Once he was finally alone in the corridor, far from the Defence classroom, Harry allowed himself a quiet chuckle. The detention was frustrating, but he'd had worse, and he privately thought he'd handled that quite well. Sitting and accepting her Ministry propaganda hadn't even been an option, as far as he was concerned; but he hadn't said anything about fighting Voldemort, or made any outlandish claims — he'd just pointed out the facts, and the inconsistencies in her own logic.
Remus would be proud.
Ignoring Peeves juggling inkwells and singing about his sanity — or lack thereof — Harry strolled calmly up to the Transfiguration professor's office, knocking on the door. After a few moments, McGonagall opened it, and stared down at him in bewilderment. "Potter? Shouldn't you be in class?"
"I've been sent to see you," he informed her. Her eyebrows rose.
"Sent?"
Harry held up the pink roll of parchment by way of explanation. The Gryffindor housemistress' lips thinned. "Come in, then."
Taking the scroll, she unsealed it with a tap of her wand, absently gesturing Harry into the chair opposite her desk while she read. Eventually, she looked up at him, expression unreadable. "Is this true?"
"I wouldn't know, Professor; I don't know what it says."
"Is it true that you shouted at Professor Umbridge?"
"Well, I wouldn't say shouted," Harry said. "Raised my voice, perhaps." McGonagall didn't look impressed.
"You disrespected her, and the Minister?"
"I suppose."
"You called her a liar?"
"Not in so many words."
"You insisted that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named killed Mr Diggory last year?"
"I pointed out that if he didn't, the Triwizard Tournament — which Minister Fudge was responsible for — was at fault, and she was welcome to choose who to blame."
McGonagall stared at him for a long moment, quietly despairing. Then she sighed. "Have a biscuit, Potter."
Harry blinked as a tartan biscuit tin was levitated towards him. "I…" What?
McGonagall just stared at him, until he'd selected a Ginger Newt and taken a bite. "It's the first day of term, Potter. You need to be more careful."
Harry swallowed. Not quite the scolding he'd anticipated. She actually sounded anxious. "I never explicitly said that Voldemort had returned," he told her. "I said that a Death Eater had killed Cedric, and she was welcome to draw her own conclusions. Oh, and I, uh, sort-of blamed the Ministry for what happened to my cousin."
McGonagall's lips pursed. "My condolences," she murmured, and he nodded. He supposed he was going to be getting a lot of that, now; the story would be all over the school by dinner. "But that doesn't excuse this kind of behaviour. Acting up in Dolores Umbridge's class could cost you much more than house points and a detention."
"I know," Harry agreed. "But I know what she's here for. I know what she's trying to do."
McGonagall eyed him carefully. "Yes, I think that you do," she murmured. "I suppose it would be too much to ask you to keep your head down in her classes?"
Harry couldn't help but grin. "Professor, no offence, but when have you ever known me to keep my head down?" The despairing look returned, and he chuckled. "If she's focused on me, she's distracted from everyone else." Let McGonagall think he was talking about Dumbledore, about the Order. Harry couldn't give two fucks about them — but if Umbridge was busy playing word games with him, trying to get him to incriminate himself as a liar and a lunatic, then she wouldn't have time to pay attention to Susan and the rest getting into place to take Fudge down as soon as they all came of age.
And the more he could get the Ministry puppet to deny Voldemort's return, the easier it would be to unseat Fudge and his whole useless regimen when the Dark Lord finally reared his ugly head.
"You're just a student, Potter — it's not your responsibility to protect everyone else." McGonagall sounded like she was worried about him, and Harry shot her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.
He had no idea how much she knew about Dumbledore's meddling, but the fact that she didn't approve of him martyring himself for the cause was a positive sign. Merlin, he hoped she wasn't in cahoots with the headmaster. The school needed her far too much.
"I'll be alright, Professor. It's just a detention."
"Actually, according to this note, it's detention every evening this week," the woman corrected with a slight frown. Harry cursed under his breath. "Language, Potter," came the automatical scold.
"Sorry, Professor. But every evening this week? That's outrageous!" Then a thought occurred to him, and he laughed. "Oh, that's brilliant!"
"I beg your pardon, Potter?" His housemistress was eyeing him like the rumours of his insanity might not be too unfounded. Harry grinned at her.
"A whole week of detention, just for pointing out some facts — that's gonna make her look really in control, isn't it?" If she had just dismissed him out of turn, given him the one detention and ignored the rest, she would've shown that his words didn't matter to her. But a whole week's worth — everyone would see that Harry had struck a nerve.
