Courage

-64-

But Layla had barely walked out of the Great Hall when a loud and angry voice yelled, "Layla!"

"What now?" Layla 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 Layla. "How come you've landed yourself in detention for six o'clock on Friday?"

"What?" said Layla. "Why... oh yeah, Keeper tryouts!"

"Now she 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 Layla. 'I got detention from that Umbridge woman, just because I mouthed off to her and then walked out of her class. I had every right to with how that lesson was going!"

"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. Just make sure you're there!"

She turned on her heel and stormed away.

Layla spent the next hour and a half in the library, trying to catch up on all of the homework she'd been set. She had to do three essays, finish the Bowtruckle drawing and start a dream diary for Trelawney.

At five to six, Layla set off for Umbridge's office on the third floor. She was about to knock on the door, when suddenly, it opened, revealing Harry. Layla had forgotten that he had a detention right before hers.

Harry didn't look awkward or guilty when he looked at Layla like had done over the last few months. Instead, he looked panicked and worried.

"Layla," he muttered. "Don't go in there."

"I have detention," Layla reminded him with a roll of her eyes.

"You can't go in there," Harry said more firmly. "That woman is mad! I swear, there's something wrong with her."

That caught Layla's attention. Not the words since he could've been exaggerating, but the way Harry said them. Layla always knew when he was lying or being dramatic.

"What do you mean?" she asked quietly.

"She'll have you writing lines with this weird quill, and when you use it, the words will carve into your skin. Look," Harry thrust out his hand, revealing cuts across the back of it that spelled out 'I must not tell lies'.

"Oh my god!" without realizing it, Layla had reached forward and seized Harry's hand, running her fingers softly over the cuts. "What the bloody hell?"

"Just..." Harry sighed. "Be careful. Please."

"Relax, Harry. I know how to take care of myself," said Layla, back to normal as she dropped Harry's hand. Harry sighed and shot her one last look before leaving, while Layla turned to the door and knocked.

"Come in," came a sugary voice. Layla entered cautiously, looking around.

She 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 her dad 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 technicolour kitten, wearing a different bow around its neck. These were so foul that Layla stared at them, transfixed, until Professor Umbridge spoke again.