparently waiting for him.

‘Er,’ said Harry, without moving. ‘Professor Umbridge. Er – before we start, I – I wanted to ask you a … a favour.’

Her bulging eyes narrowed.

‘Oh, yes?’

‘Well, I’m … I’m in the Gryffindor Quidditch team. And I was supposed to be at the tryouts for the new Keeper at five o’clock on Friday and I was – was wondering whether I could skip detention that night and do it – do it another night … instead …’

He knew long before he reached the end of his sentence that it was no good.

‘Oh, no,’ said Umbridge, smiling so widely that she looked as though she had just swallowed a particularly juicy fly. ‘Oh, no, no, no. This is your punishment for spreading evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories, Mr Potter, and punishments certainly cannot be adjusted to suit the guilty one’s convenience. No, you will come here at five o’clock tomorrow, and the next day, and on Friday too, and you will do your detentions as planned. I think it rather a good thing that you are missing something you really want to do. It ought to reinforce the lesson I am trying to teach you.’

Harry felt the blood surge to his head and heard a thumping noise in his ears. So he told ‘evil, nasty, attention-seeking stories’, did he?

She was watching him with her head slightly to one side, still smiling widely, as though she knew exactly what he was thinking and was waiting to see whether he would start shouting again. With a massive effort, Harry looked away from her, dropped his schoolbag beside the straight-backed chair and sat down.

‘There,’ said Umbridge sweetly, ‘we’re getting better at controlling our temper already, aren’t we? Now, you are going to be doing some lines for me, Mr Potter. No, not with your quill,’ she added, as Harry bent down to open his bag. ‘You’re going to be using a rather special one of mine. Here you are.’

She handed him a long, thin black quill with an unusually sharp point.

‘I want you to write,
I must not tell lies
,’ she told him softly.

‘How many times?’ Harry asked, with a creditable imitation of politeness.

‘Oh, as long as it takes for the message to
sink in
,’ said Umbridge sweetly. ‘Off you go.’

She moved over to her desk, sat down and bent over a stack of parchment that looked like essays for marking. Harry raised the sharp black quill, then realised what was missing.

‘You haven’t given me any ink,’ he said.

‘Oh, you won’t need ink,’ said Professor Umbridge, with the merest suggestion of a laugh in her voice.

Harry placed the point of the quill on the paper and wrote:
I must not tell lies.

He let out a gasp of pain. The words had appeared on the parchment in what appeared to be shining red ink. At the same time, the words had appeared on the back of Harry’s right hand, cut into his skin as though traced there by a scalpel – yet even as he stared at the shining cut, the skin healed over again, leaving the place where it had been slightly redder than before but quite smooth.

Harry looked round at Umbridge. She was watching him, her wide, toadlike mouth stretched in a smile.

‘Yes?’

‘Nothing,’ said Harry quietly.

He looked back at the parchment, placed the quill on it once more, wrote
I must not tell lies
, and felt the searing pain on the back of his hand for a second time; once again, the words had been cut into his skin; once again, they healed over seconds later.

And on it went. Again and again Harry wrote the words on the parchment in what he soon came to realise was not ink, but his own blood. And, again and again, the words were cut into the back of his hand, healed, and reappeared the next time he set quill to parchment.

Darkness fell outside Umbridge’s window. Harry did not ask when he would be allowed to stop. He did not even check his watch. He knew she was watching him for signs of weakness and he was not going to show any, not even if he had to sit there all night, cutting open his own hand with this quill …

‘Come here,’ she said, after what seemed hours.

He stood up. His hand was stinging painfully. When he looked down at it he saw that the cut had healed, but that the skin there was red raw.

‘Hand,’ she said.

He extended it. She took it in her own. Harry repressed a shudder as she touched him with her thick, stubby fingers on which she wore a number of ugly old rings.

‘Tut, tut, I don’t seem to have made much of an impression yet,’ she said, smiling. ‘Well, we’ll just have to try again tomorrow evening, won’t we? You may go.’

Harry left her office without a word. The school was quite deserted; it was surely past midnight. He walked slowly up the corridor, then, when he had turned the corner and was sure she would not hear him, broke into a run.

*

He had not had time to practise Vanishing Spells, had not written a single dream in his dream diary and had not finished the drawing of the Bowtruckle, nor had he written his essays. He skipped breakfast next morning to scribble down a couple of made-up dreams for Divination, their first lesson, and was surprised to find a dishevelled Ron keeping him company.

‘How come you didn’t do it last night?’ Harry asked, as Ron stared wildly around the common room for inspiration. Ron, who had been fast asleep when Harry got back to the dormitory, muttered something about ‘doing other stuff’, bent low over his parchment and scrawled a few words.

‘That’ll have to do,’ he said, slamming the diary shut. ‘I’ve said I dreamed I was buying a new pair of shoes, she can’t make anything weird out of that, can she?’

They hurried off to North Tower together.

‘How was detention with Umbridge, anyway? What did she make you do?’

Harry hesitated for a fraction of a second, then said, ‘Lines.’

‘That’s not too bad, then, eh?’ said Ron.

‘Nope,’ said Harry.

‘Hey – I forgot – did she let you off for Friday?’

‘No,’ said Harry.

Ron groaned sympathetically.

It was another bad day for Harry; he was one of the worst in Transfiguration, not having practised Vanishing Spells at all. He had to give up his lunch hour to complete the picture of the Bowtruckle and, meanwhile, Professors McGonagall, Grubbly-Plank and Sinistra gave them yet more homework, which he had no prospect of finishing that evening because of his second detention with Umbridge. To cap it all, Angelina Johnson tracked him down at dinner again and, on learning that he would not be able to attend Friday’s Keeper tryouts, told him she was not at all impressed by his attitude and that she expected players who wished to remain on the team to put training before their other commitments.

‘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 –