She thought she was making an example of him, but really, she was only making one of herself.
There was a flicker in the Transfiguration professor's eyes — something like pride, if Harry looked carefully. "Be careful, Potter," she reiterated. "Dolores Umbridge has friends in some powerful places, and you cannot afford to have your future limited so young."
"Oh, don't worry about me, Professor," he said cheerfully. "I'm going to play professional quidditch after graduation. I don't think the Ministry has any say in that."
McGonagall stared at him, her lips twitching like she was trying very hard not to laugh. "Then I'd best see that trophy remaining on my shelf this year," she said, glancing at the Quidditch Cup, still in pride of place after Harry's third year. He beamed.
"I'll do my best."
.-.-.
As expected, everyone knew about Harry's clash with Umbridge at dinner time.
Of course, many people were taking it as confirmation that he'd lost his mind, but mostly people just seemed entertained by Harry's bold and unashamed call-out of the Ministry. Especially once it was confirmed that a dementor had indeed Kissed a muggle teenage boy in the middle of Surrey, and the Ministry had covered it up.
Umbridge looked furious.
"I can't believe you," Neville declared, shaking his head. "No, I can, actually. That's the worst part."
Harry grinned smugly, feeling quite pleased with himself. "All I did was point out that there seem to have been a lot of tragic accidents under the Ministry's purview," he said, shrugging. "Not my fault she got upset about it."
"You're going to be in detention for the entire year," Neville despaired.
"Nah." Harry wasn't bothered. "Not with Umbridge, at any rate. Snape will miss me cleaning his cauldrons."
The other Gryffindor boy let out a moan of dismay, and Harry just chuckled. Across the hall he saw Luna enter the room, and he waved her over, gesturing to the empty seat at his side. To his surprise, she brought Sullivan Fawley with her.
"Hello, Harry," Luna greeted airily. "I hear you've had a rather exciting first day back."
"Don't encourage him," Neville groaned, and Sully snorted.
"Did she really say you weren't going to use magic the entire year? In your OWL year?" He sounded offended by the very concept. Harry nodded.
"Apparently if we know the theory well enough we'll be able to do the spells perfectly on our first try — in our exams, while being graded on our performance." He rolled his eyes, and the Ravenclaw boy grimaced.
"What a load of nonsense. Merlin — we've had some truly interesting Defence professors over the years, but you know, I think this might be the first to cause an entire year group to fail both their OWLs and NEWTs."
Harry rather thought that was exactly what Fudge was aiming for. Sometimes he wondered if the Minister wasn't in league with Voldemort himself; surely he couldn't just be that incompetent?
"Wait, people passed their exams when Lockhart was teacher?" Neville asked incredulously. Harry echoed his surprise.
"Professor Umbridge never said we couldn't use the spells outside of class," Luna remarked, absently spooning soup into a hollowed-out bread roll. "Only that they weren't permitted inside the classroom."
"Looks like we know what most study groups will be focusing on, then," Harry agreed, wondering how many people were about to get kicked out of the library for using magic near the books. Not everyone was willing to sneak into abandoned classrooms after curfew.
"That'll keep Madam Pomfrey busy," said Neville, shaking his head.
As Sully asked Neville a question about Herbology, Harry tuned out of the conversation, trying instead to make out the whispers of conversation including his name happening all over the Great Hall.
It felt ambitious to be trying to convince everyone that Voldemort was back, when the Ministry and the Prophet were doing their best to shut down even the vaguest insinuation that such a thing could be possible — and when Voldemort himself was being so frustratingly silent.
They would find out eventually, when the Dark Lord made his first move. The more immediate problem was discrediting the Ministry without sending everyone straight into Dumbledore's arms. Harry didn't want people to see it as supporting one or the other; he just wanted them to think for themselves, to start to question the information they were being fed so blindly. To be prepared to fight if it came to it.
There were far too many puppetmasters pulling strings for his liking — his best bet would be to just cut every single one he could.
.-.-.
The teachers seemed to be determined to make their students very aware from the start that they were now preparing for their OWL examinations — even after one single day of classes, Harry and his year mates had a small mountain of homework. After dinner, Harry and Neville went up to the common room to get started on it; with the number of people still talking about Dudley, Harry didn't want to face the library to try and find an inter-house study group.
