Illusory § Order of the Phoenix

XIX. ALTERNATIVE METHODS

Antares came to lean on the stone wall in front of Harry, his shoulders sitting adjacent to the window's opening. "Think of her like a boggart—  extremely ugly and loves to feed off your fear. If you let her terrorize you, you give her power. Now, how do you get rid of a boggart?"

"You laugh at it," Harry answered immediately. "You make it less threatening by forcing it to become amusing instead."

"Well, Remus will be pleased to know you paid attention during his class," Antares teased.

Harry gave a weak smile.

"People like Umbridge thrive off of reactions— bad ones. Something obviously happened after we last spoke to make you fear her. What was it?" the Slytherin pried.

"Have you ever gotten detention?" asked Harry.

"No," Antares said bluntly. "But I can't imagine that's all it took. You have had detention before."

"Not like this," the Gryffindor breathed heavily. "She's worse than Snape and Malfoy combined. Everything she does makes me want to scream."

That's all?

It was barely an answer. Antares understood that Harry might be protecting himself, but it wasn't doing them any favours. He found it hypocritical, but if Harry wouldn't willingly confide in him, then that was fine. There were other ways of learning the truth. For example, Antares usually carried a pair of mooncalf skin gloves for when he experienced sensory overload from his visions; gloves, which he had conveniently left in his room before beginning his search.

Visions were, by most accounts, random. For seers like Lucas Eldine and Sybil Trelawney, this was true. Others, such as Nicholas Caverly, had to make an effort to make eye contact. There had to be intent. Devon Mercier literally has to request his visions. All he has to do is ask a question. Antares remembered how funny it was to watch Devon ask for tea, envision himself spilling it and then, two seconds later, actually do because he was too dazed to stop it.

"That she is," the dark-eyed boy agreed. "At least you won't have to deal with her for much longer; tonight is your last detention."

Harry's eyes brightened slightly at the reminder. "Just one more night, and then I'm free."

Antares walked a fine line with his visions. He couldn't avoid direct contact with everything all the time. Even while wearing his gloves, he was touching the gloves themselves. But still, it was a choice he could make. He needed a better answer than Harry had given, so he played his trump card.

The Slytherin squared his stance, fixing his lax posture, and offered Harry his hand to pull him up. It was downright manipulative, but he did warn Harry that he saw no issue with using alternative methods.

"We should head back," Antares said with a faint smile. "I can't be late for Study Hall."

Without question, Harry took his hand and hauled himself up. Though he was sure it was noticeable anyway, Antares suppressed a sharp intake of breath that threatened to escape.

Pink walls— so disgustingly bright, the scratching of a quill. His hand seared then cooled, over and over and over again.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

I must not tell lies.

The vision ended abruptly as he all but ripped his hand away from Harry's. He had seen enough, more than enough. In the back of Antares' mind, a vicious thought coiled, compelling and vindictive. Twice before had he truly felt something like it; neither of those times could he leave it alone.