➵ Choice ➵ {DM and HP)

➵ Chapter 7 ➵

A sense of dread fills my belly as I recognize the quill. I had done some research on Hogwarts's previous Professors before I came, and I had read about one who was fired due to student abuse. I can't recall his name, but he had used many different forms of abuse on their students, his most famous being a quill. This quill used the blood of its victims as ink, and carved the written sentence into their skin. This Professor did not last long, and he and his quills disappeared many years ago. 

Or so I thought.

But here we are, about to write with quills that match the description perfectly. 

"How many should we write?" Harry asks, inspecting the quill warily.

"Oh however many it takes for the message to," she takes a breath before saying venomously. "Sink in."

I send a silent prayer that these are not what I think they are and begin to write. 

I must not tell lies.

I feel nothing, but the ink is crimson red.

I must not tell lies.

Is that a prickle in my hand?

I must not tell li—

A sharp pain shoots through my hand, and I bite my tongue to keep from crying out. I look down at my hand, and see, carved straight into my hand:

I must not tell lies. 

I grit my teeth in pain and look up to meet Umbridge's beady eyes. She wears a false expression of worry and says, her voice high like a child's, "Is something the matter dear?"

I shake my head, determined to say nothing. I hear an almost unintelligible gasp of pain, and look over to see Harry flexing his hand in discomfort. He feels my eyes and looks up, and I see pain painted all over the green canvas of his eyes. 

I give him, what I hope is a reassuring nod and turn my focus back to the paper in front of me. 

I must not tell lies. 

I set my jaw in determination as pain ripples through my hand again. 

I continue writing for 10 minutes, each line carving deeper and deeper into my skin until I feel hot blood dribble from the cut. I don't try to stop it as it falls onto the perfectly white lace, staining it a rusty red. A small bit of satisfaction flows through me at the destruction of something so perfect to Umbridge.

We write for 15 more minutes, our blood now flowing freelly onto the lace, turning it dark rusty crimson.

"You may stop." Umbridge announces and I drop the quill instantly, relief pouring through my body. 

My hand throbs in excruciating pain, and warm blood drips from the cut. 

"Hand." Umbridge orders Harry, holding out her wrinkled hand. 

He grudgingly lifts his hand slowly and she grabs it, surveying it. She pokes at his cut with one fat finger and I see Harry's eyes flood with pain as he sets his jaw, determined not to show his agony. 

After a minute of surveying her handiwork, she drops it and, ignoring mine, sits at her throne, picking up her teacup.

"Do you think the message sinked in? You understand that liars like you need to be stopped?" Umbridge asks, directing her taunts to Harry. 

I see his eyes flash in anger and I nudge his knee, trying to get him to pull his anger off of her. 

"You see don't you? How those are lies?" Umbridge continues, daring Harry to protest.