Hermione had already claimed the comfortable chairs by the fire, Ron at her side, so Harry and Neville set themselves up on the opposite side of the common room. Not far off, Fred and George were handing out sweets to a bunch of first and second years, holding clipboards and grinning. One by one, the first years slumped unconscious, caught by the Cushioning charms the twins had layered up. Harry nudged Neville to get his attention as Hermione stormed over, fury burning in her eyes. They watched amusedly as the fifth year prefect tried to go toe-to-toe with the twins, who were utterly unbothered by it, continuing their experiment. The first years did seem totally fine, once Lee had given them the other half of the Fainting Fancies — not that Hermione was placated by that in any way.
"You going to put us in detention?" George dared cockily. Hermione squared her shoulders, narrowing her eyes at him.
"I'll write to your mother," she retorted, and a low 'oohh' resonated around the common room.
"Low blow," Neville murmured, wincing. Indeed, the twins looked horrified at the very prospect.
"Won't stop them, though," Harry said knowingly. "They'll just get sneakier about it." Fred and George Weasley were not going to be stopped by one single prefect, not when they were so close to their dream.
After that, the noise in the common room ramped up, starting to nag at Harry's headache. Glancing around, he raised a discreet privacy ward around the pair of them; one that would dampen the noise. Neville gave a small sigh of relief. "Thanks, Harry."
"No problem."
They worked in silence for a few more minutes, and then Neville cleared his throat. "So, uh… how was your summer, really? Other than, y'know." He waved a hand, as if to encompass the dementor attack and Ron and Hermione's pestering and Harry's total lack of privacy in one single gesture. "I know there's stuff you wouldn't tell Ginny or anyone. Not that you have to tell me," Neville added quickly.
"No, no — I was going to anyway. I… it was actually really nice, up until everything went to shit. I was… somewhere safe, at first, with Sirius and Remus. They started teaching me how to duel properly." Neville didn't know about Snape, and it was best kept that way.
The blond boy grew serious. "You're getting ready to fight him, then?"
Harry nodded. "I have to. Sooner the better, right?" He couldn't say anything about horcruxes either, but he could tell Neville about some of the things he'd learned.
"Draco came to visit for my birthday, too," he added, a smile tugging at his lips. Neville's eyes danced.
"Oh, did he, now?" he drawled. "How nice of him." Harry elbowed him in the side, ducking his face to hide his blush. Neville laughed. "Have you seen him yet? Y'know, properly?"
Harry shook his head sadly. "No, and all my new detentions won't make that any easier." With any luck, Umbridge would only keep him for an hour or two, and he'd still have the nighttime free to meet Draco without falling hugely behind on his homework.
Harry doubted it.
"If you need me to cover for you, just say the word," Neville offered. Harry's chest grew warm; Neville really was an excellent friend to have.
.-.-.
Flitwick and McGonagall were also of the mind to overload their students with work, each starting their classes with a fifteen minute lecture about the importance of OWLs and how difficult they were going to be. Harry wondered if that was actually the case, or if all the Hogwarts teachers had decided the best way to prepare their students was to over-prepare them, by making them expect much harder exams than they would get.
That seemed more like a surefire way to intimidate students into a breakdown, but perhaps mental fortitude was supposed to be part of it, too. Harry wasn't sure. Either way, he was wondering how he was going to find time for all his extra-curricular activities on top of his existing schoolwork; especially if Umbridge had him in detention as often as she clearly wanted to. Though it was very entertaining to watch Hermione frantically re-adjusting her revision schedule after every class, once she realised how much time she would have to devote to homework instead of her own study plans.
He kept up his small rebellions against the house divides in class, sitting with Anthony in Transfiguration and Susan in Charms — blending houses was easier, in classes that didn't involve Slytherins. It made Harry's heart ache to see how withdrawn the snake house had become, and he hoped it wouldn't be quite so bad in the lower years; they were far, far too young to be forced to choose sides in such a way.
At lunch, Harry was once again at the Ravenclaw table — this time sat with Cho. "I wanted to thank you again for writing to me over the summer," she said quietly, offering a shy smile. "It… it's been hard, without Cedric. I'm glad I've still got friends like you, and the Hufflepuff boys." Cedric's old roommates, from what Harry could see, seem to have taken Cho under their wing; which, considering she spent most of her time with them before due to hanging out with Cedric, wasn't surprising.
"Of course, yeah. I'm glad we're friends, too. Last year was fun, even with all the parts that… weren't." He paused, eyeing her in concern. "Are you doing okay?" He couldn't imagine what it was like for her, being back at school with everyone whispering about Cedric's death, being confronted with all the memories of her boyfriend.
The smile she gave him was strained around the edges. "I'm getting there. Like I said, it's been hard. But it'll get easier."
