𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐦𝐞 | 𝐇.𝐏.

𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐫 𝟓 - 𝟑

"So according to you Cedric Diggory dropped dead of his own accord?" Potter asked hotly.

"Cedric Diggory's death was a tragic accident," Umbridge corrected, but her face was getting more flushed by the minute and she had completely given up on her smile, her lips now twisted furiously.

"It was murder, Voldemort killed him! You must know that," Potter responded. It almost scared me what his face looked like.

"Enough!" Umbridge screamed, and most of the students looked down at their desk or their hands. "Enough," she repeated again, calmer. "See me later, Mr. Potter. My office." She gave another girly giggle.

Later that night, around eight o'clock, Potter came back from his detention. When we asked him what happened he simply said that Umbridge had made him write lines, which surprised me. I expected a far worse punishment with her track record.

Around us, the common room was in a frenzy. Fred and George were setting up their "Skiving Snack Boxes" that they had been hiding from Mrs. Weasley all summer. They consisted of fudges and nougats and candies to make you sick or fevered during class. 

They worked just long enough to allow you to be sent to the hospital wing, and then the symptoms vanished quickly enough for you to be able to wander around the castle instead of suffer through unprofitable boredom. That's what the packaging said anyways.

They had been testing the sweets out on unknowing first years, and Hermione was almost to the point of threatening them with writing to their mother. The four of us sat on the best couch in front of the fire. I was reading one of Hermione's Muggle books, Little Women, Potter and Weasley were laughing over an edition of the Quibbler Luna had given to them, and Hermione was busy fuming over the twins. 

I looked over when Weasley snickered at another article, but something on Potter's hand caught my eye. "What's wrong with your hand?" I asked suddenly. He put his right hand, the one that had been turning the pages, on top of the magazine. "Nothing," he replied.

"Your other hand," I said, taking it in mine to examine it. On the back, right under his knuckles, was a bleeding sentence. It read, in raw, red cut words, "I must not tell lies." My stomach curdled.

"You've got to tell Dumbledore," I said fiercely. 

"No," he took his hand out of mine gently. My fingers felt cold without it. "Dumbledore's got enough on his mind right now. Anyway, I don't want to give Umbridge the satisfaction."

"Bloody hell, Harry, the woman's torturing you," Weasley said quietly. "If the parents knew about this..."

"Yeah, well, I haven't got any of those, have I, Ron?" Potter said, determinately not looking up from the Quibbler. No one spoke for a minute.

I sucked in a deep breath before saying, "Potter, you've got to report this. It's perfectly simple, you're being-"

"No," Potter cut me off loudly. "It's not." I looked at him in shock, and he lowered his voice slightly. "Whatever this is, it's not simple. You don't understand."

"Then help us to," Hermione said as he began to pack up his things and walk away. 

"Oh, no. I am not letting him snap on me, too," I muttered as I shot up and followed after him. Just as he left through the portrait hole I grabbed his arm to stop him. He turned around exasperatedly, but his face softened ever so slightly when he saw it was me.

"What's wrong with you?" I asked harshly. He ripped out of my grip and continued down the staircase wordlessly. "You've been like this ever since we got back to school, and I understand if you were mad that you didn't know what was going on over the summer, I was too for that matter, but you can't just-"