Harry wrapped an arm around her shoulders, giving her a quick squeeze. "I'm always here if you need me," he promised.
"Honestly, just knowing the truth of what happened was a big relief," she confessed. "If I'd been left with just that vague stuff Dumbledore said last year, I don't know how I'd be feeling." She sniffled a little. "I just wish everyone else would believe what you say, too. Patrick and the boys do, when I told them — not the details, just, y'know, how he died," she added quickly. Harry hadn't left much out in his explanation to her and the other Triwizard champions, so he was glad she wasn't spreading the entire story about. "But all those people who believe the Prophet… it's like they're just laughing at Cedric's death, y'know? Saying it was an accident, or part of the tournament — like he wasn't good enough to make it to that Cup." As she spoke, she glared pointedly up at Umbridge. Harry wondered if Cho had had a DADA lesson yet. "As far as I'm concerned, Cedric Diggory won the Triwizard Tournament," Harry declared plainly. "I wouldn't have been at the Cup if not for him." And for Crouch rigging the whole maze in his favour, but that was beside the point. "They'll see the truth, one day. Voldemort won't stay quiet forever."
Cho's smile became a grim line.
"We'll be ready, when he does." Her eyes were fierce, and Harry believed her. Even if he hoped that none of them would need to join that fight.
.-.-.
It was tempting, during Care of Magical Creatures, to ask Grubbly-Plank when Hagrid would be coming back. But if he truly was out on a mission for the Order, either she didn't know or she did and wouldn't tell him. Instead Harry kept his head down and studied his bowtruckle, quietly hating the guilt he felt from enjoying the calm, informative lesson so much. Hagrid was wonderful, but his classes were always… exciting.
He could have done without Draco and Pansy making cutting remarks about the half-giant under their breath, but most of Harry's ire in response was feigned; they were doing what was expected of them, and so was he.
If he took joy out of Draco getting into such an argument with Ron that he hexed the redhead, well, no one needed to know that.
Half of the Slytherins didn't seem to know what to do with the other two-thirds of the 'Golden Trio'. They seemed torn between their desire to belittle Gryffindors, and their animosity — real or otherwise — towards Harry. Seeing Harry equally pissed off with his two housemates seemed to take some of the fun out of the taunting, for them; they were slowly turning their sneers on Neville instead. At least, the ones who were brave enough to risk insulting the Longbottom Heir did.
The ones who were so confident in Voldemort's victory that they didn't think the Longbottom name would be worth anything, in a year or two.
He didn't have much time for dinner before he was due at his detention, and as he wolfed down some food while trying not to make himself sick, Angelina dropped onto the bench beside him. "What's this I hear about you having detention at five on Friday?" she asked flatly, anger underlying her tone. "All week," he confirmed. "Umbridge."
Angelina scowled darkly. "Harry, I told you I wanted the whole team at keeper tryouts."
Harry cursed; he'd completely forgotten about those. "Shit, I'm sorry, Angie. If I thought she'd let me reschedule, I'd ask." Umbridge would likely be delighted to hear she was making Harry miss out on quidditch.
"I'm of half a mind to make you ask anyway," the chaser muttered, glaring at the table. Then the fight seemed to leave her, her shoulders slumping. "I know some things are bigger than quidditch, Harry. I've talked to Fred about stuff." Harry wondered exactly what the redhead had told her. "But — please, for me, try not to get any more detentions? Quidditch this year is really important. It's my last chance, our last chance. We can't win the cup with our star seeker stuck in detention every bloody night!"
"I'll try my best," he promised, though really it was out of his hands. "And I promise I'll get along nicely with whoever you pick as keeper." Luckily, as the seeker it was less important for him to mesh with the rest of the team, but he could understand Angelina wanting a good bond between them all. It would be hard to replace Oliver.
"Good. Now get moving — it's almost five, and if you're late she might give you even more detentions."
Harry looked at his watch, then swore, jumping to his feet with a bread roll still in his hand and sprinting for the doors. Thanks to a couple of Marauder shortcuts, Harry made it to Umbridge's office just in the nick of time.
When the door opened, he blinked, his eyes taking a moment to adjust to the… pink-ness of it all. The walls were covered in dainty porcelain plates decorated with various cats wearing bows and sprawling cutely. As Harry walked in, it felt like a hundred sets of eyes were on him; a shiver ran down his spine.
At the desk, Umbridge stood, her overly sweet smile in place once more. "Good evening, Mr Potter," she said, staring him down until he replied in kind. "Please, sit."
There was a single desk opposite hers, with a blank piece of parchment on the surface. Harry sat, watching her expectantly. "You're going to be writing lines for me, this evening. With a rather special quill of mine," she added, when he moved to grab his own. He watched as she pulled out a jet black quill with a wickedly sharp nib, setting it on the desk in front of him.
"May I have some ink, please, Professor?" he asked evenly. For some reason, that made her giggle.
"Oh, you won't be needing any ink," she told him, smiling. "I want you to write 'I must not tell lies'."
Harry almost asked her to please elaborate on the lies he had supposedly told, but even he could recognise that now was not the time for sass. He'd just promised Angelina he wouldn't get more detentions, after all. "How many times?" he asked instead, mind already on the huge load of homework he had to do.
"As long as the message takes to sink in," Umbridge said, giggling once more. Harry screwed up his nose in confusion, but shrugged, and began to write.
His breath hitched as a sharp pain began on the back of his right hand. The words he wrote on paper — appearing in shiny, dark red ink — also carved themselves into the back of his hand. They healed over immediately, leaving little more than a slight red patch, but it was enough.
Umbridge watched him over her clasped hands, sat behind her desk looking entirely too smug.
Harry put his head down, and kept writing.
He'd heard about these quills — Blood Quills, Bill had called them, when he'd once been explaining to Harry how magically binding contracts were signed. They were used to sign in blood, to prove a person was who they said they were. They were not designed for repetitive use.
The pain grew sharper with every line, every time the words reopened and re-healed on the back of his hand. But he didn't flinch, nor shake, nor slow down for even a second, acting as if he was writing with an ordinary quill.
If Umbridge thought pain was the way to control Harry, she had another thing coming. This was nothing compared to what he had grown up with. After ten years and one and a half summers with the Dursleys, Harry was an expert at ignoring pain in order to complete tasks.
He began to tune out the continuous burn and sting of the quill cutting into his flesh, mentally composing his Herbology essay while he wrote the simple lines. It was interesting, the words Umbridge had chosen for him — he'd expected her to be more upset about his blatant disregard for the Ministry's authority. He hadn't even talked that much about Voldemort in class.
Fudge had definitely sent her to keep an eye on Harry, to try and shut him up and get him to conform to the Ministry's party line.
Good luck to them, there.
An hour passed, then two. The sky in the window turned pitch black. Still, Harry showed absolutely no reaction to the pain, turning over his parchment to write on the other side when he ran out of room. He meditated as he wrote, wondering when he would next have free time to practice his animagus transformation. Never again, if his homework load was anything to go by.
At last, Umbridge cleared her throat. "Come here, Mr Potter."
Harry went to her, holding out his hand for inspection. The skin had healed over, but it was red and tender, like a bad sunburn. Umbridge pressed her fingers to it, and looked annoyed when Harry didn't so much as twitch.
Really, she'd have to do better than that.
Letting him go with a snide remark about the message sinking in more in tomorrow's detention, Umbridge didn't stop Harry when he stuffed the sheet of parchment in his own bag, leaving the office. He didn't know much about blood magic, but he knew enough not to leave his own blood lying around in the enemy's grasp.
Pausing in a hidden passageway on the way up to Gryffindor Tower, Harry murmured a Healing charm over the back of his hand, sighing quietly in relief when the redness began to fade. It was practically gone by the time he got back up to the common room, where he found Neville and Ginny were still up, sat at the table by the slowly dying fire.
"You guys didn't have to wait up for me." It was midnight already — Umbridge had kept him writing lines for almost seven whole hours.
"Had homework to do, figured we might as well. How was it?" Neville asked, shifting his books over to make table space as Harry began to empty his school bag, looking for his Herbology textbook. He needed sleep, but he could at the very least write the notes he'd made in his head during his detention.
"Just lines," he replied dismissively, hoping they wouldn't notice the tightness to his smile.
He wished Draco still had the other half of the two-way mirror. Or that he'd been able to pass it back to Sirius by now. He would give anything to sit and talk to one of them — even if he couldn't tell them about the Blood Quill, he just wanted to feel that reassurance, that comfort.
But both of the mirrors were still in his trunk, and he had an obscene amount of homework to do before he could even think about relaxing.
"That's not so bad, then," Ginny said, smiling his way. "A week of lines, a few late nights doing homework — not the end of the world."
"Yeah," Harry agreed, though his hand still ached, and would no doubt feel a thousand times worse after a whole week of evenings like that.
He could handle it. He'd had worse.